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Description
Disclaimer: I don't own The Beatles. I never have, never will. Thanks for crushing my dreams! –sob-
Warning: Does contain  language and a panic attack.

What about the night we cried,
Because there wasn't any reason left to keep it all inside.
Never understood a word.
But you were always there with a smile.
-Paul McCartney "Here Today"

It was the crying Paul heard first. An exceedingly small sound, especially against the shrieks of the hysterical girls outside the hotel window, but so unusual that Paul couldn't help but notice it. He sleepily tossed off his blankets and swung his legs off the bed. He didn't want to get up, really, and after listening for a while, when not hearing it again, he nearly reached the conclusion that he must have been drifting into a dream when he heard it.

But there it was: the cry again. With an aggravated groan, Paul stood up.  If another bloody thirteen year old was hiding in the hotel room…

He looked around the room, trying to see someone was crouched behind the couch or under the writing desk, or, God forbid, under the bloody bed.  No one.  Just John, fast asleep in his bed, back turned towards him and head underneath his blanket.

He strode over to the bathroom and pried open the door cautiously, half-expecting some silly girl to jump out and try to violate him in unmentionable ways.  But nothing happened, even as he flipped on the lights with a click and checked behind the shower curtains.   He and John were most certainly alone.

As he turned to shut off the light and close the bathroom door, he finally saw it. In the yellow light spilling into the room it was all too clear to Paul that John hadn't been asleep; he was shaking in a way indicative of crying. No, not crying. Sobbing.

"John…" said Paul, cautiously venturing towards John's bed.

No response.

"John?" he said, kneeling by the side of John's bed, trying to get a glance at his bandmate's face.

"GET TH' FUCK AWAY!" choked John, and before Paul could even comprehend what was happening, John's fist flew from somewhere underneath the blanket, barely a centimeter from striking his face.  Startled, Paul lurched away, stumbling and falling on his ass.

"What the fuck is the matter with you! You're lying there bloody crying for no fucking bloody reason, I get worried and decide to see what's wrong, and you take a swing at me, eh?"

All went silent. "I'm dying," he hissed through clenched jaws, "Oh, fuck, I'm dying…"  His shoulders were heaving as he panted.  For a moment, Paul considered that John might be joking with him.  But the more he watched John, the more unlikely that seemed. John fingers, pulling the blanket around him, were visibly shaking.  He was sweaty and flushed, and his eyes were rapidly blinking the away tears that threatened to gather in them.

"John, I'll call…"

"NO!" roared John with such severity that Paul couldn't speak. "No, God, no. Not a doctor. T-they'll think I'm goin' out of me head or somethin'…I-I…just, I…Fuck." he trailed off, not able to articulate what he was trying to say.  He seemed to be calming down, though, his breathing slowing and shaking slightly less noticeable, though he still seemed to be frightened and vulnerable.  "Get me a glass of water, willya?" he rasped, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.  Paul nodded and rushed to the bathroom, filled a glass from the tap, and handed it to John.  John grunted something that sounded like 'ta,' and took the glass, greedily draining it in a gulp. "I feel like shit," he said.

"You look like shit," Paul observed. "What's…are you alright?"

John scrunched his eyes tight for a moment, and then said, "I…I think I'm gonna be. Paul," he said, and Paul realized through the look in John's eyes that John was actually confiding in him, and that this was a rare moment between the two friends. No, the two brothers. "I've been…all strange since the whole Jesus thing.  Everyone's after me, and I don't know what to do, and sometimes I feel so scared…I just…go nuts.  Sometimes, I'll…I'll just be sittin' somewhere and I…feel like somethin' bad's gonna happen or I'm gonna die or…" He looked up at Paul, desperately, and muttered, like a child after being caught doing something naughty, "I think I'm mad."

At first Paul didn't know what to say, and stared stupidly at John. But, somehow, miraculously the words leapt to his lips. "The whole bloody world's mad," he said, "But I don't think you're madder than anyone else out there.  I think you're scared.  And fuckin' hell. I'm… I'm scared, too." It was the first time Paul had admitted it, and he felt warm tears threatening to creep into his eyes.

"'Cor, now we're both gonna be cryin' now. C'mon, we're a fuckin' rock 'n' roll group, son."

Paul gave a slight smile through his tears.  "Right."

"And you don't go tellin' anybody about this. They'll think we're goin' soft on them," John said, jabbing a finger in Paul's direction.

"Tell anybody about what?"

"Good lad.  I'm fuckin' miserable and I can't sleep. I'm gonna make myself some tea and try and write a song or somethin'…" The invitation to Paul was clear in John's tone.  Paul nodded, and John gave what might've been a smile through his flat expression.  "Ta."

Description
Disclaimer: I don't own The Beatles. I never have, never will. Thanks for crushing my dreams! –sob-
Warning: Does contain  language and a panic attack.

What about the night we cried,
Because there wasn't any reason left to keep it all inside.
Never understood a word.
But you were always there with a smile.
-Paul McCartney "Here Today"

It was the crying Paul heard first. An exceedingly small sound, especially against the shrieks of the hysterical girls outside the hotel window, but so unusual that Paul couldn't help but notice it. He sleepily tossed off his blankets and swung his legs off the bed. He didn't want to get up, really, and after listening for a while, when not hearing it again, he nearly reached the conclusion that he must have been drifting into a dream when he heard it.

But there it was: the cry again. With an aggravated groan, Paul stood up.  If another bloody thirteen year old was hiding in the hotel room…

He looked around the room, trying to see someone was crouched behind the couch or under the writing desk, or, God forbid, under the bloody bed.  No one.  Just John, fast asleep in his bed, back turned towards him and head underneath his blanket.

He strode over to the bathroom and pried open the door cautiously, half-expecting some silly girl to jump out and try to violate him in unmentionable ways.  But nothing happened, even as he flipped on the lights with a click and checked behind the shower curtains.   He and John were most certainly alone.

As he turned to shut off the light and close the bathroom door, he finally saw it. In the yellow light spilling into the room it was all too clear to Paul that John hadn't been asleep; he was shaking in a way indicative of crying. No, not crying. Sobbing.

"John…" said Paul, cautiously venturing towards John's bed.

No response.

"John?" he said, kneeling by the side of John's bed, trying to get a glance at his bandmate's face.

"GET TH' FUCK AWAY!" choked John, and before Paul could even comprehend what was happening, John's fist flew from somewhere underneath the blanket, barely a centimeter from striking his face.  Startled, Paul lurched away, stumbling and falling on his ass.

"What the fuck is the matter with you! You're lying there bloody crying for no fucking bloody reason, I get worried and decide to see what's wrong, and you take a swing at me, eh?"

All went silent. "I'm dying," he hissed through clenched jaws, "Oh, fuck, I'm dying…"  His shoulders were heaving as he panted.  For a moment, Paul considered that John might be joking with him.  But the more he watched John, the more unlikely that seemed. John fingers, pulling the blanket around him, were visibly shaking.  He was sweaty and flushed, and his eyes were rapidly blinking the away tears that threatened to gather in them.

"John, I'll call…"

"NO!" roared John with such severity that Paul couldn't speak. "No, God, no. Not a doctor. T-they'll think I'm goin' out of me head or somethin'…I-I…just, I…Fuck." he trailed off, not able to articulate what he was trying to say.  He seemed to be calming down, though, his breathing slowing and shaking slightly less noticeable, though he still seemed to be frightened and vulnerable.  "Get me a glass of water, willya?" he rasped, and wiped his eyes on his sleeve.  Paul nodded and rushed to the bathroom, filled a glass from the tap, and handed it to John.  John grunted something that sounded like 'ta,' and took the glass, greedily draining it in a gulp. "I feel like shit," he said.

"You look like shit," Paul observed. "What's…are you alright?"

John scrunched his eyes tight for a moment, and then said, "I…I think I'm gonna be. Paul," he said, and Paul realized through the look in John's eyes that John was actually confiding in him, and that this was a rare moment between the two friends. No, the two brothers. "I've been…all strange since the whole Jesus thing.  Everyone's after me, and I don't know what to do, and sometimes I feel so scared…I just…go nuts.  Sometimes, I'll…I'll just be sittin' somewhere and I…feel like somethin' bad's gonna happen or I'm gonna die or…" He looked up at Paul, desperately, and muttered, like a child after being caught doing something naughty, "I think I'm mad."

At first Paul didn't know what to say, and stared stupidly at John. But, somehow, miraculously the words leapt to his lips. "The whole bloody world's mad," he said, "But I don't think you're madder than anyone else out there.  I think you're scared.  And fuckin' hell. I'm… I'm scared, too." It was the first time Paul had admitted it, and he felt warm tears threatening to creep into his eyes.

"'Cor, now we're both gonna be cryin' now. C'mon, we're a fuckin' rock 'n' roll group, son."

Paul gave a slight smile through his tears.  "Right."

"And you don't go tellin' anybody about this. They'll think we're goin' soft on them," John said, jabbing a finger in Paul's direction.

"Tell anybody about what?"

"Good lad.  I'm fuckin' miserable and I can't sleep. I'm gonna make myself some tea and try and write a song or somethin'…" The invitation to Paul was clear in John's tone.  Paul nodded, and John gave what might've been a smile through his flat expression.  "Ta."