Paul McCartney Angst/Hurt-Comfort Stories

Flying

Alright, this story is based upon an idea that a few people have claimed as being true, which is that Paul got air sick. I don't really know if he did or not, but I thought it would make a nice angst story, so here it is, haha. By the way, I wrote this awhile back because I'm still not up to writing as of yet...
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"Oh, gosh help me..." Paul groaned as he rested his head upon the cool window of the plane.

"Going to be alright, then, Macca?" John's concerned voice sounded in his slightly ringing ears.

"I don't know..."

Poor Paul was suffering from a terrible case of airsickness, which he occasionally got on long plane or car rides. Even when he was a lad he'd dealt with it, and today was, as you now know, no exception.

"Well, did you take any medicine for it? It might help, you know," John suggested with a hand to Paul's shoulder.

"No, no, I'll be alright. I just need a minute," replied Paul, his bloodshot eyes flickering closed.

And, before Paul knew it, he had drifted to sleep, and seemingly just as promptly, been woken up. He groaned as his head felt terribly heavy with the effects of being cheated of a much-needed rest, but, thankfully enough, his nausea had apparently worn off. He opened his eyes and saw John, and then another man whom he didn't know.

Noticing his confused countenance, John told him, "This is Fred, a reporter, Paulie, and he wants to ask us both a few questions. Don't you feel famous?"

"Just a bit," Paul chuckled, trying his best to regain his senses. "Well, what do you want to ask us about, then, Fred?"

"Oh yes," the red-haired man smiled, "I was wondering if there was a certain time of the day that you usually write songs."

"No, not really," John instantly answered.

"There's no sort of formula for it, you see," Paul added with a shaky intake of breath. Perhaps his nausea hadn't subsided after all...

"Alright, well is there a genre of music that you'd like one of your songs to reflect or embody?" he then asked.

"Yeah, we want to write a song called 'Mirrors', and then it can reflect 'genre of music' all the time," was John's creative reply, which somehow sent the mental picture of a kaleidoscope into Paul's dizzy head.

"Right..." the reporter nodded. "Now, when was the last time you wrote a song? And do you think it'll be a success?"

Paul watched as John opened his mouth to answer him, but he strangely felt as though he couldn't hear him. His body was breaking out into a cold (and yet hot) sweat, and his stomach and head swam sickly and nauseously. He felt as though he was going to be ill.

Suddenly, he felt the eyes of John and the reporter resting concernedly upon him, which made his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"Alright, then?" John asked him.

"Yes, you look a bit peaked, Paul," the reporter agreed with an awkward shift, as he was very uncomfortable with the idea that he'd made a Beatle ill by his questions.

"I, well..." Paul mumbled, but before he could say any more his face drained of all color. The next moment, John had thrust a paper bag into Paul's trembling hands, and he began vomiting bitterly. His convulsions were enough to make John and the reporter wince in sympathy for him, and the former took to rubbing circles on his friend's bony back.

Finally, Paul's retching subsided, and he collapsed against John's shoulder, too exhausted to care about his usual self-consciousness when it came to personal space.

Mildly surprised, John awkwardly maneuvered his right hand to where it was wrapped around Paul's waist, not knowing what else to do since the bassist was uncharacteristically leaned against him.

"Paul?" he said.

"Gosh, I'm sorry," Paul croaked, his voice weak.

"You couldn't help it," the reporter chimed in, still looking very uncomfortable, and yet still very worried about this sudden outburst of illness from a Beatle.

"Ta," Paul sighed. "Now could someone please get me a washcloth to wipe this gunk off my face? And then maybe some of that medicine you mentioned, John?"

"Sure, Macca," John assured him with a nervous giggle as he ushered the reporter to fetch the said items.

His absence left John and Paul alone, and the older of the two trying to figure out how to get Paul off of him without making him ill. Two guys just didn't act in such an intimate way, and John didn't want anyone seeing them and then teasing them about it later, especially when Paul was too out of it to realize anything.

"Oy, Paul," he said kindly. "Ya think ya might want to sit up a bit now?"

"Please no," Paul declined pitifully. "I...I feel so sick..."

"Alright, you're fine. Just rest your eyes, then," John replied, his pride and appearing macho not coming between his love for Paul. After all, he did care for the lad, no matter how much he drove him insane.

Moments later, Fred the reporter came back carrying a cloth, cup, and bottle of airsickness medicine. He gave Paul the cloth, and the poor bassist wiped his face off with a trembling, pale hand. He then gave him two pills from the bottle of medicine, and Paul drank them down with the cup of water.

"Thank you," he breathed with a weak glance and smile to Fred.

"It's the least I can do. I'm just so sorry I bothered you when you were apparently ill," he said apologetically.

"No harm done," Paul assured him with a wave of his hand, his face now pressed into John's shoulder, as if he was willing to block out the dizziness.

"Thank you," the reporter bowed before he left the duo and went to find a seat.

Paul fell silent, and John was beginning to wonder if the medicine he'd taken had actually (or thankfully, if it was up to John) knocked him out.

"Paul?" he said with a shake of his songwriting partner's arm. "Ya still with me?"

"Yeah," Paul's gentle voice replied drowsily.

"Well, do you want to fall asleep on me, or do you want me to get you a pillow?" John half joked in a callous manner, but his eyes couldn't hide his fondness and worry for Paul.

Paul didn't respond, so John figured he just didn't hear him. He tried asking again, closer to Paul's ear, but still received the same result. With simple deduction, John figured Paul had fallen asleep after all.

Now was his chance to finally get Paul off of him, and he knew it, but he just couldn't bring himself to jostle the lad. Not when he looked down at Paul's unnaturally pale skin and long lashes resting against dark circles, testaments to the fact that Paul was entirely exhausted and needed rest.

"Oh well," he sighed. "You'd better appreciate the love I have for you when you wake up, Macca, because this is highly uncomfortable."

But, deep down, John didn't truly mind offering such a soft gesture to his friend. It was simple—Paul was exhausted and John wasn't going to interfere with his much-needed rest, and so he allowed him to lay on him.

Smiling at how pitiful and childlike Paul looked, he gave Paul's hand an uncharacteristic pat of fondness, before he laid his head back and drifted off to sleep himself.

Was that alright? To be honest, I'm not jumping up and down about it, but I hope it wasn't too bad, haha. Thanks for reading, as always! ❤️