Category: Real People/Musician SLASH - M/M
Pairing: Beatles - John/Paul
Rating: NC-17 (sex, SMUT, angst, bad language)
Disclaimer: Not real, except in my mind.

Summary: A smutty J/P encounter. No redeeming value claimed.

TITLE: EIGHT DAYS A WEEK by mako

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It's been eight days, eight endless, miserable, exhausting days.

What we've been through in the last week would kill most men,
let alone four skinny scruffs from Liverpool. The midnight
flights, the two shows a day, the running for our lives, all
of this and more on a steady diet of bad food, hard booze,
cigarettes and pills.

I feel like I'm going to bloody die.

But I won't -- only because Paul's with me.

He's been with me throughout it all, holding me up when I'm
about to fall, keeping me going when I'll be damned if I can
take another step. Making me laugh when things seem so
fucking bad I don't think I'm ever going to laugh again, as
well as too many other things to count.

That's what he does for me, today and every day, and thank
Christ for it, because without him I'd have chucked it all a
long time ago. I'd have said to hell with music, to hell
with fame and I'd have crawled into the hole I was born to be
in somewhere near the docks, drinking myself to death as my
grandfathers did before me.

But I didn't, because my partner wouldn't let me.

Instead, Paul forced me to take a good hard look not at what
I should have been, but what I could be -- inspired and
achieving things my shit teachers would've laughed their
empty heads off at if you'd told them about it all those
years ago.

That I, John Lennon, the eternal loser, could be a writer,
a musician -- a bleedin' artist to rival all the rest.

But that's what Paul tells me and the world on a daily basis
and I love him for it.

It's been awhile since I last told him and drunkenly proved
just how much I loved him -- fumbling my way toward the heat
of his skin, sloppy kisses that were supposed to be sublime,
making him call my name and thinking it sounded better than
the greatest song ever written.

But after these past eight days of hell, it might be time to
prove it all over again.

Night's finally falling, George and Rich are gone out, daring
to sneak past the screaming herds outside. I don't know
where Brian is -- don't want to -- and this hotel is blissfully quiet.

I know I should sleep but I can't. Not when he's so close I
can almost feel him, so close I can almost touch ... taste
his skin. Thankfully, the door that separates us opens and I
see his face, his light grin perfectly in place.

Thank God for small favors. No, make that huge favors.

I missed you, Paulie.

"Hey John." He walks over and sits on the edge of my bed,
the slight tilt of the mattress driving a sweet shiver up my
spine. "What's up?"

If he'd only lay down. "Hey, luv." Yeah, that's what I call
him, and frankly I don't give a shit what anyone thinks. Let
someone bust on me about it, I'll bust them right back.

I love him ... and everyone else can get over it.

He sits in silence, still in "public relations" mode, the
face he gives to the reporters and trash outside firmly in
place. It's hard to shake, even after you've been away from
them for a whole blessed two hours or so and he seems tense,
distant.

Suddenly, I can't help but get paranoid ... it's the way I'm made.

//Aren't you happy, Paulie? Don't you want me anymore?//

He lights a smoke then offers me one, polite as ever. Which
is all fine and good, except I don't want him to be polite, I
want to see what I know lurks beneath that proper exterior
... the passion and the fire that fights to be free from the
mundane crap surrounding us.

The passion that proves he loves me.

But I don't push even though my fear edges toward anger. I
wish ... I wish I could stop this madness I get, stop the
twisting of my guts and the fury that chokes me, often for no
reason at all. It's been that way forever, or as long as I
can remember anyway. It's been like this ever since the day
my mum was found lying in the road, covered in her own blood,
the drunk driver's terrified vomit lining the gutters around her.

Yup, that's when the rage came and never left.

Hey, that's life.

But Paul sits there, smoking, staring off at nothing and I
fight to keep my hands beneath my head, tucked there
carelessly as I stare at the ceiling.

If he doesn't want to talk, I'm not going to push him. Paul
doesn't react well to pushing anyway. He retreats, hides
back under the polite facade, and when he gives you the same
smile he gives everyone else, you know it's pretty much
ended.

That's the last thing I want.

"I want to talk to you," he finally says and my stomach knots
again, more than ever.

What words are worse than those to a lover's ears? None, as
far as I know and all my insecurities roar back, like a
flame-thrower in my face.

Here I am, John Lennon, the Scouse, the piece of shit who'd
amount to nothing, who'd be lucky to get a quid enough to
drink himself to death, who'd be found in the sewer one day
dead from his own apathy. Yeah, he's back again, that
asshole, as if he never really left.

I can almost hear Paul's voice now.

//John, this is crazy and we have to end it.//

//John, I can't do this anymore.//

//John, you piece of shit, why the hell am I bothering with
you at all, you pathetic sod?//

Right. I think I get it. And I can't say I blame him for it.

Paul reaches for the ashtray and stubs out the smoke, grinding
it down into the glass. "I gotta ask you something."

I open my mouth, maybe to get my last words in before he
can tear my heart in half, but the gentle pressure of his
fingers against my chest stops me cold.

His eyes are fire-bright, the cloudiness brought on by the
past eight days of hell, gone. "Tell me something, Johnny."

"Yeah?" It's just a word but it comes out thickly, as if I'm
choking.

He runs his hand over my chest in smooth, maddening circles.

"Do you miss me when we can't be together? Like this past
week, when it never seemed to stop and I had to bunk with
George and you were stuck here with Ritchie? Did you think
it might be nicer to be together, you know, you and me, the
whole world gone away, just leaving us the bloody hell
alone?"

Astonished, I nod. "Yeah." It's a whisper, just the barest
trace of sound, but he lights up at it nonetheless.

His mouth curls into a sweet smile and his eyes, those huge,
beautiful eyes framed in a nearly perfect face beam at me.
"Great. Then how about showing me?"

He leans down against me and I can feel his heat, so strong
and warm. His lips hover over mine for just a second before
he lets me catch his lower lip between my teeth, and I suckle
at them gently.

So sweet, and my fingers itch for the chance to run through
his hair. It's getting longer than ever, curling next to his
cheeks and over his ears, such gorgeous brown silk.

A quick struggle with my hands, and I'm there, lost
in its softness, trying desperately to pull him closer,
as if I could swallow him whole.

But he's got other ideas.

A quick tug away and he's undressing in front of me, soon
down to nothing but a pair of black silk boxers, something
he'd no doubt picked up in New York, the city where anything
could be bought. He knows they drive me insane -- they are
simple and perfect, just like him.

With a groan I stretch out to touch him but he neatly plops
down just out of my reach, coyly frustrating me. Works his
way through my clothes which I tear at frantically, getting
stupidly tangled in a T-shirt and sweats that were
comfortable a few minutes ago but are a nearly unbearable
burden now.

Soon enough they fall away and we are together, skin to skin,
and I can feel his heat, feel his hands curl through my hair
and he kisses me with great intensity, his desire obvious.

A quick flip and Paul's on his back, moaning, as I run my
tongue down the smooth planes of his chest, over the hollow
of his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his shorts. I
tease him with tiny licks along its edge, taking my time.

Why hurry? Tonight we have all the time in the world and
he's worth every precious minute of it.

I dot his stomach with kisses, swirling my tongue in his
navel, touching his thighs with my fingers, feeling the
muscles quiver underneath. "I love these shorts," I murmur,
half-joking, half serious as all hell. "Gotta get meself a
pair."

Another kiss along his thigh and a thought crosses my mind,
making my cock twitch with excitement. I raise my head,
wondering aloud. "Say, Paulie ... did you plan this?"

He flushes, bites his lip and doesn't answer.

I run my fingertips along the inside of his waistband,
teasing the sensitive flesh beneath, delighting in his
squirming response. "No, really," I insist. "Did you plan
this, tonight, being together, you and me? Come 'head
Paulie, tell me now."

He looks away, obviously embarrassed.

"If you did, luv, it's a great idea. 'Cuz there's nothing I
want more right now than to take you, and taste you and make
you scream. You want me to do that? Is that what you want?"

A whimper, a nod, and that's all I need.

With a whisper of a kiss, I abandon the damp bit of silk
that's rising against my cheek and slide up his body, raking
myself against him, letting the moisture of my mouth darken
the sparse hairs along his chest. A flat nipple peeks out
from under them and I take that between my teeth and curl my
fist around his hard cock.

"John ... Jesus, John," he gasps and I know I have the right
idea.

Just to make sure, I take my hand away, but his groan of
discontent stops me. Instead, I tug at the last remaining
piece of cloth that separates us, pulling it down over his
slim legs until its on the floor, out of our way.

We're both naked now and his hips rise to meet mine, touching
our cocks together, making me nearly lose my head with the
pleasure of it all. My hands and lips wander over him
aimlessly, nipping and licking, trying to find the spots he
likes best.

There are quite a few of them and I'm glad to enjoy them all,
but he grows impatient beneath me. "Ah, come on, John," he
begs, squirming breathlessly.

I trace his ear with my tongue and hold back my laughter.
"What? What do you want, Paul?"

More tugs at his nipples and he keens lightly, trying to turn
the tide against me with his body and hands -- forcing,
touching, demanding. I refuse to relinquish control and he
gives up his struggling with a sullen, gorgeous pout.

"Come on," I growl, suddenly turned on beyond all imagining.
"Tell us then, what is it you want, luv?"

Again those eyes meet mine and again, I get lost in their
beauty. "You. I want you," he grinds out, his soul's fire
blazing. "Here, now ... just do it."

He bucks up, rubbing his hardness against mine and I laugh
again, forcing him down against the bed. He's thrilling me,
not even realizing it and I can't believe how much he trusts
me ... and believes in me so very much. This isn't your
everyday screwing, but that's all right because Paul
McCartney is far from your everyday screw.

Far ... far from it.

"Goddamn it, Lennon," he snaps in frustration, pulling me
closer, rubbing against me frantically. "Come on, now."

I nip at his chin, unable to stop chuckling. "Why, James P.
Macca ... is this what they taught you at Catholic school?"

"Johhhhnnnnnn," he starts but quiets when I slide a finger
along his cock, feeling the traces of wetness along its tip.
He yelps happily when I smooth the collecting fluid with my
thumb, making sure to keep my touch gentle, just the way I'd
like it if it were me.

I slide down his body, possessing each inch of flesh with my
tongue and he's beautiful with his alabaster skin and taut
muscles, eyes now closed, bow lips slightly open and panting
for air.

His hair fans against the pillow as I close my mouth over the
tip of his cock, biding my time, until swallowing him down
the root.

He howls my name and lunges up until I feel the crisp hairs
against my chin, the tip of his cock against the back of my
throat.

I'm surprised to discover I won't gag if I relax and the ache
in my jaw becomes secondary to the pleasure of the man
clutched tightly within my grasp, so beautiful and beloved.

His breathing becomes shallower, small hisses of air and I
know he's loving it, loving the sight of me sucking him off,
loving the connection we're sharing right now just as strong
and sweet as the one we share when writing songs, making
music or simply sitting side by side, partners forever.

I run my hands over his hips, his soft ass, then up over his
chest. I want to blanket myself over him, feel him close to
me in every way. Another slow suck, and I relax for a minute,
nuzzling him against my cheek.

Hands tangled in my hair, he whispers my name. "John. Oh
God, John ..."

Yeah, he's missed me.

And I swear to Christ, I've missed him too.

Another swallow of his cock, this one primal and complete.
He makes a fantastic sound deep within his chest and
suddenly, he's there, coming, shooting into my mouth, his
slippery heat racing down my throat, sweet and salty and much
better than I'd have believed if I hadn't experienced it myself.

My cock is aching against the sheets and I force myself down
against them, enjoying the pressure and my own release which
follows almost immediately.

I bite the inside of his thigh and let myself go, telling him how
good he feels, telling him how crazy he makes me and how
I want him and this, more than anything else in the whole
fuckin' world.

More than fame, money or drugs ... he's what I crave.

I can't live without him. I don't want to do it and whatever
I am, he's made me, no matter what becomes of it,
for now ... for always.

Floating then, and I lose myself for a long moment in the
wash of joy that follows. What fantastic joy.

Paul's very still beneath me and we lay there entwined until
he shifts, telling me his leg is falling asleep. Grumbling, I
move, sliding up beside him, draping my arm over his chest,
listening to his breathing slowly return to normal.

He nudges my shoulder with his nose and I pull him into an
embrace, kissing his forehead. "Nice shorts," I whisper
again, and he laughs before reaching over me and retrieving
his smokes.

"Ah, they weren't for you," he insists slyly, shaking a
cigarette into my palm. "I rather like them beneath those
stupid trousers Bri makes us wear. Rather posh, if I say so
myself."

I snicker and prop up on my elbow to accept a light. The
harsh sting of tobacco quickly fills my lungs and suddenly,
the world is absolutely perfect. "Yeah, very posh. For a sod
from the North that is."

The pout returns and I resist the urge to kiss it away.
"Speak for yerself, Lennon." A long drag, followed by a
dragon's cloud of smoke. "Then again, don't do that either.
You're liable to hurt yourself."

Again he defends me, even to myself.

"All right then, Paulie," I agree, laying down next to him,
smiling senselessly. "I'll be sure to go easy then. By the
way, you did miss me, didn't you?"

His lips stretch into a huge smile. "Yeah, I missed you like
crazy." He sighed, the seriousness of our situation
unwelcome and intruding. "It's been a long eight days, Johnny.
Goddamn long."

A tap of his ciggie against the ashtray and he rises, naked
and glorious. "I need a bath. Wouldn't care to join me, woulda
Lennon?"

I nod, happier than I ever should have been considering what
the future probably held. "Aye, aye, Captain Macca," I reply
with a smart salute, watching as he turns, steps into the
bathroom and turns the water on, its splashes like music to
my ears.

Ah, it's been a long eight days indeed.

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the end

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