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Paul tried to take a deep breath as he waited desperately for the break he knew they always had in the middle of a show. That break was the main reason he hadn’t mentioned that he needed the loo when they arrived. It was also the reason he hadn’t run off stage yet. If he could wait until the break, he would.
But it seemed like it had been long enough to have a break, and still, none had come.
By the time a few more songs had gone by, he knew he would have to get off stage, no matter how much trouble he’d be in. Anything was better than the awful, painful stabbing in his bladder.
His worried expression must have been a lot more noticeable than he thought it was. John stepped away from the microphone in front of him. “Paul? What’s the matter?”
“I have to go.” Paul ran off stage, and as soon as he was out of view from the audience, he was near waddling to the toilet. Brian appeared next to him, pulling off the bass that was dragging on the floor.
“What’s going on?” he asked with genuine concern in his voice. But before Paul could even answer, his bladder caved. Urine spilled out of him, and Brian gasped as he noticed the growing wet spot on his pants. “Oh, shit! Good God, Paul! Go to the toilet!”
Paul still didn’t move, only broke down in tears as his entire lower body was saturated in his own piss.
“I’m so sorry! Oh, God, I… fuck!” As Paul had a complete meltdown, Brian handed his bass to one of the roadies walking by. He grabbed Paul’s arms.
“Alright. Paul, deep breaths. Come on. Let’s get you to the toilet, okay?”
“No! I’m not going anywhere. I’m so sorry, Brian. I didn’t mean to.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Paul started to cry harder, and Brian noticed that George was coming off stage, too.
“What’s happened?” he asked. “Is Paul coming back out?” George looked at Paul’s tear stained face, getting worried until he glanced down and saw the puddle they were both standing in.
“He’s not. Just… finish up early. Play something if you want.” Brian felt his heart break when Paul turned his face away from George and buried it in his shoulder.
“O-okay…” George ran back out on stage, and Brian focused his attention back on Paul.
“Paul, please, you’re going to have to calm down. I’m telling you now that you’re not in trouble, okay? But you need to just take a deep breath. Just breathe.”
The bassist nodded, and as his breathing slowed down, Brian started walking with him, trying to keep Paul from seeing the weird looks they were getting. He was able to get Paul to the toilet, where he calmed down just in time for John to run in.
“Paul? God, are you oka--?” he stopped talking when he saw the state that Paul was in, blushing madly. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”
“John,” Brian said as he pulled paper towels out of the dispenser on the wall. “Can you go ask around and see if there’s any extra clothes anywhere?”
John nodded and was gone within seconds. Then, as Brian made his way over to Paul again, the younger man started to cry once again. His loud sobs echoed in the small bathroom, and Brian rushed to calm him down again.
“Paul, you’re alright. We’ll get you back to the hotel soon, okay?” When Paul didn’t respond, he handed him some paper towels. “Erm, I don’t think these are going to do much, but try your best to clean up. I’ll be right back, yeah?”
Paul nodded, accepting the towels, and Brian left to go find the other Beatles. John was talking to a man he’d never seen before, George was putting his guitar away, and Ringo was sitting down against the wall, eyes closing, threatening to put him to sleep.
He hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before, nervous about their first performance of the tour, and he was surprised he hadn’t fallen asleep while drumming. But his eyes shot open when he heard Brian yelling, assuming he was yelling at him or one of his friends, but the man wasn’t.
“I fucking told you! I told you to schedule a break!”
“We were running behind! I couldn’t!”
Brian huffed, covering his face with his hands. John came up to him then and said something quietly that Ringo couldn’t hear.
“That’s great,” Brian replied sarcastically, and John took a step back. “That’s just fucking great!” He turned back to the man he was yelling at. “Well, now he’s pissed himself, there are no clothes for him to change into, and there are probably a million cameras outside, waiting for the four Beatles to leave. I can’t be mad at him, it’s not his fault. It’s yours! Because I fucking told you-- Ugh!”
Ringo got up and walked over to them. “Brian, what’s going on? What happened?”
“Fuck,” Brian muttered before addressing both John and Ringo. “I need you two to go get George, and if you all could just get Paul out to the car without anybody seeing him…”
“How are we supposed to do that?” John asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t care. Just… don’t let a single journalist see him. I don’t think I could deal with him if word got out.”
Ringo was going to ask what the word would be about, but he figured he knew based on Brian’s outburst. Him and John retrieved George from a snack bar and set off to the toilet, knocking on the door.
“Paul,” John called. “Brian said he wanted us to walk you to the car.”
“If you think I’m bloody g-going out there, you’re insane. Go away. I’d rather stay here all night.”
John sighed, and Ringo spoke up. “If they see us and not you leaving, they’re going to think something is wrong and ask questions about it, okay? We’re going to hide you, because none of us want anyone to know what’s happened, alright?”
The door cracked open. “O-okay.” Paul stepped out, and the three of them stood around him as they left the building, refusing to stop and answer anybody’s questions. As they neared the car, the door was opened for them, and after George got in, John shoved Paul inside, too, getting in right after him, followed by Ringo.
The four of them being in the back of the car was always tight, but it was especially awkward with Paul’s soaked pants. George and John tried their best not to scoot away from him and make him feel worse. But it didn’t stop the extreme awkwardness that the bassist felt as he sat in between them, fighting back tears as his urine cooled on his legs.
It felt like forever before Brian got in the passenger seat and the driver, too, wincing at the smell, which they were all kind enough not to mention out loud.
“Brian,” Paul whispered. “I’m really sorry. I know I just caused a whole lot of stress, and I should’ve just come off stage earlier and gone.”
“Nothing is your fault, Paul. Don’t you worry, okay? I’m sorry you guys played through the entire time with no break. I had no idea you wouldn’t have one.”
“It’s fine,” Paul said miserably. “How far are we from the hotel?”
“Just a few minutes. And then we’ll get you sorted out, okay? I’ll have your suit cleaned, so don’t worry about that, either.”
“Alright. And, Bri?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.”