âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• George Harrison (Part II) •

Somehow, the boys managed to struggle through the performance. You kept yourself safe in the cramped backstage area, peeking around the backdrop to catch a glimpse of the boys as often as you dared. Naturally, you kept your eye on George.

In the midst of the many rabble rousers and incredibly rude shouts, they managed to put on what could just be called a show. Exhausted, the four of them shuffled dejectedly off stage, where you greeted them with enthusiasm that matched their moods.

Instantly searching for friendly support, Richard collapsed onto an unused amp beside you with a long huff.

"They hate me," he mumbled drunkenly, the whiskey he'd downed at the sight of the aggressive audience finally catching up to him.

"Don't say that Richie," you replied comfortingly. "They don't know what talent is."

He gave a weak smile at your pithy comment but said nothing. Instead, he slumped into himself beside you, the glint of the weak club lights against his rings for once outshining the twinkle in his drooping eyes. Unsure of what you could do to comfort him, you awkwardly patted his hand, but his fingers grasped hold of yours and clung on tightly.

Willing to provide the support he so desperately needed, you squeezed his clammy palm and delicately began repeating the same qualities that the band had seen in him, so unique that they had hired him before getting around to firing Best.

Fortunately, the other three boys were huddled together a little way down the hallway, out of earshot of Ringo's self-deprecating comments. The weak lights drained their exhausted faces, sweat clung to their once carefully sculpted hair styles and even the way they held themselves had changed, their postures slumped and dejected. Paul and John were locked in avid conversation, John's furrowed brow littered with fresh scrapes and cuts and his eyes as fearsome as black holes.

Surprisingly, the usual crowd of friends, fans and girls were still hanging around despite the rabble, but one soulless glare from John was enough to clear out the majority of the wings. Even the club's manager quivered like jelly beneath his stare.

Of course, you just so happened to find yourself focusing on George. His eye seemed to have gotten worse in the last 40 minutes, blossoming like the petals of a dahlia, and he just looked so tired.

Although you saw his lips form sentences, it was clear he was detached from the conversation. His guitar scarred fingers were fumbling with a cigarette so badly that Paul had to chase it with his lighter, his downcast eyes focused primarily on his own shoes, and his usual cheeky smile lost among the hollows of his cheeks.

As you were almost at the end of your goal to encourage a now nearly cheered up Richie out of his shell, John stomped suddenly over, Paul and George stumbling along in his drawn-out shadow. Luckily, Richie was able to manage a semblance of a smile by then, not that John would have noticed as he came to a halt mere feet from Richie's face.

"Listen, Ringo," he said with the air of a sports coach bolstering a losing team, "those wankers don't know what's coming to them, alrigh'? You're a bloody great drummer and -"

As John unleashed his aggressive pep talk on the wide-eyed Richie, whose grip on your hand had loosened as the oncoming storm approached, you shuffled out of the firing zone, almost falling off the large speaker as you did so.

Now, you could see Paul and George peeking over John's shoulder. Paul, whose face only a moment ago had been warped with worry, looked as though he was now holding back laughter at his best friend's odd show of affection, and sent you one of his charming winks when you caught his eye.

However, George's hazy gaze was already searching for yours when it found him. As soon as his eyes captured yours, he made a short gesture to the back door he had tumbled out of only an hour before. You didn't need to be asked twice.