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Paul remembered this feeling all too well.
Too many mornings as a lad he woke up, his stomach feeling poorly just like this. But back then he had his mum who would lightly knock on the door to get him up for school— Mummy I don’t feel well —and she would let him stay home. After she was gone he learned not to even say anything— You look fine, lad, you can go to school. You can’t miss. He learned to suffer in silence.
So just the same as back then, he got up and got dressed; he couldn’t miss a concert. They couldn’t cancel because of him, all because he had a stupid stomachache. He wasn’t a child, he could still go about his day.
Paul went down to breakfast with the rest of the lads, but looking at the food made it worse. He just drank his tea and willed himself not to throw up, how embarrassing that would be.
John gave him a weird look. The rest of the group had been talking for the last half hour or so as they ate and Paul hadn’t said a word. Shit. They were bound to notice something was up, he had to keep up appearances, he was fine.
Paul pulled a goofy face and picked up some toast, taking a few bites and choking it down. John snorted but still was looking at him warily. “You ok there, Macca? Drink too much last night or something?”
“I’m okay, just not feeling like eggs today.”
“Feeling more like a chicken then, Paulie?”
“Something like that.” Paul managed one more bite before he admitted defeat and put the toast down.
John did not look convinced.
***
Paul thought he was doing okay, all things considered. He hadn’t thrown up and he had made it through most of the day, he would definitely be fine for their concert in a couple hours.
They had been waiting for their interview and Paul had been sitting for a while. He was starting to doze off when he jolted awake. He couldn’t fall asleep now. He stood up to wake himself up and felt slightly dizzy, the world looking a little off balance all of a sudden.
John appeared at his side, gripping his arm. “Whoa, you okay? Have you even eaten anything at all today?”
He had only had a few bites of toast and tea the whole day, but the idea of food made his stomach turn even more, so he hadn’t bothered. Paul obviously didn’t mention that to John. He gave kind of a half-hearted shrug and forced himself to keep from grimacing at the thought of food.
“Come on, you can’t play on an empty stomach.”
John wouldn’t take no for an answer, and Paul managed a few bites before John looked satisfied and left him alone.
Paul wished he hadn’t eaten anything. Whereas before he had felt nauseous, now he was 100% certain he was going to throw up.
Paul stood in front of the camera hardly able to say a word and when he did, he felt John’s eyes on him as if he knew something was off. Paul was in a daze, feeling hot all of a sudden, losing the thread of the conversation, missing what the interviewer was saying. Maybe it would all be over soon.
“You alright?” John said to him, interrupting the interview.
“Oh yeah!” Paul said fake brightly, he moved too quickly, which upset his stomach even more. He swallowed down bile, ducking his head behind Ringo. Once he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to puke yet, he stood up straight. He met John’s eyes and he knew that John could tell something was up. The interview continued on and Paul stood silently willing himself not to vomit on camera, John keeping on his steady watch.
The moment the interview ended Paul bounded for the dressing room, at this point not caring who saw, if anyone was following him. He slammed the door to the loo and fell in front of the toilet. He immediately started heaving his guts out.
He hated throwing up, the way you felt so helpless and weak. He continued losing all the contents of his stomach for a few more miserable minutes. Once he was sure he was done for the moment he stood up on shaky legs, feeling woozy, and flushed the toilet. As he washed his hands, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked a fright. They would try to cancel the concert—that couldn’t happen. He was a bit unwell, that was true, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t play. People went to work ill all the time. If he just didn’t make any sudden movements or look at any food he would be okay. Maybe they could add a break in every few songs. Paul washed his hands, rinsed out his mouth, and threw some water on his face. He practiced a few smiles in the mirror, squeezing his cheeks a bit to get some color back.
The dizzy and light headed feeling only got worse as he opened the door and stepped back into the dressing room. The rest of the group was there waiting for him and all looked concerned. John most of all.
“Paul! You alright? Christ,” John said, sounding anxious. “Come sit down, you look awful. Brian’s on his way now. We’re canceling.”
Paul stopped in his tracks. “What? We can’t cancel. I’m fine.”
George, who was sitting on one of the settees opposite John, snorted as he looked over at Paul. “Bullshit. You’ve been in there ages puking your guts out.”
“Yeah, Paul. You don’t look well,” Ringo added from next to George, sounding more gentle than George had.
“But—” Paul started.
“Sorry, mate,” George continued. “I’m not standing next to you. You’re going to puke all over me best suit.”
“You’ve been acting off all day, Paul,” John said. He stood up and came towards Paul. “You barely made it through that interview. We’re not going on. And that’s that. Come on, let's get you more comfortable.” John started to guide him towards an empty chair.
Paul was feeling rather dizzy as he attempted to move. Okay—he felt fucking awful. His stomach was still in knots and now he was feeling light-headed and everything was getting kind of blurry. He didn’t know how he could manage to play. He hated to let down his band and all the fans that were waiting for him.
“I’m sorry lads, I can’t go on tonight…”
John opened his mouth to say something in response, but Paul never heard it, as the world started going more hazy, and then dark.
***
Paul came to and heard John’s voice. He sounded concerned—well more so than that—he sounded angry.
“You better get a doctor in here. Or so help me—”
“John. Calm down. We’re calling a doctor and—” That was Brian’s voice.
“And we’re not going on tonight. Show’s canceled. Even Paul said so before he passed out.”
“Maybe you three could just—”
“No. No Paul. No us.”
“Well, we’ll see what the doctor says.”
Paul finally opened his eyes, he had apparently been moved from the floor, where he had passed out, to the settee. He had an awful taste in his mouth and he cleared his throat to try to get rid of it.
John turned towards him, his angry look promptly flipping to a soft, open, worried look.
“Paul!” John crouched down next to him, turning away from his conversation with Brian.
“We’re getting a doctor, Paul. He should be here soon,” Brian said before disappearing out the door.
Paul was again going to protest that he was fine, he could go on. This was all blown out of proportion. But his stomach turned again. And before he could say anything, a waste basket was placed into his hands and he was throwing up once again.
“Urgh,” Paul said once he was done, and placed the basket on the floor. “I’m so sorry.”
John was looking at him so intensely, so worried, Paul hadn’t really seen it before.
John stood up and got rid of the basket while Paul laid back down. Paul was about to close his eyes when John appeared again with a glass of water. “Here, you should probably drink this.”
Paul nodded as he sat up, coughing a bit as he sipped the water. “Careful, now. Little sips.”
Paul hoped to god it wasn’t bad enough that he would be throwing up water soon, it certainly felt bad enough, his stomach clenched, his head pounding. He laid back down and closed his eyes.
He was awoken too soon by a knock. Paul slowly opened his eyes and saw an unfamiliar man in a suit, with a case—the doctor then.
Going to the doctor was not one of Paul’s favorite activities, and he especially didn’t want to be seen by the doctor with all his friends standing around. Well—John wasn’t quite so much standing. He kept pacing up and down the room. Paul found himself tracking his movements as the doctor examined him.
If Paul wasn’t feeling so awful, he probably would have felt embarrassed. All this fuss just because Paul had a poorly stomach. It was silly and not necessary, honestly. He just had a stomach bug and yeah he had passed out but he just needed to sleep, probably puke a few more times, and maybe drink some water. Then he’d be fine.
The doctor stuck the thermometer in Paul’s mouth and took his temperature. “Oo, it’s a bit steep.”
Paul nodded, but he only looked at the doctor for a second before—back and forth went John again, who was still pacing the room, worriedly. Paul didn’t get it. He wasn’t dying. George and Ringo were across the room, and kept looking up every now and then. But Paul couldn’t read them as well as John, and maybe they were worried too but they certainly weren’t showing it like John was.
The doctor finished examining him. “Well it appears you have gastric flu. There’s no way you’ll be able to perform this evening. So sorry, son.”
Everything inside of Paul was screaming that they couldn’t do that, he could go on. But he knew the doctor was right. He felt absolutely miserable now. All he wanted now was to curl up in his bed and get out of here as soon as possible.
The doctor opened his case and handed Paul some pills. “Take these, they’ll help you feel better in no time.” He turned to the rest of the group in the room—George and Ringo keeping their respectful distance in the corner, John, still weirdly pacing the room. “Could one of you get some—”
“Already on it,” John said, before the doctor could even finish. In a flash he grabbed the glass from where Paul had placed it.
“If you get enough rest tonight, you could probably make the concert tomorrow,” the doctor said, while they watched John fill up the glass at the sink . “And won’t make any more girls cry.”
Paul’s heart clenched slightly— there were crying girls? —but it was only a passing moment for his stomach was rolling again and before he could get up or say anything, the already vomit filled waste basket was placed into his hands again, this time from the doctor.
Paul didn’t think there was anything else left in him. How could he keep going? He groaned.
John rushed back and handed Paul the water.
“It’ll pass quickly lad,” the doctor said, giving Paul the pills. “I think maybe you were a bit dehydrated, probably why you passed out. Just be sure you drink enough water and rest. I’ll come by your hotel in the morning to see how you’re doing.”
Paul swallowed the pills and laid back against the settee.
***
As soon as Brian came back and announced that the concert would be rescheduled, Paul wanted—no needed— to get out of here as soon as possible. And as inconspicuously as possible.
“Isn’t there a back door somewhere?”
“‘Fraid not Paul.”
To add insult to injury, Paul was going to have to walk through a crowd of disappointed fans and press to get through to the front door to their awaiting car.
All Paul could do was keep his head down, not show his face, or make eye contact. If he did so, any press could see that as an open door to ask him any questions. Oh, and he also had to try to keep himself from vomiting in public. Again.
Without Paul even saying a word about it, John stood right next to him, almost as if he was blocking Paul from view, protecting him. And never leaving his side.
After they made it through without any issues, press or otherwise, the lads all gestured towards the front seat of the car. On a normal concert day—when they were not leaving early because they had to cancel because of Paul’s embarrassing sickness— they would have all argued and play fought over who would get to sit up front. Paul sat quietly with his head pressed against the cool glass, as they drove back to their hotel with the window rolled down.
When they got back to their hotel, John popped up next to him once they left the car. There were a few press outside and John once again was pressed up against him, blocking their view.
“I”ll just take Paul upstairs then?” he said to Brian. “We’re rooming together tonight.”
“Sorry, boys, you’re gonna have to say a few words to the press without Paul.”
John looked infuriated for a moment before Paul poked him in the side. “I think I’ll manage, John. I usually can manage well enough on me own.” Paul was slightly touched John was acting like this, he usually didn’t.
John gave him a soft look, one Paul had only seen a few times. “I just need to go to bed,” Paul said before John gave in and walked away towards the press and finally left his side.
***
Paul needed to sleep. That’s what the doctor had said.
But apparently John knew more than the doctor. Well it maybe was an accident, but as John came back into the room after the interview, he woke Paul up.
Paul groaned as the lights turned on.
“Sorry! I was trying to be quiet!”
“Quiet doesn't matter if you turn on the bloody lights.” Paul rubbed his eyes and turned away, pulling the covers over his eyes.
“Well now that you’re awake, let me get you some water.” Paul could hear John moving around the room, heard the tap turn on.
“I’m fine, John. Just let me sleep.” Paul kept his eyes closed and kept the sheet over his eyes, to block out the demon lights.
“You heard the doc,” John continued, still not listening to Paul. “We need our bassist back tomorrow, so you better drink some more water.”
Paul felt a light touch on his shoulder. “Come on Paul, please?”
John’s voice had an anxious edge to it, just like earlier during the interview. Was John really that concerned about him?
Paul pulled the sheets down slowly and turned back to John. John, who had a slight frown and worried look in his eyes.
Paul gave him a small smile and he sat up slightly. “Okay.”
He accepted the water and drank the whole glass. “Alright? Now can I go back to bed?”
“You sure you’re gonna be okay? I’ll leave a waste bin next to your bed in case you need to be sick in the night. And some more water.”
John still sounded so concerned. Paul had just expected that he would go back to their room and sleep, maybe be sick a couple more times and then all would be fine and normal.
Paul placed the empty glass back on the side table as John still was going about the room. John grabbed the glass and immediately went to fill it again.
“John, I'm really okay. I’ve been sick like this before, you know. You’ve seen me on planes.”
John stopped his anxious pacing to turn and look at Paul. “But you’ve never fainted like that before, you didn’t see it. And even after we moved you, it took you a few moments to come around.”
“But you heard the doctor. I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow.”
John nodded, but Paul could still see the worry coloring his eyes. At this point Paul didn’t think he could say anything to take that away. And he just really wanted to sleep so he could stop feeling like utter trash.
Paul fell asleep quickly, but still found himself dwelling on that worried look in John’s eyes.
***
When Paul woke up the next day, his first thought was that he was hungry. His head wasn’t hurting and even though he felt a little tired and off, he knew the worst had passed.
He looked over to the other bed and was surprised to see it was empty. Paul could only remember a handful of times he had woken up before John.
John stepped out of the bathroom a few minutes later as Paul had continued dozing. Paul looked John over: he was already fully dressed, but was looking bleary eyed. He had on his glasses which seemed to magnify his tiredness.
“Alright. I’m up, I’m up,” Paul said stretching. “Did I sleep in too much?” He threw off the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.
There was a sunniness to John’s smile, once he fully looked at Paul . “Nah, I just got up early today,” he said with a shrug.
“You, up early?” Paul gasped. “Inform the press! The Beatle People must know!”
John chuckled lightly. “I’d say you’re back to normal. Guess the doctor was right. Won’t have any more crying girls.”
Paul was glad to see that the worried look had finally washed away. But Paul still couldn’t quite get over why it had been there in the first place.
They made their way down to breakfast, where Ringo and George were already seated.
“He’s alive!” Ringo said with a grin.
“Well you better get behind him, John. He may pass out again!” George joked.
Paul colored slightly, feeling slightly embarrassed, but grinned and turned to John. He hoped maybe if they could joke about this, it would blow over and John would realize his worry had been for nothing.
John smiled lightly, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes.
Paul had to show him he was okay, that he was fine and he could joke about it as well.
Paul looked down at the spread of breakfast and his stomach growled. “Oh, yes, John. I feel faint, I better get some food soon.” He threw a hand to his forehead and dramatically fell backwards, hoping John would catch him.
He did, of course.
Paul looked up at John who was staring down at him, fondly.
Paul found he couldn’t look away, his stomach doing strange things. He probably just needed to eat.
Eventually there was a throat cleared that interrupted them. Paul blushed furiously, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
“Oh, my hero,” Paul said in a high pitched voice as he stood up straight and pulled himself out of John’s arms.
“Let’s get you some food, my dear,” John said, placing a hand against Paul’s back and guiding him towards the table.
They all tucked into their breakfast, Paul not eating as much as he normally would, but it was more than the measly bits of toast he had managed the day before.
Paul could feel John’s eyes on him the entire breakfast, but Paul found he didn’t mind it as much now that he was feeling more like himself. He caught John’s eye at one point and gave him a wink.
John laughed, throwing his head back.
“What?”
“Oi, what was that, Macca?”
“A wink?” Paul said warily.
John laughed again.
“Nice to see Paul McCartney’s not great at everything,” George said, joining in.
“Hey now. What do you mean I can’t wink, how am I meant to do it?” Paul tried winking again and the others burst into laughter.
Paul wanted to feel put out, but let himself bear the brunt of their jokes, it was good to see John laughing again.
***
John was still watching him like a hawk as the day went on. As if the doctor giving him the okay wasn’t enough and Paul was likely to pass out again.
After the concert that night they went to their room, which they were sharing again.
“Alright, what is this about John?”
John froze in the middle of untying his tie. “What do you mean…” John said, evading Paul’s eyes.
“I mean you, acting like I’m about to keel over and die at any minute.” John shuttered, which Paul found even more confusing. “It was just a flu, the doctor checked me out and said I was okay. I even managed to play in the concert tonight, if that’s what you were worried about before.”
John finally turned to look at Paul, where he was sitting on the bed. “I don’t care about us missing the bloody show yesterday, why would you even say that?”
“Well, what am I supposed to think?” Paul said, crossing his arms, not backing down but still confused why things were getting heated.
“I can’t lose you!” John called out abruptly and throwing his tie.
“Wh—what? But I’m fine?” Paul frowned and blinked at John.”It was just a stomachache, John. What are you going on about?”
John shook his head and glared at the wall. “That’s what my Uncle George said, too.”
Paul’s eyes widened.
“I lose everyone that’s close to me, figures I’d lose you too.” John had never opened up to him like this, ever. Even when his mum had died, John didn’t say much about it.
Paul didn’t exactly know what to say, but there was a part of him that soared when John said that they were close. “John…John. I’m okay, though. You’re not going to lose me.”
“You can’t promise that.”
Paul could see that John was upset enough now that he was beyond reason.
“But—”
“It doesn’t matter, Paul.” John still hadn’t moved from his suitcase where he had been getting undressed. He only had gotten as far as his tie, but he started to take off his jacket now.
“No. It does. Come ‘ere,” Paul patted the bed next to him.
John rolled his eyes and tossed his jacket on top of the pile in the suitcase. With a grumpy expression he sat down on Paul’s bed next to him, folding his arms against his chest.
Paul certainly did not know that’s how John felt: that he was so worried about losing Paul. He knew they were close—of course he did—but they usually never put it into words.
Paul wasn’t exactly one for sharing his feelings, and having conversations like this, especially not with his best mate. But if John did, he would too.
“I know I can’t exactly promise something won’t happen to me. But I’m not going anywhere. It will take more than a flu to get rid of James Paul McCartney.”
“It’s not a joke, Paul.”
“Who’s joking? I’m just saying. I’m doing okay and if I’m not, how about next time I let you know instead of hiding it?”
John scoffed at him. “That’ll be the day.”
“No, no, I can! I can tell you when I’m not feeling well. And I’ll do that for you, because I—I care about you too, daft sod. And this really upset you.”
Paul could see the impact of his words. John’s whole demeanor changed: his face brightened, his body posture loosened, the thin hard line of his mouth brought to a smile. Paul really wished it was easier for him to say these things. He liked this John best.
“And you know I really wouldn’t want to lose you either right? Can’t quite do this without you.”
John nudged his shoulder. “Oh, aye, now who’s being soft?”
“You started it! And hey!” Paul nudged him back, slightly harder. “Can’t be too harsh with me, now I may just faint!”
“Hey yourself! You said you would tell me if you’re not feeling well, so guess you’re feeling alright now!” He pushed Paul back, with a cheeky grin and Paul flopped back on the bed.
Paul grinned back at him, his stomach flopping weirdly. Paul stopped for a moment— oh Jesus— was he really going to be sick again?
John frowned down at him. “You okay?”
“Yeah..yeah I’m feeling great actually!” He shook himself out of it and sat up. It wasn’t sickness, it was something else entirely. Paul didn’t dwell on it too much.
“Come on, let’s get our guitars, I have some new ideas to share.”