Five Years

Disclaimer: I don't own Green Day. I don't make any money from my story. The song is theirs too.

A/N: It is now 5:49. I have no idea what I'm going to write.

Five Years

Tomorrow is too late to pretend
everything's all right

I'll never forgive myself. I'll never forget. I'll never be able to get the image out of my head. I'll hate myself forever. Too blind to see. All too willing to believe that it was fine. I never said enough to you to make you realize . . .

It's too late now.

You're gone.

Not dead. Gone.

You just sort of gave me this smile over your thumb that was stuck out in the road before you hopped in the seat of some strange guy's car. You waved. You smiled.

You left me here to rot.

Now, five years later, you show up on my door with that same stupid smile on your face. I don't know you anymore. You smile, you laugh. You fucking kiss me.

And I lose it.

I drag you into my house, I throw you against the couch and I punch you. And I hit you. I can't stop. You're staring up at me with those eyes and a question mark on your face. How could you leave me like that? I hate you for it. I fucking hate you.

I fall to the ground, shaking. It shouldn't have been like this. Ever. You weren't supposed to leave.

I feel your arms around me and your voice whispering. I feel your lips against my cheek, my temple, my eyelids. You kiss me on the mouth and I respond. You push your tongue against mine.

Your shirt's gone and so is mine. Our hands roam each other. Five years since I last touched you, five years since I felt that heat of your flesh against mine, your body grinding against me, your erection throbbing.

Five years since I felt you undo my jeans, pulling them off of me. You whisper something about how I'm too thin, how I should eat more. You kiss my chest, my hips. You take me in your mouth. It feels so good. I'd almost forgotten how good it feels when you do that.

I run my hands through your hair. It's shorter now. It scares me. I don't like it.

Then your pants are gone and you're shoving fingers into me. One . . . two . . . three . . .

And then you're inside me and I'm counting my breaths because it hurts after so much and time and there's no lubricant except for the saliva from your fingers. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . .

You thrust into me and I cry out and you press your lips against mine, muffling my painful screams until you find the spot. I'm moaning into your mouth.

I feel myself tense and then I come. I haven't felt like that in years. It was perfect. It's still perfect. Everything's going to be okay now that you're back.

You come inside me and then start to pull on your clothes. You give me one last kiss before you walk toward my door.

"Wait. Where are you going?"

You look at me and smile, sadly. "Happy birthday, Mike."

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It is now 6:01 and I have no idea where the fuck that came from.

And I just got wonderful reviews from Sarah and Rebel_whatsername. I shall now be happy and write smut. Yay! :)