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George sat on top of the cold toilet seat, his face buried in his hands as shaky sobs wracked his body. He wanted nothing more than to disappear from the dirty stall, knowing that there were thousands, maybe even millions, of girls waiting just outside for him.
He heard a knock, and somebody cleared their throat. “Geo? You alright in there?” It was Ringo, sweet Ringo, always checking to make sure everyone was fine, trying to pry information from the young guitarist that he didn’t want to tell. It was a hell of a lot better than John or Paul, though. John would laugh at you for being upset, telling you to grow a pair. Paul wouldn’t be quite as harsh, mostly just dismiss your sadness, rushing you out to get to the hotel faster.
“M’fine, Rich,” he mumbled, and Ringo respectfully left the toilet, even though he knew his friend wasn’t fine. Because he also knew that he needed his space, and he’d be out when he was ready.
That was the problem. George wasn’t sure he was going to be ready any time soon, if the damp, brown stains on his underwear littered with tiny pieces of loo paper were anything to go off of. He’d tried his best to clean it all up, but now, in between his bum cheeks was rubbed sore, felt way too soft when they were pressed together. And his underwear were still wet enough that if he sat down in the car for an hour, it would stain his pants, as well. That wouldn’t go over well with Brian. At least at this moment, it wasn’t on the expensive suit at all.
“George!” Speak of the devil. “We gotta go soon, love!” Brian always did his best not to mess with them too much. He only wanted what was best for them and their mental health, and knowing that the fame was a lot for a couple of pubescent boys, he kept a soft voice. “George?” he repeated when George hadn’t responded for a bit.
“Y-yeah, okay…” He frantically started pulling his pants and underwear down, not caring if they touched the dirty floor. It’s not like he hadn’t just done the most disgusting thing ever. And on stage, too!
“Are you doing alright?” A sniffle suddenly rang through the air, and George cursed himself for not just letting the snot run onto his lip and into his mouth instead. “I know America’s a pretty scary place. We’ll be back home before you know it, alright?”
“I know,” he mumbled, ready for this conversation to be over so he could go back to feeling bad about himself for getting so nervous about their first American performance that he literally shit himself in front of an audience bigger than they’d ever had before.
“We really do have to get going, but if you ever need to talk, you know I’m all ears.” George groaned, and Brian left, leaving him to pull his underwear over his foot and drape them on the small metal hook hanging on the door. He put his pants back on over his bare crotch, shivering from how uncomfortable it made him.
Tears gathered in his eyes as he looked over the underwear. What was he going to do with them? They smelled awful, but where could he possibly put them where they wouldn’t-- his guitar case. Sure it wasn’t the best idea, but he had nowhere else. He didn’t have a bag to carry with him.
And then the door opened again. “Georgie? Eppy said something was wrong? Do you want to come out now? I don’t like you being in there alone if something is really wrong…”
“I’m coming out now, Rich. Sorry…” Without a second thought, he stuffed the underwear into his suit jacket. He had to get them to his guitar case somehow. And as he stood at the sink, he tried to wait under the hot water long enough for Ringo to leave, but he never did.
He pushed past him gently to get to their dressing room, where their instrument cases still were, thank god. He brought his case to the corner of the room, trying not to be noticed by any of them. Ringo seemed to leave him alone, busy with helping with his drums, so he was able to stick them down into the side pocket as quickly as possible. He zipped it up and carefully walked back over to his friends, his mind reeling at how he was supposed to get them cleaned.
Then Ringo walked up next to him, tapping him on the shoulder lightly and saying something. George mumbled incoherently, and Ringo walked away.
-
The next night, at their next show, George had done his very best to forget about it, and he’d done a very good job at it, too. He’d figured he could leave the underwear as long as he needed to until laundry day came.
But as soon as they spotted their cases as they walked into the next dressing room, Ringo went right over to George’s. John and Paul had gone to the toilet together, and a few other men had started putting Ringo’s drums up on stage, so it left only Brian on the other side of the room, flipping through some papers on a clipboard.
Of course, George froze solid when he saw Ringo unzipping the outside pocket on the case and reaching a hand in. “What are you doing!” he shouted angrily, and both men in the room jumped up. “I-I- sorry, but, what’re you doing with my case?” Now disinterested since they’d worked through the fight themselves, Brian turned back to his papers. But Ringo was still stunned.
“I told you yesterday that I was putting my drumsticks in here. You said it was fine when we were packing up.” George started to think back to when he would’ve even said that. And as he did, he didn’t remember anything about it. “If it’s that big of an issue, I won’t put them back in there. But I kind of need them for the show tonight.” With a chuckle, he stuck his hand back inside, and George saw the look on his face change. Not to anything but confusion. “What’s in here, Geo? Is that a rag or something?”
Ringo’s hand was slowly pulling out of the pocket, and he couldn’t will himself to tell the man to stop, to put them back, or even scream. He could only watch in horror as his stained pair of underwear were flung from the guitar case and dangled from Ringo’s hand, a humiliating reminder that there was no way he could’ve kept this hidden.
“Are these yours?” Ringo asked dumbly, staring at the tidy whities, noticing that they were still a bit damp. “God, Geo, when are these from?” George let a hand fly over his mouth. “You can’t just keep stuff like that in your case!”
As Ringo got a bit louder, Brian glanced up again, his eyes widening slightly. “Richard? What are you holding?”
“They’re not mine,” Ringo defended himself, tossing them away from him so that they landed on the couch. Just in time for John and Paul to step in. George stood frozen, his blood like rivers of ice, Ringo disgusted, Brian confused, and the incriminating pair of underpants sat splattered on the white couch, front and centre for John and Paul to see.
For a minute they said nothing about it, but then Paul scanned the people in the room, trying to piece together an explanation. He ultimately came to the conclusion that they were George’s.
“What the fuck?” John muttered, walking over and leaning down a bit closer, face scrunched up at the smell. “Who shit themself?” he asked without a care in the world how ugly it sounded. Nobody said anything, all continuing to stare at each other.
“Let’s just…” Brian sighed. “Look, I’m going to take them, and I’m going to wash them. Whoever they belong to, just let me know, and I’ll get them back to you. No harm no foul.” He walked over to the pair and picked them up awkwardly, finding a plastic bag and shoving them inside of it.
But the action did nothing to end the humiliation for George. Because Ringo knew, staring right at him. And Paul knew, which meant that John was able to limit it down, too. There was no way Brian didn’t know. He was just doing his best to make it seem like it.
“What… happened?” Ringo muttered, and George looked away from him, attempting to make himself busy. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Then George snapped, his mood changing drastically in a feeble way to protect any dignity he had left. “What was I supposed to say?? I shit myself? I would’ve been laughed at for it!!”
Ringo huffed. “Well, why didn’t you tell someone you had to go, then? If Eppy had known you had to go that bad, he wouldn’t have said no and sent you on stage.”
“I didn’t…” George felt the tears in his eyes start to fall down his face. He really didn’t want to have this conversation with Ringo, but he definitely didn’t want to have it with Ringo as the other three watched. “I got nervous, okay? I didn’t have to go, and then I did, and I was so scared, and it just h-happened, and…” He sniffled, absolutely mortified, having to admit this all out loud. “I didn’t know what to do! I wasn’t about to just tell you!”
When he looked up, expecting to see Ringo with his arms crossed, brows down close to eyes, probably annoyed with him, he saw that the older man had become more gentle. “I’m sorry, Geo. It’s really fine, nothing to worry about. We all get nervous…” he whispered. John and Paul had since turned away from the conversation, and Brian was walking off with the plastic bag. “E-ever since that first concert I had with you all, I’ve been sick right before each and every one.”
George blinked at him. “Richie, you don’t have to make things up just to make me feel better.”
“I would never,” he assured him. “It just gets so overwhelming thinking about what could possibly go wrong on stage, just the thought of one of you getting hurt. It all just gets to me right before the show.” Now that Ringo seemed a bit upset, George just stared at his eyes. “What I’m trying to get at, love, is that we all get nervous, and we all deal with it in different ways, yeah? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
George shrugged. “I’m still sorry about it…”
“That’s alright. If it happens again, please let me know, okay? I love you, and I want you to feel as comfortable as possible at these shows, alright?”
“I l-love you, too, Rich. Thanks…” He leaned up against Ringo and sighed happily. At least he had his best friend there with him.