Bacchus' blessings are a treasure
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure
Rich the treasure, sweet the pleasure
Sweet is pleasure after pain.-- Handel, from "Alexander's Feast"
Blair Sandburg woke up with a hangover. His head throbbed, his eyes ached, and his mouth tasted like something had slept in it. Something not-very-nice. A dead mouse, maybe.
Rolling over was a big mistake: now the room was spinning. "Jim," he whispered, hoping his room-mate's heightened hearing would kick in -- he wanted water and aspirin, and he damn well didn't want to move.
But there was no response.
"Jim," he tried, louder. Still nothing.
A memory filtered through his brain: the alarm ringing at five a.m., footsteps, the door closing. Right: the law enforcement conference in Seattle. Which meant no Jim until evening.
Blair sat up and pressed his hands to his head, as if that would help.
He opened one eye and groped for his glasses, almost knocking over the tall silvery blur on his bedside table -- which turned out to be a glass of water, neatly placed next to the aspirin bottle.
Thanks, man, he thought, gratefully popping three pills into his mouth and washing them down. He could feel the water trickling into his belly, re-hydrating his arms and legs.
Slowly he made his way to the bathroom, barely opening his eyes, not wanting to see the late morning light streaming across the floor. The bathroom door clicked behind him and the cold tile felt good on his feet. Jesus, even his feet ached.
With one hand over his eyes he flipped on the light.
After giving the shower a second to warm up, he stepped in, sighing automatically at the pounding heat. Washed his hair, inhaling the herbal scent of his shampoo, hoping the smell of sandalwood would ease his headache. Which, gradually, they did. By the time he was rinsing the conditioner out he felt almost human.
As he spun the bar of soap in his hands his mind drifted to Jim: the angle of his profile, the line of his throat. Mmm. The throat. Blair's cock started to harden.
Masturbating in the shower was almost reflexive, at this point: he'd been doing it for months. Not that Jim couldn't hear and smell him through the curtain of water and steam, if he wanted to; but at least this gave him the illusion of privacy.
Soaping his chest, Blair contemplated his collection of fantasies. They were sweet and familiar, every instant and nuance imagined and re-imagined until they took on the timbre of well-worn memory. Like the novels he'd read a thousand times in high school, or the monograph on Sentinels he'd basically memorized.
Which one would it be? Kneeling between Jim's legs and sucking Jim's cock, reveling in Jim's tiny gasps? Jim on his hands and knees, and Blair's cock pierced that perfect ass? Having his hands were tied to the bedposts, Jim teasing him to a fever pitch?
There were others, more dangerous. Where Jim got vocal, murmured how much he wanted him. Where it was about love, not just a romp in the sheets.
But he tried not to trot those out on a daily basis; they were too powerful. So he kept his imaginings light: a kiss, a caress, an eager hand.
Suddenly Blair was hit with a memory so intense he stopped his soaping: Jim's mouth on his, his hands on Jim's ass, drawing him close, hot and willing and ready.
Memory! He shook his head, to clear the image, and gave a little laugh.
"Talk about wishful thinking," he said out loud. "Blair, my man, you are seriously losing it." Fantasy, not memory. Jeez. Whatever he'd been drinking the night before had clearly addled his brain.
Blair reached around to lather the small of his back, his thighs, stepping out of the spray to soap his ass, and was hit with another image. Lying on his back, Jim's hands holding his hips steady, Jim's mouth teasing the base of his cock. His own voice, hoarse, saying "Please."
The vividness of the vision freaked him out: he felt almost dizzy. These were delicious images, but they weren't ones he'd crafted. He felt dangerously close to delusional; his half-hard cock wilted. He put down the soap and rinsed himself clean. Rolling his eyes at his own mental machinations, he stepped out of the shower.
And got the shock of his life.
On the mirror, in Jim's familiar print:
Thanks, Chief. I'll be smiling all day.
Should be home around 6-ish. I'll bring dinner. - J.
Blair's heart raced. Had he suddenly been transported to an alternate universe? Was this how it felt to wake up in someone else's body?
As he stared, the ceiling fan drew the steam up and away and the words started fading. He had the absurd impulse to restart the shower, to shower again, just to make sure the words were really there. "Thanks, Chief. I'll be smiling all day."
Elation rose in his chest. Hangover or no hangover, his brain was suddenly racing. Did we actually -- did we -- did we finally get together?
Slowly he started to laugh, tentatively, then helplessly. Just his luck: he couldn't remember a damn thing.
He laughed so hard his stomach hurt. When the spasms slowed he straightened up, dried himself off, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a flannel shirt, and put the kettle on for tea.
He'd been planning to spend the morning reading, but now he had a new plan: lie down on the sofa, slow his breathing, work himself into a light trance and see what he could recall. If nothing else, he'd be nice and relaxed by the time Jim came home.
At the thought of Jim coming home horny, Blair shivered. Oh, yeah. This was gonna be good.
Assuming he could ever remember anything.
Assuming he was right.
The thought gave him momentary pause. He had to be right -- right? There wasn't any other rational explanation for Jim's note on the mirror. He'd as much as written "Thanks for last night, you were wonderful." What else could Blair have done to have prompted that?
The teapot whistled, interrupting his train of thought. Blair steeped a chamomile teabag for a minute, threw the bag in the trash, and carried his tea over to the coffee table.
Stretched out on the sofa.
And started slowing his breaths. Counting the spaces between them. In-and-two-and-three-and-four, hold-and-two-and-three-and-four, out-and-two-and-three-and-four. Just like yoga, but without moving. Total stillness. Total calm...
"So, how's it feel to close your first case, Hairboy?" It was dark outside and action in the bullpen was winding down.
"Y'know, I chopped my hair off to get rid of that nickname," Blair grumbled, and Brown laughed.
"Nothing you can do about it, Sandburg." Simon came out of his office. "If the boys think that's your name, well..." He spread his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"Right, like you couldn't stop them if you wanted to."
"Who said I wanted to?" Amid general laughter Simon started for the door, then paused and turned on his heel. "You boys going out to celebrate?"
"I don't know," Blair began, when suddenly Jim spoke up.
"Of course we are, Simon. Murphy's. In," he checked his watch, "about twenty minutes. As soon as Sandburg finishes the last of the paperwork."
"Great." Simon pulled a cigar out of the case in his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. "I'll go get us a table."
Blair looked up at Jim, half-sitting on the edge of his desk, long legs crossed at the ankle. "We're going out?"
"Sure." Jim grinned. "Your first completion since officially becoming my partner deserves a little celebration."
Blair counted silently to five, ordering his heart to stop flip-flopping. He didn't even have to think about it; the obfuscation was as natural to him as breathing.
There'd been a few weeks when Jim didn't smile at all, especially (it seemed) not at him. He wasn't sure he blamed Jim for being surly; Naomi still hadn't surfaced since the press conference, and those hadn't been the best of weeks for Blair, either.
But once Blair had started the Academy, once it had become clear to Jim that Blair was sticking around, Jim had loosened up. In the weeks since Blair's Academy graduation, he was smiling at Blair a lot.
Having a crush on someone makes for a real cardiovascular workout, but Blair was used to telling his heart to give up, or at least shut up: there was no call to alarm Jim with a pounding heartbeat. Especially not when Jim was its cause.
"Y'know, *partner*," Blair said, "you could help with these files and we'd get to Murphy's sooner."
Jim rolled his eyes, came around the desk, sat in his chair. "Let's see 'em."
In eleven minutes they were donning their coats.
"Y'know, I never saw this coming." Rafe tipped back the last of another pint of bitter. Empty glasses edged with foam covered the table.
"How's that?" Blair should've known better than to ask.
"Well, I mean, that first day you were here," Rafe started, then grinned. "The Sunshine Patriots!"
"Some of us weren't here back in the dark ages, you know," Connor pointed out. "Care to fill me in?"
"There was this vending machine..." Rafe's sentence trailed off in chuckles.
Blair grinned as he started to redden. "Yeah, that's right, razz the new guy."
"Shit, who'd have figured you'd wind up a cop?" asked Brown.
They were all pleasantly tipsy and Brown's question broke everyone up; even Blair had to laugh.
"He was brave that day, though," Taggart said, after a moment. The laughter quieted, there were a few nods. "Wasn't he?"
Blair was about to give them grief for talking about him like he wasn't there when, unexpectedly, Jim spoke up.
"Yeah. He was."
Blair couldn't help turning, surprised. He felt suddenly thickened by the alcohol, a little clumsy in his movements; he could only hope his eyes weren't betraying anything. "You thought I was brave?" he asked, too softly for anyone else to hear over the pub's commotion.
"Still do," Jim said, almost as quietly.
Blair turned back in his seat, looking down into the red-amber of his beer, ridiculously pleased. He felt his heart catch in his chest again, then remembered he was supposed to keep it quiet. "Keep it quiet," he said, then realized he'd said it out loud. "Whoops." He laughed at his own mistake.
"Keep what quiet?" Taggart asked.
"Nothing." Blair grinned. "I think I'm a little drunk."
"You and me both." Brown stretched in his chair.
"I think it's time to call a cab for you folks." Simon reached for his cell. "I've got to head home. Darryl and I are going hiking in the morning."
"Night, Simon," Blair said.
"This means the open bar is officially over, gentlemen," Simon pointed out. "And lady," he added, hastily. "When I leave, the credit card leaves with me."
"Might be time to head on out," Rafe agreed, standing. "Thanks for the drinks."
The other cops followed suit in a flurry of standing and reaching for coats. "Thank you, Simon," Blair said, earnestly.
"You're welcome, Sandburg." There was a pause. "You two heading home?"
Blair looked at Jim. "Do we need a cab, Jim?"
"Nah," Jim said. "I only had one. I can drive."
"Good." Blair smiled at his captain. "Jim can get us home," he explained, as if Simon hadn't heard Jim himself.
Simon laughed. "See you Monday, then," he said.
And then Jim and Blair were alone, surrounded by the tumult of the bar, and Blair felt his heart pick up speed again.
Jim looked at him, but Blair couldn't quite read the glance. "Home, Chief?" he asked.
How lucky I am to have Jim, Blair thought, a little fuzzily. "Home," he repeated, and they headed for the door.
The cold night air and light rain sobered him up a little, and by the time they got to the loft Blair's head was a little clearer.
"Man, I'm at least two sheets to the wind," he said, happily, hanging his coat on the hook and toeing off his muddy boots.
"Or three," Jim said, dryly, and Blair laughed. "You sleepy?"
Blair turned to look at him. "Nah," he said.
"I thought I might have a whiskey or two, see if I could catch up with you," Jim said. He gestured toward the sofa. "Want to stay up a while?"
"Love to," Blair said. As he sat down, he added, "Grab me a glass too, will you? I'll have a nightcap."
The bourbon burned its way down Blair's throat, warming him. Towards the end of the glass he looked at Jim.
"You really think I'm brave?" he asked.
Jim exhaled softly. "Hell yeah," he said, finishing his highball and pouring himself another in a pair of fluid motions. Blair sat perfectly still, mesmerized by Jim's gracefulness.
"I don't do anything the rest of the team doesn't do," Blair said.
"I think everyone on the force is brave."
Of course he does, Blair thought. That makes sense. He looked at his empty glass and felt like he was shrinking, until he heard Jim's next words.
"But you're braver."
He turned his eyes to his partner again and it almost took his breath away: Jim was looking at an invisible point on the floor, lashes dark against his face, shirt snug against his chest. "Because you didn't choose this job, but you risk your life without complaint anyway." His voice was muted.
Blair felt like beaming, but then the first half of Jim's statement penetrated his foggy brain. "Wait. I *did* choose this, Jim."
"You're a good sport, Sandburg," Jim said, taking another long swig.
"No, Jim, I did," he insisted, scooting closer to his partner on the couch. This was important; he had to get this across.
"You're doing this to protect me, Chief," Jim said. "You threw away your career to protect me, you put your life on the line to protect me, and now you're pretending you chose all of this to protect me." He finished his whiskey, again.
"I chose *you*," Blair said.
"And I'm worth it, huh?" Jim almost managed to sound like he was joking.
Blair's heart was doing flip-flops again, pounding like an auditorium full of timpani. "Shut up," he said to it, aloud.
"What?" Jim asked, forehead furrowing.
"No, no," Blair assured him. "I'm talking to myself."
Jim looked confused.
"In here," Blair said, pointing to his ribcage. "Can't you hear it?" Some part of him remembered dimly that he wasn't supposed to bring this up with Jim, but he couldn't figure out why. Jim could hear him; he was sure of it.
After a moment Jim nodded.
"It's going too fast," Blair explained.
"Why is it going too fast?"
Blair could feel his color rising under Jim's intent regard. "I--" Blair paused to set his glass down and then didn't know what to do with his hands. He settled for folding them in his lap. "I can't tell you," he said finally.
Jim put his glass down too, never taking his eyes from Blair's face. He took a deep, slow breath. "I might have a theory," he said, softly.
"Yeah?"
"You won't be mad if I'm wrong?" Somehow Jim was closer on the couch, his thigh almost touching Blair's.
"Won't be mad," Blair agreed, his heart going a hundred thousand miles an hour now.
And then Jim was bending toward him, one arm slipping behind him, and then Jim's lips brushed his and Blair felt he might explode with joy and wonder. A soft kiss, another, and then Blair was straddling Jim's lap and they were devouring each other's mouths and it felt like flying.
The click of the door closing knocked Blair halfway out of his sleepy trance; the sudden realization that Jim was home jerked him completely awake. He sat up, fumbling for his glasses.
"You're home," he said, stupidly, suddenly nervous.
"Hauled ass from Seattle." Jim's smile made Blair's insides melt. He was unpacking two brown bags of groceries, stacking things that go in the fridge near the fridge door to be placed inside all at once, as Blair stood and walked over to the edge of the kitchen.
"How was the conference?" Blair asked.
"Not bad. There was this panel on Internet research..." Jim opened the fridge door and started placing things inside: cheese, it looked like, and pesto, and a fresh carton of milk.
And Blair wanted to listen, wanted to drink in every word Jim said, but his mind wandered. I should've kissed him when he walked in. I wish I'd kissed him. I wonder if it's okay to kiss him?
"Earth to Sandburg," Jim said, waving a hand in front of Blair's eyes. Blair jumped slightly. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Jim's voice was amused.
"Not really," Blair said, fighting the temptation to drop his eyes. God, he felt like a schoolkid.
"What were you thinking about?"
"I was wishing I'd kissed you when you walked in the door."
Jim's hand reached around to the back of his neck, and tilted his face up, and then he was pressed against Jim's body. The kiss started out gentle; by the time Jim pulled away both men were slightly breathless.
Jim didn't detach completely; just pulled his face back, arms still locked around Blair's back. "Hi," he said, brushing the tip of his nose against his partner's.
"Hi." This was wonderful but weird, too weird; Blair's mind was reeling.
"How bad was your hangover this morning?"
Blair laughed a little. "Awful," he said. "How did you drive?"
"I had less to drink than you did," Jim pointed out. "You had a few beers on me."
"Mm," Blair said. "Yeah, okay." There was a pause. "You're not getting very far with dinner."
"Not that hungry yet." Jim rubbed noses with Blair again, then bent for a small kiss.
"Not for food, anyway," Blair muttered, and Jim chuckled. After a moment Jim let go of his partner.
"What's on your mind, Chief?"
"I can't remember," Blair admitted. Jim's brow quirked, puzzled, so Blair clarified. "Last night."
"Yeah?" Jim didn't seem distressed. Seemed amused, in fact, although it was clear he was trying not to laugh.
"I spent all day trying to remember," Blair said. "All *day* on the couch, man. And all I have is bits and pieces."
Jim walked over to the counter and leaned on it, arms folded over his chest.
"Does it bother you?"
"That I can't remember? Yeah."
"No," Jim corrected. "That we -- slept together."
The euphemism sounded strange in Jim's voice. "Why, does it bother you?" Blair asked, and realized immediately that he'd given the wrong response: Jim's posture tightened, his arms suddenly looked self-protective. "All that bothers me is that I can't remember it," Blair said, quickly. "Really, Jim."
They were quiet for a minute before Blair spoke again. "Did we talk?"
"About?"
Blair gestured helplessly. "About any of this."
Jim raised an eyebrow. "Not really. You didn't seem especially interested in talking."
Blair felt his face redden but he kept going. "Have you done this before?"
"This?" Jim sounded amused again.
"Have you been with men before."
"Not with *men*, plural," Jim said, "not at the same time, anyway; although with *a* man, yes." Blair could see the smile in his eyes.
"Smartass."
"So have *you* done this before?"
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly?"
Blair was definitely red-faced now. "Okay, 'no,' is that the answer you were looking for?" God, this was embarrassing.
When he looked up he found Jim watching him, steadily, expression betraying nothing. "The only answer I'm looking for is whether you want this."
And damn if Blair's heart wasn't beating triple-time again. "What kind of question is that?" A second passed. "That's a 'hell yes,' Jim."
Jim was in his space in an eyeblink. The kiss was incredible: all of Jim's considerable intensity focused on Blair's breathing, Blair's body, Blair's mouth.
They made it halfway up the stairs before stopping to kiss again.
"I've wanted this for so fucking long." Jim nibbled at Blair's neck and seemed delighted by Blair's quick intake of breath. "I hated waiting."
Blair was finding it increasingly difficult to formulate sentences. "Why'd you wait? You had more of a clue than I did." By which he meant, you evidently knew what I wanted, and I would never have guessed that you were interested, so why not make a move sooner? Jim seemed to understand.
"Had to wait," Jim murmured, breath warm against Blair's ear. "Wanted us on equal footing."
Blair pulled back, feeling an icy fist clenching around his chest. Tell me he didn't just say what I think he said, he prayed to no one in particular. "What?" he asked, very quietly.
"I didn't want this based on inequality," Jim said, and Blair pulled out of his arms.
What a prick.
"I can't believe you."
Jim's face was creased with confusion.
"You didn't think we were equal."
"Honestly? No, I didn't," Jim said. "I don't see why you're so--"
"--Upset?" Blair's voice rose. "Of course I'm upset. What, we weren't equals until I became a cop? My graduate work wasn't equal to you?"
"Blair, you don't--"
Blair kept on. "Sure, I might've been the world's foremost expert on what was happening to you, I was top of my field, but that wasn't fucking *equal* to you?" He was down the stairs now, not sure where he was going except away. "Fuck you, man."
"Wait," Jim said, starting to follow him.
"Back the fuck off."
"Wait, Blair, you've got it backwards."
Blair's head hurt. This was some kind of emotional whiplash. "What?"
"I meant *I* didn't feel equal to *you*."
The anger drained out of him and Blair wasn't sure what to say.
"Can I come down the stairs?"
"Huh?" Blair blinked. "Yeah, sure."
Jim descended and paused between the sofa and the door, not taking his eyes off of Blair. As if he wanted to be able to intercept Blair if he fled, as if Blair might flee if he looked away.
Which, Blair thought ruefully, he almost had.
"Look, when the senses started up," Jim said, his voice low, "I thought I was losing my mind."
Blair nodded, moving to the end of the sofa and sitting down. Strange to feel so tentative when they'd been sucking tonsils about forty seconds ago.
"And you waltzed in, in that damn white coat..." For a moment a faint smile graced Jim's face. "I was so angry at you." An admission. "I didn't want to like you, y'know?" Hesitantly Jim crossed to the other end of the sofa and sat down.
Understanding was starting to filter through. Hindsight being what it is, Blair couldn't believe he hadn't seen this, hadn't seen that Jim was feeling this way from the start. "I hear you," he said, but Jim continued as if he hadn't spoken.
"You were the only person who knew what to do with me," Jim said. "Do you have any idea what kind of power that is? I hated that you had that kind of power over me. And you could've left anytime."
Blair started to protest and Jim cut him off. "What if you'd gone to Borneo, you know? It would have crushed me. And the worst was, I was falling in love with you."
The words sliced Blair like a fast knife: no awareness of pain, just the sudden feeling of something welling up, a cut that might never be repaired.
"I couldn't say anything." There was a pause. "And then the whole thing with Alex -- I still don't understand it --" He sounded disgusted.
"It's okay, Jim."
"It's *not* okay, I got you killed."
Hoo boy. Blair had wondered, in the first days after his fountain-dive, whether they would ever have this conversation. And they hadn't. Which had upset him, at the time, but he'd resigned himself to not-having it.
Now he wasn't sure he wanted to have it. "I got better," he said, lightly.
"Talk about unequal; you were a fucking martyr."
"You brought me back," Blair countered.
Now it was Jim's turn to look uncomfortable. "I still don't feel right about it." Silence. "But then the shit hit the fan. That press conference--" His jaw twitched and his eyes dropped, as if he couldn't quite meet his partner's eyes.
For an instant Blair wondered what exactly Jim felt guilty about: believing Blair would publish? Watching Blair throw his academic career away? Jim opened his mouth and suddenly Blair couldn't take it, didn't want to think about this now.
"I was there," Blair said, cutting Jim off. "I remember."
Funny how it was easier to deal with Jim's guilt about Alex than with Jim's guilt about the press conference. Blair filed that away for future reference, to be considered sometime when there weren't other, more pressing, matters at hand.
"So that made things different? The press conference?"
Jim spread his hands in a shrug. "You're not leaving," he said. "We're partners."
Blair considered this. Over the course of their conversation his leg had eased closer to Jim, Jim's arm had uncurled across the top of the sofa, and now they were nearly touching again. "Um," Blair said, fighting to sound normal. "What you said about falling in love with me."
Jim gave the smallest of nods.
"Does that have to be in the past tense?"
He could see the change: Jim's shoulders relaxed, the tension left his jaw. "Hell no," Jim said.
And then they were kissing again.
Presently Blair pulled back for breath, eyes closed, half-lost in the sensation of Jim's warm mouth licking a line to his ear.
"Salt," Jim murmured, tasting again.
Oh, God. Something about the fact that Jim was *tasting* him sent a surge of longing down his spine, tingling his toes and stiffening his cock until he half-expected it to melt a hole in his sweats.
Blair opened his eyes. "Want to try that upstairs thing again?" His voice was huskier than usual, which Jim seemed to like, if his darkening eyes were any indication. "I promise I won't bolt this time."
"You'd fucking better not." Jim was smiling but his voice was steel. "You can't imagine how hard it was to keep things light last night, and then having you almost flee the building -- I've been a gentleman this far, but my reserves are shot."
"You're all caveman now, huh?"
Jim's eyes gleamed. "That what you're after?" Before Blair could respond Jim's lips were on his, Jim's tongue in his mouth, Jim's body pinning him to the sofa. Some moments later Jim broke the kiss and grinned.
"Not complaining," Blair said. "Really."
"Good."
They were at the top of the stairs when Blair spoke again. "So just how light did we keep things last night?"
"You really don't remember?"
Blair felt his face flushing but didn't look away. "Nope."
"So what tipped you off that we'd done anything in the first place?" Jim was standing close, long fingers unbuttoning Blair's shirt.
Funny: even with his shirt unfastened Blair was warm. Maybe the upstairs bedroom was warmer; after all, heat rises. Or maybe it was Jim's proximity bringing every inch of his body to attention.
"I was thinking about you in the shower," Blair started, swallowing hard when Jim's hands touched his belly and skated up his sides.
"Mmm?" The shirt slipped to the floor.
"Not that that's anything new." Jim was sucking at the place where neck meets shoulder and Blair had to remind his knees not to buckle.
"Keep going," Jim murmured.
"And I had these memories--" Blair gasped as Jim's fingers found one nipple. "-- I thought I was dreaming -- but then I saw your note--"
Next thing Blair knew he was on his back, Jim arched over him. "Tell me about the memories."
"We were standing and kissing and my hands were on your ass," Blair said, and Jim made a low sound of satisfaction and bent for a kiss, placing Blair's hands there again, groaning when Blair pulled them snug together, and the groan was delicious to Blair's ears. After a few rocking thrusts Jim pulled back and moved down to kiss Blair's chest.
"And I asked you for more," Blair managed, and then Jim's mouth was on his nipple and words were obviously over-rated, words had nothing on reality, words had nothing on *this*.
Jim pulled back and rubbed the wet nipple with the flat of his thumb and Blair gave his attention over to gasping for breath.
"You were pretty hammered," Jim said. "Not an inhibition in the world."
"I didn't embarrass myself, did I?" The words were hard to form; Jim had moved to the other nipple now, was teasing the silver ring.
"You were spectacular," Jim said. "You asked me to fuck you and I've never had such a hard time saying no in my life."
Blair groaned. The words brought an immediate image to his head, of Jim kneeling over him, stroking *inside* him, and while he knew this one was fantasy they were so close to the reality that it made him ache. The thought sent a slim crackle of nervousness up his spine.
"What made you say no?" He knew, but he wanted to hear Jim say it.
"You were drunk, and I didn't want to take advantage, and I wasn't sure you'd remember it anyway." That last made Blair grin.
"I'm not drunk now," Blair said, breathless.
Jim inhaled hard, body stiffening slightly, then closed his eyes. Something in his expression was familiar. After a moment Blair realized what it was.
"You're dialing down!"
Jim opened his eyes, looking a little sheepish. "Yeah," he admitted. He knelt back over Blair's calves, hands loose on his thighs.
"What - which senses, why?"
"We're not testing this, Sandburg," Jim said, adamant, and Blair laughed. God, Jim hadn't joked about the tests in ages.
"No, really. Which ones, Jim?"
"Mostly scent. And sound." A pause. "All of them."
Blair gave him a look that plainly said, 'So?'
"If I left them up this'd be over before it started." He was turning red, which Blair found impossibly sexy. Then again, he found most of Jim impossibly sexy.
Almost immediately a new desire began to form. He'd been hoping all day to get Jim to fuck him, but hey, he prided himself on spontaneity. Time to change the plan.
Blair wriggled out from under Jim, knelt up to face him, reached to unbutton Jim's crisp denim shirt. "May I?"
Jim nodded and Blair unfastened the buttons, loving the heat of Jim so close to his fingers. Once the shirt was off he pushed Jim onto his back, unhooked his belt, unzipped his khakis.
He spared a glance up: Jim's eyes were closed, his nipples were hard, his mouth slightly open. Blair wasn't sure he'd ever seen anything so beautiful.
He pulled the pants off, then bent to mouth Jim's cock through his briefs. Jim shivered, which was gratifying, but Blair was pretty sure he still had things dialed down. Which was fine. For now.
Blair licked a line along Jim's erection through the fabric, then pulled the briefs halfway down his thighs.
"God you're gorgeous," he murmured, and Jim's hands twined themselves in the blanket.
Blair smiled. This was going to be *good*.
"Jim," he said softly, insistently.
"Mm?"
"Dial up."
Jim's eyes opened in something akin to panic. "Blair, I can't - I won't last long enough to be inside you -"
"You can fuck me next time. Or I can fuck you. We have all the time in the world. But what I really want," and Blair bent to wetly kiss the base of Jim's cock, "right now," another kiss, "is to see how good I can make you feel. Dial up, Jim."
With a sigh that seemed involuntary, Jim complied. It was the most amazing thing Blair had ever seen: suddenly longing was evident in every line of Jim's body, a tension straining for release.
As gently as he could, Blair caressed the base of Jim's cock with the tip of his tongue, painting it with tiny licks. Jim clenched the blanket in his fists and groaned, a long, low, needy sound.
Blair had never heard him sound so unguarded. It made him so hard he almost hurt.
For a moment he was torn, wanting to touch Jim's nipples but not wanting to leave his cock. He decided the feast in front of him was entirely enough, and breathed a stream of warm air over the length of Jim's erection.
"Oh, God, Blair, God, God, please -" Jim was almost incoherent. His body was sheened with sweat.
"Do you have any idea how much I want you?"
Jim answered with a wordless moan. He was trembling.
Blair tried a slow lick from root to tip and Jim arched up into the touch, biting back a whimper.
It was as though their bodies were hard-wired together: every reaction he provoked in Jim sent a lightning flash through him.
Blair moved up Jim's body slightly and bent to take the tip of his cock into his mouth, and Jim's whole body tensed. He was breathing hard, fighting not to come, but it was a losing battle: Blair raked once with his tongue and Jim cried out as he pulsed into Blair's mouth. The taste was surprisingly bitter, but the rush of knowing that he'd done this to Jim was sweet.
As if in sympathy with his partner, Blair came in his pants.
Reluctantly he let Jim slip from his mouth, pulled off his sticky sweats and dabbed himself slightly drier, then slid up the bed to lie beside Jim.
"You okay?" he asked softly, not wanting to hurt sensitive ears.
"Died," Jim said, languorously. "Went to heaven."
Blair couldn't help grinning. "That was the idea."
When Jim opened his eyes and smiled, Blair's heart started beating triple-time again. Jim reached out and splayed a palm over that side of Blair's chest.
For once, Blair just let it beat.
The End