Chapter nine : 1964, Not so estranged bedfellows (part A) :

                                    

                                          
George was miserable. He'd been feeling under the weather since they'd boarded onto the plane for their first American tour, but he'd first chalked it up to nerves. This trip had a lot riding on it, no band from across the pond having ever managed to match the success they had in the UK in the States. 
                          
When they'd touched down at JFK airport it had been total pandemonium, thousands of fans having come to see the Beatles. George had put on his best face, waved to the fans and smiled, slipping on his playful Beatle demeanour even though he was progressively feeling worse. 
                          
They were ushered into a room in the airport straight off the plane, where dozens of reporters were waiting for them, rather overwhelming to George. He was used to the press but they'd never dealt with it on such a large scale and he found himself going through the motions, being clever and charming, but praying they'd get through this press conference soon. 
                          
They were eventually taken to their fancy hotel where more fans were screaming their heads off and crying at the sight of the them, and then rather briskly shoved into their suites. George quickly made his way to his room, throwing up the little food and champagne he'd had on the plane before crawling into bed. Brian came to check on him pretty soon to see if he was up for being taken around the city with the others for photo ops and interviews. When it became clear that George wasn't, he sent for a doctor who gave him a shot that would hopefully break his fever before their Ed Sullivan rehearsal and first appearance. George had to stay in bed until then. 
                          
Thankfully Ringo had managed to get him a record player to keep him company while they were out. He'd also gotten him a bowl of chicken soup from room service. George doubted he could keep anything down but he'd sipped the broth anyway, rather grateful and touched by Ringo's concern. Paul had popped in as well, stressing that these Ed Sullivan appearances were important before showing himself out. John hadn't come at all. George figured he was busy with Cynthia; she had come along for the trip, much to George's dismay. He reasoned that his mate would want to spend time with his wife though, having seen so little of her since things had really started for the band. 
                          
George drifted off into a fitful sleep, hearing some commotion coming from the living room of the suite but not bothering to drag himself out of bed and find out what was going on. There was a soft knock at the door and Ringo slipped inside, still wearing his heavy coat. 
                          
"George," he said softly, taking off his coat and placing it onto a nearby chair. "You feeling all right?" He walked over to him and stared down at his friend. George nodded, smiling. "Oh yes, like a million bucks, mate," he said and slowly tried to sit up, making a face in discomfort. 
                          
"Don't sit up on my account," Ringo said, concerned. 
                          
"It's all right," George sighed, propping a pillow behind his back. "I'll have to be on my feet in a few hours for rehearsal, anyway." 
                          
Ringo sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to the door, facing George. He reached out, touching his mate's forehead. "You're hot." 
                          
George chuckled, closing his eyes. "Thanks." 
                          
Ringo grinned. "Sure you're sick or you just trying to skip out on all those photo shoots and interviews Brian has scheduled for us?" he asked jokingly, continuing to feel George's forehead. "You're burning up." 
                          
"I'm freezing, though." George opened his eyes and stared into Ringo's. "Probably shouldn't get too close to me. I wouldn't want you to catch it." 
                          
There was a snort coming from the corridor, making them both look up. John was leaning against the door frame with carefully studied disinterest, hands tucked into the pockets of his suit and cigarette dangling from his rosy lips. His hair was still ruffled from the madness he'd gone through, crazed fans and questioning journalists, security agents pulling on their hair 'accidentally' to try to get a few souvenirs, and obnoxious local celebrities looking down on the newcomers fresh from Great Britain's Mersey beat. "Aren't you cute, now..." he drawled slowly, something dark flashing in his eyes before it disappeared as he forced a grin out.