Hard to Please

by Jane Davitt

"I love you."

Blair says it to him in public without hesitating, says it often as he gives fervent thanks for Jim doing something as trivial as letting him have the last bran muffin from the donut cart.

Doesn't count, even if he stores the words, plays them back later, cadence by syllable.

"Love it when you do that, man. So cool."

So he can see a tree a mile away and hear the rustle of leaf falling from its topmost twig. So fucking what? Blair can't see print on paper without his glasses and Jim still -- he still --

"Jim, I love you, but you've got to lighten up."

Six words too many. Blair's just too damn lavish with them, spilling them out until Jim's drowning, lost.

"Jim. Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim, Jim. Love you, you know that, right? Love you so fucking much."

And how many of me can you see right now, Chief? And where the fuck is that bucket and the aspirin?

"God, love you, love you, yes, yes, oh God, harder, fuck --"

Worth a try.

One day he'll say it.

And maybe one day Blair will say it properly, too.

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