Blair breathes, hot damp air settling down over Jim's mouth; doesn't kiss him.
Leans over Jim, the air tangled in the hair clouded across his chest a fraction warmer than the air separating their bodies.
Doesn't touch him.
Jim waits, muscles schooled to a careful relaxation, each word crowding his head throttled to silence.
Blair nods slowly, approvingly and Jim's throat aches with the need to whisper 'I love you' now that he's learned to say it openly, easily, but Blair's asked for silence, told him to stay absolutely still.
Jim doesn't move.
It's not self-discipline. He has that, they've trained it into him, every cell, every twitch. It keeps him on stakeouts when his eyes are burning from fatigue and his belly's full of coffee that's a drink, not miracle juice. It lets him push past the pain of a beating, a bullet in his flesh, and raise, aim, fire accurately at his target.
This isn't that bone-deep, automatic refusal to give in and do what's easy, fun.
This is love.
He's in love.
He smiles up at Blair and tells him that with his eyes, the curve of his lips, and Blair should frown, really he should, because Jim's just failed him, but Blair smiles too, a sunrise smile, and his lips find Jim's in a kiss as hard and sweet as candy.
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