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.