Erin
Once upon a time two great friends (that is me and cheapfcuk) had a conversation that went something like this:
E: OMG we should write a fic together.
B: Yes we should!
E and B: A cancer fic!
And so we started...but never really finished...though it could be considered finished if you don't desire more (which there will likely never be). Anyway, we wanted to post it, but never did...and might never have...save for susanderavish discovering our dark secret and calling me out on it!! So it's season four, no spoilers for anything besides the...um...cancer. And SDV, this shit is for you...
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Inside
I watch his lips moving, barely making a sound as he finishes his nonsensical story about Ibiza, and then as quickly as the last words leave his mouth, his breathing evens out, as though he were sleeping even as he was talking. I push my arms around him, pulling at his skin, nuzzling his chest with my cheek, trying to find a way to get inside him. To bury myself inside him and take away the human impurities budding inside him. I can’t get close enough, can’t get deep enough and I feel the wetness at the corners of my eyes–so frustrated. How dare this thing invade him, and splash his mortality in his face like a glass of cheap wine. I turn my head into him, crying. For him, and for me, and for our tainted future.
Perfection
He strips, brushes his teeth, washes his face, stares into the mirror far too long, and then finally climbs into bed. He watches himself shift the sheets so gingerly, the same sheets he’s clutched and bitten and nearly torn apart while screaming through half a million mind-bending orgasms. He slides into the bed he knows better than his own body because, hell, he can see all of the bed. It has no hard to reach spots. He lies down on his side and looks through the darkness at a man he knows so well, but sometimes not at all. A man he loves so deeply and inexplicably it makes him nauseas if he thinks about it for more than a second.
Time passes, minutes, maybe hours glide by unaccounted for. He breathes evenly, listening to a soft snore, watching a familiar chest rise and fall, reveling in the normalcy of it all. In the dead of night and in the quiet of these moments it seems impossible that there is anything wrong in the world, much less in this bed. In the dark there are no imperfections to see. In the night he can pretend that everything is perfectly okay.
So this is love…
I never ever thought we would be sharing a moment like this. Whether it was because I never thought he would be this ill, or because I had—up until now—been advised to stay away on radiation day. I must’ve forgotten what day it was, because my 11:00 class had been cancelled after I bundled my ass up and taken two buses to PIFA and I was now silently cursing the cold and putting all my weight into opening the sliding metal door. When I walked inside I heard these moaning sounds. Not like back room at Babylon, but more like a suffering animal. That’s when I found Brian doubled over near the desk hugging the small garbage pail that once occupied the space. His eyes were closed, brow fully crinkled, and he was biting at his lips with this disgusted fervor. I thought to just turn around and leave, since he had obviously not yet noticed I was there, but just as other possibilities were starting to mill around in my head, his voice broke all flow.
"Justin—can you, um.." He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, but that nonsensical combination of words was all I needed. Really, I didn’t want him to ask me for help. It would’ve made him feel inadequate in the long run, and he’s a bitch when he’s made to feel inadequate.
I dropped my bag, and pealed of my coat and scarf before kneeling beside him and slowly, cautiously, removing the can from his arms to sit a few inches away. I slowly began to take off his own coat and scarf, and then unbuttoned his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders and bringing my hand to his tousled hair. I pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, not caring what human remnants lingered there, and pushed my forehead against his staying like that for a few moments. I was brought out of the closeness by his head pressing against mine, and I decided it was time we move to bed. I stood up and crooked my arms under his shoulders half lifting him as he half gathered the strength to stand. Then we made our way—albeit slowly—across the floor and up the two steps to our bed I allowed him to sit on the edge, and laid him backward so that I could more easily remove his slacks.
After taking off each of his socks I put my hand on his knee, and he grabbed my wrist. He was sitting up now and had a sickening expression on his face, the next few seconds were a flash as I found the garbage can in the bathroom and brought it to him just in time. I knew, in the back of my head, that once he was feeling better it would’ve been my fault he threw up on the floor if I hadn’t been quick enough to fetch his safety. I’m pleased that I was quick enough.
In between heaves I turned him around and pulled the duvet up over his thighs, sitting behind him, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. Really, I found he didn’t even need the can, I don’t think there was anything in his stomach, except for the occasional strangled bile. But, feeling his body cramp up every few minutes was awful enough. I just wanted to scream. After all of this, after making this perfect creature, face his mortality. He couldn’t even get a few minutes to relax between rounds. I just laid my cheek against his T-shirt covered back and rubbed his upper arms. After countless minutes/ hours—I lost track—he finally lay limp against me, and I moved the garbage can to the floor, close enough for safety. His skin was clammy and chilled and I probably should’ve gotten him a fever reducer, but after weighing the pros and cons of that, I just stayed put. Laying my head on his shoulder and showering light, sometimes lingering kissed to his neck.
"I really love you." I whispered into his skin, but I couldn’t know whether or not he’d heard me.
Almost
“Should we?”
“Jesus, Justin,” he spits and rolls away, but a firm grip on his hip doesn’t let him get too far. He doesn’t have the strength, or really even the desire, to fight it.
“I just, fuck. I’m driving blind here. I’m trying to figure out what to do and how to act and God, I don’t know. Tell me what to do.”
“Don’t do anything. Don’t say anything. Just leave me the fuck alone. This is why I didn’t want you here.”
Shit, he doesn’t want to push him away, he just always manages to do it.
“Fuck you, asshole.”
And then the sheet is gone and goose bumps rise all over his skin and he feels familiar hands on his stomach, his thighs, his dick.
“Justin,” he warns.
“Brian,” the kid answers with an indignant tone.
And then his fingers find it, the scar that Brian can’t bring himself to touch. The place where the evil exited his body. The exact spot where the exorcism occurred. He hears Justin inhale sharply. It makes him flinch. He wants to get away, wants to be anywhere but here.
“Just let me,” Justin trails off, one hand stroking the lower part of his stomach, the other gingerly tracing the curves of his balls, ball. Singular. One. Uno. Loner. A fake ball is no ball like a fake tit is no tit. Imposter. Poser.
Justin examines this part of him that is suddenly new and different. His thighs are pushed open and splayed out and forced into positions he’d rather not visualize as Justin licks and nips and studies him. At first his gut is twisted in knots and his anger seethes and squirms and threatens to spill out of his body and into the air, but he reels it in, pushes it down, lives through the moment. And then, he finds that it’s not so bad.
He starts to get hard, starts to let his eyes drift closed as he concentrates on the tongue and the touch that he…that he loves. He lets himself remember long nights full of non-stop cock sucking and ass fucking and other dirty man-sex things that make him hum with anticipation and pleasure. He wants this, God he wants it, and Justin makes it so damn impossible to resist.
The muscles in his stomach start to tense and shift as his back arches and his thighs clench around Justin’s head. He comes sooner than he expects and his eyes shoot open as his hips jerk.
What the fuck?
He shudders and then relaxes. Justin kisses his neck and palms his stomach and settles beside him. The boy’s hard little dick bores a hole above his hip and he almost laughs. He reaches down and takes it but he’s blocked before he gets his fist around it.
“Don’t,” Justin’s voice is soft and painfully understanding.
He knows it’s wrong not to reciprocate, and God he wants to, but he’s tired now. And while he’d like to bend Justin in half and plow that tight, familiar ass like he did in the days when this was new and their fucking was desperate, he has cancer and it isn’t expected of him. Right now nothing is expected of him, and he could almost utter a promise of eternal love for that…almost.
20 Down, 30 To Go
I figure if he didn’t have sex for nearly a month (I know, please gasp along with me) he’s got somewhere between forty and fifty orgasms to make up. He and I average sex once a day, well generally speaking we do it we do it a couple of times in a night but then I won’t see him for a few days, so I’ve worked it out to average once a day. Anyway, in addition to me he probably has sex with one or two strangers a week, not necessarily sex-sex but backroom blowjobs and public restroom hand jobs and what have you.
So you put all of that together and Brian probably comes with another person present at least fifty times a month. And then there’s masturbating, I won’t even go there. The point of all this calculating and estimating is this: if Brian has fifty orgasms to catch up on and he’s been pummeling my ass at least four times a day for the last week, are we going to be back to normal in roughly another ten days?
Don’t get me wrong – I fucking love it. I’ll take Brian hard and panting over limp and puking any day of the goddamned century. If my battered ass is the price to pay for him feeling better, I’m happy to limp around for the rest of my life. But, the time I’m spending in bed is starting to hinder my day-to-day activity. I’m about to run out of clean underwear and my friends are starting to wonder if I died…
“Justin,” his voice, thick with the anticipation of sex, breaks me from my pondering.
“Yeah,” I turn and look at him, still suited after a 14-hour work day, briefcase in one hand, dick in the other. I smile and shake my head. This is quickly becoming our routine.
“You have ten minutes, then you’re mine.”
The same thing happens every night - he walks in, has some water, eats a piece of fruit, strips down and fucks me until I pass out. I get a ten, maybe fifteen, minute head start to wrap up the drawing I’m working on, the phone conversation I’m having, whatever. Tonight I’m just reading a new comic Michael loaned me so I put it down and head to bed a mere two minutes after I’m instructed to do so.
“Sometimes coming early is a virtue,” I smile as he walks out of the bathroom and looks me up and down as I lay naked and splayed out in the center of the bed.
He’s on top of me in no time, hands gripping my hair, tongue reaching into the back of my mouth, hips pressing hard and earnest into mine. I give myself over to him as I think idly: 20 down, 30 to go…
End
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