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Tears were gathered in Paul’s eyes, as they had been for at least an hour as he sat in between John and George in the backseat of Stuart’s car. He was doing the best he could not to cry, but it’s not like it would’ve made a difference either way. Everyone there knew how on edge he was after nearly vomiting all over George. Poor Paul had been absolutely mortified, but George didn’t say anything about it.
Now, he was trying to get over the heaviness of his bladder, because he’d just made Stuart pull over thirty minutes ago so he could vomit even more. Asking for a toilet break now would just be plain rude.
He kept his teary eyes focused on the back of the driver’s seat and didn’t say anything until John saw how much he was moving around.
“Macca?” he whispered to him. “Macca, you alright?” Paul nodded, his voice much too shaky to speak. His stomach felt like it was on a roller coaster, his bladder was incredibly full, and to top it all off, he just wanted to cry. “You sure? Do you need to be sick? Stu, Paul needs you to stop--”
“No!” Paul protested, and Stuart glanced at him in the rear view mirror. “No, I’m fine. I just don’t feel very good. Stopping isn’t going to help any.” He made eye contact with Stuart, knowing the boy wouldn’t mind stopping, but Paul seemed adamant on not, so he looked back at the road stretching out in front of them.
“Are you absolutely certain?” John asked again. “Maybe if you tried to throw up or, y’know, go to the bathroom, it might help your stomach feel better.”
Paul blushed at what he was suggesting, and George looked out the window on his right side. “No, Johnny. I’m really fine.” He sighed and leaned back into his chair before realising his mistake and leaning forward again so his bladder didn’t spasm too much.
He really didn’t like being sick, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He just wished his friends wouldn’t make such a big deal about a stomach bug. It wasn’t like he was dying.
“Let me know if you do need to stop, kid,” Stuart said from the front, and Paul just groaned. He hated the nickname. At least they weren’t bothering George as much now. That was something the other boy had been dealing with ever since he joined the band, because he was the youngest.
“I’m fine, Stu. I promise,” he lied. He didn’t think that would have been a problem when he started to drift off into a deep sleep, leaning up against John with a soft sigh. John smiled at him, glad he was able to get some rest without having to feel miserable.
He woke up an hour later, immediately jumping up in his seat, afraid that he’d peed on himself while he was asleep, but thankfully, he was dry. Then he felt that his bladder was so full that moving against the seatbelt threatened an accident. It couldn’t be healthy for him to be holding it this long, but he would be so embarrassed to ask to pull over.
He groaned softly, and John looked over at him. “Morning, Paul,” he laughed, and Paul noticed that it was dark out now. “Are you feeling any better?” John’s playful smile fell when he saw that his friend was shaking, a terrified look on his face.
The urine inside of him sloshed against the walls of his bladder so hard it made him nauseous. More nauseous than he already was because of his sickness. He shuffled around in the seat and pulled his seatbelt off, biting his lip.
“You alright?” George asked. “You look rather pale.”
“I’m not… I think I’m going to be sick,” Paul muttered, and John’s eyes widened.
“Stu!” he yelled, despite the fact that they were all in the small car together. “Stu, pull over. Paul’s gonna hurl!” Stuart checked out of his windows at the empty road before pulling off the side, and John immediately threw open his door and stepped out, offering a hand to Paul.
As he got out of the car, his stomach felt even worse, and he barely got to the tree line before he fell to his knees and started to expel the contents of his stomach. John stood next to him with a hand on his back.
As his back and stomach muscles tensed and untensed, his bladder only got heavier and heavier, and before he even knew what was happening, it was starting to empty. If John hadn’t been standing right next to him, he would have just pulled himself out and started going on the dirt in front of him, but he was worried John might be upset with him, so he let himself lose control and have an accident as he continued vomiting.
It lasted a few more minutes until his stomach finally calmed down, and John helped him move away from the sick, but he collapsed again.
“Hey, Macca, let’s get back to the car, okay?” Paul shook his head, leaning against John’s knee. “What? Why not?”
“Johnny, I can’t… I…” He suddenly sobbed, feeling absolutely awful, and John squatted down next to him. “I’m so sorry, Johnny.”
“What’s going on, love? I’m right here for you.”
“My pants…” he mumbled. “It was an accident.”
“Did you get sick on them? That’s alright, Macca--” Paul shook his head. “What do you mean you…?” He stopped. “Did you…” His voice trailed off, knowing Paul hated when he talked about the diarrhea he’d been dealing with.
“Johnny, I wet myself,” he hissed, gripping onto the thighs of his pants at how soaked they were. He tried to wring them out, but it wasn’t working. For what seemed like forever, he ran his hands along his legs. “John, w-what do I do? I don’t want them to know…”
“Alright… we’ve got our bags in the car, right? I’ll get you something to change into, and the others won’t have to know, okay?”
Paul sighed and nodded, so John got up and tapped on Pete’s passenger window until he rolled it down, and John looked over at Stuart.
“Can you give me the keys so I can go unlock the trunk?” he muttered uncomfortably. “Paul threw up on his shirt,” he lied. Stuart bit his lip and uncranked the car, handing the keys to Pete, who opened his door. “Wait, w-what are you doing? Just stay here. We’ll just be a minute.”
“It’s alright, John.” He opened the door all the way and stepped out, prompting Paul to turn around nervously. “Hey, kid. You feel better now?” He didn’t answer.
Pete unlocked the trunk and John immediately grabbed his bag and brought it over to him. “Go ahead and change, Macca.”
“Where do I put my dirty clothes?” he whispered, but still loud enough for Pete to hear.
“I’ve got a plastic bag here for you,” he said, handing it to John and then glancing at Paul as he got up. He didn’t have any vomit on his shirt. He didn’t have anything on his shirt. Why was he even getting dressed? His eyes wandered down and he saw a dark stain on the boy’s pants, causing a blush to creep up on his face, and he turned away.
John grabbed him by the wrist as Paul started to pull off his pants and led him back to the trunk.
“Don’t say a fucking word, you hear?” he whispered, not wanting Paul to hear. Pete nodded anxiously. “I mean it!” he repeated. “It’s not his fault. He’s sick, and we’ve been stuck in that car for--”
“John,” Pete interrupted. “John, chill out. Look, I won’t say anything, okay?” He thought about if he had been the one in that position. What if he was sitting outside the car in pants soaked through with his own piss, wondering if his friends were going to tease him for it. The least they could do for him would at least not laugh.
So that’s what he was doing. John nodded at him. “Right…”