Chapter Text
He hadn’t told anyone about what had happened. He had tried to hide it as best he could but his usual coping mechanism of idiotic optimism and burying feelings must have been broken— he must have been broken— because John asked him if he was alright on one particularly awful day in the recording studio. Paul McCartney thought he might burst into tears at the older man’s first word.
But Paul McCartney did not break into tears. Instead, he pulled on his best and most charismatic smile. Putting a hand on John's shoulder, he said, “‘Course, love. Got to hit the loo, though.”
He gave the man’s shoulder a squeeze. He shouldn’t have but he had to. All he wanted was to be near John and tell him everything. But fear seized him at the mere thought and he hurried away to the furthest bathroom from his bandmates. Panic had been building in his chest like a brick wall, cutting off his breathing and making his fingers tingle and shake violently.
Once he reached his destination, Paul flung himself into the floor, back pressed firmly into a corner as he buried his face in his hands and pulled his knees close to his chest. He pushed harsh fingers into his eyes to make the memories playing in his head leave but they wouldn’t. There was only one thing that would stop them, he knew. But he didn't want to- not in such a public place. What had caused the sudden attack on his mind? The simplest of things, actually. It was the smell of a particular brand of rum he did not even know the name of. George had opened it next to him in the studio and the smell of it had him wanting to hurl. Just from that smell, he was sent reeling and wishing himself dead.
Heaving inadequate breaths deep into his lungs, he let tears slip from his eyes just as he had that night. That night that ruined him and left him broken in a place he thought was as safe as it could be. John’s home. That place was supposed to be sacred. It was supposed to be one of his favorite places to go and now it was ruined and it was all his fault, wasn’t it?
If he hadn’t drunk so much.
If he hadn’t been so kind.
If he hadn’t been alone.
If, if, if.
If he could have just died that night. Why hadn’t he crashed his car into a ditch? Driven off a bridge?
But he didn’t die. Instead, still drunk and trembling from head to toe, he drove himself home from John’s house party. It was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn’t crashed his car— on purpose or accidentally. But he made it to his house, curled up on his bed, and let his large sheepdog lick away the tears that would not stop coming through body wracking sobs as the fresh memory of the night played in his head.
Everyone had left. John had gone to bed. Paul, too polite and too drunk to refuse, stayed to finish a game of pool he had begun with some old friend of John’s. He didn’t even remember catching the blokes name. Why hadn't he asked for his name? So stupid. It wasn’t long before the drinking game the two were playing had him pissed to hell and back. Paul could barely stand by the end of a game he clearly lost and decided to sleep on the couch instead of trying to drive home. But he hadn’t made it that far. He never made it to that couch. Instead, he was thrown against the pool table, his hips painfully pressed into the ledge as he was held down.
The bruises from that night stayed with him for two weeks. A reminder of it all so his mind couldn't pretend it never happened.
As the memory hit him in that Apple Studio bathroom, he thought he might wretch up his meager breakfast. His skin was burning furiously from the recalled forceful touching. Everything was too tight on his skin. He yanked his long sleeves up to his elbow and tore off the oversized watch from his wrist. There the evidence laid. Cuts all around where the watch once covered. He had been careful about the whole thing after his first attempt that was all too easily seen and left a nasty scar. He couldn’t be leaving scars everywhere so he made sure to cut shallower. Which had him cutting more often. The watch covered just enough skin to satisfy him- for a while. There was a night Paul realized he should move his mutilation to his legs. Those cuts burned now too as a cold sweat coated his skin.
Regret and anger bubbled up in his tight chest. He was so stupid. Stupid for letting this happen to him. Stupid for cutting. Stupid for not just offing himself already. It had been a month since that night and he thought about killing himself every single day.
He couldn’t help but think about what happened every time he tried to sleep. It was impossible to rest or eat and he just kept thinking of everything he should have done.
I should have yelled louder , his mind was nagging. John was just upstairs. He could have stopped it all . But then he remembered how utterly drunk he was and how impossible more than a slurred groan of pain was. Shouldn’t have drunk that much . That’s what it always came back to. It was his fault for having drunk himself into danger.
This sheer panic he had been pulled into wasn’t going away and he knew what he needed to do to end it. It worked every time. Shaking hands searched his pockets until he found his key ring, a small switchblade attached to the loop. He had never used this particular blade but it would do. Anything to make these memories fade and tears dry would do just fine.
Paul had never let his panic attacks get this bad before grabbing a blade to halt its progress. Now, he was too far into it to care how deep he dug across his already battered wrist. Blood beaded up at his skin rapidly before dropping down onto the tiles. Paul let out a deep and shaky sigh, dropping the knife to the ground. His legs went flat to the floor and the back of his hands laid limply to his sides. He let his body shake out the last of the panic and eased himself into breathing normally. He was fine. Everything was fine. He wasn’t at John’s. He was at the recording studio and everything was fine. He wanted to cut more but everything was fine.
He felt the blood dripping down his hand, going from warm to cold as it reached his fingers. Everything was fine now.
His head dropped to the side and he looked down at his bleeding wrist. It was bleeding an awful lot more than usual. He'd have to cover it up well and go home early to properly bandage it. With a sigh, he pocketed his keys and blade before pulling himself from the ground on weak legs. There’d need to be a bit of washing before he made his dash to the car. The cut was run under warm water that tinged pink as it swirled down the drain. Paul was suddenly mesmerized by the trickling blood as it mixed with the clean water before dancing in the sinks basin. It was interesting to his exhausted brain and he could have stared at it until he fell asleep.
So mesmerized was he that he didn't notice the footsteps approaching until it was too late. The door pushed open to reveal John with a smile on his lips, halfway through calling out “Macca” before the words died at the sight of Paul. Blood still ran down his wrist and John could see the tears streaked down his puffy face through the mirror.
Paul jumped back from the sink, shoving down both his sleeves. Fuck. He had left his watch on the ground next to the drops of blood. Paul cleared his aching throat and wiped furiously at his eyes with the end of his sleeve. His injured wrist stayed behind his back. A tremble picked up in his already weary legs and he felt about to collapse.
“‘Ello.” Paul tried to smile at the stunned face of his mate but it dropped instantly, leaving him to worry at his bottom lip. “Um, John, I think- I’m just going to go home early. Not feeling well.”
John chuckled nervously and shut the door behind him. His face was that of stone as he seemingly stared through Paul and directly at the cut wrist behind his back. “Paul, there’s blood all in the sink.”
“Oh yeah. Nicked me arm on some bit of metal on the stall. Someone ought to fix that.”
“Let me see it.” John's voice was level and startlingly calm.
It scared Paul into falling back a step, grabbing the sink for stability. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Look, I’m leaving and-”
John didn’t let him finish his unconvincing words, instead, marching up and forcing his hand out from behind his back. Lennon pulled down the sleeve as Paul desperately tried to stop him. The attempt was in vain. All his cuts were visible to the world- well, not all of them.
Paul’s body began to shake again. Fear of what John might say or do coursed through him. The man wouldn’t even pull his eyes from all the cuts to face him. “John- It’s not- John, look at me. Please. Just-“
The older man cut him off yet again with, “What the fuck did you do to yourself, Macca?” His words came out on a breath of disbelief. “ Why ?”
Tears were welling up in Paul’s eyes once again and he just wanted John to understand it all without having to say a word. He wanted John to hold him and never let him go. There wasn’t much else to do but throw himself into John, arms holding him tight. “I just wanna go home, Johnny. Please...please.”
The feeling of John’s arms squeezing gently around his frame left him a sobbing mess once again. “Alright, son. Alright.” John pulled Paul off of him, searching the lad's eyes. “We’ll go out the back and I’ll take us home.”
Without any further words, John snatched up Paul’s watch, handed him a fistful of paper towels, and usher him through the studio. They told no one of their departure and Paul was grateful that no one saw them. His wrist was still bleeding quite a bit and his sleeve was darkened from his attempt to hide it. As John silently drove down the streets of London, Paul busied himself with dadding the cut until it finally began to scab a bit. The slowing blood flow was shortly followed by their arrival at Paul’s place.
Head now fogged and unfocused from the strain of the day, Paul exited John’s car mechanically. His brain had turned to autopilot and he didn’t even check if John was following when he went through his door and left it wide open as he made a beeline for his bedroom. Martha was on his heels as he went, quietly observing her owner's new-found behavior. The both ended up on the bed, sitting and waiting for John. He was actually becoming unsure of whether John had simply dropped him off and left when the man came to stand in the doorway of Paul’s dark bedroom. Paul stared at his friend, desperately hoping for some type of reaction that wouldn’t make him want to die even more.
“Did I- I didn’t make you do that, did I? I know I say some stupid shit, Paul, but Jesus. Was it that party? I didn't mean what I sa-“
“What?” Paul couldn’t even recall what John was talking about. “John, no! It wasn’t for you… It was…” Paul couldn’t say it. He hadn’t even let himself think the word. John wasn’t saying a word more, though, waiting for Paul to explain. But Paul only pulled his knees to his chest, hugging them close. His eyes lingered down to the fresh cut on his wrist. “It was because of that party but not anything you said. You could never hurt me like that.”
“Hurt you?” John pulled himself from the door frame and moved to sit next to Paul. “Who the hell hurt you?”
“I don’t want to talk about this. I’m exhausted, y’know?”
But John’s thinly veiled calmness was ripping an tearing at the edges to reveal his anger. “No. This is serious! You’re tearing your wrist to shreds and don’t think me and the lads haven’t noticed how you’ve been sulking around the studio. But, fuck, we didn't think you were this bad off. Fuck…” There was an unsung apology in his profanity.
In all honesty, Paul desperately wanted to tell John what happened- not all of it but just enough so he’d understand- but every time he thought of it he wanted to crawl into a hole and never come out. The weight of carrying this secret and this pain was too much alone, he knew. He didn’t know if he'd last another week-- another day-- if he didn’t have help. What if he blames you like you blame yourself? Ah, the question that had been burning deep within his mind. And what’s more, the man might never look at Paul the same. He might see a broken boy where a man once stood and that would do Paul in for sure. But he had to try something because keeping this secret would only get him dead.
“Would you really want to know though?”
“‘Course I do! You’re my bleedin’ world and I just want to understand .” He grabbed Paul’s hands in his own, looking deep into the lad's eyes.
The sincere words stabbed deep into Paul’s heart and his voice choked out, “You ‘ave to promise me- Promise you won't think different of me.”
John nodded, seriously, “I promise that I’ll forever think of you as the crazy tosser you are.”
It earned a weak smile from Paul. It was the most genuine smile he had used since that night. “Alright... Do you remember that bloke I had been playing pool with? Said he was an old friend of yours?” Paul already wanted to stop and never speak another word again, but it was too late for that.
John, again, nodded. “Never seen the man before that night, though. Did he do something? Hurt you?” Anger simmered in his words, his grip on Paul’s hands tightening until Paul let out a painful gasp. “Oh, shit. Fuck. Sorry.” John moved away as Martha nudged between them, his hands balled into fists in his lap.
”It’s fine, Johnny.” Paul honestly felt relieved the man had been lying about knowing John so well that the little pain in his hands meant nothing. “Let me just- Can I just start from the beginning of the night, eh?” He didn’t look for an answer from John before diving into it with a heavy sight. He went over the night in great detail until it drew closer and closer to the assault. The details became less elaborate and more implied. He rushed through the worst of it, refusing to look into John’s eyes. He instead scrapped at the dried blood on his palm and finally spook what felt most important, now that the dirty details were out.
“My- My hips were all bruised. Couldn’t even lean against a bloody sink for a week. It all hurt… everywhere. And- and little things would just pull me back to the night— sharp pain or a noise or a smell— and it sent me into a panic. The first time I didn’t even realize I had scratched a gash in my arm with my nail.” He pulled up his sleeve and revealed three fresh scars on his forearm. “It stops the panic, the memories, the guilt, from eating me up.”
In the gentlest tone Paul had ever heard, John asked, “What guilt? Why are you feeling that?”
The sheer tone of his voice had snapped Macca’s head up. In front of him he found eyes hard with emotion and a face soft with care. He looked so genuinely concerned that Paul reached for his hand over the massive sheepdog, the sensation grounding him. “Well, it’s my fault, isn’t it? I shouldn’t have been so kind and I was pissed from all that liquor that I shouldn’t have-“
“Paul fucking James McCartney.” Macca froze in place as John’s eyes turned dark with anger. He sprung to his feet and pointed an accusing finger. “Don’t you fucking dare blame yourself for this, you absolute git. It is not your fault and never fucking will be.” John began to pace the floor, his hands in his hair. “I’ll fucking kill that man. I’ll find him and I’ll fucking kill him with my own hands if I have to.”
Amazement danced in Paul’s eyes at the show of emotion before him. His mate's absurd proclamations made something nearing happiness bubble in Paul’s head. John really believed him and didn't seem disgusted by him at all. On the contrary, he was willing to murder for him. It was oddly comforting and Paul smiled a meek smile that caught John off guard. He stopped and stared at the man curled up on the bed. “What?"
“You’re not killin’ anyone for me. Wouldn’t last a second in prison, would ya?”
A smile twitched at the corner of John’s mouth. “I’ll kill you if you blame yourself for this,” John said, hands on his hips. “Promise me, right now, you won’t blame yourself, McCartney.”
Promising that would be so easy but it would also be a lie and Paul wasn’t keen to keep secrets any longer- keeping them from John, at least. Instead of promising, he said, “I’ll try.” Seeing the protest about to begin from John, Paul hurriedly added, “I need time! Just… Could you just give me time to believe you? Just help me believe you? Help me stop this?” He gestured at his wrist, looking deep into John’s eyes.
John let the air leave his lungs through his nose before sitting next to Macca so that they were eye to eye. “I’ll always help you, Paul. Whatever you need- time, the truth. Fuck, I’ll give you the world if I have to.” And that was all Paul needed to hear.
The tension in his body relaxed and he leaned into his mate's shoulder, stroking his dog's fur absentmindedly. Maybe he could be alright. Maybe. with his friend's help and time, he would be himself again... One day.