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Oh to be in England, and taking a break from the Summer Tour from Hell that 1966 was handing them. Something seemed to be going wrong at every stop, and very, very wrong in Asia, where the Beatles were all but imprisoned in their hotel suite by their polite Japanese hosts, and nearly assaulted by angry fans in Manila, all because Eppy hadn't quite understood or communicated some luncheon plans.
It had been a tour short on fun and long, very long, on stress. But they were home for a short respite, and damn glad of it. because they felt beaten up and beyond exhausted. Paul, especially was feeling it. He had dragged his arse from the plane to give yet another interview, where -- when asked what he wanted to do, now -- could only answer honestly, "Sleep!"
But there was one more round of photographers to please before they could all head to their respective homes, and Paul wanted nothing more than to hit the sack. For once, he didn't even want company there, he was that bedraggled and worn down.
Click, click, click, there were never enough shots. Photographers were never satisfied, and Paul's fatigue felt nearly debilitating, his exhaustion rushing upon him like an oncoming train bearing down, and ready to take him out. He felt like he was about to be pulled under its wheels, very soon, if he could not sit. Reaching over to John, he steadied himself on his partner's shoulder.
Ironic, that. Usually Paul's hand on John's shoulder was meant to steady John. But today, Paul really needed the support.
John felt it, could feel the tremble in Paul's fingers as he pressed his hand onto John's shoulder. Poor lad, he'd been so unwell, and the stress hadn't helped. If not for the steroids, he'd be off his feet altogether, John knew, and he silently blessed modern medicine, even if pretty Paulie complained about how puffy it made his face.
Sensing that Paul was in trouble -- he didn't normally shake, so -- John quickly scooted himself closer. "Steady on, lad. We're home soon."
Paul let out a gut-churning groan. He couldn't even smile. "I'll try not to throw up on you, John love. But I might collapse if we're not done here, soon."
"Just lean on me, then, I'm stout enough. I'll catch you if you fall. God knows, you've caught me enough times since we were kids."
"We need a bigger break. Too much stress," Paul seemed to be holding himself together breath by breath.
"Gonna be worse in Americay, you know," John grimaced. "And for no good reason."
"It's gonna be fine, John, you'll see. We'll weather it, right," Paul turned to him, trying to buck John up. "We always do."
"I'm not so sure, love. A bit nervous about it, I am, I admit it." He turned to Paul and studied him for a moment in concern. "Are you going to be alright? Should I go home with you?"
That finally got a smile out of Paul. "Nay, Cyn would skin me alive if you did, and Jules is probably dying to see you. I'll be fine with some sleep." He pressed down, giving John a squeeze. "Thanks for the shoulder, though, and the prop-up."
"My pleasure, Macca, as always," John smiled as he and Paul were finally able to turn toward their respective limousines. "Besides, once we touch down in across the pond, well...I'm probably going to be leaning on you a bit. Maybe a lot."
Paul gave John an affectionate tweak on the shoulder and a quick wink. "Anytime, Baby. You can lean on me anytime at all. In fact...all you gotta do is call..."
"Yeah, yeah," Lennon waved Paul away with a grin. "I've heard that song..."
"And I'll be there," Paul groaned, tumbling into the back seat of his own ride with no grace at all before falling instantly to sleep.