Break Me One More Time [McLennon]

in which stuart knows

A couple weeks after the terribly uncomfortable dinner at the McCartney household, it was just a few days until the Beatles left for Germany.

Paul and John got up in the morning and went to the kitchen. John got the cereal out of the cupboard, the milk out of the fridge, and a bowl. "Do you want me to get you a bowl, too?"

"No, thanks," Paul shook his head, reaching into the fridge and grabbing an apple. "I'm just going to have an apple. I'm not that hungry."

"Okay," John said, pursing his lips as he began preparing his bowl of cereal.

Paul shot him a pointed look as he bit into his apple. He knew exactly what that look meant. "John, I thought we had a deal." He said, eyebrows raised. "You stop nagging me about my eating habits, and I won't ask about the nightmares, right?"

"Well, you're my boyfriend now," John said. "Can't I worry about you?"

"You want to play that card, huh?" Paul raised his eyebrows impossibly higher.

He needed to calm down, and he knew that, but he was so stressed about seeing Stuart when they were in Germany. He was constantly worried about John, especially after his visit to the F.H.O., and he just wanted to be able to talk to someone about it. But Barney hadn't come by in a few months and it's not like he had anyone in the sixties who he could talk to about it all. He just wanted some peace of mind, a way to know that John was going to be okay.

"Paul, listen - " John sighed.

"No, if you're going to play that card then fine, nag me about my eating habits or whatever you're going to worry over," Paul huffed, slamming his apple down on the counter and leaving it there, forgotten. "But if that's how it's going to be then I've got a question for you, John. How're the nightmares? What are they about? Why won't you talk about them? Why the hell won't you let me help you?!"

"I have let you help me!" John huffed. "Can't you see they're getting better? You haven't had to wake me up in weeks!"

"Are you still having them?" Paul asked.

"Well, yes.. But they're getting better!" John said quickly.

"What're they about?" Paul crossed his arms.

"Paul, please, don't make me talk about this," John pleaded.

"I'm not making you talk about anything," Paul spat. "But if you want to talk to me about what I should and shouldn't do, if you want to stand here and tell me that I should let you help me - when I don't need help, mind you - then you tell me what your nightmares about! So what's it going to be, John?"

John just stared at him.

Paul nodded. "That's what I thought," he turned on his heel and stormed from the room. He went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him and turning the lock. He huffed, turning the sink on and splashing water into his face.

You're just stressed.. He told himself. It's all going to okay.

He looked at his reflection, at the man in the mirror who stared back at him with tired eyes that held the weight of many more years than his face.

Paul stared intently at his reflection. His face was gaunt and skinny and pale, not at all like the full and lively appearance he'd had when he was truly twenty years old. He pulled his shirt off and frowned at the sight he saw. His ribcage was extremely prominent. His skin hugged his bones tightly.

He had never been this skinny. But Paul supposed that this was to be expected; he jumped around on a stage most nights and that was plenty of exercise, his diet consisted of mainly fruits and vegetables and tofu, he didn't drink nearly as much beer as he once had, he didn't smoke, and he was under a tremendous amount of stress..