Work Text:
2:06 A.M.
Macca ❤︎ : I'm sorry
Macca ❤︎ : I love you
Macca ❤︎ : Please don't hate me
Macca ❤︎ : Do you hate me?
Macca ❤︎ : Don't leave me
Macca ❤︎ : Please?
3:32 A.M.
Macca ❤︎ : Oh god
Macca ❤︎ : I'm sorry
Macca ❤︎ : Talk to me
4:21 A.M.
Macca ❤︎ : Thanks for replying.
Macca ❤︎ : Fuck you.
Macca ❤︎ : Dickhead.
Macca ❤︎ : I hate you.
Macca ❤︎ : Wait no
Macca ❤︎ : I'm sorry I love you don't leave me please
12 missed calls from Macca ❤︎
John sighed tiredly and set his phone down on the side, rubbing the sleep out of his drooping eyes - how long had Paul stayed up? He had to have known that John was asleep, right? Paul seriously didn’t think he’d be up at - what? 2-fuckin’-AM, did he? The younger was tiring. John knew that it wasn’t his fault, though, and he really didn’t blame him.
He wondered why Paul was up at that time, though - he knew the younger had always had trouble sleeping, but he always at least tried to sleep. Although he had said that he didn’t like ‘missing out on too much time’, even if it was at two in the morning, three in the morning or nine in the afternoon.
Paul hated little things like that. He hated missing out on time, he especially hated missing out on spending time with John, Ringo and George - they had to invite him everywhere they went and to everything they did, or he’d get sad and cocky about it. He had once said that they hated him because they didn’t invite him to something he couldn’t even come to.
9:23 A.M.; Incoming call from Macca ❤︎
His phone buzzed suddenly, making him jump slightly. Of course it was Paul, he was probably worrying whether he’d done something wrong or if John hated him or something along those lines - nothing new, then. John admitted that it was slightly annoying, having Paul obsess over him like some kind of groupie or slag of the band, but he wasn’t about to leave his Princess, was he? Never, he would never.
He picked up the phone and answered the call, bracing himself for the frenzy of questions Paul would throw at him, but they never came. Instead, he could hear sniffing and shuffling from the other end of the line - and knowing what that meant, John sighed to himself once again. “Paul?” He said, expectantly. He had been crying.
Paul hummed softly before breathing out deeply, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to spam you, are you okay? Do you hate me? Please don’t hate me, I can’t-” His voice sounded panicked and more high-pitched than usual, something John heard quite often - so often that it might as well be Paul’s normal voice.
“Paul. Princess, listen to me,” John cut him off with his softly-toned voice, knowing that speaking with a lower tone or a ‘harsh-like tone’ would make Paul think he was angry at him, “I don’t hate you and you don’t have to be sorry, okay?”
The younger was silent for a minute, before he spoke once again, “Okay,” He paused again, “Are you sure? Because if I’m annoying you or something then you know you can tell me, right? Am I annoying you?”
John couldn’t help but laugh bitterly at that, “A bit, yeah!” He instantly regretted the words the second they left his mouth, but he couldn’t take them back now, could he? He kind of wished he could when Paul’s breath hitched.
“Oh,” Paul said, shakily, “I’m sorry. I’ll go.” He hung up abruptly, leaving John to sit on his bed, feeling guilt creeping up on him. He knew that he shouldn’t say things like that, but he had and now he was left with this. Regret.
Paul loved him too much - he’d forgive him.
And John hated that he thought like that, hated that he just expected the younger to forgive his every mistake or every bad thing he did to him - he didn’t want Paul to forgive him that easy, he was too… he was too forgiving. John really didn’t deserve it.
9:27 A.M.
John: I’m sorry baby
John: Call me back, okay? I love you ❤︎
He set his phone down once more before standing up and pulling a shirt over his head. He looked around the room for a jacket and some jeans but couldn’t find any in their usual place, on his floor, on his bed or in his wardrobe (which hardly had anything in it anyway, since his clothes were usually strewn out everywhere else), which was unusual, since he had a lot of jeans. Paul probably had them, now that he thought about it - the younger always loved taking John’s things, because he ‘loved him so much’ and wanted to be ‘reminded of him all the time’. He would regularly show up at John’s house wearing one of his shirts that were usually too big on him. It had started out adorable, but over time John had become increasingly annoyed about it. They were his clothes, his things.
He sighed and pulled on the same jeans as he wore the day before, waiting for his phone to buzz and display a new message from Paul - there wasn’t one. There would be, he knew there would be. Paul wouldn’t just ignore the message, would he?
John made himself breakfast with an apprehensive feeling settled in his stomach, making him feel slightly sick with nerves - Paul still hadn’t replied, and it had been almost an hour, this couldn’t be good.
Paul would always reply to him, no matter the time, place or circumstances - he’d always reply. Every time. This time he didn’t, and it worried John. Worried him a lot.
And then, his phone buzzed.
John jumped up from his seat at the kitchen table and rushed to his phone, picking it up and looking at the screen with hope, please be Paul, please be Paul, please be Paul, but it wasn’t - it was Ringo.
10:23 A.M.
Ringo: I have something to talk to you about
Ringo: And don’t ignore me
John: What do you want?
John: I thought it was Paul messaging me and got excited :(
Ringo: Jesus, John, just listen
Ringo: I found Paul
Ringo: On his bed
John: Okay? And?
Ringo: He said he was feeling “far away again” and like nothing was real
Ringo: And then I noticed the blood on his arms
Ringo: He relapsed, John
John: Oh fuck
John: This is my fault
John: Are you still with him?
Ringo: Yeah
Ringo: He’s doing the delusional giggling thing again
John: I’m on my way
Ringo: Hurry up
John could tell something was up the whole time he didn’t get a reply from Paul, and fuck, he should have known it would be this bad! Paul hadn’t cut in ages, and he was so proud of himself for that, so happy that John was proud of him, too - so happy that he could have John’s attention and love without having to cut himself to get it.
Paul had admitted before that he had cut to get John’s attention and that he just wanted the older to notice him and love him, and he did. He noticed him, paid attention to him, loved him in every way - Paul had been happy. He had described as like… what was it… testing? He had said that he wanted to see if John actually cared about him, if he was worth being cared about by the person he loved more than anyone in the world - wanted to test whether loved him, too.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” John repeated out loud as he grabbed his keys and coat, rushing to his car - fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck-
He arrived at Paul’s house about ten minutes later, noticing Ringo’s car still in the drive. That was a good sign, shows that John wouldn’t have to be alone with Paul after what had happened earlier, he didn’t know what to expect as a result from that conversation - he kind of hoped that Paul would forgive him straight away, but at the same time, he wished he didn’t.
He wished that Paul wasn’t so forgiving because then people would stop using it against him. Like John had before. John really hated himself for that.
The door was open when he got to it and he slammed it behind him as he walked inside the house. He felt nervous and slightly sick walking up the stairs, not bothering to take off his shoes or coat on the way or when he got in - all he cared about at that moment was Paul. Paul was the most important person right now. He always had been, though the younger tried so hard to be more to him than that.
As John reached Paul's bedroom door, the undeniable stench of blood hit his nose, invading his senses and fogging his mind - that was Paul's blood. That smell was the smell of Paul’s blood, probably soaking the sheets beneath him and the sleeves of the long-sleeved shirt he usually wore
This was his fault, and he would always believe that, no matter what anyone said - that it was Paul's choice, that he didn't have to do it but he did, that his BPD is his fault - no, no, John did this.
Paul had been clean for so long, and now he wasn't, and that thought really fucking haunted him - he'd been the cause of Paul cutting his arms.
He hesitated before opening the door. Was he really ready to face what he had done? What was his fault?
The door creaked open slowly to reveal something far worse than he had expected.
He had expected Paul to be sat, or lying down, on his bed, with blood dripping down his arms, fresh cuts all up both his arms and maybe some on his thighs. John had expected himself to feel sick, an overwhelming urge to leave the room after seeing what he was about to see, or saw, but all he felt was, well… he didn’t know.
All of that happened, yeah, as Paul was sat on his bed, his arms were covered in blood, Ringo bandaging his arms, but he was giggling. He seemed to be having some kind of laughing fit, his head tilted back as he fucking laughed - John didn’t know how the fuck to react to this, and so he sat on the other end of the bed and looked at Paul.
He looked at Paul, his boyfriend of three years, and felt a pain within his chest.
How was Paul supposed to get help, when he was this far gone?
Paul’s hands were shaking when he lifted them to wave at John, almost ripping his bandages off in the process since Ringo was still wrapping his arm, “Hey Johnny!” He laughed again, although John could see a particular sadness in his eyes.
“Hi,” John’s voice cracked and came out as more of a whisper than he intended it to, “You need to calm down, okay, baby?” John’s hand moved to rest on Paul’s cheek, his thumb stroking softly - he stared into Paul’s pained eyes, and the younger’s smile immediately faded. Paul sobbed gently and reached out to John, who moved closer to him so that Ringo could continue wrapping the cuts, “I’m sorry,” John wrapped his arms around the younger, “I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Paul whispered, leaning into John’s touch, “It’s my fault.”
“No, it’s not.”
There was a few minutes of silence while Ringo was finishing up, John and Paul staring into one another’s eyes. Paul had stopped sobbing eventually, with the help of a few soft words from John, it’ll be okay and I’m not mad, baby - reassurance was the best thing to do in these situations.
The last time this hysteria-like state had happened to Paul was when George had told him he didn’t want to be friends with him anymore, and he had laughed for hours, he couldn’t stop - after, he had explained to John that it was like his brian didn’t know how to react to the amount of pain he was feeling. And so he laughed, a natural reaction for him. People usually thought of him as heartless, or soulless for laughing at tragedy and pain, but in reality, he felt too much.
“I’m done,” Said Ringo, sighing, “I’ll leave you two alone.”
And then he left, but not after smiling softly at Paul, who returned the smile back to him.
There was another couple minutes of silence (except maybe the soft breathing of the two men in one another’s arms), before either of them decided to speak. The silence was surprisingly nice, keeping in mind the things that had just happened.
Paul spoke up, “I’m sorry I’m so clingy and obsessed with you,” He looked up at John, “It must be tiring.”
“It’s fine, love, okay? I love you so much,” John kissed the top of his head, “You know I won’t ever leave you, right?”
Paul looked away and shrugged his shoulders, leaning his head against John’s chest, “I love you too,” He smiled softly, “I didn’t mean to cut myself.”
John tightened his arms around the younger protectively, pulling him in closer and savouring every second with him as they sat on the bed together, “How so?” He asked gently, kissing his cheek, making him blush.
“It just…” He breathed out steadily, “It just happened. I can’t really explain it,” He spoke slowly, as if trying not to scare John away, although it felt like it was meant to be the other way around.
“That’s fine, baby.” The older shuffled a bit before standing up, pulling Paul up with him, “Let’s get these sheets clean, yeah?”
“Okay,” The younger held onto John’s hand for a second, “Don’t leave me?”
“Never.”
-