This is a little nothing B/J fic told in 7 paragraphs of 100 words each.
The fingers of his right hand dig into your scalp while the ones on his left hand gouge your shoulder. The way he says your name, like he's tasting it and loving the flavor, makes your heart pound in your throat. Or maybe it's your impending orgasm doing that. Whatever. You congratulate yourself for turning him from innocent schoolboy to wanton slut in only three days. You tell yourself that the reason you let him back into your bed is because his corruption is part of the thrill. It's not a lie. But it's not the only reason.
1 Year, 3 Days
He's still shy and he blushes too easily when you whisper in his ear that you'll be swallowing his cock in a moment, but he's not afraid like he'd been. A few nights ago you weren't even sure if you'd ever again feel his body pressed against yours when you'd wake in the middle of the night needing to piss, and now he's wrapped so tightly around you that his toes almost don't touch the floor. When you sink to your knees to remind him of what heaven feels like, his desperate, clutching grasp relieves you.
2 Years, 3 Days
It's amazing how quickly everything falls apart. Just a few months ago, life was good and things were moving along smoothly. Ryder would make you partner. Justin worshipped you. There were no cheaply made cd's of screeching violin music cluttering your coffee table. But now there is doubt nagging at you, and Mikey's words echoing in your ears ("What about the truth?"), and Justin smells different. He is pissed all the time, and evasive. Instinct thrumms in your veins, an insistent warning. And when he touches you, the hesitation under his skin feels like slow death.
3 Years, 3 Days
You celebrate well past dawn. The streets had been thronged with people for hours after the election results were tallied. Justin couldn't stop smiling, and his hair gleamed yellow under the streetlights, and you danced until you thought you'd collapse. When you take him home, the floor and tabletops still littered with his posters, you are both laughing, giddy, and the sound echos off the blank walls into the empty space. It might as well be fucking music. The worry could come later. For now, he kisses you and whispers his pride into your naked flesh.
4 Years, 3 Days
You puke into the basin again, unable to make it to the toilet this time, and he is there rubbing your back in tight, worried circles. You want to hate him, it would make everything so much easier, but you don't have the energy to drive him away again. And you're way too grateful for his strength, anyway. Cancer unmans you in a way that loving him had never accomplished. It devastates your body, weakens your mind, exposes your mortality.
You are loathe to need him, his hands holding you up. You lean into him and try not to cry.
5 Years, 3 Days
You take only what you'll need, which isn't much. Just three short days with him and most of that time will be spent naked in a huge bed at the Plaza, fucking him senseless. It isn't enough time, probably never will be, but you'll just make do because what else is there? When you love someone hopelessly, you’ve learned, you don't waste breath complaining. You don't remind him every minute how much you miss him and you never ever let him know that sometimes you want to scream in frustration. You just take the time you have and hold on.
6 Years, 3 Days
There is so much unpacking to do but Justin has insisted that you handle it yourselves. Hiring someone to do it is a waste of money, he complains. He ignores you when you tell him that your time is money, but you also know that it means something to him he'll never admit to because he knows you hate sentimentality. To him it means starting a new life together and doing it on your own. To you it means sore muscles and fewer hours in the day to fuck him.
You sigh, kiss him soundly, and reach for another box.