For the first couple days, Brian seemed sad. He didn't leave his bed much no matter how much the Beatles tried to coax him into venturing as far as the living room.
They brought him food and water and tea but Brian turned as much of it away as he could manage, but the boys were quite insistent — most of all, Paul. They cared for him so much, and if they grew a tad aggressive about getting to eat his toast because of that, well, it is what it is.
After those first couple days, Brian got out of bed. He'd go and sit at the kitchen table with the four boys during mealtimes — eating as little as he could get away with under the watchful gazes of the Beatles — before slinking back to the room he was sharing with Ringo.
"Okay, tell us again what he said," George said in a hushed voice after John had gone to make sure Brian was sleeping and confirmed that he was.
Paul sighed and for probably the hundredth time he told his three bandmates who were crowded around him what Brian had said to him that night, word for word, leaving out only the part about what Paul had said to him years ago — he never had gotten around to telling them that Brian knew he was gay.
"Do you — do you think he was — " George stopped, his face paling and turning an odd shade of green.
"Do you think he was going to kill himself?" John asked quickly.
George turned impossibly greener as Paul sighed, nodded, and said, "Yeah...yeah, I do." With that, George strode across the kitchen, leaning over the trash can and heaving the contents of his stomach into it.
"Geo," Ringo sighed, rubbing circles on his friend's back as he was sick into the rubbish bin. "Look, we've got to look in the bright side. Brian isn't dead. Paul got to him in time, he made the right call and brought him here. We're going to fix this, we're going to make Brian see that he has so much to be happy about — so much to live for."
"Ringo's right," John nodded. "We can help him. We can do this."
"I sure as hell hope so," Paul sighed, and if he was a tad skeptical it was only because he'd grown so accustomed to losing people that he cared about.
After several days of Brian staying in the same clothes he had arrived in, Paul finally brought him to his house to get some clothes and things.
"I really am fine," Brian tried to tell Paul but one look from his friend told him he wasn't getting out of this, he was going to go back to the Beatles' apartment.
Brian went on, getting out of bed only to eat and use the bathroom, for a couple of weeks — Paul, John, George, and Ringo grew more and more worried with each passing day.
Then, one day, Brian came out into the kitchen for breakfast like he did everyday; nothing seemed different, the Beatles didn't expect anything at all.
Brian was engaging in conversation a bit more than he had been which lifted Paul, John, George, and Ringo's moods. Then after breakfast, Paul and John said that they were going to run out and do the grocery shopping and —
"Could I come with you?"
If they hadn't seen his mouth move, none of the band would have believed that the words had come out of Brian's mouth. They stared at him in shock, all of their mouths agape.
"I mean, if you don't want me to I can just — "
"No!" They all said quickly.
Paul smiled. "No, Bri. We'd love for you to come with us."
"Yeah, definitely," John nodded. "We're going to get dressed. You should go get dressed too and then we can go, okay?"
Brian nodded and headed off to get dressed.
It was quiet while Paul and John were getting dressed in their room, both of them being very deep in their own thoughts.
"Do you think maybe we should tell him?"
Paul looked up at John. "Tell him about what?"
John raised his eyebrows. "The only deep dark secret that we've got to hide from almost everyone we know, unless there's something you'd like to tell me."
Oh, you have no idea, Paul thought.
"Wait," Paul said. "You mean tell him about us."
"Yeah, I mean, why not?" John said. "He's our friend, we can trust him. And he's gay, so we can really trust him — be a bit odd if he were to judge us. And maybe it'll make him feel better about whatever he's got going on inside his head. It'd make him see that he's not alone in this, and maybe he'd feel more included. I swear, he seems to think that we don't care about him."
"Yeah, well, that's depression for you," Paul sighed, sitting down on the bed and drawing his knees into his chest.
"Yeah," John frowned. "But what do you think about telling him about us?"
"Honestly?" Paul said and sighed. "I get where you're coming from, and I do think it's a good idea...except I think it'd actually make him worse — at least, him thinking that he shouldn't be our manager."
"How would it make it worse?" John asked. "I don't see how it could do anything but make it better."
"Well..." Paul sighed. "I've never told you this, but — do you remember that one time we took Brian with us to my dad's house for dinner?"
"Yeah."
"Well remember how my dad was horrible to him, and remember how Brian came back to the flat we were living in after we left?" Paul asked and John nodded. "And then you went to the store? Well, he told me back then that he wasn't sure he should be our manager because he was gay, and I told him that I didn't care but he kept saying it could reflect badly on us, so... I told him that I'm gay — or bi, or whatever. I told him that I'm not straight, is my point, and I never really thought to tell him about us..."
"Okay," John said. "I still don't see why telling him about us would make him worse."
"Well, when I went to visit him a couple weeks ago, the night I brought him here," Paul said. "He told me that same thing again — that he shouldn't be our manager anymore because he reflects badly on us — and then he said that he remembered what I told him years ago and that it worried him because — because, well, he thinks that if people are attacking him for being gay then they'll dig deeper and maybe they'll find out some things about me. He thinks him being our manager will somehow, eventually, out me."
John frowned. He shook his head, "How are we going to make him see that that's ridiculous? How do we help him?"
"How do you save a person who doesn't want to be saved?" Paul asked.
John frowned again. "Come on," he said. "Let's go."
It was a few days later that John and Paul arrived home to find Brian sitting with George on the sofa. "I like the lyrics in this verse," Brian was saying, "but what if you switched these two lines around and then — "
"Oh! That's good, yeah!" George nodded, scratching notes down into the notebook in front of him. "Thanks, Brian!"
"Don't mention it," Brian smiled, getting up and leaving the room after saying hello to John and Paul.
"Well, that seemed good," Paul beamed. "That seemed really good."
"Yeah," George nodded. "Oh, Paul, I think he's really getting better."
"I think so, too," Paul nodded.
"We can do this," John said. "We can help him. I'm sure of it now."
Paul nodded again, smiling. "We can help him..."
Another week went by, and with every passing day Brian get better and better, coming out and socializing with Paul, John, George, and Ringo more and more. One day when Paul was about to run out to get some milk Brian asked him if he could come with him.
"Yeah, of course," Paul said.
They were getting on their coats as it was nearing October in London and raining heavily, and Brian said, "Paul, I want to thank you. When you came to me a few weeks ago, I was in a very bad state of mind and I think if you hadn't been there, if you hadn't brought me here, I really do believe that — well, thank you, that's all I'll say."
"Anytime you need us, Brian, we're all here," Paul smiled and grasped Brian's shoulder.
Brian smiled back. "Alright, let's go."
"Oh, I'll be down in a minute," Paul said. "I left my hat in my room," he said and Brian nodded and went on ahead. Paul went to his room, snatched his hat up off the dresser and pulled it over his dark hair.
He looked into the mirror that hung on the wall and smiled. "I saved him. I really did it," he whispered to himself. "I can do this again... I can save John."
Paul nodded to himself before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
Outside of the apartment, it took Paul a moment to find Brian. But then his eyes did land on him with a smile on his lips; Brian was halfway across the crosswalk, halfway to the other side of the street.
Paul took a a few steps forward, hands in his pockets. The chilly wind hitting his face seemed to slow time down in a calming way, because that was what the world was in that moment — calm.
So calm, so soothing, and suddenly that car driving too fast seemed so out of place. It took Paul a moment to realize what it was, the threat it posed — he screamed Brian's name in horror, in warning — the car didn't stop, why didn't the car stop?!
"Brian!" Paul screamed, running faster than he'd ever known he could, stopping traffic. "Brian!" He fell onto his knees but he didn't know what to do, he didn't what he could possibly —
Blood. So much blood.
Where was the car?
Blood.
The bastard drove away!
Brian's blood, all over Paul's hands.
A rough hand grasped Paul's shoulder and he was jerked from the ground; off the ground and into the air, into nothingness. He landed hard on his feet, toppling over and landing on a dully grey carpeted floor.
"You idiot."