Work Text:
John groaned as another journalist asked him a question. And of course, answered with the most sarcastic response he could think of, squirming in his seat as his overfull bladder threatened to empty again. That’s when he turned his head to see Brian and spoke up.
“Bri, can we have a break?” When their manager glared at him, he just sighed. He hadn’t expected a yes.
“Mr. Lennon!” Somebody shouted from the crowd of people. “Mr. Lennon! Are you a religious man?”
“No, I’d prefer not to waste my life thinking about an imaginary man in the sky.” He’d said it with not so much as a smile on his face, but his friends all chuckled.
“Don’t you think that could be offensive to some?” the same lady asked.
“I frankly don’t give a fuck.”
“Are you a satanist?!” somebody else yelled from the back, and John just scoffed.
“If I don’t believe in god, I don’t believe in Satan, either…” He turned back to Brian. “Can we please get a break?”
“John, stop. It’ll be over soon.” John pouted, and suddenly, his bladder contracted, demanding to be emptied now. His eyes started to tear up as a few drops of piss dampened his underwear.
Another question was asked of him, but he interrupted it by looking over at Brian again. “Brian, I really need a break.” Why couldn’t he just say he needed the toilet? Surely, his manager wouldn’t mind, but it was embarrassing admitting it in front of all those people.
“John, stop ignoring the questions,” he warned. “You’ve only got a few more minutes.” Already leaking, John wasn’t sure he could wait another few minutes. He hadn’t been to the toilet since the night before. Woken up too late.
But now he didn’t have any choice, and he was stuck with his full bladder, nearly empty, and his pants that felt way tighter than they probably actually were.
More piss escaped him as the reporters moved on to hound Paul instead.
“Mr. McCartney, does your friend John participate in any religious practices?”
Paul just laughed. He thought they were done with this conversation. “Ask John. I don’t know everything about him!”
John sighed. He was so close to losing control, and if that happened while he was answering a question, surely it would be noticeable. The reporter turned to him and asked the same question, and his patience had finally worn thin.
“No!” he snapped. “No! It was a bloody joke! I’m not religious. I don’t care at all if you think I’m a satanist! Why don’t you ask some questions about the bloody tour! That’s why we’re here!!”
Then his bladder released, and he gasped. But nobody noticed. They were sitting at a covered table, and he’d never been so happy about it. Another reporter started talking to him, but he was so focused on the warmth quickly spreading around his crotch.
“John!” he heard next to him. And he realised Brian was shouting something at him. He looked over at him with watery eyes and shook his head. “John, just answer the question.”
“I didn’t… what was the question?”
Brian looked over at the man in the crowd. “Could you repeat that, sir?”
“Why are you so touchy around religion? Is there something you’re hiding?”
John couldn’t deal with this ignorance right now. He only huffed, and urine was still pouring out of him, puddling on the floor around his feet. He could feel it squeaking in his shoes.
“Mr. Lennon?” He ignored him. “Mr. Len—“ And then he snapped.
“No! What the fuck would I be hiding!?! I’m not a fucking satanist! I don’t care about your religion! I don’t care about any religion! Now would you please just leave me the fuck alone?!” Tears were now running down his face, and he covered it, his piss finally stopping. But he was in no way relieved.
Brian studied him worriedly. Something was definitely wrong. He knew John hated the press, but this was absurd. The man in the crowd started to talk again, and Brian shut him down.
“Alright. That’s enough questions for today, thank you.” George, Paul, and Ringo used the opportunity to get up and walk off, but John didn’t move, so Brian tapped him on the shoulder. “John, let’s go. Get up.”
“I’m not getting up,” he muttered.
“Lennon, I’m not arguing—“
“I’m not getting the fuck up! Leave me alone!!” He groaned again and hid his face from everybody still in the room, crying.
“John,” his manager said, a bit softer. “John love, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said and picked up his mic, launching it across the room, creating an echo.
“John,” Brian repeated, this time so that the reporters couldn’t hear. “Why can’t you get up? You said you wanted a break.”
“No,” he replied, embarrassed. “No, I said I needed one. Well, guess what? I don’t need one anymore. Just fuck off.”
Brian looked back to the crowd. “Could you all leave now?” Confused, they all started to file out of the room, and John looked at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Something’s wrong with you. Why won’t you get up? Are you hurt?” He sat down in the chair Paul had been sitting in and scooted closer to John, who made sure the table cloth covered his pants enough.
“I’m not hurt. I’m fine.” The people were nearly gone, and Brian shook his head.
“No, you’re not.”
“I am.”
“John Lennon… if you don’t tell me what’s going on…” But he stopped mid sentence. He didn’t really know what he was gonna do. “You know I only want to help—“
“This is all your fault!” John shouted, pushing his chair back and standing up. Brian saw the state of his pants immediately.
“Oh, John…”
“I hate you! I fucking hate you!!” With absolute dread in his stomach, he marched out of the room, not even caring where he went as long as it was away from Brian.
Unfortunately, he ran right into Paul, and the two of them toppled over to the floor.
“John? What are you bloody running for? We’re all going to the same car…”
He pushed himself off of the bassist and sniffled. “I’m sorry, Macca. I just—“
“Did you piss yourself? What—?” He looked down at his own pants, which had become rather damp, and then Brian ran up to them.
“John, why didn’t you just say something? I would’ve let you go—“
“No, you wouldn’t have! I told you multiple times I needed a break, and you didn’t give a fuck!”
“God, I’m a dumb arse. I’m so sorry, I thought you were just trying to get out of there. I wasn’t thinking, I’m so sorry…” John just huffed at him. “I really am sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”
“You can’t.”
“John, I didn’t mean to upset you. If you ever need anything again, I promise I’ll give you a break, okay?”
Paul just looked between them. “Did that happen out there?”
“Sod off, Macca. It’s none of your bloody concern.”
“Let’s just get you all to the car, yeah?” Brian began to usher them both forward, and George and Ringo saw what had happened, but they said nothing. “We’re gonna get you to the hotel and get this all taken care of, okay?”
“A-alright.” John smiled sadly at Brian. “Thanks.”