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There was a very, very good reason John decided to break into Paul's house. Several good reasons, in fact. Jim and Mike had been gone for the past few days, leaving Paul home alone so he could stick to their strict performance schedule at the Cavern. It was a fine plan; they'd left at Paul's insistence, because the band was getting bigger and bigger and Paul didn't want to miss out.
Except he was missing out. Jim and Mike were gone, and instead of showing up to the following night's performance, Paul simply vanished.
One day was understandable. Well—no it wasn't, but one day was excusable.
Two days without contact, however, was an outrage.
Three days was the breaking point.
It wasn't as if John had spent those days doing nothing, sitting by the phone and awaiting Paul's call. He'd rung him over and over, had gone to his house and banged on the door, but it was no use. Paul was avoiding him. Or he was dead, which was somewhat preferable, because the thought of Paul intentionally ignoring him made John sick with fear. Of all people, Paul should know better than to abandon him like this. He should know what it could do to someone like John.
So, by process of elimination, he had to be dead, because at least that meant he hadn't left John on purpose. Which meant it was John's fault, in a roundabout way, because he hadn't quite gotten around to telling Paul that he was cursed, that everyone who got close to him ended up in a grave. He hadn't given Paul the chance to run away and save himself.
Still, John felt perfectly justified scaling up the drainpipe toward Paul's bedroom. Of course, this was his first time attempting it without Paul waiting for him at the top, window open, hands outstretched to receive him. John would worry about that later. Right now, the pipe was slick from this morning's rain, worry making his hands shake, and a part of him wondered if he'd be able to reach the top at all.
He tried to focus on what he would do when he got in and found Paul dead on the floor, but despite himself, he couldn't make the thought seem real. No, he knew what he was going to find. Paul would be there, sitting on his bed and reading a book or strumming his guitar. He would look up at John and say, "what are you doing here?" with disgust and hatred in his eyes, and John would wish he'd slipped from the drainpipe and fallen to his own death.
John chanced a look over his shoulder. No, the fall probably wouldn't be far enough to kill him after all. Too bad. It wasn't a horrible plan.
There was nothing to do but continue upward, one slippery, shuddering lunge after the next. When he finally reached the top, he found the window cracked open, which would have been a relief if he wasn't so scared. Hesitantly, he touched his hand to the cool glass and pushed. The window squealed the rest of the way open and John slipped, clinging to the pipe and breathing hard, willing his racing heart to slow.
He should leave. He should leave right now. If Paul somehow hadn't heard him clamoring up the pipe, there was no way he could have missed the racket at the window. The fact that he hadn't come to check said everything John needed to know: Paul was either dead or ignoring him, but either way he was out of John's life completely. Another one down.
"John? What are you doing? Give me your hand before you fall."
Paul had appeared in the window and, well, he certainly looked dead. His skin was pale and dry, eyes sunken and shadowed. His hair hung around his face in limp, greasy strands, a few pieces pressed flat against his cheeks. He was holding out a hand for John, but John could only stare at him, fingers going numb from gripping the pipe so hard.
"Not fucking dead after all, I see."
Paul rolled his eyes. "Just come in. Please."
John started to resist, just for the sake of it, but his options were limited and he couldn't imagine holding a decent argument while clinging to a drainpipe. He took Paul's hand and allowed himself to be guided inside, Paul's free hand hovering near his lower back, ready to catch him as he slithered through the window.
Standing now in front of Paul, who was pale and trembling in his pajamas, John stood up straighter, crossing his arms and regaining the upper hand. "You know, I almost hoped you would be dead, because that would have been a decent reason to skip out on shows."
Paul opened his mouth, closed it, raked his hands through his hair and climbed back into bed. He lay down facing John, head rested on his hand, watching, waiting.
"Oh, I'm sorry, am I putting you to sleep?" John pressed.
"John," Paul said, very slowly. "I'm sick."
John fumbled his glasses out of his pocket for a better look, and—yes, okay, Paul did look sick, he could see that now. That certainly explained why he looked like a ghost dangling out the window, the clamminess of his hands.
"You could've told me," John tried, but the anger was draining quickly. "Could've picked up the bloody phone."
"I told George. Figured he'd tell you."
John tried not to be hurt by that, but it only brought him back to his original thought: Paul was avoiding him on purpose. Paul sighed as if he understood, his expression softening. "George stayed over the night Dad and Mike left. I was sick the next morning and told him to tell you if I didn't make it to the show."
"Oh." In that moment, John couldn't remember if George had told him anything at all. He'd been so angry that Paul hadn't shown up that he hadn't exactly been able to focus on much else. Now, as he calmed down, he was beginning to really see how tired and frail Paul really looked. "Is it that bad?"
"No," Paul replied, but his eyelids were drooping. "I'm better today, really."
It hit John suddenly that Paul had been here alone this whole time, no one to look after him and make sure he was eating and staying hydrated. Which meant he probably wasn't doing either of those things, especially since there wasn't even so much as a glass of water near his bed. Resting was fine—good, even—but staying hydrated was what was important. Mimi's nagging voice in his head would always remind him of that.
"I'll make you some tea," John said abruptly. Paul blinked up at him, more alert now.
"Oh, no, it's all right—I'm better, I told you."
"Aye, well, you don't usually look like a corpse, do you? Have you eaten?"
Paul's face went slightly pink. "Er—no. I mean, not today. I haven't exactly been able to, y'know, keep anything down lately, so I just—"
"I'll bring some soup, too, then."
Paul's protests were weak, halfhearted at best, and John ignored them entirely. When he reached the kitchen, it was obvious Paul hadn't made much of an attempt to eat all over the past few days. There was an open box of cornflakes that had been knocked over, next to an apple with a single bite taken out of it, browning around the edges. To Paul's credit, there was a small stack of cups piling up in the sink, so at least he'd been drinking. Otherwise, the kitchen was as tidy as ever.
As John put on the tea and began looking around for something to make a decent soup out of, there was a familiar creak of the floorboards outside Paul's room. John expected him to make his way down the stairs and tell John off for digging through his things, but instead there was only the gurgling of water rushing through the pipes as Paul apparently began to run a bath. John laughed to himself, shaking his head. Paul could be so oddly vain—he was probably horrified that John had seen him like that, sick and unshaven with his hair matted to his face. Things like that didn't matter much to John; it was still Paul, even if he hadn't been taking care of himself. That's what John was here for.
John waited until Paul was out of the bath to deliver the tea and the soup, both of which had gone slightly cold in the time it had taken Paul to finish up. He nearly crashed into Paul on the stairs, and he spread his arms—soup bowl balanced in one hand, teacup in the other—preventing Paul from passing him.
"Sorry, afraid not, turn around," he instructed.
Paul lifted a single eyebrow, his mouth quirking. He looked like he was about to protest, but after a lingering look, he allowed John to herd him back to the bedroom.
"You're going to rest," John told him, setting the soup and the tea on Paul's bedside table. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Paul tucked himself back in, a strange little smirk lingering on his lips. He looked significantly less corpse-like now, which soothed something in John—he could relax now, finally. Paul really was okay, even if he remained pale and tired.
"I've only been resting for the past several days," Paul pointed out.
"For all the good that's done," John replied dismissively, sitting down on the edge of the bed and stirring around the soup. It was hard to look at Paul, because Paul was looking at him like he knew something John didn't. Instead, John focused on the broth that swirled around inside the bowl. "Rest doesn't help at all if you don't eat."
"All right," Paul replied, gentle, patient. Charmed.
John whipped his head up to meet Paul's eyes, feeling his face flush. "What?"
The little smile broadened. "Nothing, just—I've never seen you like this. It's nice."
John shoved the bowl into Paul's hands. "Eat your damn soup, McCartney."
"I take it that means you're not going to feed me?"
John ignored him, and Paul's soft laughter followed him into the hallway. Paul had no right to toy with him this way, not after the scare he'd caused.
While Paul ate, John took to searching the house for fresh pillows and blankets, just for something to do. Once he grabbed up the fluffiest pillows he could find and shoved a deliciously heavy quilt under his arm, he returned to the room to find Paul dozing. John let the pillows and the quilt drop to the floor, and he stepped over them to inspect the remains of Paul's lunch. The tea was gone and the soup was drained of broth, though the majority of the noodles remained at the bottom of the bowl. At least he'd made an attempt.
He turned his attention to Paul. He looked strangely younger with his hair fanned out around his face, soft and clean, his lips barely parted. His long eyelashes fluttered delicately against his cheeks, dreamlike, and John's chest tightened, something like a fist lodged in his throat. Paul seemed so relaxed, so peaceful, and it was suddenly the most important thing in the world to make sure he stayed that way.
Paul's soft, contented sigh was enough to break John from his daze, and he shook his head to clear it. He had more important things to do than stand here and gawk at his best friend like a bloody queer.
The problem was that he wasn't entirely sure how to replace the pillows without waking Paul, so he took to piling them around Paul's head, leaning them up against the wall. It made a little nest of sorts, and it looked cozy, except Paul remained snuggled against his same, grimy pillow. John placed the last pillow near Paul's cheek, hoping Paul would subconsciously understand and roll onto it without any prodding. Instead, Paul's eyes slid open.
"What are you doing?" he asked around a yawn.
"Getting your face away from that germ-ridden cesspool. Come on now, move."
Paul lifted his head enough for John to yank the old pillow away, tossing it over his shoulder. He tucked a new one under Paul's head as gently as he could, unconsciously smoothing Paul's hair back, making Paul's eyelashes flutter. John didn't realize he was smiling until Paul smiled back, and he yanked his hand away as if he'd been scalded. "Ah—I don't think you have a fever."
It wasn't a very good cover, and Paul probably knew that as well as John. Still, Paul humored him. "I told you I was getting better. Kept the soup down and everything."
"Better stay that way." John unfolded the quilt and draped it over Paul, tucking it under his chin. "You're not allowed to leave."
Paul's eyes had started to drift closed, but now they were wide open once more. "Leave? Where would I go?"
John froze, biting at his lip. He hadn't meant to say that out loud, certainly hadn't meant for Paul to hear it. It just slipped out, and now there was nothing he could do but forge ahead. "Well. You know," he said vaguely.
Paul only stared at him, waiting for an explanation. His expression soft and open, a safe place for John to hide his fears.
"Ah, Paul," he sighed. "Everyone leaves."
"Not me," Paul told him. He pulled back the blankets. "C'mere."
John started to refuse, given that the sheets hadn't even been changed, but at least Paul was clean. He toed off his boots and slid in beside him, heads resting on the same pillow, staring into each other's eyes. They'd done this before, countless times, but it felt different now, important. Paul searched John's eyes as if there really was an answer to be seen there, and this time John held his gaze.
"I'm cursed, you know," he admitted, quiet. "Everyone who gets close to me, they—"
"Stop."
John's lips snapped closed, if only because of the intensity of Paul's tone. He looked angry suddenly, but not at John; it was a fierce, protective expression, despite his dry lips and shadowed eyes.
"I'm not going to do that to you," Paul told him. "Anything that's happened in the past doesn't matter. What matters now is you and me, right here, and that's never going to change."
Even though that wasn't something Paul could realistically promise, even though everything John had ever been through screamed at him that everyone left in the end, John believed him.
Paul fell asleep like that, curled against him, warm against John's chest. John only watched him, fingers lax in Paul's hair, because he wasn't leaving either.