Disclaimer: If I owned the Beatles, I'd do a lot more with them than write a crappy sick-fic. That being said, I don't own Mal Evans, Neil Aspinall, or Brian Epstein either. This is non-profit and purely for creative expression and entertainment.
A/N: Thank you to The Beatles Babydoll22, omgringo, and the guests who reviewed Part One! I hope you will continue to enjoy!
It seemed like hardly any time had passed at all before the plane landed, but Paul was not necessarily complaining about this hasty lapse of time. His worry for George had done nothing but mount from the moment he'd first caught sight of the guitarist that morning, and it positively skyrocketed during takeoff when his ears latched onto the sound of raised voices that emanated from George's and Ringo's place of rest.
Now that they were on solid ground again, he was beyond eager to find out just what the hell had happened mid-ascent. He had not been able to identify any of what was being said, but he had easily picked up on the urgent tones and could tell that John had too, so he could do nothing else but assume that there had been another decline in George's health.
As soon as they were allowed to unbuckle, Paul was out of his seat and rushing across the aisle with John right behind him.
"What happened?" asked Paul of Ringo, who was awake and groggy-looking with George sleeping against his shoulder. "We 'eard you lot shoutin' durin' takeoff." Paul wished desperately that he had gotten up as soon as they were in the air instead of trusting in Mal to take care of things, for it seemed like George was blushing even more fiercely now than he had been after his fainting spell.
"I'll tell ye' later, but quiet down fer now," urged Ringo, peeling George's arms from where they'd both been wrapped around one of his own. He jostled the guitarist firmly, eyes brimmed with concern, and watched with bated breath as the youngest Beatle flicked open still-glassy eyes and squinted at him and then Paul and John in turn. "All right, George?" he asked.
The young guitarist stirred uncomfortably in his seat and rubbed at the dried tears on his cheeks. "Feel bloody sick," said he, blinking at the rays of sun filtering through the window and grimacing.
"I don't doubt it, mate," said John with surprising gentleness. "Ye've been runnin' one helluva temperature."
"'ave I?" questioned George, massaging the center of his chest with his confused gaze fixed on Paul. "I can't remember anythin'. Where are we?"
"New Jersey, love," Ringo fussed, brushing bangs from the feverish Beatle's forehead and pressing his knuckles against it. "And yer still bloody feverish. We really oughtta get ye' back t' the 'otel."
George nodded his consent, but quickly stopped in the action and held both hands up to his head in agony. "Fuckin' 'ell," he remarked, shutting his eyes. "I really don't feel too well, lads."
"C'mon, Georgie," said Paul, unbuckling the guitarist from his seat and hauling him to his feet. "We'll get ye' to the 'otel and 'ave a doctor come 'round. Ye'll be fine in no time." None of the healthy Beatles were confident that he could keep this promise, but nobody voiced any objection whatsoever out of desire to keep their youngest optimistic in the face of this brutal illness.
The four boys traversed the plane slowly, careful to give George as much time as he needed to get from point A to point B without any sort of incident, and at length met Brian near the door that would carry them into the chaos of Beatlemania.
"Ready lads?" he asked without waiting for an answer. "Mal will be back any moment. Feeling all right, George?"
"Fine," he responded, though this was not true. In reality, he felt like he was going to be sick and could only pray that he'd make it to the hotel before such an occurrence actually took place. "'m eager t' be in out of the sun, though."
Everyone stared.
"What?" he queried when he noticed the many pairs of eyes fixed on him.
"George," said Paul slowly, eyebrows knitted together, "we're indoors."
George froze for a moment before carefully observing his surroundings. "Are we?" he asked, laughing a little only to defuse the cutting tension. "'s so bloody bright in 'ere."
Paul raised a hand to the lead guitarist's forehead for what felt like the millionth time that day and tried to keep his face from portraying the alarm he suddenly harbored. "Bloody 'ell, George. Yer burnin' up!" he exclaimed, making Eppy wince. This whole day was likely putting quite the damper on his ambitious plans for the band.
Nobody had any time to respond, though, for Mal arrived then to announce that they were good to go, and George felt like he might lose his breakfast to the gripping nausea stirring his insides.
"Ready, George?"
There was no time for a response. Somebody led him out by the arm, but he was not fully aware of what has happening. He felt suddenly very detached from reality and he could not even identify who was coaxing him out of the plane and into the eye of the storm where a thousand screams assaulted his ears like bullets and nearly made him stumble in blind pain.
He really was not feeling so well. Suddenly, the past several days in the throes of an illness he'd slipped to the back-burner felt like a stroll through a well-kempt garden, and he was really sure that he was going to vomit or faint or otherwise make a fool of himself in front of all of these people.
Somebody had a hand on his back and was steering him towards the waiting limo but he didn't know who it was. He couldn't bear to turn his head just the slightest bit in fear of worsening the swelling nausea and dizziness that plagued him and every step was sending shocks of pain through his skull like repeated strikes of lighting. But then suddenly, the limousine had grown closer. The steps he had yet to take diminished into single digits and he was so close to respite that he could almost feel the calm already.
And then, he was there.
He slipped through the open limo door, followed by a few other figures, and then the shrieks were muted when the door shut again and inspired a weighty sigh of relief that quickly had him bent over in the throes of a coughing fit.
His eyes watered and his chest ached with every harsh cough that tore its way through his raw throat. Before long, he had a steady stream of tears running down either cheek and was using the hand not covering his mouth to massage his chest despite how little it did to alleviate the pangs each outbreath sent through him like electric shocks.
He could not see who was seated beside him through his tears, but whoever it was had a hand rubbing his back and was rattling off demands which made little sense but sounded very, very serious.
"Eppy, we really should take 'im t' the 'ospital," said the voice, loud and painful to George's sensitive ears. "Poor lad can 'ardly breathe without coughing 'imself to near death!"
Near death. George grimaced and tried to breathe normally, if just to prove this voice wrong. It did not work especially well, though. The coughing did cease, but every inhalation made his chest cry out in an agony that felt rather like being speared through the lungs.
"'m 'kay, John," said George, holding up a hand but not opening his teary eyes.
"Georgie," came the voice again, "I'm Paul, not John."
That got him to crack his eyes open just enough to match a face to the previous-disembodied voice, but he was met with too many worried expressions to focus on just one. Why was it so bloody hot in America?
George thought the limousine was moving, but he couldn't be sure. The hand was still on his back even though he was no longer coughing, and voices were speaking though he could not bring himself to listen to them. Everything was so loud and he was so hot and tired and nauseous.
"Geo," said somebody, voice raised. He winced, but looked to face the person—Paul—anyway. "'ow're ye' feelin', mate?"
"'m bloody sick to me stomach," rasped George, too dizzy to manage anything else. Of all of his symptoms, that was the most prominent, and so he felt it important to mention it.
"Do ye' want t' go to the 'ospital, Georgie?" asked Ringo from somewhere beyond Paul. He could not tell in what order the other three sat: he only knew that he was by the far left window.
"Is the doctor not comin'?" he questioned in response.
"No, no," came Epstein's voice, "we can definitely get a doctor to the hotel. The others are concerned that you need more immediate care."
"Nah," said George. "'otel is immediate enough fer me, I'd say." He was slipping in and out of reality. He was not even fully certain that he verbalized this reply.
"There you have it," stated Eppy. "We'll be at the hotel shortly."
"Lad's bloody delirious, Brian," exclaimed Paul, noticing that George was looking particularly dazed again. "And Ringo 'ere 'as insinuated that there was another incident on the plane!"
All eyes turned to the drummer. "What kind of incident?" asked Epstein. "He didn't faint again…?"
"No," Ringo assured them. "But… 'e wasright confused, that's fer sure."
"Fer chrissakes, Ritchie, what 'appened?" demanded John. The rhythm guitarist had been rather quiet up until that point, keeping a careful eye on their youngest as best he could from the opposite end of the limousine bench seat.
"Well, during takeoff, I guess the increase in pressure was 'urtin' 'is ears and 'ead or somethin', 'cause the poor bloke started goin' on about 'is skull cavin' in…" The eldest Beatle shuddered at the memory. "'e was really confused, though. Bloody cryin' and clawin' at 'is ears. It was 'orrible."
"'e was cryin'?" shouted Paul before being shushed by Ringo. Somehow, George had managed to drop off again, his cheek pressed against the window. "Bloody 'ell."
"I'll call a doctor as soon as we reach the hotel," Mal announced to nobody in particular.
"Ye' better," growled Paul, absently feeling George's cheek in fear that his fever could somehow rise dramatically in a matter of minutes, "'cause if ye' don't, I swear I'll carry the lad t' the 'ospital meself!"
With this threat hanging suspended in the weighty silence, the limo traveled the rest of the way to the hotel with no further comments on the matter of George's health.
The vehicle pulled to a slow stop in front of the grand building, and the lead guitarist did not need to be shaken awake. It seemed that the shrieks of fans did that job for the rest of the band, startling George into a dizzy state of wakefulness with eyes bright and hand absently rubbing at the center of his chest.
As usual, Mal departed first to check the state of security, but this time George gasped very suddenly when the door opened and shut.
"All right there, Geo?" asked Paul, gripping the guitarist's scrawny shoulder.
"Me fuckin' 'ead," was George's croaky reply. "It bloody 'urts."
Paul patted the boy's shoulder encouragingly, trying to sound cheerful when he assured him, "We'll 'ave ye' seen by a doctor shortly, Georgie, don't ye' worry."
"'m not worried," the guitarist rasped, "'m just feelin' fuckin' ill."
This was quite the understatement. George had been feeling nauseous nearly all day, but since waking just a minute before it had increased a tenfold and he was quickly losing all confidence in his ability to hold down his meager stomach contents. He was only glad that he had, for the most part, avoided eating these past few days. At least he didn't have much to bring up.
Mal tapped the window to signal that it was time to go, and the simple noise made George's head pound harder than it had all day. Eppy slipped out of the vehicle first, and then three healthy Beatles and George.
He was feeling very weak again. He had been half certain that he would not be able to stand, but his feet accepted his weight and he was quickly following behind Paul with a hammering head and uneasy stomach to match the gnawing dizziness that negatively affected his vision. There were so many faces surrounding them, jumping and shrieking and fainting and being generally lively, and it was making George nervous. His chances of making it to the hotel were seeming slimmer by the minute, his legs threatening to give out, but by some miracle he managed to pass through the doors directly behind Paul and follow the group through the empty lobby.
Eppy stopped, doing a quick head-count, and then nodded for Mal to continue to the lifts, his eyes lingering on George for a minute. The road manager obeyed this silent command, and the group started on their way and grew that much closer to the silent comfort of a strange, American hotel room, Mal Evans at the front of the line and George serving as the caboose.
They boarded the elevator and started on their way upwards, growing progressively nearer to reprieve while George's stomach grew progressively more restless.
By the time they reached their floor, the youngest was so sick to his stomach that he did not think he would make it to the room without vomiting. Nausea positively ravaged his insides, tossing and stirring and making it difficult to even walk properly with the abdominal pain threatening to make him lose his footing altogether and send him crumbling to the carpeted hallway floor.
"George?" queried Ringo, who noticed the guitarist lagging behind. "Everythin' all right?"
George shook his head aggressively in response, but nearly went tumbling over for it. He was so, so dizzy…
"What's the matter, love?" asked Paul, falling into step with the young musician and wrapping an arm around him supportively. "Is it yer 'ead again?"
Again, the guitarist shook his head to signify the negative, finally stopping his steps altogether in an attempt to regulate his own breathing. Paul used a hand on his upper back to urge him forward, though, and he reluctantly utilized the bassist's assistance in catching up to the rest of the group, who were then several paces ahead.
At length they reached the door of their hotel room, and not a minute sooner than was necessary to avoid disaster. By the time Mal had the door unlocked and had ushered the Fab Four in, George's face had lost all color and his bottom lip was trembling with shocking ferocity.
"George?" Paul asked, watching the lad carefully scan the room. "C'mon, love, what's botherin' ye'?"
George did not answer, for he was much too preoccupied with stumbling entirely-gracelessly into the located washroom with the other three Beatles and two managers right behind him. Ringo was the first to reach the scene and he immediately crouched down beside where George was heaving up his breakfast into the commode, back arching and face sweating profusely as his stomach spasmed and rejected its contents. Ringo's heart twisted in empathy.
Brian exhaled deeply and left the three Beatles to care for their ailing friend while Mal departed to call for a doctor, his footsteps heavy with concern. Meanwhile, Ringo gently tugged off George's suit jacket for him and tossed it onto the counter while Paul wet a washcloth with which to bathe the guitarist's fever-warm face. As the two musicians were doing this, John sat rubbing the sick Beatle's back in a show of comfort, flinching in sympathy with each retch that echoed off the walls of the large bathroom.
"It'll pass, mate," John consoled, feeling inadequate. None of them knew exactly what they were meant to do. They could only think to try to ease George's suffering while they waited for the doctor to arrive.
It took quite a while, but eventually the dry heaving stopped and George was left panting over the toilet bowl with Paul, John, and Ringo doing what they could to comfort him. Paul still had the cold cloth pressed against the guitarist's forehead, and Ringo had taken to pushing George's long hair out of his sweaty face for him while John continued rubbing the lead guitarist's bony back.
"All right now, Georgie?" asked John once George flushed the toilet and sat back on the tiled floor.
"Yeah," gasped the lead guitarist, his palm pressed against his ribcage. "Oh, God."
"Come 'ead, then, love," sang Paul, helping John tug George to his feet. The rhythm guitarist and bassist then helped the young Beatle to the sofa, each with an arm around him, and Ringo laid a new cold compress on his forehead. "Why don't ye' rest while we wait fer the doctor?"
"Okay," agreed George, eyes already closed against the bright hotel lighting. "Thank you, lads. 'm sorry 'm such a burden…"
"Ye' could never be a burden, love," said Ringo, laying a reassuring hand on George's head. "We're 'appy t' help. We only wish there was more we could do."
George wasn't sure that Ringo could speak for all of them, but he still found solace in his mate's words and soon dropped into a fitful sleep with the three remaining Beatles watching on in despair.
"Poor bloke," sighed Paul after a few moments of weighty silence. "Really do wish there was more we could do."
"Mal's gone to call fer the doctor," reminded Ringo gently. "'e'll certainly be able to 'elp some, eh?"
"I s'pose," granted Paul. "But this doesn't seem like any old flu t' me." They were all growing more and more anxious by the minute, and Paul was certainly not the first to have this disturbing thought. "Seems a bit severe for that, y'know."
"Ye' 'ave to remember, the lad's been sufferin' in silence fer days," John said. "Gone an' made himself worse, 'e 'as.
Suddenly angry about nothing and everything, the bassist fixed John with a cold stare. "What, an' yer a doctor now, are ye'?" asked Paul testily.
Ringo rubbed Paul's back. "Calm down, will ye', Paulie," offered the drummer. "We can't 'elp George any by fightin' amongst ourselves. Lad's tense enough about things as is!"
"Right," agreed Paul with a sigh. "Sorry, Lennon. This day's just put me on me last nerve."
"We're all worried about 'im, Paul," John replied. "No reason to get hyper about it."
"Doctor'll be 'round any minute, 'm sure," interjected Ringo. "Everythin' is goin' t' be fine…" The words came easily to Ringo's tongue, but by this point in time nobody could bring themselves to believe them.
As promised, the doctor arrived some time later, and Epstein gladly invited him in while the Beatles roused their ailing member.
"Wha's goin' on?" queried George upon being woken, brown eyes blinking sleepily at the three musicians in turn.
"A doctor's come t' 'ave a look at ye', Georgie," said Ringo, removing the compress from earlier from George's still-hot forehead.
George blinked, confused, and then nodded gently when he remembered their situation. "Oh, all right, then." He rubbed at his eyes irritably, and furrowed his eyebrows when the doctor crouched down to his level.
The man introduced himself as Dr. Skidmore and carefully explained each procedure before he performed it, even though the first part of the checkup mostly consisted of George having lights shined in his eyes, ears, and mouth. He tried to behave himself, though, primarily because he really didn't feel up to being lectured on his manners.
"How long have you been feeling under the weather, Mr. Harrison?" inquired the doctor after he was finished with the bright lights.
"Err," George struggled to recall for a moment. "I guess it started in Vancouver?" he offered.
"Vancouver?" exclaimed Paul. "Ye' told us ye'd been feeling ill for days, not a week!"
George did not know what he was meant to say in response, so he merely shrugged and tried to look apologetic. "I didn't think it mattered," he said bashfully. "Jus' thought I was gettin' a cold, t' be perfectly honest."
The doctor nodded his understanding. "And what are your symptoms?"
George scrunched up his nose, sniffling wetly. "Me 'ead 'urts somethin' awful," confessed the lead guitarist, "and 've been feelin' dizzy all bloody day…"
"'e fainted earlier," added John. "An' 'e was throwin' up shortly before ye' arrived."
"He hasn't been eating either," said Mal. "He's had no appetite. And he's also been coughing quite a bit today."
"An' 'e's been runnin' a fever all day," Paul announced.
"An' 'is ears were 'urtin' 'im earlier," said Ringo. "Pretty sure 'e's been 'alf delirious, as well…"
Dr. Skidmore nodded slightly, and then turned to look at George very carefully. "Anything else you'd like to add?" offered the doctor. The guitarist had not been given much of a chance to explain his symptoms for himself, but this almost better suited him for he did not much like talking about trivial things on a good day, never mind when it hurt to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper.
"Me throat 'urts too," croaked George. "An' me chest."
The doctor frowned very deeply, but nodded his understanding and pulled out a thermometer which he placed under George's tongue before yanking out a stethoscope. Dr. Skidmore then pressed the metal of the stethoscope to George's back and told him to breathe in very deeply (through his nose, so as not to disturb the thermometer in his mouth).
A few moments passed in virtual silence while the doctor listened very closely to what George took to be his lungs, and then, after pressing the object to George's chest for a short minute, the man finally put away the stethoscope and rummaged through his bag.
It grew too silent. The urge to cough threatened to overwhelm George, but there was an intrusive object beneath his tongue and many sets of eyes watching him for any sign of a decline. He felt like a caged animal, or like a specimen under a microscope, and he wished desperately that somebody would look away to allow him just a morsel of privacy. But then, after what felt to George like an eternity, the doctor removed the thermometer from his mouth and shook his head gently at the result, and everyone's attention abandoned him and turned to Dr. Skidmore.
"I'm not surprised he's been half delirious," he announced. "His temperature's at 103.8."
"Is that high?" asked Ringo, unable to remember anything of Fahrenheit that he learned in school.
Dr. Skidmore showed the hint of a smile, and responded with a gentle, "yes."
He cleaned and put away the thermometer and then rummaged through his bag again. "Under regular circumstances," he said, holding up a small pill bottle, "I would recommend a hospital, just because they would be able to bring his temperature down much more quickly than I can." Everyone held their breath. "But, given that this only a last-resort option for a Beatle, I'm going to give him something that should help." He handed George a pill and sent Ringo for a glass of water, and then turned to Mal. "You said he hasn't been eating?"
"Yes," confirmed Mal. "Or, not very well, anyway." Ringo returned with George's water and watched as the guitarist swallowed down his medicine.
"That would likely explain the fainting," proclaimed the doctor. "Lack of proper nourishment and dehydration. A good meal and plenty of fluids should sort it out."
"But what about the rest of it?" demanded John, arms crossed defiantly. "Ye' 'aven't said what it is 'e's got."
"Ah," agreed the doctor, "and that's because I need to have a word with the manager in private." He looked at Brian, and then added, "If you will."
"Of course," said Eppy, leading the way into the corridor while the others looked on in frustration.
Once in private, Dr. Skidmore began: "It seems to me that Mr. Harrison is likely just suffering a particularly bad case of the flu." Brian sighed, relieved. "But," the doctor started, "it is not uncommon for illnesses such as colds or the flu to develop into something worse after being ignored for as long as this case has been."
"What are you saying?" questioned Brian.
"I'm saying that it will be exceedingly easy for Mr. Harrison's illness to grow worse if he is not provided with proper rest and nourishment. And that's if it hasn't progressed already."
"You think he could already have something worse?" Brian asked, incredulous. The doctor nodded grimly. "Well, what can we do?"
"If I were in your shoes, Mr. Epstein," said the doctor, "I would take Mr. Harrison to the hospital, just to be on the safe side. It is, of course, quite likely that he's only got the flu at this point in time, but even if this is the case, it may not stay this way for long if his illness continues to go on disregarded."
"Does he need to be taken to the hospital?" asked Brian, and the doctor sighed very deeply.
"No," he said. "But I highly encourage that he be admitted, even if not right away."
Eppy took a few moments to ponder all of this new information, and then finally nodded his understanding. "Is there anything he can take to ensure that he'll be able to play tonight?"
"I'll write a prescription," replied the doctor, and two minutes later he was on his way and Brian was reentering the hotel room to the sight of many concerned expressions and one sleeping George Harrison.
"Well?" asked Paul. "What'd 'e say?"
"Just a bad case of the flu," announced Brian, trying to appear chipper. "He's given him a prescription so he can play tonight."
Everyone was quick to voice their relief, and Mal set out immediately to get the prescription filled for when George awoke. The guitarist had nodded off only a few minutes after Brian and Dr. Skidmore exited the room, and Paul had been sitting dutifully by him all the time.
"An' e's sure, is 'e?" inquired Paul. Eppy fixed him with a look. "It's just, I've never seen a flu like this before. Kid's been off 'is 'ead practically all day."
"The doctor said it's the flu, Paul," Brian reminded the bassist firmly. "And seeing as he's the only among us who has a degree in medicine, I'm inclined to believe him." Paul snorted indignantly. "And he did say it was a bad case. George's been ignoring the illness all week."
"I still think we oughtta call off the show and press conference and shite, Eppy," suggested John, crossing the room to sit beside Paul. "The lad needs t' rest. 'e's bloody ill and exhausted."
"I know he's ill and exhausted, Lennon, but we can't cancel on such short notice." Brian ran a frustrated hand through his trim hair. "If he shows no signs of improving by later tonight, we can consider canceling tomorrow's events; but for today, we simply can't afford to let so many people down."
"But Eppy—"
"No, Paul," Epstein annunciated. "I'm sorry—I really, really am—but he'll just have to rest whenever he can. Even if that means napping on the sofa."
They didn't like it, but the three conscious Beatles felt that they could argue no more, and so they kept quiet. Even though they could not continue the dispute, though, they all silently vowed to keep a steady eye on their ailing member all the time, just in case of the sudden deterioration of his already-poor health. They were not going to let George's illness go ignored further; not as long as they were able to do something about it.
George was awoken to take his prescription when Mal returned from the drug store, but immediately fell asleep again and did not wake until he was forced to get ready for the press conference. Paul was the one to shake him back to the conscious world when the time finally came, and he did not allow himself to overlook any detail of George's sallow face and dull eyes.
The guitarist was a sickly pale color, but the flush in his cheeks had mostly dissipated and his eyes were no longer bright and frenzied. As good a sign as this was, however, Paul could not feel overly ecstatic to see the dismal, half-dead creature that replaced his younger mate as soon as the element of feverish life was sapped from his body with the declination of his temperature. In fact, the moment George's sleepy eyes blinked up at him emotionlessly, the bassist felt his heart ache in sympathy.
George looked very confused, but not as he had when his harsh fever was ravaging his body like lively wolves. Instead, he looked like he had just woken from hibernation, and it was obvious that this was just how he felt.
"Uhh," George uttered, looking bashful as his eyes traced the room for some hint of anything recognizable. Unfortunately, the only things even remotely familiar were the faces of his concerned friends gathered around to watch him like some spectacle. He hadn't more than a foggy recollection of most of the day's events, but he had to assume that something bad had happened.
"Poor bastard's prolly bloody confused," John surmised, saying aloud what the other Beatles were too shy to. "What's the last thing ye' remember, Georgie boy?"
"I remember leavin' fer the airport," said George, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Everything since then felt dreamlike in his mind, as if he may have made the entire thing up. "After that it's all sort of fuzzy, t' be perfectly honest." He paused. "Are we in New Jersey, then?"
"That's right," nodded Paul, not feeling encouraged by this deduction. "We're leavin' fer the press conference in just a little while."
"Was someone else 'ere?" George asked, searching the room as if it could give him the answers. "Earlier, I mean. Was there a man 'ere or 'ave I gone and dreamt that?"
"There was a doctor 'ere earlier, George," said Ringo, crouched next to the sofa. "Yer sick."
"Is it bad?" questioned George.
John was perched on the arm of the sofa, just beside where Paul was sitting with George close to his left shoulder. "Ye've got the flu somethin' awful, laddie," said John. "Doctor's got ye' on about a hundred drugs. Ye' woke t' take 'em just a little bit ago."
"I remember," said the guitarist. "The flu?"
"That's what the doctor said," Paul affirmed, still not trusting the diagnosis fully. He wondered what the chances were of convincing George to sit this show out.
The youngest Beatle didn't respond to this, for he was too busy trying to process all of this new information in his muddled brain. The pain in both his ears and head had decreased in his sleep, but they were still noticeably present. On the positive side, at least the nausea was gone. He winced in remembrance, glad that his vomiting spell was one of the memories he couldn't pin down as being 100% real.
"So how're ye' feelin' now, Georgie?" asked Paul, not minding the overbearing tone his voice had picked up. He was right concerned about his friend and he refused to feel bad about that. "Yer fever's gone down—that much is fer certain—but how do ye' feel pain-wise?"
"Me 'ead an' ears are hurtin' a bit," he said. "Me bloody throat's killin' me. But apart from that I'm not feelin' too terrible."
"Do ye' still want t' do the show tonight?" Paul inquired, fixing George with a serious stare.
"Course I want t' do the show, ya sod," laughed George, trying his best to stifle the coughs that then tore through his throat and chest like spears. "The day I stop playin' gigs because 'm ill is the day ye' oughtta bury me."
No one laughed because none of them even felt like joking about such a matter at the moment, but Paul didn't dissuade George from making this decision and even offered to help him clean up before the press conference. Of course, George would not hear of it—"I can walk t' the bloody washroom without faintin', McCartney"—but the offer was silently appreciated.
While George was in the bathroom getting ready, the other three Beatles approached Eppy.
"What'd ye' tell the press about George?" asked John. None of the Beatles particularly wanted George to take part in any of the day's activities, but seeing as he was adamant about playing the concert they wanted at least to see what they could do about getting him out of the press conference.
"Neil's just told them that he's ill," Brian reported, cradling a phone between his ear and shoulder, supposedly on hold. "He hasn't released any details yet."
"Who are ye' on hold with?" Paul demanded, just a bit too harshly. George was like a little brother to him, and this whole ordeal was making him increasingly edgy.
"Neil," said Eppy. "He's just gone to get an update on the state of security."
"Good," said Paul. "'ave the bloke tell the press that Georgie won't be at the conference. The lad's just too sick, whether or not 'e'll admit it."
The other two Beatles nodded in agreement. "We want 'im out of this, Eppy," John argued. "Neil or Mal can stay with 'im in the dressin' room so 'e doesn't 'ave t' be left alone, but 'e should be gettin' as much rest as 'e can before the show tonight."
"Sorry, lads, but—" Epstein held up a finger to signify that Aspinall had picked up the other end again. "Hang on, Neil," he said into the receiver. "I'm very sorry, lads, but the press were promised all four Beatles. He can leave early if he really needs to, but he has to be there." Brian carried on talking into the phone, then, and the matter was closed.
Ringo, Paul, and John returned to the sofa to wait for their ailing bandmate with heavy hearts and occupied minds. None of them felt right about anything that had happened that day, and things were only looking bleaker as the hours wore on and the press conference and show grew nearer.
George emerged from the bathroom shortly thereafter with his jacket on and his hair combed, looking considerably paler than he had when they'd last seen him minutes before.
"All right, George, love?" asked Ringo, standing to offer the guitarist his seat. George, who would normally have insisted Ringo stay seated, gratefully accepted the vacant spot on the sofa and dropped heavily into the seat as if his legs had grown weak in the time he'd been getting ready.
"'m fine," replied George, eyes closing of their own accord. He rested his forehead in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest, and massaged his temples absently. "'m bloody tired though."
"Mal's just gone ahead to check on security," said Brian, apparently having finished his phone call. "You'll be able to sleep on the drive over, and again before the show. Neil's even gone out to fetch some food for you lads, for after the press conference."
George, while no longer nauseous, was no longer feeling particularly hungry, so he was still not as joyful as he normally would have been to hear this news. If there was one sure sign that George Harrison was not feeling well, it was a loss of appetite. Paul was only grateful that the doctor had ordered that the guitarist be fed, for he feared that George would not eat otherwise.
Mal returned just then and Brian cheerfully led the way out of the room and into the corridor they'd traversed earlier that same afternoon. The elevator seemed closer to their room now than it had earlier when George was too nauseous to function properly, but it still seemed to be a good mile away with his legs as shaky and weak as they were.
At some point during their trek, George's breathing grew heavy and difficult and his chest positively burned with every inhalation. Something about this didn't seem quite right to him, but he was in no hurry to concern the others more than he already had that seemingly-endless day so he stayed quiet about the matter.
The elevator loomed, and George could almost have shouted for joy had it not been for the rawness of his throat which prevented him from exerting his voice any more than was needed to speak in a hushed, croaky tone. To his right, Paul was frowning and casting worried glances at him out of the corner of his brown eyes, and George did his best to look encouraging despite the strain it put on his meager physical resources. In truth, he was growing very tired of masking any fraction of his pain, but he didn't want to cause any more trouble for his friends than he already had. They were already so scared for him; why would he knowingly add to their fear?
"Sure yer all right, Georgie?" asked Paul, his forehead ridges growing deeper with each passing moment that George labored for breath.
"'m stellar, McCartney," the guitarist replied, smiling falsely and trying to mask the fact that each breath was becoming increasingly harder to force into his hurting lungs. "Me 'ead's actually not hurtin' as badly as it was earlier. I think maybe that medication is kickin' in."
"Glad to 'ear it, Harrison," beamed John, smacking George on the back as if this was some big accomplishment. He knew that the ill Beatle was probably lying, but he liked to think that some part of that lie was based off of reality. Maybe George really would be feeling well enough to play tonight. Maybe it really was just a bad case of the flu.
As they boarded the elevator, Paul eyed Harrison in suspicion and grimaced to see his chest heave with each inhalation. "Perhaps ye' shouldn't sing tonight, Geo," suggested the bassist, resting his hand at the base of George's warm neck as the elevator began its descent. "Ye' seem t' be havin' a bit o' trouble breathin' there. 'm sure we could come up with a setlist that'll prevent ye' from straining' yerself too much."
"McCartney's got a point, Georgie boy," agreed John. "Ye' oughtta be takin' it easy."
"I'll think about it," wheezed George, fingertips pressed against his chest in discomfort. He didn't really want to sing, but he also didn't want his mates to think that he was weak for playing a half-assed show. But then, he was having quite a bit of trouble breathing…
The elevator doors parted, but George was ready for the screams that bit angrily at his ears with cumulative fervor as they drew closer and closer to the waiting Beatlemaniacs. Brian led the group and George wedged himself between Ringo and John in the line of traveling Beatles, Mal following behind closely. The lead guitarist was not afraid of fainting or vomiting this time around, and so the trip from the doors to the limo went much smoother than any of their other trips that day, for which everyone was thankful.
By the time they reached the limousine, however, he was half-gasping for air and his chest felt like it was on fire. Paul was peering around Ringo to see that George was okay, panting audibly as he was, and he was disappointed to see that the youngest Beatle was pale as could be and struggling against the beginnings of a coughing fit.
George shut his eyes against the pain in his chest and throat as coughs once again ripped through him and made him go red in the face. He was angry with himself for ignoring this damned illness and allowing it to take him over to fully, but he also knew that there was no way to change the past. All he could really do was attempt to do better in the future, but even that was proving more difficult than he'd anticipated, what with the many people relying on him to soldier through. They were counting on him, and yet here he was, nearly taken down by the goddamned flu.
He could've cried just out of frustration were it not for the many worried faces watching on helplessly. But then, the limousine was moving now and George felt himself being lulled to sleep by its motion once the coughs had left him be. Within a few minutes, in fact, the guitarist was asleep for the umpteenth time that day, and the others breathed a sigh of relief.
"Can't believe he's goin' through with the concert," mused Ringo, shaking his head in disapproval and pulling George's bangs out of his eyes. The guitarist had his head leaned against the back of the seat and he would have looked peaceful had his chest not heaved dramatically with every breath.
"He won't if I've got anythin' t' say about," grumbled Paul. "'e's just bein' stubborn, 'e is. Bloke's too ill to perform and 'e knows it, but 'e's too fuckin' stubborn t' admit it."
"Don't be so hard on 'im, Paul," advised Ringo, blue eyes shining with compassion and concern. "e's under an awful lot of stress. If anythin' 'e's just worried about lettin' everyone down. There's a lot of pressure on us all, an' 'e's practically a kid!"
The truth was that George was only just a year younger than Paul, but the gap between them still seemed immense. It was easy for the three older Beatles to forget that George was an adult as well, and so they were all guilty of making him feel inferior—just out of habit—even though he was just as mature as the rest of them, if not more at times. No matter how old they got, George would always be the baby, and so the guitarist's attempts at putting on a brave face could be easily overlooked as simple foolishness.
"I bloody well know 'e's under a lot of stress, Rings," contended Paul. John was typically the most tenacious Beatle, but when a matter concerned George, Paul was quick to argue with all opposing opinions. George had been like a younger brother to the bassist for so long that, over time, he'd begun to think only he knew what was best for the lad. "Which is all the more reason fer 'im t' be takin' it easy! You bloody see how ill 'e is! Ye' can't tell me ye' think it's a good idea fer 'im to be performing a fuckin' concert!"
"No one thinks it's a good idea, McCartney," John intervened. "We can all agree it's a bloody stupid idea," That bit was mostly aimed at Eppy and Mal, "but it's not little George's fault 'e's got a so many people relyin' on 'im, is it?"
"Fuck the bloody people relyin' on 'im," Paul half-shouted. "George is ill and 'e oughtta be lookin' out fer 'imself better."
"'e probably oughtta be, but that doesn't change anythin', ya sod!" replied John, growing frustrated. Everyone was truly on their last nerve. "Look 'ere, McCartney; me and Ringo both agree with ye' that George shouldn't play the bloody show, but it isn't up to us, is it? Georgie's the one who gets to make the final call and ye' can't keep gettin' angry at 'im fer tryin' to please everyone."
Paul sighed heavily, burying his face in his hand and shaking his head slowly. "'m sorry, lads," he admitted at length. "Yer both right. I can't take all me frustration out on George. 'e's got enough on 'is plate already."
Ringo and John were quick to forgive, and the limousine soon fell quiet apart from the sound of George's wheezy snoring. From there, the rest of the drive was spent in this fashion, and the ailing lead guitarist slept right on through it
A/N:
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