Jim likes stars. Remote, distanced, they just are, and he doesn't have to worry about them. He sits out on the balcony, his breath clouding the cool, damp air, and peers up through the telescope, then pushes it aside and gluts himself on a field of sparkles, with Blair close by to pull him back before he falls, lost in the spangled ink.
The bullet hole in Blair's thigh is star-shaped. Jim strokes the puckered, angry flesh, presses kisses onto it; does everything he can to make Blair feel unmarked, perfect, whole.
Remembers Blair falling, shot, lost.
Kisses him again.
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