This was one of those five-inspired-paragraphs-then-ran-out-of-j
Justin and Chris have been together for five years and have three houses, one apartment, three cars, four motorbikes and a cat together. They are in love, but Justin can feel it starting to fade already; he doesn't know if five years is early or late for the endless butterflies to turn into something more mundane, something which feels almost natural, but he knows he doesn't marvel at Chris being there anymore, the way he used to. He worries it's what they call "taking someone for granted", and that is never considered a good thing in the relationship books he reads -- which are mostly for lesbians because he can relate to those. He knows that sometimes he thinks of Chris as just another limb -- sure, he'd miss it if it wasn't there, but he doesn't go around feeling all grateful about it every day, because he never thinks about it not being there. Unless there's, like, an accident; everybody worries about losing a limb in an accident, because everyone knows it happens, sometimes, to some people.
Sometimes Justin worries that there'll be an accident and that Chris dies, just suddenly severed from Justin's life, and the thought makes him want to throw up.
He assumes that's love.
He didn't think he'd be famous forever, and he misses the stadiums sometimes, but not as much or as rabidly as he thought he would. He still sings and still loves it, and he dances occasionally, but he only ever really complains about his back when they put up Christmas lights or fuck too athletically.
They have a cat and are thinking about getting another one to keep it company. They were probably going to get pets eventually anyway, because they both like animals and they are not going to get any children. Justin knows it's stupid, but somewhere he always thought there would be a way they could mix his and Chris's genes in a dish, and he knows it's dumb, but he looks at Chris sometimes and just aches, and he wishes they could take all their millions and actually get something for it. But if there's no dish, then it doesn't matter how rich they are.
They get a cat.
Chris loves how Justin loves the cat. It's a rescue-cat and not even the vet could tell for sure what kind of mix it was; it has strange colored fur and a big bushy tail that is impossible to groom, but Chris sees that Justin truly thinks it's the most beautiful cat in the world and he drags it to competitions and gets upset for real when they don't win. Justin does it all instinctively and with his heart: he cuddles with it in front of the television, plays with it in the back yard, excitedly teaches it to use the litter box, and carries it around like another limb. There's a picture of the cat and Chris on Justin's dresser, and Justin has written "my boys, 2007" on the back of it, but it's really just a close-up of the cat with only a bit of Chris's arm showing.
Chris loves how Justin loves the cat. It's what made him fall for Justin in the first place, and he likes to see that part of him again like this, one removed.
Now, Chris is standing on the landing, listening amusedly as Justin talks to the cat in the kitchen. "Yes, yes, I know you want your food," Justin says in the sweet cooing voice he uses for the cat and for Chris's nieces and nephews, "I'm making it, baby. And then while you eat I'm going to go upstairs and fuck your other daddy like I'm one of those crazy rabbits you always hiss at in the backyard. Yes, I will. It will be very nice, yes, yes, it will be, baby."
"Your other daddy?" Chris asks, when he sits back on the bed and lets Justin slide his jeans off. "What are you going to say when the cat starts asking how come he has two daddys when all the other cats only have one?"
Justin doesn't laugh, just grumbles something, because he's always been like that: meticulous and stubbornly one hundred percent focused on the task at hand -- Chris almost shudders when he remembers the years right before they got together and how Justin would stare at him sometimes, as if he was creatively visualizing having Chris, which funnily enough seemed to have actually worked in the end. Right now the task is to pull off Chris's socks. Chris has learnt that having sex without bothering to take their socks off is where Justin draws the line. He says that if they start doing that they might as well get divorced, and even though Chris always reminds him that they're in fact not married, he really doesn't want to divorce Justin and he likes the feel of Justin's naked skin under his heels.
Chris wears a ring that Justin gave him for his 34th birthday. It's plain, just a smooth silver band, with no inscription or stones, and Chris has gotten used to it, so much so that he hardly notices its weight anymore as he flips through a magazine or idly strokes the cat or lays down tracks in the studio.
Last year he gave Justin a thin silver chain, for no real occasion, which Justin keeps in a box on his dresser but doesn't wear.