by Jane Davitt

It's a sickness, a disease. A compulsion, an obsession, that owns, drives, possesses him.

He walks through his day with it riding him, sleeps with it lurking in his dreams and coloring them nightmare-gray, because it's wrong and he knows it (loves it).

He could end it. Tell Blair what he's doing -- and Blair would be gone before the echoes of Jim's shamefaced, whispered confession have died away.

He contemplates that solution.

Blair. Out of reach.

And shudders, hugs his sickness closer, and feels the fever build.

It's better this way.

(Tonight. He has to -- just one more time. Please?)

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