conviction





Conviction
by lamardeuse






Rating:  NC-17

Pairing:  Jim/Blair








Jim should’ve known it was going to be a shitty weekend when he woke up with the five-alarm headache Friday morning.  Blair had tried all of his fix-the-Sentinel tricks, but none of them had worked.   To make things worse, they’d cracked a big case yesterday, which meant paperwork and staring at the computer for hours on end.  Over the course of the morning the pounding in Jim’s skull escalated to the point where his eyeballs felt like they were going to spontaneously pop out of his head. And so when the call came through on his cell phone right when he was trying to get some lunch stuffed into his face, he knew it was Trouble with a capital T.

“Hello, Jim.”

Jim shut his eyes, hoping the eyelids would manage to restrain them if they attempted escape.  Make that a capital N, he amended silently.  “Hi.”  He didn’t speak her name because Sandburg was sitting right beside him munching on his own sandwich.

“I’m sorry to bother you—I suppose you must be at work.”

“That’s right.”  He risked opening his eyes and was confronted by a quizzical look from his partner.  Jim shook his head slightly.

“And Blair is there.”

“Two for two.”  He knew he sounded terse.  The pain made it necessary to spit the words out in short bursts.  At least that’s what he told himself.

On the other end of the line, Naomi sighed.  “Listen, I know we didn’t part on the best of terms.  I’ve spent some time processing Blair’s decision—”

Jim flashed back to the scene in the bullpen when Blair accepted the offer of a badge, remembering the smiles on the faces of everyone there, even Simon.  Too bad one of those smiles hadn’t been genuine. 

“—and I’m hoping we’ll be able to come to a new understanding of one another.”

Later that day, Blair had found Naomi crying quietly in his room.  Are you sure, Blair?  she kept asking him.  Are you sure?

Jim noticed that Blair never answered her, just kept saying It’s going to be all right.  I’m going to be all right. 

Which meant that Blair wasn’t sure.

They gave Blair his own gun two weeks ago.  Jim knew he’d been the only one able to pick up the minute tremor in Sandburg’s hands when the sergeant placed the Glock in them.  Blair turned out to be a crack shot, and there was no doubt in Jim’s mind that Blair would back him up one hundred percent, just as he’d been doing for the past three years.

But at night he heard Naomi’s soft voice asking, Are you sure, Blair?  Are you sure?

“Jim?  Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” Jim said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.  Blair laid a warm hand on his left forearm and the pain subsided a little.

“I—I’m back in Cascade, and I thought I could cook for the two of you tonight.  I have a great Thai recipe I picked up—well.”  She paused.  “I know you both like Thai.”

“That’s nice of you,” Jim began, “but I—”

“Please, Jim,” Naomi breathed.  “You know he hasn’t returned my calls.”  Jim hadn’t known that; his heart rate kicked up a notch, erasing the soothing effect of Blair’s hand.  “I’m worried about my son.”

“You don’t have to worry about him,” Jim said, more angrily than he’d intended.  “I would—” die for him, he’d been about to say, and the thought startled him with its fierceness.  It was not, however, a revelation; he’d first thought it months ago as he bent over Sandburg’s wet, lifeless body, the irrational mantra take me, not him, take me, not him repeating itself over and over in his head as he forced air into those water-choked lungs.  Collecting himself, he murmured, “We’re partners.  We look out for each other.  That’s the way it works.”

Blair’s head snapped up at that, and the hand tightened on Jim’s arm.  Naomi’s sigh sounded resigned this time.  “I know that.  That’s the only thing that lets me sleep at night.  Jim, I like you and I trust you.  Please believe that.”

“I do.  And the feeling is mutual.”  Blair reached for the phone, but Jim held up a sharp hand.  “We’ll be home around six.  Come by anytime after that.”

“Thank you,” Naomi said, emotion roughening her voice.  “I’ll see you both soon.”

Jim hit the end button and kept his eyes on the phone while he listened to the sound of Blair’s breathing. 

“So, she’s back in town, huh?”  The normally animated voice was flat and toneless.

“Yeah,” Jim heard himself say.  “Says she’s processed.”

Blair snorted, and Jim resisted the urge to add, at least one of you has.  He wondered why Sandburg hadn’t returned his mother’s calls.  Is he that afraid of what she has to say?  Is he that afraid she’ll change his mind?

No, that’s you, his inner voice added.

Jim cleared his throat.  “Sounds like she wants to mend some fences, Chief.”  He risked a glance at his partner, but couldn’t read the expression on his downturned face.  “Listen,” he managed, summoning resolve from some deeply buried well.  “I know what it’s like to cut yourself off from family.”  Blair looked up at that, his blue eyes boring into Jim’s already tortured skull.  “Trust me.  It’s not anything you want to do to yourself if you don’t have to.”

Blair hesitated for a moment, then nodded.  “Yeah.  Okay.”

Jim returned his attention to his abandoned lunch only to find his appetite had deserted him.  He leaned over and threw the remainder of his sandwich in the trash, then steeled himself to finish this damned report.  If they hurried, they could be done in an hour and he could go home and get a nap before Naomi came over.  And if he was lucky, he’d sleep through the whole thing, and when he woke up Sandburg would already be gone.  He hated goodbyes—

Jim closed his eyes against the sudden, overpowering wave of nausea.  Shit.  That’s what I get for thinking.
*~*~*~*~*~*



When Jim woke up and the sounds and smells of exotic foods sizzling in the wok didn’t make his stomach turn over, he knew his headache was gone.  Unfortunately, an entirely different kind of pain awaited him downstairs.

Naomi was as beautiful as ever, her saffron-colored hair both absorbing and reflecting the late afternoon light.  She turned and smiled at Jim, and this time the smile was a genuine one.  She made no move to embrace him, though, perhaps sensing his reticence.

“Hey,” Blair said, moving toward Jim.  “You okay?”  Blair’s hand rose, fingers splaying carefully over the back of Jim’s neck, the tips feathering into his close-cropped hair, cradling his skull.  Jim’s eyes widened slightly at the touch; sure, Sandburg was always touching him, but this was different in some subtle way.  Looking up, he observed that Naomi’s gaze was fixed on Jim, or rather on the part of him under Blair’s hand.

“I’m feeling a lot better,” Jim murmured, distracted by the gentle press of those fingers.  “Thanks.”  Blair’s hand retreated, but not before gliding halfway down Jim’s back.  Jim repressed a shudder.

“It’s good to see you again, Jim,” Naomi said warmly. 

“You too,” he said, meaning it as much as he could.  He opened his mouth, but no question felt safe enough to ask, so he closed it again.

“Blair’s been telling me about your latest case,” she said, adding a bowl of finely shredded peppers to the wok.  “You’re doing important work.”

Jim felt Blair tense beside him, and Naomi noticed it as well.  “I’m sorry, that sounded patronizing,” she breathed.  “I didn’t mean—”

“Look,” Jim interrupted, startling both Sandburgs, “let’s stop being so careful around one another, okay?”  Blair shot him a look, which he ignored.  “None of us is going to break.”

Liar, his inner voice taunted.

“That’s exactly what I was saying to Naomi earlier,” Blair said, that same hand coming to rest on the small of Jim’s back.  Jim felt the possessiveness of that touch as surely as he’d feel the jolt of a live electrical wire.  “It’s time for everyone to be honest about the way things really are.”

Jim stared down at Blair, but the top of his curly head revealed none of its owner’s secrets. 

“Yeah,” Jim agreed, without the faintest notion of what he was agreeing to.

Naomi dumped a bowl of chopped green onions into the wok.  The resulting acrid steam made Jim’s eyes water.
*~*~*~*~*~*



If the headache hadn’t addled his brain so much, Jim supposed he would have seen it coming.  But as it was, it came as a shock when Blair kissed him in front of his mother.

Not that Blair had ever kissed him in front of anybody, or kissed him at all, for that matter.  And ‘in front of’ was kind of a misnomer; ostensibly, Blair had done it when they were in the kitchen and Naomi was in the living room, but hey, open concept loft.  Blair had obviously kissed him for the benefit of Naomi—or rather, not for her benefit but to piss her off or give her a coronary or hell, who knew why the fuck Blair did anything half the time?  Who knew why he ate the shit he did and joined the police force and kissed Jim with warm dry lips that were softer than they had a right to be?

The kiss was over in a moment, but the imprint of Blair’s mouth lingered for long minutes on Jim’s, like an afterimage of the sun.  It wasn’t the best kiss Jim had ever received, not by the furthest stretch of the imagination, but it was impossible to imagine a kiss that left him as confused and shaken and God help him, hungry as that brief, maddening peck.

Because once he’d recovered from the holy shit what did he just do of it, Jim wanted Blair’s mouth back on his again.  He wanted Naomi to disappear so Jim could back Sandburg up against a wall and demand he do it properly this time.  Why should Jim get the short end of the stick?  Hell, after three years of putting up with wet towels on the floor, you’d think he’d have earned a little more effort.

When he heard Blair insisting that Naomi stay in the loft for the night, his hopes died.  There wouldn’t be any walls in their future, then, and that was okay, it was sensible, one little shock-the-mother kiss didn’t mean Jim had to turn his whole world upside down—

And then he was saying good night to Naomi and he started up the stairs and he turned around because he heard another set of footfalls on the treads and holy shit, Blair was following him up the stairs.  He met Blair’s gaze, a gaze that said just go with me on this one, and he swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat and nodded microscopically, but Blair saw it because the tension eased from his face.

As Jim resumed his ascent, it occurred to him that he really should have stayed in bed this morning.
*~*~*~*~*~*



“Sandburg, what the—”

“Shh.”

Jim’s jaw clenched, prompting a sharp pain to shoot through his temple.  “Dammit, she’s in the bathroom and she doesn’t have Sentinel hearing.  Now would you mind telling me what the fuck—”

“I told her we were lovers,” Blair said flatly, and Jim deflated like a popped balloon.  “It’s something she can understand.”  He chuckled.  “Well, not exactly understand.  Naomi’s always believed that linking your hopes and dreams with another person’s was a form of bondage.  But she’ll relate to that a lot easier than a belief in Truth, Justice and the American Way.”

Jim’s fried cerebellum attempted to keep up with Sandburg’s line of reasoning.  “So you lied to her because…?”

“Because this is the only way I could think of to make her leave me the hell alone,” Blair snapped.  “She started in on me about five minutes after she walked in the door.  Processed, my ass.  She was just looking for an excuse to get to me, to make me doubt myself.”

Jim blinked.  “She’s not doing it to hurt you, Chief.”

Blair sighed and sat heavily on the bed.  “I know.  But ever since that first time in Simon’s office, when she told me I wasn’t cut out for this kind of thing, I’ve heard her voice in my head whenever I think about what I’m doing playing cops and robbers.”

“You’re not playing,” Jim protested dully.  Are you?

Blair shot him a look.  “No, I’m not.  But she can’t see me in this role and she never will.  I’ll always be her free-love, hippie kid, even if I shave off all my hair and start wearing jackboots.”

“You’d look like a dick,” Jim said, picturing Blair shorn of his beautiful, crazy hair.  He lifted a hand, let it drop before it connected.

Blair chuckled.  “Yeah.  Tell me about it.  I’m a crime fighter for the new millennium, man.”

Jim’s lips twitched.  “Okay, Y2K Boy.  Which side of the bed do you want?”

Blair’s hands glided over the bedspread.  “This one.”  He tilted his head up to look at Jim.  Jim sucked in a breath, but none of the oxygen in the room seemed to be reaching his brain.

“Fine,” Jim grated, forcing himself to turn away, to move before he gave in to the urge to press that lean body into the mattress with the force of his own gravity, to sprawl it over a dark blue comforter that he had just realized was the exact shade of Sandburg’s eyes.
*~*~*~*~*~*




Jim knew that Blair had nightmares.  They were furtive, clandestine things, over so quickly that by the time Jim awoke and padded downstairs, the other man had already worked his way out of them.  Luckily Sandburg was such a sound sleeper than Jim could stand there for a couple of minutes in the doorway, listening to the gradually slowing rhythm of his breathing and his heartbeat, absorbing the reassuring sight of his sleep-tousled head poking out gopher-like from beneath the covers.

This time when the nightmare hit, Jim was right there, experiencing at close quarters the hitching breaths, the bitter smell of Blair’s panic and fear.  Beneath the covers, a bare leg trembled, then stiffened convulsively.  A soft moan, then another gasp, and soon Jim’s breathing was keeping pace with Blair’s.

God.  Blair was dreaming his own death.  Jim was as sure of that as he was of his own name; there was something in the stiffness of Blair’s normally vibrant body, something in the barely-audible rattle deep in his lungs that brought back searing memories of that terrible day.  And suddenly that was more than Jim could bear, that Blair had to revisit the horror night after night.

Without knowing he was going to do it, Jim surged across the no-man’s-land of mattress separating them and wrapped himself around Blair’s quietly shuddering body from behind, unsure of whether he was helping or making things worse.  He curled an arm around Blair’s chest, snugging the smaller man tightly against him.  Blair’s head arched back and Jim suddenly had a noseful of dark curls; giving in, he leaned forward and buried his face in the luxuriant, ticklish softness of Blair’s hair.

He thought about saying something aloud, but ruled it out on the basis that it might stir Sandburg from sleep.  Instead, he breathed against the back of Blair’s neck and offered the warmth and strength in his own body to contain and absorb Blair’s demons.

Until Blair’s foot shot out and caught Jim square on the shin.

“Ow!  Jesus!”

Blair snorted and flailed. Jim released him and attempted a retreat, but before he could manage it Blair’s eyes were open and he was breathing hard in the dim light.  “Whu—” he began.  One hand scratched at his nose.  “Jim?”

“You were having a nightmare,” Jim blurted, feeling awkward and exposed.  “I, uh…”  He realized his hand was still resting on Blair’s hip; he yanked it away guiltily.  “I didn’t mean…”

Blair turned toward him, and Jim was surprised to see a wicked smile curve those sensual lips.  “You didn’t mean to molest me?”

Jim flushed.  “Jesus, Sandburg.”

“You said that already,” Blair said conversationally.  Then he frowned.  “Oh, man, did I hurt you?”

Jim ignored his throbbing leg.  “No.”

Blair hitched himself up on one elbow to turn on the bedside lamp, then flipped back the covers to study Jim’s leg.  “Jeez,” he breathed.  He sat up, and Jim’s eyes widened as Blair reached down and ghosted his fingers over Jim’s ankle.  “Hope you’re not maimed for life.”

“It’s okay,” Jim said.  He didn’t recognize his own voice.

Blair’s touch continued to electrify his skin.  “Maybe you should—uh, try standing on it,” he murmured.

“Sandburg,” Jim rasped, closing his eyes, “just—go back to sleep.”

The hand froze, and Jim squeezed his eyes shut and begged, do it, God, kiss me again, do it right this time, goddammit—

But all he felt was the withdrawal of Blair’s hand and the subsequent chill and all he heard was the soft click of the lamp and the rustle of sheets and blankets as Blair covered them again.  He opened his eyes in darkness and focused on regaining control of his breathing.

As he was finally drifting off to sleep again, he heard Blair mumble, “I feel you watching me, you know.  Helps me sleep.”

Jim closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing at all.
*~*~*~*~*~*



Never usually much of an early bird, Blair was up with the worm Saturday morning, puttering around the kitchen with Naomi while Jim was still lying in bed hoping he’d dreamed the whole thing.

Fat chance. 

From the moment he shuffled his way down the stairs and was broadsided by Sandburg’s cheerful “Good morning” and another damned peck, he knew he was fucked.  Blair suggested they spend the day at the West Indian street fair; Jim agreed, knowing the consequences for refusal would be a sulky and uncooperative Blair, which considering he lived and worked with the guy meant a 24/7 pain in the ass.  It wasn’t enough that he had to be humiliated last night, apparently.  No, as an added bonus he’d have to endure a whole day of Blair’s harebrained scheme to convince Naomi of his own conviction.  Well, Jim wasn’t going to put up with the touching and the caresses and the bullshit all day long.

At least not without giving back a little of his own.

An hour later they were standing watching the steel drummers and Blair put a hand on that damnable spot in the small of his back again.  Jim promptly retaliated by wrapping an arm around Blair’s shoulders and drawing him close.  He could feel the surprised jerk of Sandburg’s body, then the slow easing of tension as the other man accustomed himself to the weight and the intimacy of the touch.

Score one for me, Jim thought as Naomi regarded them out of the corner of her eye, her expression impossible to decipher.

Later, they got some kind of meat on a stick from a vendor, the spices hot enough to singe Jim’s eyebrows.  Blair passed him his homemade ginger beer and Jim guzzled about half of it in one gulp.

“Hey!  I didn’t even get to taste that yet!” Blair mock-protested, laughing and grabbing for the bottle.

Jim held the ginger beer over his head and smirked down at Blair.  “Quit bitching.  I’ll buy you another one,” he promised.  But Blair continued to stretch toward him, his upturned face an invitation, and what the hell were you supposed to do when an opportunity like that presented itself?  Jim’s answer was to cup Blair’s jaw with his free hand and murmur into his startled mouth, “But if you want a taste…”

And the next thing he knew he was kissing Blair Sandburg on his startled mouth in the middle of a crowded street, in front of Blair’s mother and God and everyone.  As the soft intake of air into Blair’s lungs slid past his own lips, Jim leaned into the kiss.  When Jim’s tongue went exploring, Blair made a low, animal noise and angled his head to the left.  He wrapped one arm around Jim’s waist while Jim widened his stance to brace himself more firmly on solid ground.  Not that there was any solid ground left to be had with Blair under his hands and his mouth and the world turning upside down around them.

Jim had no idea how long he spent kissing Blair, but when he finally returned to reality the crowd had thinned and retreated around them.  He wasted a few precious seconds listening to the rapid tattoo of Blair’s heartbeat and the confused rasp of his breathing, then inclined his head toward the vegetable market down the street. 

“Come on,” he said in a remarkably level voice, enclosing Sandburg’s hand in his and tugging him forward.  “It’s our turn to cook.”
*~*~*~*~*~*
 

That evening, after a delicious vegetarian meal, they said good night to Naomi and Jim followed Blair up the stairs.  Jim concentrated on the swing of Blair’s hair as he climbed and wondered why he hadn’t thought of this sooner.

It was almost comical the way Blair prepared himself for bed, folding his clothes on the chair in the corner as though he were a shy virgin on the night of the honeymoon.  Jim considered giving up the game, making a joke out of it, telling Blair his virtue was safe—and vetoed it. 

This was way too much damned fun.

Blair got into his side of the bed gingerly, as though Jim might suddenly jump up and bite him.  Jim sat down more heavily than usual on the other side and enjoyed the tiny gasp Blair emitted. 

“So,” Jim said conversationally as Blair laid down, “you think she buys it?”

“What?” Blair shot back, although Jim could tell from the spike of his heart rate that Blair knew exactly what he was talking about. 

Jim raised his eyebrows at Sandburg and waggled them.  “Was I convincing enough for you, Chief?” he asked, hoping his expression was the picture of innocence.

Blair stared at him for a moment.  “Uh.  Yeah.”  A beat.  “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jim said, a slight smile trying desperately to hide the larger one.  He climbed into bed beside Blair, switching off the lamp as he did so.

After a few moments of gravid silence, Blair murmured into the darkness, “So, that, uh…”

Jim rolled to face Blair.  Even in the near-absence of light he could pick up the furtive uncertainty in Blair’s expression.  “That, uh…what?” he parroted.

To his surprise, Blair’s face closed up shop at that, the shutters covering the brief display of vulnerability.  It hit him then that Blair hadn’t looked the least bit vulnerable in a hell of a long time.  “Never mind.  I get it.  You win, Jim.”  And without another word, Blair flopped onto his back and drew the sheet up to his neck.

Sudden rage gripping him, Jim flipped the lamp back on, causing Sandburg to squeeze his eyes shut against the glare.  That pissed Jim off even more—he’d only turned it on for Blair’s benefit—so he loomed over Blair’s body, then gripped Blair’s bicep in his hand, fingers testing the lean muscle shielding the bone.  Blair’s eyes flew open at the touch and their gazes locked.

“What exactly did I win, Chief?” Jim rasped.  “The right to be your excuse, your evasion?  To be your—your fucking consolation prize?” 

Blair’s brow creased.  “What the hell are you talking about?”

Jim blinked; what the hell was he talking about?  Releasing his hold on Blair’s arm, he sat up and scrubbed at his face.

“Hey,” Blair said softly, his own hand on Jim’s arm now.  Jim focused on the weave of the blue comforter, eyes following the intricate pattern of the warp and woof; he heard Blair expel a breath.

“Jesus, Jim.  Do you honestly think it’s possible for anyone to conceive of you as their consolation prize?”  Blair’s fingers began to gently stroke the flesh of Jim’s forearm; Jim suppressed a barely-controlled shiver.  “Why would you even—”

“Because it’s not where you want to be,” Jim blurted, finally giving voice to the huge knot of doubt that had been living in his gut since he’d thrown that badge to Blair.

“Jim.”  Jim’s attention shifted reluctantly to the man sitting beside him.  “Where I am now—the job, this place, my life—no, it’s not anything I would have imagined for myself when I first met you.  But somewhere along the way I started thinking about it, and then I started doing it, and today I am—I’m one of the good guys, Jim.  And it feels incredible.”  Blair smiled.  “I never thanked you for that.”

It was selfish, Jim thought.  I wanted to keep you with me.  But he didn’t want to ruin the moment with too much truth, and besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that the other man knew this already.  If anyone was an authority on the myriad insecurities of James Ellison, it was Blair Sandburg. 

Somehow the thought didn’t terrify him as much as it used to. 

“You’re welcome,” Jim murmured.  He risked a glance at Blair and found the younger man studying him curiously.  “I guess I should thank you, too.”

“What for?”  Blair’s voice was low; his eyes darted down toward Jim’s mouth, then rose again.

“For making a mess everywhere,” Jim told him, helplessly; his own voice sounded hollow and broken and he suddenly needed Blair under his hands more than he needed his next breath.

Blair skewered him with cutting blue eyes and muttered an oath, and Jim’s heart rate kicked into overdrive.  Blair’s hand rose to Jim’s face; his thumb skidded across the ridge of Jim’s cheekbone.  “Just—okay,” he breathed, leaning closer, closer, “okay, let’s just try it without a fucking audience this time,” and then his mouth was fitting to Jim’s and Jim’s hand was deep in Blair’s hair and oh Christ yes Blair was kissing him and they were falling slowly sideways in a perfectly synchronized descent.

The first time one of them—he couldn’t have said which of them it was if his life depended on it—made a small, needy sound, they broke apart gasping.  “Shit,” Blair panted against Jim’s temple, “Shit, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but I cannot do this with my mother underneath us.”

“Neither can I,” Jim agreed, struggling to find enough oxygen himself.  Reluctantly, he withdrew his fingers from Blair’s hair, unable to resist dragging the tips down his face.  Blair’s five o’clock shadow felt like a thousand pinpricks. 

Jim closed his eyes and flopped back against the pillows; his frustration coated his skin, but inside he felt lighter than air, buoyed by this new, frightening liberation.  He reached out blindly to shut off the lamp again, and then lay in the darkness for a few minutes, floating upwards and listening to Blair’s sullen breathing.

He was on the edge of sleep when he felt Blair’s hand steal across his chest, finally coming to rest over his heart.  His own hand reached for Blair’s thigh and molded to its solid curve, finding an anchor to keep him from drifting too far in the night.
*~*~*~*~*~*



In the morning Naomi cooked them the most delicious omelets Jim had ever eaten, and then she called a cab to take her to the airport.  Apparently she hated goodbyes as much as Jim did. 

Before she walked out the door, she hugged each of them in turn; Jim hugged her back with all the gratitude he felt, hoping she would at least understand the emotion.  Her eyes were bright when she drew away.

“Take care of one another,” she admonished, laying a hand on Jim’s cheek and staring deeply into his eyes.  Jim nodded, trying to communicate his promise without words.  After a moment, she nodded back, seemingly content, or as content as a mother could be in the knowledge that her son was risking death every day.  But then that was the human condition, wasn’t it?  There was no expiry date stamped on your forehead, no reassurance that this would be the day everything ended.  And so there was no point in worrying about it.

There was, however, a point in wringing the most out of every single goddamned day you were given.  And that was why as soon as the door closed behind Blair’s mother, Jim hauled Blair close, shoved him against the nearest wall, and pushed his tongue into Blair’s welcoming mouth.  Blair seemed to enjoy that a lot, considering the way he groaned and growled and ground himself against Jim’s leg.  Blair’s talented hands roamed over Jim’s body, mapping new territory, finally ending their journey on Jim’s ass.  Jim bit into the strong column of Blair’s throat and moaned his approval of Blair’s destination, then fisted his own hands in Blair’s t-shirt and yanked it upwards, spilling crazy chestnut curls in every direction as Blair’s head emerged from the cloth. 

Half-naked and gasping, they made it to Jim’s bed, where Jim gave in to the urge to press that lean body into the mattress with the force of his own gravity, to sprawl it over the dark blue comforter that was the exact shade of Sandburg’s eyes.  Blair looked up at him, face upturned and eager, mouth wet and red and swollen, and Jim stripped the rest of him with suddenly shaking hands.  He climbed onto the bed and let Blair do the same to him, but if there was a tremble in Blair’s hands, Jim couldn’t detect it.  Sandburg’s certainty annoyed him until Blair bent low over him and abruptly sucked Jim’s cock in his mouth.  It was amazing how a little thing like that could restore your equanimity.

Blair’s mouth took him in until Jim was reduced to begging—though he wasn’t sure whether he was begging for Blair to stop or to go on forever—and then right when he was on the precipice of coming, released him with a last slow lick.  Jim convulsed against the blue comforter like a landed marlin and cried out as the cool air slammed against his oversentitized flesh. 

“Shh, shh,” Blair soothed, hands skimming over his abdomen, “it’s gonna be okay, dial it down, just—”

“Don’t want to,” Jim hissed, still twisting against the sheets, and Blair swore again and covered Jim’s body with his own and rocked against him until they both came, panting and sobbing into each other’s mouths.

As Jim drifted off to sleep again with a sated, drowsy Blair draped on top of him, it occurred to him that it was a fine, fine thing to have the strength of your convictions.  But it was even better to have the strength of Blair's.



End







February 2005

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