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"Coming Macca? The lads and I are heading down to the pub at the hotel to celebrate a great show," said an adrenaline filled John Lennon, looking expectedly at his friend.
"No, I think I'm going to just go up to the rooms for a lie down. I don't feel all too well," responded a very worn, sweaty McCartney. His moptop was sticking to his forehead in damp strands and his cheeks were red and patchy. John had noticed his unusual coloring during their concert, but had chalked it up to the bright lights and stuffy suits. It had been warmer than usual in his opinion, but the bassist's pink cheeks should have cooled off by now. Their instruments had been put away and their suits had been hung up to be washed before the next night's show. It was a cold night, the air nipping their noses as it rushed in through the open door, roadies taking their equipment out to the cars for travel. John didn't want to appear to be worried, but it was hard to hide his concern for his friend.
"You sure it's something a drink can’t fix? A good scotch can knock whatever's bothering ya right out of your system," he persuaded, knowing that if it wasn't too serious a bit of prodding could get Paul to agree to join him. This was only met with a tired shake of his head as Paul pulled on his coat and wrapped his arms tightly around his body, shivering slightly. John frowned, "Let's get you out to the car, then." He grabbed his own coat and went outside to the black car waiting for them, letting his friend go ahead of him and following closely behind.
Already waiting inside the car sat George and Ringo, eager to get to their hotel and enjoy the pleasures of alcohol and women. Paul slid into the car, immediately laying his head against the cool window. It felt nice against his hot face, though his freezing body thought otherwise. "You alright, mate?" asked Ringo, sharing a concerned look with George, "Ya look ill, and I would know."
"I feel ill," Paul mumbled through clenched teeth, wondering how he had made it till now without curling up in a ball. It would have been an understatement to say that he felt like shit, and of course this had to happen while they were on tour.
When John entered the vehicle, he sat close to the bassist in the hopes that some of his body heat would transfer onto him, but instead he found that Paul was already radiating with heat. "Fuckin hell, Paul. You're cold?" Paul nodded, despite the sweat trickling down his face. "You feel like a goddamn heater."
The car slowed to a stop at the back of the hotel. All three well Beatles had been staring at their sick member who had his eyes shut, trying to block out the movement to avoid throwing up. Two of them got out of the car and left Lennon to deal with trying to get the sick bassist out of the car when he clearly didn't want to move. "Come on, Mac, let's go. Don't want to keep the driver here all night, yeah?" his voice was soft as he nudged Paul with his shoulder gently. Paul nodded and opened his eyes, reluctantly removing his head from the door. He let John help him out of the vehicle and into the back entrance of their hotel. John wasn't sure where he was to go from here. Obviously, he wanted to go drinking with his friends, but he couldn't let Paul go to the room by himself. "Eh, you lot go on to the pub. I'm gonna help Paulie here and I'll be down later," he decided, an arm around Paul's shoulders. Ringo nodded and followed George across the hotel to their desired destination. The bar had been cleared out in advance to avoid any fan related issues.
"Alright, just gotta make it into the lift then you can lean on me until we get to our floor," he told the already swaying Beatle under his arm. Paul nodded once again, his eyes heavy and ready to close. They walked to the elevator and were able to board it quickly, giving the man their floor. John leaned on the rails himself while Paul placed practically all of his weight onto his friend.
The ride was short and soon enough they had to continue on. Lucky for them, the room the two men were sharing was near to the lift and John had already fished their key out of his pocket. He pushed his friend off of him and helped him to their door. Paul felt a bit guilty that he was making John do most of the work to get him to bed, but his legs felt like jello and there was the sensation of a hammer pounding against his skull. He let the guitarist help him to the bed closest to the door and he began pulling off his shoes. “Thanks,” Paul whispered, his usually smooth voice raspy with sleep, “You can go down to the lads now, I’ll be fine.”
John looked at Paul, bewildered, “I’m not leaving, ya look like shite. And you’ve got to get better before tomorrow. I’ll be back, I’m gonna go to Eppy’s room and see about some drugs. Get in bed.” He nearly went to tuck him in, but decided against that and hurried out of the room and down the hall.
Paul didn’t even bother undressing, knowing he would be more comfortable but the process seemed like too much work. The blankets were tucked tightly into the bed, and it took quite a bit of his energy to untuck them. He curled up under the blankets, still shivering in his coat.
“Brian?” John knocked harshly on the door in front of him, a sense of urgency rising up in his stomach. Their manager, already in a robe and pajamas, answered the door with a confused expression.
“John? Is everything alright? I thought you and the boys were going down for a drink?” Brian tightened his robe subconsciously.
“I was, but Paul’s not well. He’s burning up, do you have pills or something?” John kept his unease muted in order to not alarm their manager.
Brian frowned and stepped aside, “I might. Do come in, I have sleeping pills he could take. I’m sure they would help.” He went to his bathroom to look around, there were various bottles of prescription pills that he couldn’t give him. “I have aspirin, come here,” he placed two pill cases in John’s hand, they were generic drugstore pills. “Have him take two of those and one of those. Do you want me to call a doctor?” It was nerve wracking to know one of his boys was sick, of course he didn’t know how bad Paul was, but the expression on John’s face was enough to worry him sick.
“No, he’ll be fine. Thanks Eppy!” John said quickly, slapping the man on the back and returning to his own room. “Alright, I’m supposed to-oh.” He had come back to find a sleeping Paul, fully clothed and already getting the pillow damp from his sweat. John sat on the side of the bed and pushed the wet fringe from Paul’s forehead. “Paulie?” he asked softly, not wanting to startle him, “Paulie, you need to wake up.”
The bassist moaned quietly and peeled his eyes open, “What?” He just wanted to sleep for a hundred years, his entire body ached and his head spun.
“Bri gave me some pills that might help you, and you should get out of your clothes,” he didn’t mention that they were going to get soaked. John helped him sit up and handed him the pills, already counted out. “Stay there,” he stood and went to get water from the fridge where a pitcher was already chilling. Being famous had its perks. He poured some into a glass and gave it to Paul, “Drink that, might cool you off too.”
Paul frowned, “I’m not hot, I’m bloody freezing.” But he did what he was told, too tired to argue any further.
“Sure Paul,” John said, taking the glass from him and setting it on the nightstand, “Let’s get you out of those clothes. I’ll even help you.” His voice was teasing, but when Paul didn’t protest he knew that help might be necessary. John, with permission, helped his friend out of his coat and jumper. The sight of Paul, flushed, sweaty and half naked made his own cheeks flush. He laid all of Paul’s clothes on the floor next to his suitcase and reached for a pair of pajamas, “Do ya want a full pair or just an undershirt? Might be best not to get all your sweat on them.” Paul nodded so John just handed him a plain white tee shirt and a fresh pair of shorts, “That’s as far as I go, you can do your own panties, I’m sure.” Normally that would have gotten a rouse out of his companion, but his teasing was only met with a tired sigh and silence.
After Paul had gotten himself dressed, John helped him back under the covers, going so far as to tuck the covers around him. Paul was shivering even harder, the lack of clothing effecting him more than planned. “I’ll just be in my bed. Readin’ or something, call if you need anything, yeah?” he started to walk across the room, but he felt a clammy hand grip his wrist. “It’s okay, I’m only going to be a few feet away, Macca.”
“Please, John,” Paul’s voice was soft and thin and pleading. John stood next to his friend’s bed, debating on whether to stay or not. He decided that he could lie with him until he fell asleep, then he’d go to his own bed or down the pub if their bandmates were still down there.
“Alright, move over,” he sat on the side, waiting for Paul to make room for him. This brought back memories. Of Hamburg and the cold nights they had to cuddle up to avoid freezing to death, or back in Liverpool and sneaking out to each other’s house after dark and writing deep into the night on one of their small beds. But those days were over no that they were stars. If he hadn’t of been so ill, John would have made a bigger fuss, but he couldn’t say no to the man. Paul looked so small, helpless even, and John supposed he wouldn’t like to be alone if he was sick either. John took off his tie and jacket, throwing them over to his bed before laying down. Paul lifted up the covers for John to get under, which he did.
The two of them lay together for some time, Paul’s breathing loud and painful to listen to as he shook like a leaf. John looked over at him, his back turned to him as his front faced the window. Rolling onto his side, John put one of his arms around Paul, pulling him close in the hopes of stopping him from shivering. Any other time Paul would have shrugged off his arm, called him queer and the two would laugh about it, but this time the ill bassist turned to face him and buried his head into John’s chest. John’s cheek were hot, he was burning up himself, though not due to illness. He tightened his grip on his friend protectively, as if he’d be taken from him at any moment. Of course, John knew that was highly unlikely, but he understood that this was a fleeting moment. For this to happen again, for him to be able to hold Paul like this, he’d have to be ill and all he wanted was for him to get well. Even if it meant losing this sweetness between them. It was worrying to see him like this, no sass or spark in his tired eyes.
It took five minutes, if that, for Paul to fall fast asleep, and now that they were so close to one another John couldn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to detangle their limbs and risk waking his sleeping friend up. Paul needed sleep, if John woke him up, he’d never forgive himself. He had to accept his fate, the only unfortunate thing about this situation was that he was still in his suit pants. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep himself, arms wrapped firmly around Paul.
There they stayed until the morning, if either one awoke in the middle of the night it was unknown for one was too exhausted to move, and the other wanted to stay there as long as he could.