The Good Friend - Part two
By Jack Reuben Darcy

In a typically selfless gesture, Jim offered to wash the dishes while Blair had a quick shower. Blair would have argued - but Jim only reminded him of the ticking clock and the deadline of an hour. So he put the gesture down on the list of things he really owed Jim for and climbed under the hot spray.

He stood there longer than he really needed to before he started washing his hair - but he needed the time, the space; an area where there was no Jim so he could put some of himself back together after that appalling exhibition of self-pity he'd just pulled.

Feeling bad had become so normal now that when the opportunity came to feel worse, he'd dived after it, like a starving man would a morsel. He would have walked out - and then spent the rest of the weekend regretting it and feeling even worse about it.

And he'd been so sure he was getting over it. So sure he was putting it behind him, determined to aim for a day when he didn't think about Nick even once. But it was harder than he'd thought. Simply telling himself not to act so much like a victim had worked a little, but then he still had to look in the mirror and still had to wonder why he wasn't good enough.

Shit, how could one failed relationship have such a devastating affect on his self-esteem?

Because he'd allowed it to? Because he'd used Nick and his fine taste as a mirror for himself? Because it was his first serious relationship with a man?

But which was it really? Was he hurting because he'd lost somebody he'd loved? Or was it more because he'd been dumped, rejected, turned away? Made to feel like he'd failed to come up to some standard he'd never known about. Which hurt more? He should at least know that much by now. Know which of these things was driving him to behave like that towards Jim - about the only person he could really trust any more.

Well, no more! No more Poor Blair. That was it! After all that effort, Jim deserved the best company this weekend and nothing was going to interfere, not Nick, not his slimy new man, not Blair and his rattled confidence.

Feeling better by the second, he finished up in the shower, dried off and dashed back into his room. From the noises coming from upstairs, he guessed Jim was finishing his packing and a glance at the clock told him he didn't have much time. He grabbed jeans, two shirts and a sweater and pulled them on, stuffing his feet into his favourite hiking boots. His knee was almost as good as new now, just some faint yellow marks to show for all that hideous bruising.

Dressed, he headed to his closet and pulled out his backpack and threw it on the bed. He didn't need much - just two changes of clothes, his sleeping bag and a couple of extra blankets, toothbrush, torch, waterproof jacket. All of these landed in a tangle of confusion on his pack, where he pushed them down to make just a bit more space. He turned back to the closet and was about to take down a spare sweater when something caught his eye. Something bright, sitting on the floor behind his shoes. He bent down and picked it up.

The red shirt.

Blood red.

Nick. Pain. Betrayal. Anger. Confusion. One after another, they flashed by him like pictures in a slide-show. All real, but belonging to somebody else now - just the way he wanted it.

He lifted the shirt to his face and smelled cigarette smoke. Yuck - but how had it got that way? Oh yeah, he'd gone to that club to get drunk. He'd gone there, had one whisky and found it conflicted with the pain meds so much that he'd known he was unable to drive. So how had he gotten home that night?

Wait a minute - Jim had come for him, that's right. Jim had had a drink with him then brought him home. He had a vague memory of being lifted and carried and then held and then ...

And then ...

Then ...

"Ohmygod," he breathed, dropping the shirt. He stumbled back towards the bed, sitting hard as his legs gave way under the horrible wave of shock and disgust that rattled through him.

But memory came on relentlessly, uncaring of the damage it inflicted. Holding Jim, kissing Jim, touching Jim, all filtered through a haze of drugs and alcohol - and he'd managed to forget the whole thing. Had blotted it out as though he hadn't just done the one thing he'd promised himself he would never do.

Shit!

He was bi - living with a straight man and he'd vowed, silently, never to make any kind of move on Jim that might damage their friendship. He'd done his best to avoid thinking of Jim in any other way to the point where he could look at Jim coming out of the shower with a towel around his waist and not do anything gross and uncool like drool or make some ribald comment he knew would embarrass the other man.

And Jim had trusted him, believed he was safe living with a bi man. Hadn't voiced any concern or worry about it even though they'd hardly spoken about it, certainly not to the extent of Blair making any kind of promises aloud, even if he had to himself.

Shit, fuck and damn!

So yeah, he'd been out of it sure, way too unsteady on his feet to manage getting from the truck to the loft on his own - but did that excuse him from coming right out and kissing Jim?

He stood abruptly, paced back and forth for a minute. Jim hadn't said anything. Not a word. Maybe he was hoping Blair would forget - well, he had, hadn't he? But could Blair just leave it like that? Just pretend he still didn't remember - and leave Jim without the apology he deserved? Along with the solemn promise that it would never happen again?

No. He couldn't add another to that long list of debts owed to Jim. The man had been so good to him over the last couple of weeks. He'd put up with Blair's moods, comforted him when he needed it and done all he could to take his mind away from the hurt. He had to face this - now - before they went away, in case Jim wanted to change his mind.

Fending off the shaking inside, he grabbed the shirt for courage and walked out into the living room. Jim had his bag there by the door, was piling the other bits of equipment they needed along with it. He glanced up.

"Ready yet?"

"Uh..." Blair paused, swallowed hard and nodded. "Almost."

"Well, you've got fifteen minutes." Jim squatted down beside his bag and slipped his torch into a pocket.

"Sure... Um, Jim?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

Jim glanced up, "What for?"

Blair's mouth dried up - but he battled on regardless, fighting shame. "That night ... when Nick dumped me ... I er..."

Jim didn't move - but his eyes drifted down to the shirt in Blair's hands.

"I ... I'm sorry ... "

"For what?" The words were ground out as Jim's gaze refused to rise further than the shirt.

Blair could almost feel his discomfort half-way across the room - but it was too late to turn back now. "I kissed you, didn't I? I kissed you and forgot all about it and man, I am so sorry. That breaks just about every rule I have - and that's saying something. I am so sorry I did that to you - and I'm amazed you didn't kick me out for it. I promise, Jim, I promise it will never happen again. It was just the alcohol and the meds and I wasn't in my right mind and I guess I thought you were Nick or something. Shit, Jim, I'm so sorry."

Jim stood, turned his gaze to the floor at his feet - but even from where Blair was standing, he could see Jim's face was flushed - and that only made him wince.

"Jim, I'll understand it if you want me to move out. I mean, it can't be easy being straight and living with ..."

"Chief?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you do me a favour?"

"What?"

"Would you forget about this? Please?"

"But..."

Jim glanced up, briefly, before looking down again. "I know you're sorry, okay? I ... accept your apology - but I ... really wasn't worried ... I mean, I understand it was the alcohol and everything, okay? I understand so if you don't mind, could we just forget about it?"

The quiet, gentle plea was about the last thing Blair had expected - and all he could do was nod. "Sure."

"Good. I'll go start packing the truck. Bring the rest of the stuff down when you're ready."

"Right."

And without another word, Jim picked up two armloads of stuff, pulled the door open and disappeared.

Blair felt like that man on the executioner's block, little more left to do now but say a prayer and throw his arms wide.

Jim trusted. He trusted with all his heart - and not for the first time, his trust wasn't betrayed. For the hour and a half it took them to drive to the camping spot he'd picked out, Blair talked almost non-stop - but not a single word of it had anything to do with that night. Not one word. No shy hesitations, no unguarded slips, no double-meanings. Nothing. Jim had trusted and Blair hadn't failed him.

Too bad the same thing couldn't be said for him.

Sure, he listened, kept track, offered one-word responses when necessary - but that was about all he could manage. Guilt kept his tongue tied. Instead, he did what he usually did and let Blair carry the load on his own.

And as usual, Blair didn't seem to mind - but that might have had something to do with the fact that he thought himself to blame, felt a need to make up for it, to talk over the rough spot he felt his transgression had scratched into their friendship. He couldn't possibly know he was actually only making it worse. How could Jim call himself Blair's friend and yet allow this lie to unfold like a fragile flower, making no effort to nip the bud before it saw sunlight?

But what could he do? Admit the truth? How? Telling Blair that he'd initiated the kiss was ... was... impossible...

Wasn't it?

The problem was, he hadn't thought it through. Hadn't spent more than a few dazzled seconds pondering the consequences before he'd dived in. Even worse - Blair had admitted that he'd thought Jim was Nick and had vowed he would never kiss Jim again.

So not the response he'd secretly wanted to hear.

Secretly? What was that, exactly? A secret within the recesses of his own mind, kept in shadows and lingering in darkness along with other sections of his past he'd rather live without? Was that how he was going to play it? He'd tried pretending it hadn't happened, tried to stop himself looking at Blair unless he had to - had even scaled down the number of times he'd touched Blair and yet the stubborn memory had refused to be cajoled into submission, returning at odd moments when he least wanted it to - like when he was in bed, alone, at night. Times when his body sprang to life, re-living those long minutes when he'd experienced sensations wholly new and exciting.

But shit, he was too old to be making these kinds of changes in his life now! Too old and worn out - and Blair wasn't interested in him anyway - and if he ever found out the truth, never would be.

And still, that aching desire lingered; a need, buried so deep he didn't want to go looking for it, to try it once more, to have one more chance to kiss Blair so he could know, once and for all, whether he'd been repressing a lot more than either of them had realized.

All scary stuff - and made even more so by the way their friendship had been stretched so thin lately. They were growing apart and anything he did or said now would only hasten the day when Blair left him for good. But wasn't that what he wanted? Wasn't it the friend-thing to do to give the man his freedom?

And wasn't Jim, when all was said and done, Blair's friend?

Blair needed more than a little help putting his tent up - but Jim was happy to give something he could supply so easily. The truck was parked too far away to use the lights and neither of them wanted to waste batteries on something so simple. So Jim used his sight, hammered in pegs and stretched nylon until the small dome was ready. He left Blair to set up his bed and began on his own tent. His was bigger and on any other night, he would have suggested they share - but this wasn't any other night and the words stayed in his mind, unspoken, unnecessary and unwanted.

They'd decided not to light a fire since it was already so late - but by the time he finished putting his bedding in his tent, Blair had boiled some water on the small gas burner and handed him a cup of hot cocoa.

The silence of the forest grew around them then, a silence filled with subtle noises, all of them invisible. With equally silent agreement, they headed down to the river and stood on the bank, watching the moon rise and leave a milky trail on the water. As far as Jim could tell, they were the only people for miles. And if he'd been a more courageous man, if he'd not lied and if he really wasn't the friend he wanted to be, he would have made the most of what romance the night had left, put down his cup and taken Blair into his arms.

And if fantasy could become reality, Blair would hold him in return, offering up his face to be kissed, kissing Jim with a passion he'd kept in the secret vaults of his own mind for too long.

But it was fantasy and nothing more. Because although Jim wasn't the friend he wanted to be, he retained enough sense of honour to know that he would never dare touch Blair until he'd told the truth - and the time for that was not now, romantic moonlight and river notwithstanding.

Besides, Blair was still hurting over Nick - and as much as Jim toiled in a vault of confusion over all this, he really had no idea what he wanted - nor what he could give.

"This is so nice here," Blair's soft voice blended with the night. "I behaved like such an ass, man. I'm so glad you yelled at me, you know?"

"That's what friends are for," Jim replied, feeling every inch the hypocrite.

"Yeah." Jim didn't need to look to hear the smile in Blair's voice. "I'll remind you of that the next time I yell at you, okay?"

The night was late, Jim's walls were hopelessly down and so all he could do was nod and say, "Okay."

Sleep was considered, medically-speaking, to be a good thing. Dreams, too, for that matter - but there was no way in hell Jim's dreams could be considered good by any wild stretch of the imagination. He woke, as if released from hell, long after Sandburg was up and gone. He knew, he'd checked.

For ten minutes, he lay in his sleeping bag, stretching his aching muscles out, hoping to start the day off in something of a decent mood - but the edges of those dreams kept coming back to haunt him, images he couldn't quite identify, threats he couldn't comprehend and a vacancy in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with hunger.

The idle work of his conscience, no doubt.

Eventually, he did get up, pulling on clothes and climbing out of his tent to find the spring morning cold but promising sunshine soon. Blair had collected some firewood and even now, Jim could hear him stomping back through the forest towards the campsite, murmured curses at imagined splinters a substitute for a greeting.

It was that sound alone which brought a smile to Jim's face, dragged his mood up from muddy depths to some sandy shore where he could cope with the mess he'd made of his life. At least for a few hours.

"Hey, Jim?" Sandburg called, coming towards him, arms laden with dry logs. "You just get up? Man, you must have been tired. I've been up for hours. This is a great spot. Have you been here before? I'll bet there are some great fish in the river. By the looks of it, nobody has been here since summer. We have to come back here again. I don't think I've heard anything but the forest since I woke up. This place is so cool!"

The last was punctuated with logs being dropped unceremoniously on the existing collection - as if in deliberate contravention to the way Jim preferred - by arranging several piles of diminishing size so that he could always put his hand on the perfect piece of firewood at any time depending on what state the fire was in.

He said nothing about it, though. Blair's smile, his excitement, his underlying calm meaning more at that moment than anything else.

Instead, he gestured towards the ring of stones Blair had obviously gathered from the river, "Up for hours and you haven't cooked me breakfast yet? What kind of slave do you call yourself?"

Blair chuckled, "One who's probably overdue for a master trade-in. I boiled some water - it should still be hot. And there's cereal in the food box." He grinned, making a bee-line for his fishing rod. "Help yourself. I'm going native. Gonna rustle us up some supper."

Jim just watched this show, letting the vibes Blair was exuding filter into the air around them both, letting them be absorbed by his own skin, chasing the ghosts of too many bad dreams away.

Blair was loaded up with gear and half-way to the river before he paused, turned and shouted back, "Hey, Jim? This isn't catch and release, is it?"

Jim smiled, "No, Chief. Go on, knock yourself out."

Blair breathed in deeply for the tenth time and caught again the hauntingly sharp scent of pine in the air. Spring was the time when trees did their growing, recovering from winter by sending sap up a trunk and out into branches starved in the winter cold. Even standing here, knee-deep in freezing water, he could smell it. Wonderful stuff.

He'd had a few bites - but an hour's worth of fishing had so far resulted in steak for supper. However, he was nowhere near ready to give up just yet. He couldn't get the idea of fresh fish grilled over a campfire out of his head. He could almost taste it.

By the looks of it, Jim hadn't caught anything either. He stood further down the stream, on the opposite side, casually casting his rod out then standing perfectly still, a sentinel in every sense of the word. On the surface, he appeared to be at peace, happy to be exactly where he was, enjoying the quiet of the forest, the absence of noises and smells and sights that would normally assail him in the city.

But he was also about fifty yards away - and Blair hadn't been able to help noticing how Jim had chosen his spot, as though not quite able to spend the day that close to Blair after the revelation of last night.

His guts spasmed again at the memory. Not just of what he'd done, but Jim's reaction to his confession. He'd been embarrassed in the extreme - and why shouldn't he be? He'd trusted Blair not to come on to him - and Blair had blown it. Even as he'd been hurting from Nick's betrayal, he'd gone and done the same thing to his best friend, a man he'd never thought of in any other way.

That had been a decision he'd made early on in their partnership. That, along with the determination to keep his sexuality out of the equation at least until he knew how Jim would react. And Jim had reacted really well, never questioning him, never making any assumptions and so hey, he hadn't liked Nick - but it had turned out he was a better judge of character than Blair so that couldn't count as a mark against him, could it?

But that kiss?

He must have been dreaming of Nick, thinking so much about the man, he'd imagined being held by him, taken care of and well... things had happened. That had to have been it because Blair had never, not once in three whole years, ever thought of kissing Jim, never wondered what it would be like to touch him or anything. He'd never let himself think about it because he'd known that's where heartache would lie. The shame of his betrayal burned deep within him.

Besides, even if Jim wasn't straight - what chance would they have ever had in any kind of relationship? Jim had had plenty of women - but not one of them had stuck for more than a night. His marriage had only lasted two years and from what Blair could tell, half of that had been the long, slow process of breaking up. Sure, Blair was determined to stay out of the relationship game and stick to casual dating - but the last person he wanted a one-night stand with was his best friend. Christ, they had a hard enough time looking at each other as it was!

And there was something else going on, something he couldn't put his finger on but which had already begun to worry him long before he'd pulled that childish tantrum last night. Ever since Nick had dumped him, Jim had been there for him, helped without cosseting, cared without stifling - but each day that went by, Blair felt Jim drift further and further away from him. Was it because of the kiss? Had Jim just been helping him because he was down - but now that he was feeling a bit better, felt it was wiser to put some distance between them, in case Blair got the wrong idea?

If that was the case, Blair would just have to try very hard to make sure Jim knew that night was a momentary aberration, influenced by outside events. He needed Jim to trust him, needed to be able to see that trust in his eyes.

And more than anything else, he needed to know for sure that that was the only thing bothering the man. But they had some rebuilding to do - and it wouldn't happen overnight. Rebuilding not just because of that betrayal - but because of those frail threads of distance that seemed to have grown between them. It had been subtle, over the last few months, but Blair would have been blind to have missed it completely. It was almost as though their friendship had found its natural end and was subsequently winding down.

Oh, he'd been around enough to know that people - even best friends - didn't stay the same forever. Things changed, people changed and sometimes, relationships - even ones people relied upon - faded away. It was the natural way of things and fighting it only made it worse, in the end.

So what should he do? Work at rebuilding? Or, like Jim, be prepared for it to make its own way? Was that kiss a convenient marker to warn them that the time was soon approaching when they would go their separate ways?

Or, would time just show them a way back?

No. He wasn't ready to let go yet. They were too close for three years to be enough. He'd work it out and do whatever it was that needed to be done. Jim deserved that much, at least.

The water was cold, numbing, fearless and reckless, skittering across stones smoothed from years of action, of abrasion, of weathering, of winter and summer. Every year they got smaller, smoother, travelled further down the river until one day, they became nothing more than grains of sand gathered where the water ran out into the sea.

The cold filtered through his waders, invading his body likes a thousand tiny leeches, sucking away warmth and leaving numbness behind. It was like growing old.

The river was shallow here, the banks wide apart before they narrowed again, forming a canyon downstream. Two miles on, the land dropped away, creating one violent cascade after another before they were all deadened by a fall to a lake. But here, the water was slower, rumbling and sprinkled with millions of flittering sun flecks. If he concentrated, he could see through the water, see beyond the silver surface to where it was invisible, to where it was thick and heavy, moving slower and slower, an oily snaking substance winding it's way around rocks, pushing and pushing and getting nowhere, swirling and frothing and bubbling up and down and going further down, a boiling mass of clear, clean liquid crystals, velvety soft and showing so many colours and highlights in and of itself and within the flat river stones grabbed and pushed and forced along with it, a power of nothing, staying nowhere, beautiful and light, heavy and twisting with ...

"Jim? Come on, man, come out of it. Breathe, Jim, just breathe. That's it. Take a deep breath and listen to my voice, okay? That's it, Jim. Come back to me, here."

The voice eased its way into his awareness, linking one word to the next, giving him a trail he could follow.

"Come on, Jim, listen to my voice."

And feel the hand on his arm, another on his shoulder. The voice was cool and soothing, gentle but firm, something he could never ignore. Was that why Blair could always bring him out of a zone ...

Jim pulled in a sharp breath, blinked and shook his head. Fuck!

"It's okay, man," Blair urged, squeezing his shoulder. "It's okay. You're fine. No damage done. Just a little zone there. Nothing to worry about."

Jim swallowed, brought himself back on line and turned to look at the man standing before him. "How long?"

"I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention - but then I noticed you hadn't recast your line for a few minutes so I came closer to see if you had a fish - but you didn't answer me, so I..."

"Assumed I was zoning. Yeah, right." Damn it! It had been ages since he'd zoned - and never somewhere like this. Suddenly he felt tremendously tired - a natural fall-out from so many hours without decent slumber. "I'm going to head back. I need some coffee."

Blair took a careful step back, and collected his rod from the rock he'd left it on. "Well, it wasn't a complete waste of time."

"Oh?"

With a cheeky grin, Blair hauled a net out of the water, a nice six pound fish proudly on display. "Those steaks will be making the return trip."

Jim couldn't help smiling. Blair looked ... happy. Really happy. In a way he hadn't looked for months.

"I guess you get to try out that recipe after all."

"Yeah! Herbs, garlic, a touch of something exotic. It'll be great, man!" Blair turned and headed for the bank, walking carefully as he judged which rocks he could walk on and which would tip him into the water. After a moment, Jim followed, reeling in his line as he went.

"Chief?"

"Yeah?"

"You never said ... about Nick. Do you mind ..."

Blair hardly faltered in his progress. "No. What?"

"Do you think you were in love with him?"

Gaining the bank, Blair paused before turning around, waiting for Jim to join him. He looked up, face as open as it would ever be, "I honestly don't know, Jim. I guess I assumed I had to be otherwise we wouldn't have lasted three months. I've never stuck with anybody that long."

"You stuck with me."

Blair's eyes widened, surprised - then he smiled slowly, "Yeah, more fool me, eh?"

"Well," Jim let the humour drift over the awkward moment, "you can keep sticking if you can catch fish like that. Come on, get the knife and get it cleaned before it begins to spoil."

"In this weather?" And then Blair was off again, rattling with his usual enthusiastic conversation.

Jim followed along behind, allowing himself to become a piece of flotsam in the tide of hurricane Blair. The man made so many things so easy, the way he filled gaps, flexed himself around things other men would baulk at. But it was like he knew no boundaries, no lines over which he didn't dare step - and not for the first time, Jim was envious at how easy it appeared to be for him. Jim's own psyche was a minefield for which the map had long since been lost. Not even he knew where all the explosives were hidden. Sometimes it seemed the least he could do was to bury everything in the hopes that nobody else would get hurt with accidental shrapnel.

The afternoon flowed peacefully, a silk glove of idleness wrapped around a hard spring day. Jim took a walk along a hill overlooking the river. Blair followed, choosing a parallel course because Jim didn't trust him to use his knee too much too soon. But they kept their peace, fragile though it was and Jim relaxed into it, hoping it would last the weekend.

Blair hadn't loved Nick.

Blair wasn't sure about it - but Jim was. Blair hadn't loved Nick. This was a good thing for Blair as it would mean his healing would be easier, less painful and much quicker. However, it was not a good thing for Jim. Not now, never would be. Because... because...

Because he no longer had an excuse not to tell Blair the truth - other than his own cowardice.

He walked through the forest, keeping the river to his left, keeping track of Blair staying close enough but not intruding.

Not intruding? Hah!

Blair intruded upon everything in his life. From morning to night - and now, into his dreams as well, as if there was no sacred ground left.

And Blair's presence intruded on his soul, too. It was a physical presence, one framed in a sturdy, supple body which drove itself into the forest like a hungry urchin, needy for experience. A presence gifted with a face with so many expressions, all of which were open and free, giving and unafraid of being hurt. Youth, delight and awe dwelt in those eyes and Jim knew, as he walked between trees much older than he, that he wanted those things for himself. Wanted to feel that way again, if only fleetingly.

He couldn't let Blair go. Even though he knew he had to. Even though he had no idea what it would mean - he still couldn't let go.

Not now, not ever.

His need was too great, his desire too shy.

He had to know what this feeling was. He had to tell the truth and pay the consequences. Had to risk losing Blair forever if the man couldn't forgive him.

He simply had to know.

Surrounded by hills on all sides, darkness came quickly, but by then Jim had a fire lit and Blair was busy baking potatoes wrapped in foil and sprinkling herbs over his prize catch.

Conversation was sparse but comfortable, in reality, the first time in weeks it had been so easy for Jim. But not easy enough. Sure, he tended to his jobs with his usual diligence, but his senses seemed on hyper alert, all too aware of every single move Blair made, every shift in his voice, every flash of colour in his hair from the firelight, every move that mouth made as he talked.

Jim knew this place. It was called hell in some societies.

He opened a bottle of wine, poured it out for them into steel mugs then sat back and sipped and watched Blair move, a symphony of life, ignorant of the affect he was having on Jim. Ignorant of how few of these precious moments were left.

There was just enough left of the good friend in Jim to wait until they'd devoured the meal, but to wait longer would have had him squirming in purgatory. He'd eaten and tasted nothing, afraid of telling Blair that his senses were playing up again. He'd made the right noises about how good the fish was and how the potatoes were perfect - but he could have been eating sandpaper for all the difference it made.

He'd put water on to boil when the cooking was done, so by the time they were finished eating, he could wash up. He knelt down by the fire, keeping his gaze on the water, on the plates, on everything but Blair. When he felt as secure as he was going to, he began, "You only remembered last night, then?"

"Huh?" Blair looked up from the fire. He was sitting on the ground, his back to a rock, feet stretched out before the flames. He held a cup between his hands, enjoying the second bottle of wine.

"You know," Jim sank his gaze back to the dishes again, cursing himself for having taken that glance in the first place. "Last night? You didn't remember ... you know ... before then?"

He heard a massive swallow and then a faint waver in the voice, "No. I ... er, found the shirt in my closet and that... well, that reminded me - and suddenly it all came back."

"So, how much do you remember?" He'd feared this question would be hard to ask - but it wasn't. In fact, it was quite easy. Hurt could be like that.

"Not much. I remember you had a drink with me and then I think we went home." Blair paused, sipping his wine as though for courage. "I have vague memory of being in the elevator and you carrying me into the loft."

Jim had to pause here, pause and examine something strange going on inside - but it seemed unwilling to give up any answers just yet, so he battled on. "And?"

"And?" Again that waver in the voice. "Jim, I really don't think this is a good idea, you know? If you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it. I feel bad enough as it is."

"Chief, I'm not trying to make you feel bad, really," And Jim was amazed at how sincere he sounded - largely because he was sincere. And that was when it struck him what this strange feeling was. Power. He had a power here to ease some of Blair's hurt, to make him feel better about something - and he intended to use it. "Just tell me what you remember."

"You're not angry?"

"I'm not angry."

Blair sounded unsure. "Uh, okay then. I remember you carrying me into the loft and then I don't remember anything but feeling comfortable and warm. Then there's another gap and the next thing I remember is ... kissing you." He came to a halt, leaving an obvious apology in the air between them.

Jim, his purpose clear, began scrubbing the bottom of the pan, noting how the water instantly went black. "Do you want to know the rest?"

"Jim, you don't have to..."

"By the time I got to the bar, you were already pretty smashed. You had another couple of drinks while I was there and you were obviously upset. You told me Nick had dumped you. You wanted to talk more but you were wasted. So we headed home and you fell asleep in the truck. When we got there, I had to almost carry you into the building. By the time we got to the third floor, you were out of it. I did carry you."

"Jim..."

"I couldn't just dump you down with your knee injured so I sat us both down on the couch. You didn't want to move so I just stayed there, holding you."

"Please, Jim, don't ..."

"I probably sat there for about fifteen minutes before I kissed you."

He continued washing dishes in what had suddenly become a stiff, sharp silence. And he felt no satisfaction at having revealed the truth, no triumph that he'd finally done the right thing, no hope that it would all work out fine. In fact, he just felt worse.

He finished up, dried, packed the things away and tipped the water out. He dried off his hands, topped up his wine and took his seat, more or less beside Blair but nowhere near close enough to fall prey to a wildly swung fist.

But Blair never used violence. He'd never needed to.

"Did you think I wouldn't remember?" The question came out hard and harsh, making Jim flinch.

He swallowed, his own voice much more shaky than it had been a moment ago. "At the time? I'm not sure I knew one way or the other."

"I don't believe you!" Blair hissed, his entire body almost vibrating with anger. "And you let me going on thinking all day that I'd ... Shit, Jim!"

"I'm sorry." A whisper, no more.

"Oh, right. Sorry for what? For kissing me and then lying about it afterwards, letting me feel like I'd betrayed your trust?"

"There didn't seem any point in telling you if you didn't remember."

"But I remembered a whole twenty-four hours ago!" Blair sucked in air, obviously trying to contain himself. He pulled in his bottom lip and like that night, two long weeks ago, Jim became transfixed by that mouth in profile, watched how in so many ways, it expressed whatever Blair was thinking and feeling.

"I'm sorry," Jim whispered again, that vacant place inside him opening up again now that it was dark. "It's just taken me all day to work out how to tell you. You know I'm not good with words..."

"That's crap, Jim and you know it! You can find the words any time you want to! You do it all the time - as long as it's nothing dangerous to your fragile little psyche. God, I could hate you sometimes!" With that, Blair set down his cup, got to his feet and walked off into the night.

God, this was insane. Absolutely insane. It made no sense whatsoever.

And, like a great, screaming idiot, he'd walked off without asking why. Again. Not that that made him turn and walk back - he couldn't. He just couldn't face Jim right now or he really would end up hating the man.

His best friend.

Lies. All of it. And the one person he'd thought he could trust with his life had ...

Damn it, Jim was straight! What kind of game was he playing here?

Blair stumbled and sank to the ground, nursing a knee too punished by recent activity to be too happy.

Oh sure, he knew he'd forgive Jim. Knew he had no choice. Knew that he owed the man that much at least. Knew that the lie was small fry in comparison to some.

But it seemed that every time he took a step forward, he took another back. Today had been so good - even with Jim's zone - though that now fell into some kind of perspective. Jim's senses always played up when he was emotionally disturbed about something. Still, at least that meant he'd already been paying for his omission.

But, shit! Why? Why couldn't he trust anybody? Why... why... Oh, fuck!

Why had Jim kissed him?

Jim worked his way steadily through the wine Blair had opened, sitting on the ground close to the spot Blair had vacated, tossing sticks of wood on the fire, one after the other. He avoided staring into the flames - but that was because he didn't dare risk another zone. More than likely, Blair would just leave him in it for the duration.

At least he'd done the right thing. At least he'd finally been the good friend. Now Blair would hate him and would leave him and they could get on with their lives. And it was time, wasn't it? Blair could go out and develop proper relationships, find a man or a women with whom to share his life, somebody who could deal with the intimacy required. He wouldn't have to look back and worry about how his actions would affect somebody who needed him too much.

Yeah, there was good in this. Blair would hurt for a while, feel the betrayal all the more keenly because if floated so hot on the heels of Nick's efforts - but at least Blair would get something positive out of it. It was cleaner this way. Neater. More organized.

Didn't mean he didn't feel like shit, though. And he did. That vacant part of him had opened wide now, was busily consuming wine which tasted like water, probably expecting to get drowned. But he had to fill it with something. With any luck, he might be able to sleep without those dreams now.

"Jim?"

A hand touched his shoulder and he nearly leapt a mile. He hadn't even heard Blair returning. His hearing was playing up, too. The fire was crackling far too much but everything else was ... was...

Blair was leaning over him, "Jim? Are you okay? Can you hear me?"

Leaning over him making noises he could hardly hear but he could see those lips move, see the concern, see that mouth so close to his and he had to know, just had to know even though everything was ruined now, lost and gone and never to be returned, he just had to know whether what he'd felt that night was real or just his imagination ...

"Jim?"

He shook his head, frightened and trembling and he put thought into action, direct action, needing too much to pause and analyse, ponder and worry. Need overwhelmed him and he simply reacted.

He reached up with both hands, held Blair's face between them, pulled him closer and kissed him. Hard.

He tasted a faint hint of red wine, something of smoke and fish and then -

Blair pulled back, slapping his hands away. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!"

Jim scrambled to his feet, hearing, taste, everything suddenly back on line - in force. "You don't understand, Chief ..."

"Don't understand what?" Blair stood there before him, eyes blazing with anger, not backing down, not giving up. "You've got five seconds to explain it, Jim. Just five."

"I..." Jim swallowed, everything inside him swirling around like it was a shipwreck or something. He felt his face flush. He felt sick. "I'm sorry ... I just... "

"Jim!" Blair's warning was all he got.

Jim looked at the other man, looked and saw that the power had shifted from his hands into Blair's. He gave it up unwillingly. "That night when I kissed you ... I ... liked it. I think."

"You think? Oh, I see. Right, I get it now. You think you might like kissing a guy and so I'm the experiment, am I? Have I got this right, Jim? Man, you are unbelievable! I rake myself over the coals because I think I've betrayed our friendship by kissing you - only it turns out you've done all the hard work yourself. What the fuck do you think I am? Some two-bit hooker? Happy to be mauled by any guy who comes along?" Blair paused only to take in breath. "You questioning your sexuality, Jim? Fine! Just don't do it with my body! Keep your hands to yourself! Good night!"

It was barely dawn when Jim got out of bed. Barely light enough to see where his clothes were - but what was the point of being a sentinel if you couldn't use it to your advantage now and then? So he got up, pulled clothes on, rolled up his sleeping bag, packed everything else and tossed it all out of the tent.

The sky was clear and the faintest blue so far, promising a great day ahead - but he didn't stop long enough to think about that. He immediately began pulling tent pegs out, tossing them onto a pile with as much contained anger as he could manage. His tent was collapsed and ready to be folded when Sandburg made an appearance.

Dressed. Hair pulled back. Ready for battle.

Huh. Like Jim was going to give him a chance. Like he deserved one. Like he hadn't flown off the handle at nothing. Like Jim was some sort of criminal. Like he was worse than Nick. Like what he'd done was worse than sleeping around on your boyfriend.

Jim needed a shower. He felt dirty.

He'd always thought himself a decent judge of character - but he'd never been so wrong in all his life. Sandburg wasn't the one with the repression problem. He wasn't the one who reacted in anger first and repented later. When he got angry, he meant it - big time.

How the fuck could he think Jim thought so little of him? A two-bit hooker? Mauled? For fuck's sake!

Yeah, he felt dirty. He needed more than a shower.

He needed... Christ! Humiliation had never felt so filthy, making him disgusted with himself, making him relive the rejection again and again, Blair's response echoing inside his head like a death knell. He'd wanted something so simple, so vulnerable - he'd exposed something of himself, trusting as he did so - but apparently it was all too hideous for Sandburg to treat him with a little respect.

He had to get out.

By the time he had his tent packed up, Sandburg had his almost down. Jim ignored him and carried the first load of stuff off to the truck. All the way out and all the way back he could hear Blair muttering to himself. It rasped against his impatience so quickly, he stormed back to camp, letting his anger run free.

"You got something to say to me Sandburg, say it normal volume. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut."

"What? Like you? Mr Silence? Right! Fuck off, Ellison!"

"All that muttering and that's the best you can do?" Jim grabbed his sleeping bag and the box of food, heading back towards the truck. "Try harder, Sandburg. You did better last night."

"So did you. At least you managed to fake the surprise a little. Fucking hell, Ellison, what did you think I'd do? Jump into bed with you? You're a fucking moron!"

"Why in god's name would you think I'd want to go to bed with you?" Jim stormed back, picking up Sandburg's tent bag so he could shove it inside. "You're assuming far more than you deserve. That's a real neat attitude you've got there, you know? Real compassionate, real understanding. No wonder they're all falling at your feet, wanting to marry you!"

"Fuck off!" Blair bellowed, giving away just how much that comment hurt. "At least I try! At least I put the effort in, stick with one person more than five minutes! At least I'm not afraid to say what I think, not afraid to feel something for someone. Not afraid that I'm going to lose myself if I ever get close to somebody!"

Jim tore the tent out of Sandburg's hands, "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about! What the hell do you think I've been doing the last three years, eh? Do you have any idea the shit I've had to put up with you around?"

"Yeah, well I can fix that!" Blair grabbed the tent back, shoved it into the bag and pulled the string. He snatched the rest of his stuff and went to push past Jim.

"Yeah, you can."

Blair got all of three steps before he stopped, turned and stared at Jim. For once, Jim couldn't read a single thing on that face.

"You kicking me out?"

"You kicked yourself out, Sandburg," Jim snapped back, enjoying the moment, squeezing it for all it was worth. The power was back in his hands. He came closer, deliberately towering over the smaller man, "And just in case you were wondering," he hissed, "turns out I was wrong. I didn't like kissing you at all."

With that, he turned and headed for the truck, leaving Blair to bring the rest of the stuff. Ten minutes later, they were on the road, the silence a protective wall between them, a barrier between past and present, a codicil for life.

Blair couldn't stick around in the loft for more than a few minutes after they got back. He just couldn't. Couldn't sit in his room and close the door, couldn't stay and listen to Jim moving around, couldn't bear to be within those walls without wanting to tear them down.

So he didn't stay. He grabbed some books, his keys and left, slamming the door behind him. He bought a paper and headed to his office where he could at least get some peace for a few hours.

Once in, he locked the door, sat, put his arms on the desk and buried his face in them.

When was the last time he'd been this angry for this long? That's right - when Roy had been murdered, his boxing career and life ended because of greed. And how did this compare? Was it worse, better or just as bad?

Back then, it had been Jim who had reminded him of the need to remain calm and objective in order to solve the case. Jim had understood his anger, had sympathized and supported - but the steady reminder had come nonetheless. Truth was, he'd been angry with Jim for telling him to calm down. But that had been an anger only short-lived as his natural good sense had reasserted itself.

So, was this worse? Was what he was feeling now any better? Back then, a friend had been betrayed and murdered.

Last night, a friendship had been betrayed and killed.

No. It couldn't be that bad.

Couldn't it? Jim was kicking him out, after all. So, what if he went back and apologized and talked and cleared the air and did whatever was necessary to build those bonds back up again so they could...

But, fuck it, he didn't feel like apologizing! This wasn't his fault! And there wasn't a hope in hell of Jim saying anything. Jim just wanted him out, wanted him gone and his life returned to normal.

Whatever the fuck that was.

Blair sat up, pulled the newspaper towards him and opened it to the section for real estate. He could afford a few dollars for something small, something quiet, something on his own. Something where what he was wouldn't be made a mockery of.

And he had to face it - Jim didn't need him any more so what the fuck was he waiting for?

Jim had never realized before just how short the balcony was but after an hour of pacing it, he had every brick memorized, every inch carved into his feet like razor blades. Four paces and turn - and even then, the last pace was shortened. But this was the best spot. The best place to lie in wait.

He turned and paced again. Four steps and turn. Four steps and turn. Better than a mantra. Better than saying I am calm when he wasn't. Better than forcing calm in from the outside like some new-age hippy neo thing with long hair and leather jewellery from god knew where. Better than pretending he wasn't feeling something. Much, much better than repressing and hiding and shifting and stifling his words and keeping his looks and his hands and his desires to himself. Better than running and putting on pretences that it wasn't hurting and carving pieces out of him that would require land-fill to smooth over. Better than having to listen to the neo-hippy punk thing pushing him and demanding to know what was wrong but never, never ever really listening to what it wasn't or what it might be but only paying attention to the words, not the reluctance behind them, the need to keep it inside, to keep it hidden, the shame and indignity of explaining things like feelings and needs and wants, of exposing it all to the open air so it would fester and be stared at and poked at by somebody who really, despite all his words and his help with senses and his back-up and his strength, didn't really understand a single fucking thing about him.

Four steps and turn. Four steps and turn.

And then he heard it. The bit that he was waiting for. The grinding noise of an ancient engine, too needy of serious work, too unlikely ever to get it.

He didn't need to look down to see the Volvo come along the street - but he did. Some perverse part of him wanted to see it, wanted to rub salt into weeping wounds. Sandburg hadn't gone for good. He was back, for tonight at least. Good. It would hurt for him to have to come back here, hurt that he couldn't just dump himself on somebody else for a change. Couldn't extricate himself out of this by simply walking out when it suited him.

Good. Blair needed to hurt for a change, needed to feel what it fucking well felt like to Jim.

With a satisfied grunt, he turned and headed into the kitchen. He stood there and waited. When he heard the key in the lock he paused by the fridge and timed his act carefully. As Sandburg entered, Jim removed a beer, twisted off the cap, took a mouthful and walked past the man like he didn't exist. He settled onto the couch and turned the television on, putting the volume up enough so Sandburg had to listen to it. His reward was to hear music coming from the other bedroom, loud, driving, blasting the air around Jim.

He dialled his hearing down, turned the television up and settled in for a long battle.

Nights, days and more nights passed and Blair was no closer to finding anywhere else to live than when he'd started four days before. The wear and tear was getting to him. Making phone calls in the morning, seeing places at night - finding them all to be either too expensive or so cheap, he wouldn't let a rat live in them let alone a human being. At this time of year, a university town rarely had cheap accommodation still vacant - and if it did, chances were it had been condemned by the city council.

Still, at least it meant he got to come home late each night - that little less time he had to spend with Jim.

Hah - what a laugh! Time spent with Jim? How about time spent avoiding Jim, and watching Jim avoid him. Time spent working out the many and varied ways two men could share a loft without ever needing to say a single word to each other. Not that the temptation didn't sometimes sneak up on him. Like when Jim had decided to reorganize the fridge by putting all of Blair's food on one side and his own on the other, leaving a marked line on the shelves between them. And every time Blair left something, anything lying around any part of the loft that wasn't his bedroom or the bathroom, it was removed - and tossed in the trash.

Blair took to deliberately using up all the hot water and leaving the bathroom like a pig sty.

Jim retaliated by dumping wet towels on his bed so the mattress was soaked when he got home that night.

Blair put the towels in the trash.

Jim put all of Blair's food in the trash.

Blair emptied the trash on the kitchen floor, salvaged what he could and left the rest there to rot.

The trash ended up in his bed.

And then ended up in Jim's bed. While he was on stakeout. Left to stink the loft through the first really warm night of the spring.

Blair came home to find half his belongings packed for him.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!"

Jim tossed a handful of books into a carton and turned for more. He didn't bother looking up. He didn't need to see that face any more. Didn't need it at all - and certainly didn't need this chaos in his life. He needed it gone, so he could get back to where he wanted to be, back to the place where Blair Sandburg lived in some other dimension and had nothing whatsoever to do with Jim Ellison.

Actually, truth was, he simply couldn't stand looking at that face any more. Couldn't stand the man's scent, the smell of his food, the sight of his belongings. He'd put up with so much because he'd had to - and he didn't have to any more.

"Well?" Blair demanded from the door.

"What's it look like?" Jim grunted, out of practice. It had been four days since the camping trip, since they'd last spoken a single word to each other. Conversation was at a premium. "I figured you needed help getting out of my loft. Make the most of it."

"Take your hands off my things!"

Jim cleared another shelf of books and dumped them into the carton. He reached for more, but Blair stormed across his bedroom and grabbed hold of the books.

"Let go!" he ordered.

Jim didn't.

"I said, let go, damn it!" Blair hissed this, his nostrils flaring, his teeth gritted together. "This is my stuff! You have no right to touch any of it!"

"And this is my loft and as of last Sunday, you have no right to be here," Jim hissed back, keeping hold of the books. "You're trespassing, Sandburg. Get the fuck out of my life!"

"And you can get the fuck out of my room - and leave my fucking books alone!" Sandburg pulled with all his strength - and Jim chose that moment to let go. The younger man swayed back with the sudden release, stumbled - and tripped over a full carton. He landed in a tangled heap on the floor, his head hitting a leg of the desk.

"Fuck!"

"Shit, you made me tear a page!"

"Shit, that hurts!"

"You're bleeding." Jim whispered. He was helping him up, reaching up and touching the cut before he could stop himself. All his anger seemed to have deserted him. He had no idea where it had gone. It just wasn't there any more. There was just him and Blair and the cut on Blair's head.

He felt sick.

"Ow!"

"Keep still." Jim murmured, words coming out as soft and as gentle as his hands suddenly were. He looked through tangled hair until he could find the cut. Small but deep. It would need cleaning. "Stay here."

He stepped around the boxes and out into the bathroom, collecting the things he needed and returning without a single thought moving in any part of his mind. He stood before Blair again, opening a bottle of antiseptic to dab some onto cotton-wool. "This is going to sting."

"Ow!"

"I warned you." Jim touched the wound carefully, cleaning away the blood, finding only a little more flowing afterwards. He put a fresh pad against it and pressed for a moment, hoping to stop the blood altogether. Blair stood before him saying nothing, his breathing only slightly erratic - not enough to worry about, not enough to start thinking concussion.

But he really wasn't saying anything and finally, Jim had no choice but to look at him.

Deep blue eyes were regarding him with something bordering on fear.

Jim knew that would hurt later, when he remembered - but within the numbness inside him, nothing hurt, nothing was even bruised. It was like he'd suddenly learned how to dial down his feelings along with his senses. Very strange, very odd.

But Blair was still looking at him - and he was still looking at Blair. There didn't seem to be any need to move away right now. In fact, it was actually quite okay standing there, just looking, holding the dressing to Blair's injury, just ... waiting. Yeah, it was okay...

Except that ...

Except that he wanted to kiss Blair. Wanted to feel those full lips on his own again, wanted to bury his face in the long curls, wanted to hold that body close to his ... wanted to ... wanted to ...

Wanted to ... haul him to the bed and ...

The bed and ...

And?

And ...

Blair blinked, his heartrate spiking, breath slipping out from slightly open mouth. Jim's gaze dropped to it, contemplated in hazy reality, all that it would taste like -

And just like that, his emotions clicked back on line. He snatched in a breath, grabbed Sandburg's hand, pressed it to the cloth and left him, turning and heading out of the room, closing the door behind him.

He went straight up to his room, throwing himself down on the bed almost as he had done with those books.

He did feel sick. Nauseated so badly, his head throbbed.

And damn it all to hell - he was as hard as a rock.

By the time Blair had tidied up enough to get into bed, the aspirin had begun to work and his head almost didn't hurt any more. At least, not physically. His body weary from the day and the fight and the fall, he stripped off, climbed under the covers and switched off the lamp.

Jim hadn't made a reappearance. Hadn't even gone to the bathroom. But the lights in the loft were off, the locks set and although it was only eleven, they had apparently shut down for the night.

Which was a good thing, considering. Right now, Blair wasn't sure he ever wanted to see Jim again in his entire life.

Jim had hurt him. Used his superior physical strength to hurt Blair - and that made everything else hurt all the more.

So.

So now he knew just how far he could push before Jim was prepared to strike back. Not that his fall could be considered in the same league as an actual blow - but it was as close as Blair ever wanted to get. He'd seen those muscles - he could make a good guess at how it would feel. Didn't want to go there. Ever.

Was that why Jim had walked out like that? Just when it looked like they'd calmed down a little, where they might be able to talk this out?

Or was it something else?

He rolled over and heard a creak from upstairs as Jim shifted in his bed. He tried to picture Jim up there, fast asleep, no thread of concern bothering his dreams, no hint of guilt, of apology. Tried to see Jim as he really was -

But he couldn't get past that first image: Jim in bed.

Perhaps ... perhaps he should have just given Jim what he'd wanted in the first place. Perhaps he should have just thrown everything away on that one-night stand, let Jim find out what he needed to know and then just cut it clean.

But ... he could never have done that. It was one thing to go to some place, pick up a guy and spend the night in bed - it was quite another to deliberately go to bed with your best friend, somebody you'd never thought of sexually and pretend to be interested.

Okay, so he wouldn't have had to pretend much. Jim was a great looking guy - fantastic body, wonderful hands etc, etc. Sure, if Blair had seen him at a club, never met him before or anything, he had no doubts at all that there would indeed be some fireworks at some stage of the night.

But Jim wasn't just a body to him. Jim was a person and for all that right now, Blair really wanted to kick the man's ass all the way down to the basement, he really did love the ugly bastard. Jim was the best friend he'd ever had - regardless of how he'd behaved in the last week or so.

So ...

So maybe he should just go upstairs now. Maybe he should just do it. Climb into bed with Jim and see if what he'd seen in Jim's eyes tonight was real. It had certainly looked a lot like arousal.

But what would happen if he did? One of two things: Jim would either take what was offered - and they would never speak to each other again - or Jim would repulse him, with largely the same result.

Friends just couldn't do this. Friends don't just sleep together because one of them is curious. Friends can't just pick up where they left off and pretend it never happened, that they never shared an intimacy that didn't belong in their friendship. Friends don't use each other's bodies like that - not if they care about each other at all. Friends always end up hating each other afterwards.

And Blair really would feel like a two-bit whore if he did such a thing. Worse than that - for that would mean Jim would feel the same, that Jim, his best friend, the man he trusted more than his own mother - that Jim would see him as little more than a body to be fucked. No desire, no need, no nothing.

It simply wasn't there, between them. Wasn't any basis for it in their friendship. Jim was just curious and if Blair ever touched him, it would all be over. Permanently.

So, no going upstairs. No trying to mend the situation when everything was being bent out of shape from second to second.

In fact, the whole situation was pretty much hopeless. Really, the only thing they had left to them was for Blair to move out. Then maybe, in a few months, when things had calmed down, they might be able to dredge up something of their friendship, perhaps make something work.

Didn't sound like much - but it was about the only choice left.

Jim woke with a start, eyes snapping open, wide awake instantly. Without hesitation, he opened his hearing and sought for the other heartbeat he knew should be in the loft - then checked to make sure there weren't any others. He listened for break-ins, for smoke alarms, for fire and famine - but there was nothing there. Only the same noises he always heard at ... 2.15am.

Fuck.

He set his muscles to relaxing again, one by one, deliberately, forcing it - and therefore, getting nowhere.

He needed to pee.

He tried not thinking about it, tried to go back to sleep but his bladder kept protesting with a vengeance. In the end, he just gave in and hauled himself out of bed. He went downstairs, navigated his way between the wall and the dining table without knocking anything over then opened the door.

Blair was asleep.

Curled up in bed.

Lying on his side.

Facing away from Jim.

Jim wished he could see that face, peaceful, sleeping. In bed. He wished he could see that.

He turned, closed the door again and headed back upstairs. Though he hadn't made it anywhere near the bathroom, his bladder didn't bother him at all now.

Blair knelt down on the floor and reached under his bed as far as he could but still couldn't reach the sock that had somehow managed to lodge itself into the darkness. He tried to stretch out his legs and push himself further, but the packed cartons stacked up against the other wall got in his way. There was almost no space left in his room to move any more.

He gave up.

Standing, he brushed himself off and deliberately forced his stomach to be calm when he heard Jim's keys in the lock. He waited, listening to the door open, close, keys dropped into the basket, jacket taken off and hooked up. Fridge door opening, food being taken out, beer and chopping board landing on the bench. He took in a deep breath, calming himself a little more, then finished packing the carton he was working on. He taped the lid down, pushed it to one side with the rest, then glanced around his almost empty room. Only then did he go out into the kitchen - or at least, as far as the kitchen island.

Jim, as usual, ignored him - but Blair couldn't let him, not this time.

"Just thought you'd like to know."

"What?" A grunt, no more. Jim was rummaging around in the bottom of the fridge, looking for vegetables or something.

"I'm moving out in two days."

Jim froze. Slowly, he straightened up but didn't turn around. "Why two days?"

"That's when my next grant cheque comes through. I couldn't afford the key money without it so you'll just have to put up with me until then." Blair felt like an idiot. Some stupid part of him wanted to cry, to wail, to scream at Jim to do something, to say something to take them back, put them back where they were supposed to be before sex had ever become a question and where trust and friendship were the only things they had needed to rely on.

But at that moment, he couldn't trust himself not to cry - so he just turned and headed back into his room, closing the door behind him as softly as possible.

Trust wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Little things nagged at him. Like his favourite sharp knife wasn't in the right place in the block and that there was a bottle of souring milk still in the fridge. Like the TV guide wasn't where he'd last put it and the fire wood box was almost empty. Like the wind which blew outside kept rattling the windows, as though it was trying to remind him of something.

So many little things. All night. All through the preparation of his meal, through his eating, through cleaning up afterwards.

He looked for the TV guide. Really looked for it. Even in his bedroom. It just wasn't there. Like it had disappeared or something. Vanished into thin air. And he really wanted to watch TV tonight.

He plumped down on the couch, snatching up the remote, stabbing it to get a picture. He flicked from channel to channel. Colours were all wrong. Somebody must have been playing with it.

"Sandburg?"

"What?"

"Have you been playing with the colours on the TV?"

"No, why?"

"You must have."

"I haven't."

"You must have," Jim repeated to himself quietly, only because he had to have the last word and he knew Sandburg would keep denying it regardless of whether it was true or not.

So he sat there and hopped from channel to channel until at last he found something he could watch. One of those real-life police shows, where some poor schmuck in uniform was followed around by a camera crew, having to explain in words of one syllable or less why this heroin-dealing, wife-bashing, car-stealing thug really needed to be taken in for holding up a liquor store. Jeez, didn't people see enough of this in real life? Did they have to bring it into their homes as well?

And these cops always came out looking so damned heroic. Really polite and tight-assed and licking everybody's boots and just doin' my job, ma'am. In all his years on the force, Jim couldn't remember a single uniform who'd behaved that perfectly for every minute of his working shift. For all that this was supposed to be real life - it wasn't any more real than those explosive glossy cop shows where the good guys catch the bad guys in the last seven minutes of every episode. The only way to see the real thing was to be a cop.

Sandburg emerged from his room and ventured into the kitchen.

Or to observe a cop.

No. Sandburg had never observed him being a cop. He'd only ever observed Jim using his sentinel senses while doing his cop duty. Not the same thing at all. Jim was a sentinel and now that he'd finally gotten a hold on his senses, Sandburg was ready to walk away, move onto the next project, turn some other otherwise unsuspecting life into complete chaos.

He changed channels.

Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen. Chopping board and knife, banging away. Gas burning. Little things, all of them. Little nagging things. Things he hated.

"For god's sake, keep it down will you!"

There was a long pause of silence - and then the noise started up again. More chopping. A rattle of a knife into the basin. Water turning on. Plastic bags being rustled.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Jim launched himself off the couch and stormed into the kitchen. "What part of keep it down don't you understand, Sandburg?"

"Hell, Jim, I'm just trying to make some dinner, here!"

"It's after 10 - couldn't you eat earlier? I've been at work all day. I just want a little peace and quiet. Is that too much to ask?"

Sandburg didn't even look at him. He just kept chopping. "I've been at work, too. Yes, I know, I wasn't being shot at - for a change - but I have also been packing, as you well know. I won't be long. Just dial your hearing down."

"What?" Jim took a step forward, anger really flaring now. "Is that your answer to everything? Just dial it down? Just turn it off and pretend it isn't happening? Christ, some fucking guide you turned out to be!"

Blair whirled around at that, "I'm the best fucking guide you could have had - and don't you forget it! If it wasn't for me, you'd be locked in an asylum by now and you know it!"

"Maybe - but at least I'd get some peace and quiet!"

Sandburg spread his arms wide, "What do you want from me, Jim? Should I just wink out of existence for you? I told you I'd be gone in two days. I know that's not quick enough for you, but hell, that's as quick as I can manage. Now just get out of my space and let me finish." With that, he turned and began chopping again.

Jim snatched the knife out of his hands.

Blair looked up at him in horror, taking two steps back very quickly, raising his hands.

That defensive gesture sent a bolt of white hot fury through Jim. Without even thinking, he raised the knife and sank the point deep into the chopping board. Blair flinched and stepped back even further, moving around the island as though he would run to his room.

Jim advanced, feeling that fury almost leak from him now. It boiled and bubbled through him, turning his stomach into a cauldron, seething hatred. He came to a tidy halt by the fridge, making sure Sandburg wouldn't back away further.

"And how long," he said quietly, menacingly, "is it going to be before you think it's okay to start telling people you used to work alongside a real, live sentinel?"

Blair's eyes opened wide in shock. So did his mouth. For a second, he said nothing. But then he did. "What? You honestly think I'd ever tell anybody about you?"

"Yeah. To impress some guy you wanted to fuck. Or some girl. Or some university. Or some newspaper. Should think it would be worth quite a bit." He didn't need to hold a blade in his hand in order to sink the knife in deep. Bitterness tasted so sweet.

"I don't fucking believe you, man!" Blair took a stubborn step forward, his own anger now ducking and weaving through the air, fighting with Jim's. "When have I ever given you a reason to think you couldn't trust me? Eh? When?"

Jim smiled, grim, letting the blood in his body burn, letting it rule him, "You moved into my place without mentioning your sexuality. Waited a good three years before you said anything."

"I..."

"And then I had no choice about it, did I? If I'd said a word, you would have labelled me homophobic and that would have been it, wouldn't it?"

"That has nothing to do with trust!"

"Doesn't it?"

"No!" Blair took another step forward, his hand coming out to point at Jim's chest. "That was personal, private and none of your business. Your abilities are a different matter altogether..."

"And they're not private? Not personal? Less personal than who you sleep with? Don't they contribute to who I am as much as your sexuality does to you? Or doesn't my personal life count here, only yours, eh?"

"You bastard! How dare you! You know I would never say anything to anybody about your abilities! How can you think I'd just betray you like that?" Blair hauled in a breath, "And you're a fine one to be lecturing me on trust, man!"

"Oh, I knew we'd come back to that!" Jim snapped, his voice rising, letting the anger run free now, letting it drive him forward, letting him be free. "I knew it. Just waiting for the right moment, weren't you? Well, go on, have your say. It never bothered you before. Never bothered you to say whatever you liked to me. Never thought once about whether I wanted to know if you were sleeping with a guy, never thought for one second that I might mind, never thought for one second..."

"That you might want to sleep with me instead?" Blair bellowed back.

"I don't want to sleep with you!" Jim drowned that bellow with his own.

Blair stood there, staring at him, chest moving with harsh air gasped in and out, matched by Jim's, tandem, forced, uncompromising ...

Stubborn.

And suddenly he had his hands all over Blair, Blair's hands all over him and their mouths were crushed together, hard, violent, bloodthirsty and ravenous. Their bodies driven together, crashing, tipping and stumbling, staggering back against the wall, hitting it, turning, Jim turning Blair so he was pushed back against it, pinned there. And still their hands moved as shirts were stripped away, torn fabric and buttons ignored as they flew in all directions. Jim tasted blood in his mouth but he didn't know, didn't care whose it was. Didn't care. Didn't care at all. He just had to have that mouth - and that mouth had to have him.

And it did. And his jaw, throat, shoulder, biting, leaving marks, hurting, arousing. Harsh thumbs pressed against his nipples and he shuddered, thrusting his hips against Blair's, searching for the hardness he found, his hands gripping hard, moving down, leaving bruises, pulling the man closer, this man, the only man, Blair, pulling him closer, taking what he should have taken a long time ago if only he'd known, if only he'd understood. But he was taking it now, yes, he was taking it now because it belonged to him, damnit, belonged to him, not to anybody else, Blair belonged to him, this body, this soul, this skin and flesh and bone ... oh god...

Blair pushed him to the floor, and still the pace flew, hands flying, tangling in zippers and button and pushing clothing out of the way until they could touch skin and more skin and hard skin and still it went on, gasping, pushing and sliding and wanting this, wanting this so much, needing it, needing this connection to live and breathe and make and live a life of its own and it was there, between them, between their heaving bodies as Blair pushed him down, crushed him beneath his weight, their cocks sliding together, riding each other, pressing closer, needing to be closer, to be inside each other, to be one.

That mouth was too close again and Jim took it, plunging in deep, sucking hard, thrusting up to meet whatever Blair could give him because it was so good, so very good to be doing this, to be needing it and wanting it and knowing Blair needed and wanted it as well and there were words he needed to say but it was too late or too early and he had nothing to think with, no breath to speak with, nothing to work with but the urgent necessity of impending completion, of being there, with Blair at the end, of making it the end and making it with Blair, Blair of all people, the only one he could come close to revealing this to and survive ...

"Jim ..." Blair gasped into his mouth.

Just a word - but it was more than he could bear. With a cry urged from his belly, he grabbed Blair to him and climaxed, white hot blindness exploding in his head, leaving nothing in its wake but the feeling of Blair's completion matching his own, seed for seed, need for need. It went on and on and on and only stopped when there was nothing left, no sense, no air, no Jim and no Blair.

Cascade at night.

It was dark. And whole. A living, breathing entity, swallowing him up. Streets on which to place his feet, sounds to guide his path, shadows to hide in.

Blair walked, mindlessly, endlessly, willingly into the night. Mile after mile, his feet took him further and further away, but never far enough because he was taking it with him, taking the hurt and the pain and the disappointment and the dislike and the shame with him as though he'd folded them all into his backpack and strung it on his shoulders. The weight dragged him down, mile after mile, endlessly, mindlessly.

Humans were fragile things, perched on the edge of mortality like an egg balancing atop a blade. One puff of air and it would fall. The human body wasn't meant for hard treatment, too many soft tissues and brittle bones and organs not designed to regenerate. Nobody took it seriously though, not until those bones had broken and those organs had withered. Nobody realized the threat that stood over them until it was too late - and then, it really was too late because by then, nothing could be done about it. Not even to the point of understanding it - for what was the point of understanding death when your last breath has just been drawn by dying lungs?

But then, there was always the assumption that something could be done about it - that, if a man took care of himself, he could live forever.

Who the fuck would want to?

Humans were fragile, living in a fragile world which had the power to crush them at any second - but the human soul was ten times more fragile. When it took a bullet or a knife to end a life - it took but a single word to destroy a person, to end faith, to shatter belief. Just a word.

Sometimes as little as a look.

And yet, the human soul was much vaunted for its power, it's ability to love and bear up under the most punishing of circumstances, where the body had withered and faded but the soul had struggled on, never giving up, never losing faith.

But even so, such strength could be blown out like a flickering candle if the wrong word was spoken - or not spoken. If the wrong deed was done, if some thing had been left out, if some promise had been broken.

Wind dashed across a dawning sky, whipping clouds to tumble and crash against each other; a heavenly argument that would bring rain later, like tears, to fall down about a city too used to such displays of empty passion.

He felt cold. And tired.

And dirty.

And hated every bit of it. Hated that he was here, walking the streets, tired and cold and dirty. Hated that he'd left Jim, thrown on clothes and walked out before the man had even stirred from the effects of...

He stumbled. He pulled up, hands going to his stomach, hauling in breaths as though each one would be his last. But it was too late. Too late to understand mortality when the chance to do something, to change something was already in the past. Too late to take the broken promise back, too late to pretend that it didn't even matter.

He doubled over and threw up in the gutter. His body racked with each shuddering heave, empty and unforgiving. He kept going until there was nothing left.

And there was nothing left. Not even the pain of betrayal.

Jim woke.

And moved, swiftly, his arms encompassing ...

Nothing.

"Blair?"

Nothing.

He lay on his side, on the floor, the remnants of his clothing scattered around him, the remnants of their sex cooling on his stomach.

"Blair?"

His arms ached. Empty. The floor was hard and cold. He sat up, stood and pulled his jeans on, using his t-shirt to clean up.

Blair was not in the loft.

His jacket was not on the hook. His keys not in the basket.

Jim walked to the balcony, opened the doors and stepped out. The chill wind seared across his bare chest, icing his knuckles as he gripped the rail. He opened up his hearing, dialling it to the edge. Nothing. No trace.

Gone.

"No..." Jim whispered, breathing into the wind. "No, Chief, don't go..."

Jim woke. His back ached, neck felt like rubber, mouth like sand. He turned his head on the couch, stared at the door. It remained closed and locked.

He got up. He walked to the bedroom and looked in. All but a few clothes were packed, all but the necessities taken care of. The room was empty. No Blair.

He stumbled into the bathroom and peed. He made it to the kitchen and downed a glass of water. He returned to the living room, sank back onto the couch and pulled the phone close, just in case.

He lay staring at the roof beams for a long, long time.

Jim woke to the phone ringing, loud in his dialled-up ears. He slapped his hands over them, wincing, quickly adjusting, rough and ragged. He grabbed the phone, "Blair?"

"No, it's me! Remember me? Your boss?"

Shaking his head, Jim sat up and rubbed a hand over his face. "Sorry, Simon, what is it?"

"About 9.36."

Jim froze. Shit. He was deep in it. That didn't stop him getting up and going to the door of the bedroom again, his body protesting every move as though he'd spent the entire night on a rack - which, of course, was exactly what he'd done.

"Jim!"

"Yeah?" He frowned, wondering where Blair's address book was and how likely it would be to find him at Rainier. "Look, Captain, I'm sorry, I'm not well. I won't be in today."

"What?"

"I have to go."

"Jim! Stop right there and tell me what the hell is going on! You've never taken a sick day in your life."

"Okay, okay." Jim leaned against the door, eyes flicking over every scarred surface within that too empty room. "Blair's missing."

"Since when?"

"Last night."

"Christ, Jim, he could be anywhere in some girl's bed. What do you mean, he's missing?"

"We had a fight and he walked out and ..." A fight? Was that ... sex on the floor a fight?

Yeah. A big fight.

"Come on, Jim, tell me what happened."

"No. I can't... I ... look, Simon, I don't care what you put it down to, okay? I just have to go. I have to find him and look, Simon, just ... just..." Jim punched a finger into the phone and severed the connection. His legs gave up then and he slid down the door until his ass connected with the wooden floor. Hard and cold, just like last night after they'd...

Had sex.

He'd thought he'd wanted it. But he hadn't. That thing last night had been ugly and he'd wanted beauty.

The phone rang again and he snatched it up. "Blair?"

"No... er... sorry. I'm a friend of Blair's."

The voice was familiar but Jim couldn't pinpoint it. "He's not here."

"Yes, I know. That's why I'm calling. He's here. He wanted me to let you know he was okay... well, that he was alive and everything. He's ... er... staying with me for the next couple of days and he just wanted to make sure you didn't put out a missing persons bulletin for him or something."

"I want to talk to him."

"He doesn't want to come to the phone."

"Please, just put him on. I have to talk to him."

"He... doesn't want to talk to you."

"Where are you?"

"I can't tell you that. Please... Jim ... just do as he asks? He's had enough. Just let him be for a while, okay?"

Jim closed his eyes. "Yeah, okay, okay. Just tell him... tell him that I ..." He swallowed, unable to say the words to a complete stranger. Unable to say them to himself. Empty, meaningless words. "Just look after him, okay?"

"I will."

He dropped the phone and sat there, breathing in the musk of their bodies together on the floor, breathing in the pain they'd inflicted upon each other, the struggle for power, all in the name of desperation. He'd called it need. How wrong he'd been.

There were children playing out in the vacant lot across the road. A boy and a girl, aged about nine or so. Playing with a tennis ball. Back and forth. The girl got the ball, bounced it against the wall and tried to catch it. The boy would run across and steal it, making the girl chase him until she got it back. Then she would bounce it again and the same thing would happen.

Eventually, blows were exchanged.

Blair could hear the cries of outrage from his window seat. They leaned against him, like recriminations of sins past. Each one a penance for what he'd done, what he hadn't done and the places he should never have gone.

There were great tomes written about the power of sex. Great minds delving into the subtleties of the human psyche and how it developed, the angles it took, the furtive means by which it achieved its needs.

Even if those needs were never acknowledged.

"Come on, Blair, you really need to eat something."

"I'm not hungry." He pulled his feet up onto the window seat and hugged his knees. Patrick sat beside him, reaching out to rub his hand, the flesh dry and warm.

"I'll bet if you tried to eat, you'd feel hungry. Your stomach's empty right now. You need to put some energy into your body if you want to be able to live through this."

Blair turned his gaze from the children to his old friend. Patrick could almost have been a version of Blair but thirty years on, long white locks, dove grey eyes and wrinkles brought about from smiling. His home was ample, as was its owner, filled with treasures from strange little places nobody had ever heard of - but all practical. There was hardly a single decorative item in the entire place - though it was packed from floor to ceiling, in every room.

"I've got some chocolate cake in the fridge," Patrick offered, raising his eyebrows a little. "The sugar will go down easier than anything else."

More to make his friend happy than from any real desire for food, Blair nodded, "Thanks."

Patrick went out and brought him back a plate of chocolate cake, complete with cream and strawberries. A very large piece. He handed it to Blair then resumed his seat, raising a hand to draw back the lace curtains a little, taking a glimpse of the sunny street.

"If you stay here long enough, he'll find you, you know? I'm surprised he didn't recognize my voice."

"I don't plan to stay here that long. Just until tomorrow. Then I can get my stuff and move into my apartment."

Patrick sighed and dropped the curtain - then watched Blair until he started eating the cake. "Do you think Marie Antionette had double choc fudge in mind when she made that ridiculous comment? I doubt she would have been happy sharing it. I'm not sure I am."

Something in Blair's face smiled a little. The cake was actually good and it didn't make him feel sick.

"Have you seen Nick lately?"

Blair shook his head sharply, keeping his attention on the cake. "Nope. Wouldn't want to. I think if I saw that smug look on his face again, I'd probably commit murder. I have to wonder why I didn't see it in him before."

"What? That he was dating this other guy?"

"No. His capacity for enjoying the hurt in other people."

"Oh, Blair, you don't know he enjoyed it. He could have been putting on a front, in order to get rid of you quicker, to reduce the pain rather than increase it."

Finishing the cake, Blair put the plate on the floor and returned to hugging his knees. "You only met Nick a couple of times, didn't you?"

"You two came around for dinner once, for one of my debate nights. It was quite a good one as I recall." Patrick folded his arms and leaned back a little, thin lips pursed in contemplation. "Though I did get the distinct impression Nick felt somewhat out of his depth. I was never too sure about inviting him again. I don't think he liked being surrounded by so many academics in one go."

"You think he was intimidated?"

Patrick gave him half a smile, "Well, there were five doctors and two MAs on their way to becoming doctors at the table that night. I should think it would take a very gutsy man not to feel a little intimidated."

Jim hadn't been intimidated. Not once.

Not up to defending Nick in the slightest, Blair asked, "Did you like him?"

"Not particularly."

"Why not?"

Patrick shrugged, "It's far easier to explain why somebody likes a person rather than why they don't."

"You're evading the question."

"True."

"Don't."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm not sure of anything right now."

"But you do want to know?"

"Yes."

"I didn't trust him."

Blair frowned, released his legs and crossed them. "How do you mean? We'd had lunch, what a week or so before that dinner? And then there was that night. So how could you decide you didn't trust him in that short space of time?"

Patrick took in a deep breath and collected his cold coffee from the small table beside him. He took a mouthful and swallowed slowly. "You know the basic rules on the qualification of knowledge, right?"

"Yes."

"Well, intuitive knowledge is supposed to comprise of elements the subconscious absorbs and processes. That knowledge remains dormant until moments when the conscious mind requires direct access - like when somebody asks if you trust them. Such an answer rarely requires much thought - because the conclusion has already been arrived at within the subconscious mind. For some people, that conclusion requires very little informational input. For others, it requires a lot. With me? Well, I knew by the end of that lunch that I didn't trust him. The dinner only confirmed it for me."

"But why?"

"The subconscious, laddie, doesn't give out explanations in words. That's why it's considered to be intuitive knowledge." Patrick smiled, "You know that as well as I do."

"Okay, but that doesn't mean you didn't think about it. Come to some conscious conclusions."

"True." Patrick got off his seat and began drifting around the room, collecting together magazines and journals, piling them on top of others stacked around the living room. "And if I tell you I thought he'd cheat on you at some point, or that I thought he was lying to you about a lot of things in his past, that he didn't seem to care for you anywhere near as much as you cared for him - would you believe it's not a case of being wildly wise after the fact?"

"Yes."

"Why?

"I trust you."

"Exactly. And why do you trust me?"

Blair turned, watching the other man. "Because I know you."

"No, you only know the man you've met in past circumstances. You know one law of Aristotelian logic is that no former pattern of events is proof of future events. Just because the sun has always risen in the morning, doesn't prove it will rise tomorrow. The prior pattern only give us a reasonable basis to believe it might."

"So, you're saying I can't trust anybody?"

Patrick threw him a dry glance, "Don't be deliberately obtuse, my dear. You'll only end up sounding like one of my students."

Blair shrugged, "Then what you are saying is that just because in the past I might have trusted you, I have no guarantee you will prove trustworthy in the future."

"There is no way you can connect the words 'trust' and 'guarantee' in the same sentence. They are, by definition, mutually exclusive. To trust requires some degree of chance. It's always a gamble - especially so with a lover. The stakes are much higher - intimacy is a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands."

As Patrick finished his vague tidying, Blair turned back to the window. "And what about trusting yourself?"

"Why, that's the biggest gamble of all."

Blair snorted bitterly, "Do you always broach the interior human subject with such calm and logic? How can you apply Aristotle to human emotion?"

Patrick returned, placing a hand on his shoulder, "I didn't say it was a valid application."

"I'm not any less confused."

"Why do you think you should be?"

"Because I have to understand!" Blair sprang out of his seat and was half-way across the room before he put up his hands in apology. "Look, being calm about this hasn't made any difference, you know? I can chase it around in clear lines of explanation until I die of old age - but in the end, the facts remain the same."

"Do they?" Folding his hands together, Patrick regarded him with the same patience he regarded his entire world. "Your boyfriend dumped you for another man. Your straight best friend kisses you. You argue and have something akin to sex on the kitchen floor. You run. Have I got this right so far?"

"Damn it, Patrick! This isn't funny!"

"Am I laughing? You fight with your best friend and find out that he kissed you, that he thought he liked it - suggesting he was starting to question his sexuality. You slam the door on him. Have the facts changed?"

"I don't know why I bother!"

"And then, out of the blue, in the middle of a great shouting match that would have entertained the neighbours down the street, you suddenly grab each other and don't stop until it's way too late, expunging something of the tension in the air at the same time, while perhaps creating a whole new set of tensions you don't seem to want to consider."

Blair stood there, his hands on his hips, waiting. "Like what? Like maybe I'd been wanting him subconsciously for a long time? And last night I just let go? Well, I've been over that and it's just not true. I have never thought of Jim like that. Never. I never wanted that kind of relationship with him. It would have been far too complicated. Christ, it's complicated enough as it is. And what's more, I don't think he's ever really wanted me like that, either."

"Are you sure?"

"Of what?"

"That you didn't want him?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I promise you, I never gave it a thought."

"So, it was just... biology?"

"God, Patrick, what kind of crap is that?"

With a soft laugh, Patrick sent his gaze roving about the room in a gesture of feigned innocence, "Well, the kind of crap you, yourself have been studying for the last ten years or so. Simple human interaction. Two strong males drawing territorial lines. In the modern society, two men who refuse to use violence as a means to an end. Instead, you had sex. Ultimately, I suspect you both would have been better off if you'd gone via the black-eye route. Less angst in the long run."

Blair sighed, "I hate philosophers, you know that?"

Patrick smiled and headed into the kitchen. "Of course. That's one of the things I like most about you. Now come and peel some potatoes."

Continued in part three.