Chapter Text
26 March 1968
Paul couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this way. It was very likely he never had. What that said about him he didn't know, nor did he want to find out.
As the airplane's wheels lifted off the ground, he closed his eyes and desperately tried to remember his mantra, or a prayer, or something. Fucking anything that would stop this feeling.
He wasn't even sure how he'd gotten onto the plane. The last thing he remembered was John's face as he stumbled out the door and George's face when he asked why Paul was leaving so much earlier than planned. Someone -- Jane? -- must've packed the suitcases and someone -- Mal?-- must've arranged for a taxi to the airport. He'd worn an overcoat on his way to the airport despite the sweltering heat, so someone must have reminded him that it would be cold in London when they landed. But he'd already dissociated from it all and it was like a dream that had happened to someone else so who knows who had had the foresight to look up the weather.
He stared at his calloused left palm for a moment before shoving it into his trouser pockets to hide the shaking. His foot tapped on the floor, the mindless beat of a mindless tune going through his mindless brain. It was getting faster and faster until it was all a hazy tornado inside his head, like Duke Ellington on speed in a maddening way designed to drive him bonkers.
"Paul, your foot," Jane said in a hushed voice from the adjacent seat. Her hair was perfectly coiffed as always, a miracle given the humidity in Rishikesh. He noticed that her eyeliner was slightly smudged at the corner, which was a testament to how quickly he'd insisted they leave.
He ignored her because he couldn't stop the foot tapping if he tried. Instead, he leaned forward to stare out the window. The plane seemed to be going too slow to maintain its buoyancy. Or perhaps it was going too fast? And if either was true and the fucking thing fell out of the sky, then at least he wouldn't have to feel like this anymore.
"Paul, are you alright?" Jane tried again quietly because God forbid someone say his name in a regular pitch and everyone on the plane would then connect the dots that Paul McCartney of The Beatles was trapped in this metal tube with them.
"Paul!" she hissed.
"Hmm?" Paul asked. His brain felt heavy and numb, like he could physically feel it inside his skull. It was almost like he was incredibly stoned except, for the first time in a long while, he wasn't.
"Your hand is shaking," she noted, taking his palm into hers. "And you're sweating. And people are starting to stare because of your foot tapping."
He pulled his hand away reflexively and mumbled something about being tired and uppers and who the fuck knows. She blinked a little too rapidly and shook her head like she'd already given up on him -- which was fair, it was totally fucking fair -- before turning her attention back to the fashion magazine anyway.
The bell above dinged as the plane reached cruising altitude. He glanced around to see a teenage girl and her mum across the aisle, both of them studiously pretending they hadn't recognized him. Running a hand over his face, he blinked his eyes several times to see if the world would come into focus. Was this what a nervous breakdown felt like? Everyone joked that all four Beatles were overdue for one, so maybe this was it. This was finally it. Bring it on, motherfuckers.
More importantly, if he went to the cockpit and asked nicely, would they turn the plane around? Perhaps if he offered an autograph, they'd take him back to the ashram and the mosquitos and all the meditating and Prudence and Mia and George and Pattie and Cynthia and and the wealthy chap who was only there for tiger hunting.
Back to John.
No, he decided, the plane couldn't get him away fast enough. He wasn't sure he'd ever get far enough away. Except every mile they sped through the clouds seemed too far, like an invisible cord was being pulled to its breaking point. The physical pain in his chest at being both too far and too close pretty much summed up the situation he'd found himself in.
Had he fucked it all up?
It was fucked up certainly, but he couldn't decide if it had been his doing. He had been present, but did proximity equate causation? And was it all over? Was that even possible that the greatest songwriting partnership in history was kaput, or would that cause a rupture in the world's metaphysical workings?
Fucking hell, what if he'd ruined everything?
"Excuse me?"
He looked over at the teenage girl, who had a familiar expression of both awe and incredulity. Her blonde hair was in pigtails and he wondered what she'd been doing in India.
"You aren't Paul McCartney, are you?" she asked, looking around like she'd discovered the most delicious secret. Which, in some ways, she had because he was confined in close proximity to her, possibly on the verge of a mental health crisis.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes because of all the times to be recognized. Instead, the mask snapped into place so quickly he barely registered it happening. His face rearranged itself into an approachable, charming smile. It was time to be Beatle Paul.
"'Fraid so, love," he replied with a knowing grin. He put a finger over his lips, the universal sign for let's keep this as a secret between the two of us.
"Would you--" she glanced around and lowered her voice, a courtesy that -- in Paul's experience -- most fans didn't bother with. "Would you sign this?"
She thrust a paper napkin and a pen across the aisle, which he took.
"Yeah, of course," he replied. "What's your name?"
She supplied her name, but his brain was no longer registering much. He scrawled his signature on the flimsy paper, all muscle memory and autopilot. He handed the napkin back to her with what he hoped was an approachable smile, then he fell heavily back into his seat.
"What are you reading?" he asked Jane only as a pretense to angle his body toward her and away from the rest of the plane. She looked up questioningly and, when he failed to repeat the question, her eyes fell back to the magazine. On the page was a blonde model smiling beneath the headline "The Final Word On Skirt Length Now."
So Jane's world of skirt lengths was continuing on like usual, while his world was imploding. Just fucking brilliant.
Paul grasped one hand into the other. Fuck, his brain. Fuck, the fucking tune that wouldn't stop. Lyrics had begun to assemble themselves into something workable, but, for once in his life, he didn't want the song to work. He just wanted it to stop.
God, what if it was already over? Jane was sitting there worried about skirt lengths completely unaware that Paul had fucked up everything.
For a moment, it was like he was watching himself on film. His dark hair was longer than it should be, his fringe slightly damp with perspiration. He had two days worth of stubble because he'd fled too quickly to shave. His mouth was slightly pursed as he tried to take calming breaths, just like the Maharishi had taught them. He tried to straighten his shoulders, but they were frozen in a slightly hunched position like he was carrying the weight of trying to hold it together because he was the one who always held it together.
Bloody hell, had he ruined it all?
He felt a familiar white noise in his head as the tune finally stopped and everything went comfortably numb. A fucking glorious numbness that drowned everything out. He didn't care what it was: his brain protecting itself, a breakdown, whatever. He'd stay this way as long as he could manage.