Chapter Text
Paul had felt it ever since he woke up that morning. He had not been feeling like himself for a while now, if he were to be really honest, but could not really pinpoint it. A bit like the nervous tension before going on stage, only there was no stage – not anymore – so it was just the negative side of things of it without the actual performance to get rid of it, replace it with something more euphoric. So yeah, that feeling had been there for weeks, annoying him and making him feel on edge and slightly shaky and ill at all times. Today, it seemed to be even more prominent, which – in turn – made it even harder to ignore.
He did his best to shove the feeling far, far into the back of his head anyways, looking out the window, frowning at how high the sun was already standing, it meaning he was definitely going to be late to the studio today. Not that it really mattered anymore, really. Not like John could lecture him on punctuality anyways. Not when he was on his own, Yoko-centred schedule now, too avant garde to be constrained in the shackles of time, it seemed.
He sighed shakily, having to close his eyes for a moment. It was a cold and gloomy day, but it had to be, as a rule, really, if one spent it in the wintery London. But today, the cold felt somewhat more biting. Like it was seeping into his bones, turning the marrow into ice and before sending its cells into his system – circulating them with his blood. He was shivering before he even slipped out of the covers, taking a couple of sleepy, unsteady steps towards the bathroom, patting Martha, who had appeared beside him, absentmindedly. Trying to avoid the mirror while brushing his teeth, trying to not think about anything at all for a moment. Failing, of course, but that was not surprising, given the millions of thoughts that seemed to be rattling around his brain.
The hot water of the shower did a shit job at warming him up and tea seemed to not be doing much more for him, so he was still trembling as he stepped out into the streets with Martha, nodding at the small group of girls gathered at his gate and not having it in him to engage in the conversation they tried to start, feeling tired and unwell.
He had not slept well, so that was probably it. Days had a way of seeming much colder when a shitty night preceded them. And there seemed to be a lot of those, lately. Because he never seemed to sleep well, nowadays. Always a bit on edge, waiting for the shoe to drop, dreaming of stumbling, falling and not being able to get up again, being stuck with no way of freeing himself.
At first, after Brian died, things were – at least when it came to their business affairs – seemingly going alright as long as he kept everyone motivated and engaged once in a while. There seemed to have been some kind of thrive left over in everyone, so Paul barely had to step up – and if that had continued on like that, he was almost certain that they would not be where they are now.
But as it was, it had all started going downhill soon after. Looking back now, at the past year, he was under the impression – and delusion – that he only had to sacrifice his own happiness and sanity to keep things running. It was only partly true. Things were sort of running and his own mood and mental wellness was certainly in the gutter, but everything else was not at all going according to his plan.
Everyone else was just as miserable as he was, for a start. Maybe even more so, he thought, thinking about how unhappy they looked nowadays, when they were in the studio. Not only unhappy, but unhappy with him. Hating him. In his quest to hold them all together, he seemed to have alienated them. Driven them away and making them vulnerable to fall into the trap of people that did not have their best interest at heart. To them, Paul could apparently be grouped in with those people.
To them, Paul was apparently the only one that this applied to, because Allen Klein certainly seemed to be incapable of doing wrong by them – at least according to the other guys.
No, Klein was their chosen one. The one destined to save them. Save them from the world, but save them from Paul’s tyranny as well, it seemed. To John and the others, Paul mused, he seemed to be everything they had despised in Brian and more, but without any of it being outweighed by positives. Like… Like some evil version of Brian, without anything lovable to soften annoying parts. Like a hyena, just waiting for his chance to spring into action and boss everyone around and make them dance.
But, against popular opinion, he did not want to be boss. He just seemed to not want to be boss less than the others. He hated hearing himself going on and on and on about needing to finish a record or spending more time in the studio or having to have more work ethics or something equally as naggy as that. And even worse, he knew the others hated it even more than he did. Despised it with a ferocity that surprised him sometimes.
In fact, at times, he felt like they did not want to be part of this thing they built together at all anymore; whenever that feeling arose, he had to take a couple of deep breaths, because his chest started feeling all tight and heavy. His heart started pounding when his thoughts spiralled even deeper, down to the place in his mind that knew that he was the one that drove them into wanting to quit it all.
It was not that Paul was afraid of the Beatles breaking up. They had all known that it could not last forever – were reminded of that reality in countless interviews and biting articles in the press. Were aware that they were not the exception to the transience of all and everything. So no, losing the band was not the thing that had him lay awake into the early hours of the morning.
The thing that was doing that was else entirely. It was that – apparently – losing the band meant losing his mates as well. Losing John. Which was something he had not considered as a possibility up until now. Had maybe gotten a taste of what it would be like, losing John, when Yoko had attached herself to his side, acting like she knew him better than anyone else – better than Paul even. And then again when John had played along, like he too believed that anyone could ever know him better than Paul could. But, and looking back now, maybe he was in denial then, Paul had never even considered that this would be the beginning of the end. That anything could ever extinguish the ever-burning flame that was Lennon/McCartney to him.
It was not that to John, and everyone but him seemed to have known. Hell, even the papers had seen it coming years ago. They must all be laughing now, celebrating their – his – downfall.
He wondered what the girls – still standing around in front of his house, not looking nearly as cold as he felt – would say to it all. What they would do, when they learnt that the dream – his dream – was over. Probably be sad, for a while, before moving on to the next band. He stepped around them to open his gate, wishing he could move on as easily. Envying them, hating himself. Hoping they would never feel the same anguish he did over it.
He was neither hungry nor able to muster the necessary energy to get himself something to eat, so he did not bother with it before leaving the house again. He had slipped on the thickest jumper he had, tightening his coat and wrapping his scarf securely around his neck, but none of that seemed to be a big help in providing him with any amount of warmth against the cold winter air. Not when the cold seemed to come from within.
He decided to walk anyways, just to delay his arrival at the studio a bit. Revel in the feeling of the icy chill burning into his fingers and toes, making the tip of his nose feel numb. It was almost unbelievable, now, that there was a time where he could not wait to get together with the others to play and record. Giddy with it even the night before, not caring what anybody else thought about their music and The Beatles and him, because what did it all matter when he got to spend his days with the people that mattered most to him. Spend them doing what he loved most – like writing with John, making music – and being able to call that his job. Back then, it did not feel like working, not when he knew what real labour was, not when he was having that much fun with it all. Now, he felt the weight of it all pulling at him, pulling him down, tiring him out, draining him of his spirit.
Running into Allen Klein right in the hallway of the Abbey Road Studios was unfortunate, but not all that surprising, given that the guy seemed to always hang around nowadays. It still stopped him dead in his tracks, closing his eyes briefly, like he could block the world out that way.
“Ah, speaking of the sun!” Kleins voice was booming in an almost overwhelming way and his eyes snapped open again, forcing a small smile at the secretaries, then turning to Klein, whose eyes seemed to be boring into his. “We were just wondering where you were.”
“Ah,” he said. Going for nonchalance. “Did you need something?”
“Just a word,” Klein drawled. “If you could spare another minute?”
His heartrate seemed to immediately pick up, body sensing danger. He swallowed, eyes darting to the entrance into the studio like a trapped animal searching for an escape route. He felt tense, still icy cold and not in any headspace in which he would be able to deal with this right now. ‘No!’, he wanted to yell, ‘Leave us alone and never show your face here again!’
“Yeah, but I’ll have to catch you later,” he promised instead, voice surprisingly steady. “Wouldn’t want to keep the guys waiting.”
He didn’t want to wait around for a response, so he walked past, hoping that no one could tell how unsteady he was feeling. How stressful this was, even seeing Klein. Being forced to interact, play nice, like there wasn’t anything wrong. He did not get very far, because a hand closed around his wrist tightly, making him yelp and whirl back around. “I’m afraid I can’t wait any longer. I have other matters to attend to, y’see?” Klein looked a lot like a predator, Paul thought, eyes glinting dangerously, fingers digging into Paul’s flesh, painful enough to make him bite his lip, not wanting to give Klein the satisfaction of drawing another sound out of him. Everyone in the hallway was staring now and, not wanting to cause a scene, he resigned himself to nodding numbly, letting himself be pulled towards the office area, the hand around his wrist never letting go, maybe even tightening a fraction. It felt like he was getting colder with every step they took, even thought they were venturing further and further into the heated building, and the aftershave Klein used was making him feel terribly nauseous – it fit the guy, he thought, the biting, bitter note of it.
It was a bit embarrassing – or would be, if he could think rationally right now – to be this subservient, but he was feeling much too numb to do anything to shake Klein off. He could not avoid the man forever, he told himself, feeling small and pathetic.
“Sit, sit,” Klein said, pointing towards a chair in the small conference room at the end of the hallway they had just reached, like he owned the place, pushing Paul into it when it became clear that he would not move on his own. He could only watch as the man closed the door and sat down on the chair beside his, angling his body towards Paul, invading his personal space, making Paul feel trapped and miserable and terrified. Like a little boy, getting a scolding from a parent. Or waiting for a beating he knew would come, resigning himself to it. Only hoping it would be over soon.
Paul did his best to stare straight ahead, keeping his back straight and trying to keep his breaths steady, even while he could feel Kleins at the side of his neck, hot and damp.
“I think we have something of a misunderstanding,” Klein drawled from beside him and Paul gritted his teeth. He forced in a deep breath, wanting to keep his voice steady.
“I don’t think we do.”
He was still resolutely looking at the white wall in front of him feeling slightly proud at how even his tone was. “I know your agenda, and you know where I stand regarding it. There is nothing more to say.”
“I disagree,” Klein said, sounding dangerous, impossibly coming even closer, Paul being able to feel the fabric of his sweater brush against Kleins stiff suit. “That coy act was very endearing, but I’m done playing games now. Stop fighting me or soon there will be nothing left to fight for.”
“Are you threatening me?” The outrage he was feeling was giving Paul strength. He was itching to reach over. Punch that smirk off of Kleins face.
“Not at all,” the man chuckled and Paul saw him twirling the cufflink on his right sleeve lazily, as if they were having a casual conversation, instead of whatever this was supposed to be, out of the corner of his eye. “I’m on your side. I want to make sure you’re not going to be left behind.”
Paul knew that this was Kleins tactic. Intimidation, making his opponents feel small and useless. But it still did not fail to send a strange feeling through him, like an electric bolt.
“Left behind? What’s that supposed to mean?” He desperately hoped that his voice still sounded strong – or at the very least stronger than he felt.
“I think you already know,” Klein said, sounding deeply pleased with himself. “Are already feeling everybody distancing themselves from you, aren’t you? John especially. It’s a shame, that; what a pretty little pair you two used to make…”
Paul could hear the condescension just like he could feel his heart constrict painfully in his chest. Knew that Klein was trying to rile him up, but could not help but wonder about the truth of it all, if even a guy like Klein could pinpoint his insecurities so well. Humiliated that it was so obvious to everyone around them that John was losing interest in him.
He cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to keep his composure and forced out the only thing that came to his mind: “And the person who will saving us in this scenario is you, I suppose?”
“I could, if you would let me,” Klein said, either ignoring or not recognizing the sarcasm. “There is only one signature missing. Three people being wrong and one right, that’s rare, don’t you think.”
“And the lawsuits… Those guys that are suing you, are they wrong about you as well?”
Kleins palm slammed onto the table so hard that it rattled and Paul startled, heart jerking in his chest and suddenly the handrest of his chair was yanked on so hard that his chair whirled around until Paul was facing a red-faced Klein. „Don’t get smart with me McCartney! It’s time to get off your high horse and face reality,“ he snarled, eyes glinting dangerously. „You are the one driving everyone mad. Making them miserable and driving them away with your obsessive need to control every little thing.“ And suddenly he was smirking, staring Paul down, probably realizing how much power he still had in the face of Paul cowering before him. The power to hit him where it hurt most, which he was clearly revelling in, hungry to go for the killing blow. “You know you are nothing without them. A one-hit-wonder with a bleak future. You desperately need the Beatles. So it’s quite pathetic really, how far you’ve fallen from their grace.” The smirk was getting bigger, turning into a predatory grin that made him look villainous and scary. “I meant what I said: You are sabotaging yourself fighting me. Want to know why?” A pretentious pause, probably for dramatic effect. “They trust me. You? Not so much anymore. I apologize if that sounds harsh, but someone needs to tell you. Protect you from yourself.”
The fight drained out of Paul, even though he wanted to hold onto the anger of it all tightly, it being the most comfortable emotion he could have around Klein. “Don’t act like you know us so well,” he said meekly, hating how weak he sounded and hating Klein and gathering the last of his strength around that. “You’re the last person I’d ever want representing the Beatles or me. This… This conversation alone proves what kind of guy you are. How unprofessional.” He did not want to wait for a reply, wanted to leave this room now, wanted to never hear another word out of Kleins mouth again. “I think we’re finished here.”
“Ah yes, there he goes, running away again,” Klein mocked, standing when Paul did and catching his arm again, when he made an attempt to push past and Paul trashed weakly, feeling trapped and drained and like total and utter shit. “I’ll make your life miserable, McCartney,” he whispered. “I will be doing it with the blessing of the three guys you claim are your best friends. And I will continue to do it until you come around.”
Paul could hear himself breathing heavily, his vision going in and out of focus and he suddenly was not feeling cold anymore, but rather burning, scorching hot. “Good luck with that,” he forced out, trying to hold on to some control, a bit of dignity. “Cheers.”
Klein was obviously not feeling generous enough to let Paul have the last word, sensing – which was not really that hard, with Paul falling apart right in front of him – that he had the upper hand, emotionally and physically. “See you very soon.”
When Paul finally left the room, he was shaking all over, still feeling the phantom pain of Kleins fingers around his wrist and on his arm. He had to dip into the bathroom on his way to studio 2, run his hands under the freezing water, trying to feel something other than the hot humiliation burning through him.
“Get yourself together man,” he muttered to himself when he caught his reflection in the mirror, looking washed out and dead-tired with huge dark rings under his glassy eyes, cheeks starting to look sunken in, pale complexion in stark contrast to the dark hair hanging into his face. Still, it was all fine. He was fine. They had made it through difficult situations before, come out stronger.
Exiting the bathroom took more courage than he cared to admit and the cold had crept back into every last cell his body was made of by the time he was stepping outside, leaving him shivering once again.
Closing the door to the studio behind him felt like a relief, but only briefly. “Hiya,” he said, an exaggerated sort of giddiness that he felt not an ounce of, giving a quick grin that he tried to maintain even as his eyes met Yoko’s. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Did you run into Allen? He was looking for you.” John was not even looking up from his guitar, and the corners of Paul’s mouth fell again.
“Oh, yeah, I was just-“
“Said he wanted to talk to you. Feels a bit like you’re avoiding him.”
Paul wanted to ask who felt like that. Had Klein said it? Did John agree? Or was this Johns observation? And if it was, how could he sense how uncomfortable that guy made Paul and, at the same time, not do anything about it? Did John stop entirely now, to care about him? The possibility that everything Klein had told him was entirely accurate was overpowering all his senses for one terrifying moment, making his eyes water and had him blinking furiously.
“Well, I’m not,” Paul snapped, fuelled by the embarrassment, his voice having gone slightly quivery. It made John look up, frown a bit. Share a condescending glance with Yoko.
“Right.”
Paul felt a slight tremor run through his frame at the same time his heartrate accelerated slightly – just enough for him to notice the change in pace. He wondered if he should add anything else. Wanted to tell someone how tight Kleins grip had been, how small he had made him feel. Was discouraged by the humiliating image of all of them laughing about it that formed in his mind, whispering about his weakness behind his back, just when they were done complaining about his bossiness.
John was still staring, making him feel stripped down to his very soul - out of habit more than anything else, because he was not. Neither metaphorically nor literally. Because John could not see him anymore, his vision tainted by those around him, poisoning the image he had had of Paul before.
Paul wanted to retaliate, and John seemed to be gearing up for another hit, but before any of them could say another word, Kevin appeared beside Paul to help him out of his coat. He thanked him, even if he desperately wanted to stay in it, keep some of its warmth. Then, he turned to get the bass that was leaning on his amp, brushing his hand over it softly, absentmindedly. Somehow, he continued to feel Johns eyes on him, burning into his back and making the skin feel raw and exposed.
Paul sat as far from John and Yoko – or JohnandYoko as they liked to call themselves nowadays – and gripped his bass tightly, almost a bit like anchoring himself to it and trying to bury himself in the music around him. He did not realize that he had closed his eyes again until they snapped open when someone touched his shoulder lightly, blinking up at George Martin. “Glad you finally made it,” he said, slightly reproachful, but mostly in his playful, warm tone that somehow, for the first time, failed to make him feel any better. “We just agreed to doing I Want You today, if that is alright with you as well? I just wanted to go over something with you first, before we start.”
Paul nodded, fingers still tight around his bass, feeling John’s eyes still, from somewhere to his left. George clearly wanted to launch right into whatever it was they needed to discuss, but he paused, frowning slightly. “Are you alright? You’re looking a bit peaky.”
“Yeah,” Paul nodded, taking a shaky breath, trying to stop the slight shivers still running through his frame, missing his coat even more dearly. George looked doubtful, like he really wanted to keep needling, and Paul sent him a pleading look, wanting nothing more than finally play. Than to feel some normalcy, surrounded by the people he loved. Wanted it with a desperation that scared him.
And George Martin was nothing if not observant, so he let it be. His hand was still on Paul’s arm, warm and steadying. There was another second of hesitation, then the warmth was gone. “Maybe we’ll just start recording. Anything else can wait,” he decided then, voice still so soothing, anchoring in a way.
And a part of Paul wanted to protest. Insist that he was up for whichever discussion George wanted to have with him, especially because those were usually – contrary to other discussions he’d been having lately – actually enjoyable. But the biggest part of him just wanted to get into the song right now, let the music carry him and not think about anything but their playing. “Yes, alright,” he said, sounding meek.
It was going good for a long while. Great even. Until he had something to add, because he always did. Overcontrolling as he was. Never knew when to shut up. And he stood behind what he said, because he knew it was right, and he knew that John knew as well, but it did not really matter – not when it created the tension it did. Cut right through the pleasant atmosphere, making George fume and Ringo avert his eyes, awkwardly drumming on the palm of his hand until their spat came to an end.
Paul was really hoping that it would be coming to an end soon, because his heart was pounding so much that he could feel the vibrations of it in his head, making him dizzy and disoriented with it, no longer able to follow George’s ranting. He heard Yoko’s voice, no doubt weighing in on their discussion, but he was not able to make out any of the words, even if he would have cared to try. He was actually starting to feel really, really ill.
He must have pushed himself up subconsciously, because suddenly he was standing on trembling legs, his chair making an awful scraping noise behind him, making the room fall silent.
They were all frowning at him now, but he could barely see, his vision going fuzzy at the edges for a terrifying moment, the room tilting as if he was drunk. The kind of drunk where someone had to bodily haul him into bed – even tucking him in, if it was John who did the hauling. And sometimes – even if admitting to it felt pathetic – that was the best part of his night. Being cared for. Looked after. John’s gentle eyes being the last thing he saw before falling into a dreamless sleep, knowing he would wake up being pressed up against him, entangled and cosy and not even caring about being hungover.
“Yes, alright, let’s just ….”, he heard himself say, but it was distorted and foggy and his ears were ringing in an unpleasant sort of way, and he could barely remember what they were even fighting about. He tore his gaze from John, whose look was much more intense now, to find Georges eyes, finding the expected anger, but also an unexpected sort of confusion. “We’ll do it your way, yeah?”, he added meekly, before ridding himself of his bass. “Let’s just all take five, calm down a bit.”
No one else was saying a word still, so Paul took it as silent agreement or maybe dismissal – what else was there to say, really? – and took off towards the loo, still feeling tingly and shaky, his racing heart pushing against the inner wall of his chest, making him breathe unsteadily and much too rushed and shallow.
Paul was splashing his face his cold water, not caring that his cuffs were soaked through and clinging to his forearms, when John came in. He was wearing the same look from before when their eyes met through the mirror. “What’s gotten into you then?”, was the first thing out of his mouth, bite-y and without anything in his voice that could suggest warmth, and Paul dipped his face into the frigid water he had cupped in his palms one last time before turning off the faucet and running his wet hands through his hair. When it became clear to him that Paul was not going to say anything, his expression shuttered, lips curling meanly. „Not one to back down from a fight, usually. Or do you just not care anymore? Just killing the time here, aren’t ya, until… until you get to run off into the night with your precious Robert,“ he mocked, looking cross and self-important in a way that finally made Paul turn around to face him.
It was not fair of John, was it? To complain about Paul giving in after not adding anything to the argument in the first place. Just expecting Paul to fight for what they both knew was right. For what Paul knew was what John believed in as well; although, coming to think of it, maybe he did not know what John wanted as well as he thought he did. His vision was getting fuzzier and his hands were shaking for reasons that had nothing to do with the icy water. And what was that about Robert?
Then again, Paul had noticed a certain air of contempt – or rather an even more palpable one than usual – around John whenever Robert was mentioned. Had seen John shooting his friend an angry look just last week, which had baffled him then too, because hadn’t Robert helped John and Yoko organize some sort of exhibit? Shouldn’t John be all over guys like Robert, who seemed to be much more interesting – especially to John, nowadays – than Paul could ever be? And what did John care about how and with whom Paul was spending his time anyways – wasn’t he supposed to be thankful that someone had taken that burden off his hands?
„Piss off!” It was out before Paul could control it, fuelled by his own unpleasant thoughts, but while Paul was surprised by his outburst, his immediate loss of composure, John seemed to welcome it. Always welcoming of a fight those days, when it came to Paul.
„Oh, did I hit a sore spot then? It was already a bit odd when you were jetting off to your queer holiday in Paris with him, y’know, just making people wonder a bit, if… but now you’re starting to slack off, and that’s just not acceptable man. Getting in late with only shitty songs to show for, refusing to side with us on important decisions, acting like you’re above it all. He must be doing a real number on you.”
John had always been a hypocrite, more so when he was lashing out. Not only that, but also wanting to cause hurt more than wanting to stick to the facts, present a clean argument.
Pauls knew that, but it still hurt an awful lot, in a way that constricted his chest and left his fingertips and toes tingling, which was confusing, because that was not the worst thing John had ever said to him and he had always been just fine before. Had known John and how he lashed out when he felt cornered or upset – and really, was this still about Robert Fraser? Paul had not even seen him since he picked him up from the studio for dinner last week. But coming to think of it, John had been weirdly mean to Robert even then, so clearly there was something going on between them that Paul could not even begin to grasp.
He pushed his hand, still a bit damp, through his hair again, trying to decide which accusation he should focus on first. Knowing there was only one thing he could respond to without having a nervous breakdown right then and there; which allowed him to focus on anger rather than despair and get the conversation away from the weird focus on Robert. “Refusing to- Is this about Klein? I told you-”
“You’re not telling me shit! It’s like you just want to be contrary. Maybe wait it out until another McCartney-cultist comes along, praising with every little tune that you shit out in your dreams, yeah? It’s like you’re not even realizing that we’re all sick of you. And you just cannot admit to yourself that you are fucking it up, trying to manage it all yourself!”
Tears sprung into Pauls eyes so fast that he hoped he averted his eyes in time for John not to notice. He swallowed around the lump that had formed in his throat with great difficulty. He tried to take a deep breath, but it sounded shaky and pathetic and he needed John to leave right now, before things got even more embarrassing.
“I know we need someone just… Why does it have to be Klein? I’m not- I can’t- Please John, I just… I don’t think I can deal with him.” Paul wanted his voice to sound steady, at least, in the face of a statement as demasking as this, but it sounded just as shaky and pathetic as his pattern of breathing did, small and weak in the worst possible way and he knew John would know that he had won right then and there. Would go in for the killing blow.
But there was a long, uncomfortable moment of silence, broken only by Paul’s harsh breaths and the inconstant dripping of the faucet behind him. It lasted so long, that Paul was sure that John had left, unwilling to deal with anymore of this painfully mortifying display. When he looked up, John was still there however, studying him with furrowed brows, not seeming all that furious anymore, like something had drained the anger right out of him.
“What problem do you have with Allen?” he asked, but his voice was quiet and not sounding accusatory at all, taking Paul aback slightly.
Again, he thought about just telling John. Telling him how scared he was of Klein – scared by his aggressive, shady way of doing business, but also just scared of him personally. How today had not been the first time he had been cornered. How hurt he was by it all; most of all by the way they wanted to force him to work with someone who clearly and openly despised him.
But he just could not get the words out. Not with the way his heart seemed to be beating all the way up in his throat how. And not while he was already feeling so vulnerable.
„John I can‘t do this right now.“, he heard himself say, the weird, foggy feeling from earlier slamming into him on top of everything else now, making him much more lightheaded and shakier than he was just seconds ago. „I need a minute to just-“
Only he did not know what he needed that minute for. Knew though, that one minute would certainly not be enough time to fix him. It actually felt like he would never be right again, forever trapped in this sensation. Suddenly, he felt more than just a little unwell. Proper sick he felt, actually.
Sick enough to push past a startled looking John roughly and hurriedly, shouldering into a stall door and crashing to his knees. He stared into the water for a dizzying, overwhelming second, hearing John start to say something. He shook his head wildly, trembling hands gripping porcelain, when the heaving started. Painful and unproductive and-
„Jesus Christ, warn a guy,“ John was saying something else somewhere right behind him, but he sounded miles and miles away with the way his ears were ringing. “What the-“
Then, a cold hand on his back that should have been uncomfortable when he was already shivering, shaking so much he was afraid of coming apart.