"I'll be back in forty-five," Jim said, lacing his tennis shoes.
Blair, reading on the sofa, barely nodded. "'kay," he said absently. "Have a good run."
And Jim was out the door, down the stairs, picking up speed as he left the building. The sun was shining, the trees were breaking into pale green leaf, the fog had lifted: it was a glorious day.
He was patting himself on the back for maintaining his running schedule all spring when his foot slipped and he felt the wrench of muscle giving way.
God damn it, he thought, kneeling on the pavement, frustrated. I can see the movements of a hawk's wing a hundred feet in the air, but I didn't see this fucking pothole two feet in front of me.
Wincing, he stood and tried to jog a few steps. No go: his ankle was screaming at him and the pain was shooting up into his calf and knee. Sighing, he started the slow hobble-walk back home.
He was at the top of the stairs when he heard Blair's voice.
"Barry, are you out of your mind?"
Jim paused. Was someone else in the apartment? Was he interrupting something? He listened closely: no, only one heartbeat. But there was a tinny voice responding.
"Blair, calm down, okay?"
Blair was on the phone. With someone named Barry. Who had evidently pissed him off.
Jim knew he should've just walked in—unlocked the door, stepped inside, as usual. It was his apartment, after all. He lived there. He and Blair walked in on each other's lives all the time. But something held him back, and he paused, and listened.
Blair exhaled heavily. "I'm calm," he said, after a minute. "This thing is just making me nuts, that's all."
"Tell me a little more about the fantasies," the voice—Barry—said.
"Oh, *man*," Blair said, and Jim could hear the rueful grin in his voice. "They're something else."
"And?" Barry prompted.
"Okay," Blair said. "There's this one—God, you're going to think I'm a total basket case."
"Blair," Barry said, "it's not doing you much good to call me all the way in New Jersey if you're not going to talk."
And Jim thought, New Jersey? Who's Barry, why is Blair calling him in New Jersey, and if this—whatever—is so important, why isn't he talking about it to me?
The awareness that Blair was confiding in someone else—someone he'd never even heard Blair mention—stung a little.
"All right," Blair said, "there's this one where he gets hurt. I mean, police work is dangerous, right? He's always getting hurt."
And it took Jim a minute to realize Blair was talking about *him*. The idea of Blair fantasizing about him getting hurt confused him, and for a moment he forgot the pain in his ankle. Why would Blair be fantasizing about him getting hurt?
"And in the fantasy," Blair was continuing, "he comes home with amnesia." He laughed, self-conscious. "I know, totally trite, right?"
"Not trite, Blair. I think I know where you're going with this, but keep talking."
Good thing *somebody* knows where he's going with this, Jim thought, because I sure as hell don't.
"And, y'know, he remembers me, remembers that I'm Blair, but doesn't remember what our relationship is," Blair said. "So I tell him we're lovers."
Oh my God.
"And?" Barry prompted.
"And what do you think? He says 'of course, I knew I loved you,' we make mad passionate love—which I could tell you about in excruciating detail, but I won't—and my entire universe is fulfilled," Blair said, sarcastic.
"There's no need to be defensive," Barry said. "You wish you could redefine your relationship."
"Yeah," Blair admitted.
Ive been transported to some kind of alternate universe, Jim thought. This isnt happening.
"And that's why I asked if you could maybe talk to him about this."
"Which is when I asked if you were out of your fucking mind, Barry," Blair said, his voice rising. "I mean, the unfortunate thing here is that Jim's straighter than straight. You can't imagine anyone more straight than Jim. And the way the fantasy always ends, *unfortunately*, is that one day he wakes up and remembers everything and when he realizes that I've been basically taking advantage of his body..." The words trailed off.
"What?"
Jim could almost hear Blair shrug. "Whatever, man. It gets ugly."
"You don't think he would hurt you?"
Sitting in the stairwell, Jim bristled. That officious little prick. What did he know? Barry-in-New-Jersey—he had no idea who Jim was, no idea at all.
"No, not really," Blair said.
Vindicated! Jim thought.
"Although he's been known to knock me around a little," Blair said, and Jim froze. "I mean, he threw me up against a wall the day we met."
"Blair..." Barry sounded warning.
"No, no, I know what you're thinking. It's not an abusive relationship, Barry. Honestly. I'm just making stupid jokes because this whole thing makes me nervous."
Jim breathed a sigh of relief.
"More likely, he'd just tell me to get the hell out of his life," Blair said, and there was something in his voice that made Jim's chest ache. "And I couldn't take that, Barry, I couldn't."
"I hear that," Barry said. There was a pause. "I still think you should try talking to him," he said. "Look: our time's almost up, but for Wednesday, I want you to give some thought to how you could maybe open the lines of communication with Jim. Find a non-threatening way to bring some of this up. I think it would be really good for you, Blair."
Wednesday? Of course: Wednesday, standing racquetball date with Rafe. He's calling this guy in New Jersey twice a week, Jim thought. Because he can't tell me...
...what? That's he's bisexual? That he's attracted to me?
That he's in love with me. Jim closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. He's afraid I'd kick him out. For real, this time.
Well, would I?
Jim opened his eyes. Heard Blair hanging up the phone. Hauled himself to his feet and couldn't help a groan. And heard Blair's hurried footsteps, and then Blair was at the door, looking concerned.
"Are you okay?" Blair asked.
No, I'm not okay, Jim thought. I've just listened in on your conversation with your therapist, which was all about me, and I don't have the foggiest fucking clue what to do about it.
"Twisted my ankle," he said. "At the corner."
"Oh, man," Blair said, coming out and putting his arm around Jim. "Let me help you inside." And Jim was aware of Blair's body in a way he hadn't been, before, aware of Blair's physical presence, of the way Blair's hip felt against his, and he didn't know what the awareness meant, didn't know what to do with it at all.
"At least you got your run in before you went down," Blair said.
"Yeah," Jim lied, and let himself be led to the sofa, and put his foot up on the arm, and closed his eyes.
The rest of the afternoon was miserable. Jim's ankle throbbed and his head was spinning. This is what they call 'too much information,' he thought, at least a hundred times. I didn't need to know this. I didn't want to know this.
He wished, not for the first time, that his sense-memory weren't so good. Because if he tried, he could still feel the imprint of Blair's body against his from when Blair had helped him lie down, and it wasn't something he wanted to remember. Because no matter what he'd just listened in on, he wasn't interested in men.
And anger would flare at Blair, a little voice hissing, why the fuck did he have to say that?
And then another voice would chime in, why the fuck did you sit there and listen, asshole? You're the one who sat in the stairwell listening in on his private conversation with his therapist, for crying out loud.
Part of him felt betrayed. This wasn't in the rules of their relationship; this wasn't how things were supposed to go. But part of him felt like the worse traitor, because he had listened, hadn't he? He'd sat there listening to something he knew he wasn't supposed to hear. All these years of carefully avoiding turning his senses on his room-mate, wanting to give the guy some privacy, wanting to have something like a normal relationship even though he could hear the blood pumping in Sandburg's veins, and he'd blown it all in one half-hour.
"Hey," Blair said softly, putting a hand on Jim's shoulder.
Jim flinched. "Don't touch me," he said.
Blair stepped back and Jim could see the hurt in his eyes. "Sorry," he said, his posture changing a little, withdrawing.
"No," Jim hastened. "It's just—you jostled the ankle," he said, lying again.
Blair's face cleared a little. "Oh," he said. "Didn't mean to. I just wondered if you wanted anything. I could go get some fresh fruit juice, maybe. Or some beer—we're down to our last three, and they're Grolsch."
Jim made a face and Blair laughed. "Yeah, I know. H brought a case over the other night and I tried to get the guys to drink 'em, but Simon was smarter than that. He knew we'd have decent beer, so he went and found it."
Jim smiled, remembering, and for a moment the weight of the day slipped away. Yeah. Poker night. That'd been fun. Turned out Blair was a fine poker player; evidently he could bluff with the best of them.
Poker face. Bluffing. Hiding things. Oh, God, there it was again, and Jim closed his eyes.
"Beer might be good," he said.
"I'll get dinner, too. Got any requests?"
"Not hungry," Jim said.
"That's cause it's only four o'clock," Blair said, patiently.
"Fine, get whatever." Jim didn't open his eyes until Blair was gone.
"Barry Sandolovsky, please," Blair said.
"One moment," said the receptionist, and there was music Jim strained to hear, distant radio on the other coast. He was still limping, which meant racquetball was out, but he'd told Sandburg he was going to go get a cup of coffee, that he just wanted to get out of the house.
Which was true, as far as it went; he wanted to get out of the house and into the stairwell. Where he sat on the next-to-top step, again, hoping no one would walk by.
"Barry," the now-familiar voice said.
"Hey," Blair said. The life had gone out of his voice.
"You sound like shit," Barry observed.
Jim snorted quietly. Like it takes a PhD to figure that one out.
"I feel like shit," Blair said.
"Hmm." Noncommittal. "Want to give me more information?"
Blair sighed. "Jim hurt himself Saturday," he said.
"Badly?"
"No—just a twisted ankle, but he's been limping the last few days."
"Hey, that's good," Barry said, and Jim bristled.
"Good? Why the hell is that good?"
You go, Sandburg, Jim thought. Rip him a new one.
"You can take care of him," Barry pointed out. "This could be a great opportunity."
"Well, it's not," Blair said. "It's been awful."
"You don't like to see him suffer," Barry guessed.
"No—I mean, yeah, that's part of it. But the worst is, he won't let me do anything for him. I think something else is wrong. He's barely said four words to me since Saturday morning, and every time I come near him it's like his guard comes up."
Jim closed his eyes, leaned his head against the cold wall and listened. Sandburg was right: his guard *was* coming up. But what else was he supposed to do? He couldn't let the kid in, not now.
Because it wasnt right to lead Blair on, which was obviously what hed been doing. It wasnt fair to Blair, giving him the hope of something that simply wasnt possible.
And its fair to Blair to treat him like shit, a voice in his head needled? He ignored it and listened to Barrys voice again.
"You feel he's blocking you out."
"You have no idea how hard this is for me," Blair said, quietly. "Look, I have enough abandonment issues to fill an oil tanker, okay? I don't resent Naomi for the way I grew up, I really don't, but—"
Jim's anger flared. He's comparing me to Naomi, Jim thought. After the way she raised him, after all that moving around and leaving-behind, he's comparing me to Naomi.
And who was it that threw him out of the loft? the voice asked. Who is it that's ignoring him now?
His anger burned out as quickly as it had appeared. When he listened in again Barry was talking. "You don't resent her *consciously*," Barry said. "Subconsciously, I think some damage was done."
"I don't think that's—"
Barry cut him off. "That's why they call it sub-conscious," he said, and Blair gave a small laugh, like he couldn't help it.
"Yeah, okay." Jim could hear him run his fingers through his hair.
"Abandonment issues," Barry prompted, gently.
"Jim's the most stable thing in my life," Blair said. "The last few months have been pretty awful—"
"The dissertation fiasco."
"--yeah, and fighting with Naomi, and making it through the academy—which was *not* easy, you wouldn't believe some of the names I got called—"
And Jim felt protective, for a moment, wondering who had had the gall to call his partner names, wanting to kick that punk cadet's ass, whoever he was.
"--I mean, 'faggot' was the nicest they could come up with," Blair was continuing, and Jim felt a coldness replace the anger. Because it was true, wasn't it?
No, he thought, that's wrong. Just because he's interested in men (interested in *me*, said the little voice, which he ignored) doesn't mean they can insult him for it.
"--but I got through it because I knew Jim was waiting on the other side. I knew we'd be partners, for real," Blair said. "And now I feel like it's falling apart."
"Relationships have ebbs and flows," Barry said. "This could just be a down-turn."
"I don't know," Blair said. There was a pause. "I don't think I can talk to him."
"Blair—"
"No, I can't," and this time Blair was insistent. "You don't know how it's been, you don't know how I'm feeling."
And Jim couldn't take it, couldn't take feeling this low or hearing Blair sound this defeated, so he stood and thumped back to the door, and as his key went into the lock he heard Blair saying, "Hey, gotta go, catch you later," and he sounded perky again. Like he was talking to someone he liked, to a woman --
-- or to a man, Jim thought --
and he stepped in as Blair was hanging up the phone.
"Coffee any good?" Blair asked.
And Jim could see that he was reaching out, see that he was trying, and part of him wanted to reach back and say hey, Chief, we haven't talked in three days and I miss you. But he couldn't make himself do it.
"Fine," he said, curt, and pulled himself up the stairs to his room. Where he sat on his bed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand, feeling a headache coming on - whether from the focused listening or from the accumulated stress, he wasn't sure.
I'm going to go back down there, he thought. In a minute. I'm going to go back down there and try to act like a civilized human being.
But before he could work up the courage, he heard Blair grab jacket and keys, then slam the door. He fell asleep before Blair returned.
The jungle was tinged with blue, the half-moonlight of the dreamworld. Jim was tracking something: an animal? An enemy?
He heard its breathing and reached for his quiver, but his arrows weren't there.
He closed his eyes and listened hard, and the sound of his prey resolved: short, fast breathing; a heartbeat ratcheted high. Blair's heartbeat.
Jim woke up tangled in his sheets, but the sound continued. It was three in the morning and Blair was downstairs, heart rate up, breathing quick and almost pained.
With a start Jim realized: Blair was downstairs touching himself. And he'd dialed up hearing in his sleep, brought Blair's sound and scent into his dreams, woken himself up listening.
A moment later he heard Blair's breath catch in his throat and smelled the pungent salt of his release. Jim could feel his face reddening. He couldn't believe he'd listened in.
And—to add insult to injury—he was hard as a rock.
I am not dealing with this, Jim thought. He rolled onto his side, curled his hands beneath his head and made himself fall back asleep.
He awoke to messy sheets.
Simon called them into his office on Thursday morning. They sat: Blair didn't hover near Jim. In fact, he barely looked at Jim at all.
"You boys okay?"
"Yes, sir," Jim said, not looking at his partner.
"Sure," Blair said, and it was all Jim could do not to wince at the disjunction between Blair's breezy voice and the unhappiness he knew was underneath it.
Simon looked at them, hard, then shook his head and reached for a file folder, which he handed to Blair. "I want you to help Homicide with the Fortier case."
"I thought that was a simple one," Blair said. "Just murder."
Just murder. God, they'd come a long way from the days when Blair couldn't keep his lunch down at a crime scene, hadn't they?
"New evidence," Simon said. "Pair of men found on the docks last night. Either our killer is back but isn't doing a very good job, or we've got a copycat who's not quite up to snuff. In any case, the men are alive; one's in the ICU."
Blair opened the folder and looked at the photograph, face blank.
"Looks like it's a gaybashing," Simon said, and Blair stiffened, slightly.
Blair handed the folder over and Jim scanned the photos: he'd seen worse, but it was pretty grisly.
Jim cast a quick glance at Blair, who looked unusually pale. His heartrate was up and one hand was clenching the edge of his jacket so hard Jim was surprised it didn't rip.
For a moment the impulse to reach over and place a hand on Blair's back was strong. That's what he would have done a week ago, he knew; they'd done it for years. Just reassurance.
But they hadn't so much as brushed by each other in three days. Images flashed behind his eyes: the man in the ICU, having to stand there with Blair, having to question them. Knowing this could happen to Blair. Not that it would, because no one knew Blair liked men, no one but him --
-- and for that matter, what was up with him? With that dream? With listening to Blair?
Jim felt dizzy. "I can't work this case," he said, brusquely. Simon looked at him, disbelieving. "Not with him. I'm sorry, Captain." He didn't have to look to know Blair was wounded, surprised, hurt, and he couldn't take it: he stood and left the room.
On his way into the men's room he heard Simon say, "Sandburg, what the hell is the matter with him?"
He didn't want to, but he heard Blair's quiet answer. "I think it's me."
Jim stopped walking and focused on hearing: he'd listened in on so much already, a little more couldn't make things worse, could it? His whole body was tense: how much did Blair know? Did Blair somehow know what he'd listened to? God, what was Blair going to tell Simon?
"Explain, Sandburg," Simon said, not unkindly.
"I can't," Blair said. He sounded even more defeated than he'd sounded on the phone the night before. "But I think you need to find Jim a new partner."
When he came back out Blair was gone. He didn't return.
Simon ignored Jim for the rest of the day, and he left a little early. It was beautiful and sunny, as Saturday had been, but Jim wasn't enjoying it.
A new partner? Every time he thought about it he wanted to throw up. Half of him wanted to yell, you can't just fucking leave me like that! Jesus, what new partner could possibly understand who Jim was?
Then again, things weren't exactly working well at the moment. Or working at all. Jim wished he could call visions up intentionally, he wished he could make his spirit guide manifest, he wished someone would tell him what the hell to do. Because he wasn't interested in Blair; he'd never even considered sex with men, and he just couldn't imagine it.
Couldn't imagine what they would do. What it would feel like to kiss someone with five o'clock shadow, instead of lipstick. To hold a body strong as his own. To touch another man's dick. To see his own cock disappearing into another man's mouth.
God. He was getting hard. Jim bit the inside of his mouth, hard enough to draw blood, letting the taste distract him. This wasn't a useful train of thought. What he wanted to know was, what was he supposed to do about this? Because they couldn't continue the way they were, that much was clear.
Blair's car was parked in the lot, and as Jim came up the stairs he stretched out his hearing for Blair's heartbeat. Which was there. He sighed and made himself enter, hating that it was so exhausting just to come home.
He found Blair sitting on the sofa, staring at the darkened television. He didn't turn his head, didn't offer a greeting, didn't say anything.
"Sandburg," Jim said, and Blair made a small sound of acknowledgement.
"Chief, we've got to talk," Jim said, and this time Blair turned his head, gave him a look he couldn't interpret.
"You think?" he asked, words clipped.
"Yeah. I do." Heavily Jim made his way to the chair, still favoring the ankle, and sat down.
"So," Blair said.
There was a pause.
"This was your idea; you start," Blair said, sounding a little snide. It made Jim angry, until he looked beneath the surface, saw the slight tremble in Blair's hands, heard the frantic panicked beat of his heart.
"You told Simon to find me a new partner," Jim said, making his voice matter-of-fact instead of accusatory. As if this were an ordinary conversation to be having.
"Yeah," Blair said, toneless.
Jim chose his words carefully. "That's not your decision to make," he said.
Blair looked at him and his eyes were angry, the first life Jim had seen in him since walking in the door. "The hell it's not," he said. "You've been treating me like a leper all week, you won't talk to me, you won't look at me, you evidently can't work with me, and if you're not going to tell me what the fuck I did to piss you off, I might as well get out of your life."
It's a defense mechanism, Jim told himself. Stay calm.
"I don't want you out of my life," he said, and felt a strange relief. It was true: he didn't. This week had been a nightmare, but he didn't want Blair gone.
Blair took a deep breath. "Then what's going on?"
"I—you're going to be really upset," he said.
"Can't be worse than it already is," Blair said, and there was a wry undertone to his voice.
"I lied about something," Jim said.
"Okay," Blair prompted.
"Something important."
"Spill it."
Jim inhaled, exhaled, folded his hands. "When I twisted my ankle on Saturday," he said, and Blair nodded, encouraging. "I didn't do it at the end of my run. I did it just as I was setting out."
For an instant Blair looked confused. Jim could see the understanding dawning.
"I was back at the building about ten minutes after I left."
"Jesus Christ," Blair said. "You listened to me."
Jim looked down: he couldn't face him.
"You son of a bitch, you listened to me."
"I'm sorry," Jim started, and Blair cut him off.
"You bastard," he said, his voice rising. "Of all the slimy, miserable, low-life things to do, you listened to me talk to my fucking *therapist*."
"I'm *sorry*," Jim said again, but Blair wasn't listening.
"Now this whole thing makes sense. Jesus, I knew it. You're so disgusted by the fact that I want you, you can't even look at me." Blair stood, and Jim looked at him, and what he saw on Blair's face—the anger, the hurt, the closing-away—brought him unsteady to his own feet.
"I'm leaving," Blair said.
"Blair, wait," but Blair was heading for the door, and Jim had to stop him, so he tried to move fast.
Which was a big mistake, because he landed hard on his bad ankle, and he was so intent on catching Blair that he didn't break his own fall, and he hit the ground hard, his head knocking back, and everything went dark.
A moonlit field, a northern meadow of tall pale grass. Running, powerful legs pumping, chasing his prey. He felt the cold air against his sleek coat, he sniffed the air, he ran harder.
Just ahead, at the edge of his vision, the wolf loped away.
The cat yowled, a sound of anguish, and the wolf stopped a moment, looked back, gave a quiet whimper and ran on.
Jim woke up in a hospital bed. The fluorescent light hurt his eyes, the IV drip felt like a battle-ax wedged beneath his skin, his mouth tasted like plastic.
"Look who's rejoined the land of the living," a voice said dryly.
Simon.
"Sandburg—" Jim started.
"--isn't here," Simon said. Jim closed his eyes, a wave of despair passing through him. He hadn't run hard enough. He had lost him.
"It's not like I shot your dog," Simon chided. "What the hell am I, chopped liver? I've been sitting here waiting for you to wake up, the least you could do is look happy to see me."
"Thanks, Simon," Jim said, his mouth dry. "I just—didn't mean to lose him."
"Nobody's lost," said Blair's voice from the edge of the door, and Jim turned, a little wild. "Just went to get some coffee from the Dunkin Donuts on the corner. The crap they serve here sucks," and he set two styrofoam cups down on the bedside table. "Didn't know you'd be up or I'd have gotten you some, too," he said, lightly.
Jim reached a hand out. "Blair," he said.
Just then a nurse bustled in. "Glad to see you awake, Mr. Ellison."
"I'm fine," Jim said. "I just hit my head."
"You gave your brain quite a rattle," the nurse said. "We'd like to run some tests."
"Jim's chemically-sensitive," Blair said, quickly.
Jim looked at him, grateful and nervous. Blair thought he was a slimy, miserable, low-life bastard, didn't he? And, to a certain extent, he was. So why was Blair stepping in and taking care of him?
"No chemicals, just some scans," the nurse said cheerfully. "Let's get you to the MRI room."
"Blair—" Jim said. "Don't go."
Blair seemed to look through him. "I'm not going," he said.
'Yet,' Jim's mind added.
"Stay and take me home," Jim said. Trying not to plead out loud, trying to say everything with his eyes, but he could tell that Blair didn't see.
They rode back to the house in silence and Blair helped Jim to the elevator, down the hall, in the door.
"Time for you to rest," he said.
"No," said Jim.
Blair looked at him with a trace of humor. "You're a stubborn bastard," he said. "But it's time for you to rest."
"It's time for me to apologize," Jim said.
Blair looked tired. "Jim, we can't do this now," he said.
"We *can*," Jim said. "We have to. Please."
"You need to be lying down," Blair said. "Nurse's orders."
"Fuck the nurse," Jim said. "Sit with me."
They moved to the sofa. They sat at opposite ends—but still, Jim thought, it was a start, it was better than nothing.
"I didn't mean to listen," he said, after a minute. Blair was silent. "But once I heard a little bit I just couldn't stop. And then I realized you were talking about me—"
"Look, forget it, okay? Let's just pretend this whole week didn't happen."
"No," Jim said, again. "I don't want to."
Blair's temper flared. "What, you don't want to, so we have to do what you want, is that it?"
"I want to do what *you* want," Jim said.
"I want to pretend this never—"
Jim cut him off. "No, I mean," and he could feel his cheeks flushing. "What you wanted. Before. If you still want it."
Smooth, Ellison, he thought. Way to sound articulate.
Blair's face was unreadable. "I don't think that's a good idea," he said.
"Come on, Blair," Jim said, feeling the beginnings of desperation. He'd planned this all out in the car and this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
"I can't, Jim."
"Blair, I—"
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I don't care," Jim said, voice cracking. "I'll learn."
"I can't go through this again," Blair said.
"You won't be going through anything."
Blair took a deep breath and released it. "Jim," he said, more quietly this time. "You need to understand something. I think I'm in love with you and I can't risk this, okay? If I've learned anything this week, it's that you're in so close you can shatter me. I can't let you do that."
"I'm not going to shatter you," Jim insisted. "Please, Blair." You can shatter me, too, he thought. Cant you tell this goes both ways?
Blair sighed and stood. Jim reached over, grabbed his wrist. "I chased you," he said.
Blair looked at him, startled. "What?"
"I chased you," Jim repeated. "When I was unconscious."
Blair looked poleaxed. His hands clenched uselessly at his sides; Jim could feel the bones of his forearm move.
"I closed my eyes in the ambulance and I was in a field," he said, so quietly Jim had to listen hard.
"*Yes*," Jim said. "But you outran me."
"I had to," Blair said. There was a pause. "I'm scared," he admitted. "Jim, what I went through this afternoon ± I cant do that again—"
"You're not going to," Jim said, intently. He pulled himself to standing, a little unsteady, and looked a question at his partner. Blair looked wary, but not forbidding, so Jim stepped a little closer, dared to slip an arm around him, and then they were holding on, standing in the middle of the living room with their arms around each other. And it was strange, but he could feel Blair's heartbeat, and it was like an anchor.
Hesitant, Jim bent and placed a kiss on Blair's head. Blair moved, looked up at him, and then they were kissing—soft, at first, and then Jim's teeth grazed Blair's lip and Blair was melting into him, their bodies pressed against each other, and Jim felt himself sigh at Blair's arms holding him together. Blair was holding him together. As he always had.
Blair broke the kiss, his eyes mingling wonderment and longing and still a little fear.
"Maybe you were right," Jim said, his voice low, hoping Blair would get the hint. "Maybe I belong in bed."
Blair looked at him, his mouth quirking into a cautious smile. "You might need some help getting up those stairs," he said.
Yes! Jim thought. He's getting it!
"I might need some help getting out of these clothes," Jim said. Come on, Sandburg, trust me, he thought. Please trust me. There was a second's pause.
"I could do that," Blair said, and Jim found himself smiling a real smile for the first time all week.
"Lead the way," he said.
They sat at the edge of Jim's bed, knees touching, while Blair unfastened Jim's shirt and pulled it away. There was a tenderness in his gestures that uncorked something deep in Jim's chest. He's always been here, Jim thought. Why didn't I know he would be tender?
Jim reached a hand for the bottom of Blair's sweatshirt, and Blair tensed.
"Let me see you?" Jim asked, softly.
"Please don't be fucking with me, please don't be fucking with me," Blair muttered, half to Jim, half a prayer.
Jim pulled back, rested his hands on his thighs. "You know," he said, a little exasperated, "I'm the one who just kissed a man for the first time; I can't imagine why the fuck you're nervous."
Blair's shoulders relaxed slightly. "You've been so contrite since we got home," he said, "I was wondering if it was really you in there."
"I don't have amnesia, Sandburg," Jim said. For a split second he was afraid he'd gone too far.
Then he saw the grin on his partner's face. "Fuck you," Blair said, but he looked happy.
"I dunno, the nurse said I should take it easy, maybe we should hold that one 'til tomorrow," Jim said. He was mostly joking, but a flush of anticipation ran through him anyway. I didn't know I wanted that, he thought, surprised.
Next thing he knew he was flat on his back with a hundred and sixty pounds of Sandburg kneeling over him. "Smartass," Blair said, before bending to kiss him again.
And oh, this was good. This was very good.
Jim's hands scrabbled at the edge of the sweatshirt again and this time Blair knelt up, took his shirt in both hands, and tugged it off. The day was full of surprises; Jim had never paid close attention to the lines and curves of a man's chest, had no idea how erotic a ring could look in a small, flat nipple. "Didn't know..." he murmured.
"Scoot back," Blair said, and he did, and then Blair was lying beside him, stretched along his body, climbing on top of him and he shivered to feel the nipple ring and Blair's curls brush against him. "Didn't know what?" Blair asked, placing a kiss on Jim's throat.
"Ahhh," Jim sighed, caught in the hot wetness of Blair's mouth sucking at his skin, then remembered Blair's question. "How beautiful," he said.
Blair pulled back, propped on one elbow, and looked at him with unreadable eyes. "Me?" he asked.
Jim's eyes took in the expressive eyes, the full mouth, the arms and chest he was only beginning to know and wanted, suddenly, desperately, to know better. "Yeah," he said, and pushed Blair onto his back, and took his own turn at bracing himself on top. He kissed his way down Blair's throat, cataloguing every sensation: the feel of Blair's skin, the tiny points of stubble, the way the texture changed where his chest hair began.
And there were these perfect circles in the swath of hair, cinnamon-dusky orbs, and Jim tasted one with his tongue and was rewarded with a gasp. He liked that sound. He wanted to hear it again.
So he closed his mouth around Blair's nipple and sucked, gently at first, then harder. How could he not have realized that he wanted to please his partner like this? That making love with a man was not an alien enterprise, just a new body to explore, a new set of reactions to learn and savor?
His fingers found the other nipple, he rolled it between finger and thumb, he brushed his body against the (surprising) hardness at Blair's crotch, and suddenly Blair was pushing him back, pushing him away.
"What?" he asked, confused and a little forlorn. "I was enjoying that."
Blair was satisfyingly flushed. "So was I," he said.
"So?" Jim ran a hand along Blair's chest.
"Too much," Blair said. "Keep that up and I'm gonna come in my pants like a teenager."
The idea that he could make Blair come in his pants was heady: he wasn't sure anyone had ever wanted him that badly.
He didn't know what he was doing. Then again, he knew what he enjoyed.
So he pushed himself back a few feet, and bent his head, and placed his mouth on the hottest part of Blair's jeans, and breathed. He could feel Blair's shape through the denim and he mouthed it, lightly.
Above him he heard Blair moan.
Jim rubbed his mouth along Blair's length. He was torn: half of him wanted to make Blair shoot in his jeans, the other half of him wanted to see Blair's cock, to touch it, to taste it.
Making Blair come with his pants still on, Jim decided, was an appropriate compromise.
He unbuttoned the jeans and pulled them down to mid-thigh, peeling the boxer briefs after them, and stopped for a minute to enjoy the spectacle. Blair was lying beneath him, pants shoved down, hands gripping the bedspread, eyes closed, nipples taut and erection straining up. Jim bent and breathed in Blair's smell, nuzzled at his wiry pubic curls, let his lips brush the root of Blair's cock.
Blair made a small, restrained sound.
"Look at me," Jim murmured, and Blair opened his eyes and propped himself up just in time to see Jim lick the length of his cock in one slow, lazy stroke.
Blair groaned, his voice breaking. The sound sent shivers up Jim's spine.
"You like this, huh?" Jim licked again. Blair's cock was hot and hard and tasted like skin and sweat and salt.
"Yeah," Blair managed. He was near the edge: Jim could feel it.
Jim opened his mouth, licked the tip of Blair's cock, and slid it inside his mouth. He only made it about halfway down the shaft, but it didn't matter; Blair choked out a cry and his whole body tensed as he pulsed into Jim's mouth.
After a moment Jim swallowed and pulled away, resting his head on Blair's belly. I just gave Blair a blowjob, he thought. He felt giddy.
"You okay?" Blair asked, his hand stroking Jim's hair.
"Yeah," Jim said, moving to lie beside him.
"You sound surprised," Blair observed.
Jim considered this. "I kind of am," he said. "I didn't know I could do that."
"Damn," Blair said. They grinned at each other. And then Blair moved to kiss him, and Blair was on top of him, and he could feel Blair's jeans rubbing against his legs, and then the heat of Blair's bare skin.
And Blair moved down and played with his nipples, the lightest touches of finger and tongue, until Jim was arching up. "Tell me if this is good," Blair murmured, giving a tiny bite.
"Good..." Jim sighed. And God, it was.
And Blair moved down further and unfastened Jim's chinos with quick fingers, and every brush of hand near his cock was torment, and then Jim's pants and boxers were on the floor and he was naked. Blair was kneeling, knees between Jim's legs, pushed-down jeans still bunched and rubbing against Jim's skin, and Jim was sure he'd never been so hard in his life.
Blair ran a hand along the length of his cock, a gentle upstroke, and Jim bit his lip at the feel of it. Fingers encircled his crown, a thumb stroked over the tip, and then Blair bent and engulfed him in his mouth. The heat and suction felt so good, so good, and he was half-aware that he was saying those words aloud, and then he thrust up and Blair stilled, letting him fuck his mouth, and Jim felt his pleasure building—and then Blair grabbed him firmly at the base of his cock and did something with his throat and Jim groaned and came.
He heard Blair stripping his jeans away, and then he became aware of Blair standing at the top of the stairs. He opened his eyes.
"Going somewhere?" he asked.
Blair blushed. Cock soft now and nestled at the intersection of torso and thigh, he looked rumpled and vulnerable. "I figured you needed sleep," he said.
I could let him go downstairs, Jim thought. I could lie here by myself and try to process the fact that I just made love with a man—that I want to do it again—that my whole universe is upside-down.
"Sleep with me?" he asked.
The room was darkening but Blair's smile was incandescent. "Yeah, of course," he said, and climbed back onto the bed. Jim pulled a blanket up and moved to hold his partner in his arms.
"I can't believe this day," Blair said.
"I hear that," Jim said, wryly.
There was a pause.
"Can I ask you something?" Blair's voice was quiet.
"Shoot."
"What made you...change your mind?" Blair sounded nonchalant but Jim could feel his body trying not to tense. He pressed a small kiss to the nape of Blair's neck.
"I think I've kind of been in denial," Jim said. "I kept thinking I couldn't imagine making love with you, and then I'd imagine it. A lot."
Blair chuckled.
"And this afternoon when you stood up to walk out it just hit me that I couldn't let that happen."
"Tell me you didn't do this out of some sense of misplaced loyalty." Blair sounded tense again.
"No, I did this because I love you, you idiot," Jim said, squeezing Blair tight for a second, until he yelped.
"Oh," Blair said, when he regained his breath, and Jim could hear the smile in his voice.
They didn't say anything for a while and Jim was almost drifting into sleep when Blair spoke up again.
"I love you, too," he said.
"Yeah," Jim said. "I know."
The End