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Prellies. They fueled the sound of Hamburg’s clubs so the music could continue into the wee hours of the morning. Suppliers were as plentiful as the supply. You couldn’t turn a corner without coming face-to-face with the temptation. Sleep was an elusive concept when you popped a handful of these babies into your mouth.
John considered them God’s gift to rock n’ roll. He liked to think of it as “the pusher pill,” pushing him to his limits every night to remain standing for just one more hour. Rock n’ roll never stopped, and now, he and his band didn’t need to either. It was bloody euphoric .
That is, until the one thing keeping him going ended up being the one thing to bring him to the floor of the stage.
It happened in a blur. One minute Paul is belting out the lyrics to Long, Tall Sally in that flawless way he does, giving John a fond side-eye as the adrenaline runs rapidly through his body. Because Paul doesn’t need the pills--not like John does, anyway. No, the encouraging applause of the crowd, and the vibrating rhythm of the instruments is enough to keep Paul high.
John caught the look, his vision receiving it in slow motion with a fuzziness only adding to his horrendous eyesight. In the blink of an eye, however, Paul’s smile caved in on itself and display a frown of concern. John recalls faintly wondering what could be troubling his bandmate enough for him to screw his face up in worry, but not enough for him to stop singing.
But John didn’t have much time to ponder the thoughts of another when his own became hazy. Their amplified playing became muffled to his ears as if there was cotton lodged in them, and Paul’s head-bobbing became no more than a blurry silhouette. John desperately wanted to win his fight with gravity, but he could already feel the floor before he had even hit it.
In a few minutes that felt like centuries, he got the much needed rest his pills deprived him of. It wasn’t their fault, though; John was always a willing target.
Though it could have very well been his subconscious reminding him sleep is for the weak, John assumed it was Paul hovering over him whilst gently patting his cheeks and dabbing his forehead with a cool rag that awakened him. He should have started at the contact--jumped into a fighting stance, prepared to tell whoever was touching him to back the fuck off. But somehow, John just knew who was towering over him…comforting him rather than harming him.
John hadn’t noticed how sweaty he was until the wetness on his face alerted him of his similarly soaked body. He may as well have just walked out of a sauna. Christ, his head was all kinds of fuzzy, and his hair was matted to his face like a cheap toupee.
No sooner had the thought vacated John’s own mind, than it was absorbed by Paul’s--for a tender hand brushed away the sweaty fringe from his forehead. His skin prickled with a newfound heat as the slightly calloused touch rhythmically swept across his skin.
“Hey, mate, decided to join us again?” The words drifted softly to his ears, no longer coming through a distant tunnel.
John frowned in response and attempted to speak, only to find the cotton in his ears had apparently traveled to his mouth, making his voice come out in a low rasp. Always on top of things, Paul reached down for a cup of water he had sat on the floor. While supporting the back of John’s head, he helped his older friend satiate the dryness of his throat.
Clearing his throat and trying again, John said, “I feel like shite. Care to enlighten me on why that may be?”
Paul grinned, but did just that. “Ye fell out on stage, John. Right in the middle of the show. I know I’m not the best singer, but c’mon, mate, that was a bit dramatic--even for you .”John had to say, Paul’s lightheartedness was helping him feel less like he was hit by a truck.
“Aye, well, it got ye to stop, didn’t it?” Ignoring Paul’s mock-hurt glare, John continued on a more curious note, “So…um, how did I get back in me bunk?” he asked, belatedly realizing he and Paul were actually seated on his designated bedding in the band’s shared room.
“George helped me to carry ye in here, and then we plopped ye on the bed. I make it sound a lot simpler than it was, but yer actually dead heavy.”
“What about the show?”
“The show must go on, right? I jus’ told George to take over on the vocals while I stay ‘ere. Y’know, do a few more numbers n’ that jus’ to keep the rioting down.”
John nodded, and as soon as he did, chills racked his body. Curling his body in on itself, he gasped from the intensity of his shivers.
“Fuck, it’s colder than a witch’s tit in ‘ere,” he said through shudders.
Paul frowned, concern etched on his features as he placed the back of his hand to John’s forehead.
“Nah, Johnny, s’just you. Think ye’ve got a fever.” Raising from the bed, Paul began to pull the covers back, silently ordering John underneath them.
Only wasting time to kick off his boots, John dove into the warmth of the sheets, curling into a fetal position as he continued to shake.
Paul stared dumbly at John for a minute, standing by his bedside, before making the executive decision to climb into bed after his weary friend.
Baffled, but moving closer to the extra body heat, John mumbled through choppy breaths, “W--what’re ye d--doin’”
“‘M keepin’ you warm,” Paul whispered, barely hesitating to wrap his arms around John’s frail figure.
“Y--yer g--gonna get sick.” Defying his own words and better judgement, John scooted close enough to Paul where he could duck his head to the younger boy’s chest. He didn’t even know if he was sick. For all he knew, this shittiness could be from the pills still circulating throughout his system. But it was the only excuse he could think of to give Paul a chance to back out of his actions.
“Well…if I do, you can just return the favor then, yeah?” he softly spoke into John’s sweaty locks, continuing to keep them away from his face.
“Yeah.” John smiled to himself, and hoped Paul couldn’t feel it on his chest. On the other hand, there was an irregular pounding just beneath the thin t-shirt separating him from Paul that informed John he wasn’t the only one feeling the excitement in the contact.
When their legs tangled beneath the dingy sheets, John’s core became ten thousand degrees hotter.
Feeling a shift in weight on the bed, and a loss of comforting contact, John shot his head up to see where his warmth had gone.
Before he could stop the frantic plea, it slipped between his lips, “Where ye goin’?” It was spoken louder than intended, and with no trace of stuttering.
“Relax,” Paul smiled as he leaned back into the bed, “‘m jus’ gettin’ the cloth. Yer sweatin’ worse than a whore in church.” He procured the damp cloth and neatly placed it at the back of John’s neck once they reestablished their previous positions.
“Oh,” John offered uselessly. He was slightly embarrassed at his desperate outburst, and hid his blush within Paul’s chest.
“Hey, Johnny?”
“Yeah?” John closed his eyes.
“How many did you take?”
John was silent for a moment--the question being so random, he almost thought he’d misheard it.
“Pardon?”
“The pills--the prellies, John. How many did you take?” Paul clarified, his words clipped yet straightforward.
As the question rested between them in the silence of the room, John vainly waited for the laughter he hoped would soon follow. When Paul gave only patient waiting and no hint of humor, John feigned indifference.
“I don’t know--”
“ Please , John. Please don’t play dumb with me right now. Just--how many did you take?” John slowly pulled away to measure the stern look on Paul’s face he could already hear from his tone alone.
John sighed, looking for options, ways out. Only, there were none. Paul would be able to sniff out the bullshit flying from his mouth from a mile away.
Finding it easier to face a stain on the bed-sheet rather than the disappointed look on Paul’s face, John murmured, “I…I don’t know how many I took tonight, okay?”
Paul sighed. That sigh spoke more volumes to John than any lecturing ever could. It was disappointment, guilt, and angst all packed into a single breath. John didn’t want to admit his pill-popping had gotten out of hand…out of his control--that they were the only things keeping him going these days. Hell, for the past few weeks, he’d convinced himself it was just a phase; one a night just so he could play for another hour. But one hour turned into two and two turned into the whole night, until he found himself close to face-planting the audience. He supposed he’d finally reached his breaking point tonight.
Stilling the hand that was tangled in John’s hair, Paul said, “John, you gotta stop.”
The way he said it, made it seem like there was no room for argument. John would hand over the remainder of his stash, get sleep like a normal human being, and be the good little guitarist Paul wanted him to be. But the one thing at the top of John’s pet peeve list was being told what to do. Mimi did it, schoolmasters did it, and now Paul was doing it.
Heaving a laborious sigh, John’s voice rose in agitation, “Christ, Paul, why don’t ye get off yer high fuckin’ horse and stop being such a hypocrite. You’ve taken the pills too, mate.” He withdrew all contact from Paul, save for their legs beneath the sheets, sensing the change in tone called for less intimacy.
“I’m just scared, John. You have no idea what it was like to see you faint on stage,” Paul said, his tone of genuine fear countering John’s of irritation. “I--I thought you fuckin’ died or something.”
Suddenly drained of all fight, John could only stare at Paul, who refused to make eye contact as he voiced his concerns. Any other day, he would tell Paul to man up and quit being so dramatic. But there was a distinct difference between McCartney hysterics and honest unease. Lowering his voice and his eyes, John decided to drop the cynicism for once.
“Shit,” he whispered as an admission of defeat. “Look, Paul, I’ll uh--I’ll lay off the pills, okay?” Paul looked up at John, but still showed an anxious expression.
“Okay,” he mumbled.
“Hey,” John pinched Paul’s cheek in hopes it would assist a smile, “don’t go gettin’ all sulky on me now, Macca. Still need someone to wipe the sweat from me brow.” He wiggled his eyebrows before dramatically fanning himself.
Paul cracked a small smile and did as was bid of him beneath the humor. He dabbed at John’s forehead, which apparently knew no bounds of perspiration. When John closed his eyes and sighed at the contact, the lump in Paul’s throat caused his smile to fade.
Once the collar of John’s shirt turned into a hand at his throat, he sat up and removed the constrictive material. Sitting up and causing the blanket to pool around his waist, he reached for Paul’s cloth and wiped the remaining sweat from his torso. He felt absolutely filthy but didn’t care enough to have a wash at this hour--whatever hour it was. Craning his neck to rub at the side of it, he caught Paul’s intense gaze on his chest. Honestly, the younger boy looked entirely innocent with his hands clutching the blankets just beneath his chin, and his lips parted in something akin to fascination.
After a few seconds, Paul noticed John catching him staring, and knew he’d been caught red-handed. Clearing his throat and looking away in shame, he made to get out of the bed while muttering some concocted excuse. John grabbed the wrist that attempted to pull the blankets away, and Paul stopped any further motion.
“You…you don’t have to go. I mean, it’s alright, yeah?” He did his best to sound unfazed by the events, but he could even hear the effort it took to speak past his own nervousness. One misplaced word could destroy this fragile situation, and Paul leaving his bed was the last thing he wanted.
Paul said nothing in reply, but returned to his previous position, eyeing John curiously as he did so. The latter simply nodded, satisfied with Paul’s decision, before twisting himself to lie back down in the same direction as Paul was facing. He hated to seem so negligent when he turned his back to his obviously curious friend, but he hoped grabbing Paul’s hand and manually placing it around his own waist made up for it.
Less disheartened, Paul shuffled just enough closer for his arm not to be locked stiff in the position. His hand loosely rested on the middle of John’s torso, and the minute tentative strokes of his fingers that followed were practically involuntary. But John did not swat the fingers away. Such a thing would have been pretty ridiculous considering John had placed them there on his own accord.
When John felt fingers ghost over the fine hairs below his navel, John shifted closer to the warmth behind his back and prayed that Paul would be willing to finish anything he started. John tangled his fingers with Paul’s, forcing them more firmly onto his torso, and found himself smiling at the feeling of warm lips on the back of his neck. In that moment, John knew the high and warmth he was feeling could in no way be the product of one-too-many uppers.