by Jane Davitt

Oh, no! not in spring-time
Summer, winter or fall
No, never could I leave you at all
Robert Goulet - If Ever I Would Leave You from Camelot

It's May, and Jim's spring-cleaning, a vague memory of Sally insisting on it urging him to excesses of cupboard emptying and even, God help him, redecorating. Blair's room is a smudge on a perfect surface, cluttered and redolent, not of polish and paint, but joss sticks and grunge. Jim eyes it, sniffs, contemplates mentioning the one-week stay that's extended to months, and sighs.

Tomorrow will be June. Spring cleaning is officially over...and something tells him that Sandburg will still be around next spring to look at paint chips and dust a little.

Maybe Jim will have stopped sneezing by then.


The heat of August is a living, breathing (panting) foe. Jim strips to his shorts, drinking beer so cold he can feel the ice crystals scour his tongue, his damp skin tacky to the touch. Blair walks by and bends over the couch, then blows a teasing stream of air over Jim's stomach. Jim gasps, sucks in a shocked, stunned breath, and they watch Jim's cock stir and rise, snake-charmed stiff inside navy cotton.

The sun sets and sinks before Jim's at ease again and Blair's silent and edgy, slanting glances Jim's way and licking his lips wet and raw.

Jim doesn't let a bedraggled, dripping Blair step more than a yard inside the door. He brings a towel, eases a sodden coat off, and unties rain-knotted shoelaces. Dead on his feet, Blair sways and lets Jim scold him for walking miles in a downpour instead of calling for a ride.

When Blair shivers, Jim stops trying to save the floor, leads Blair into the bathroom, and turns on the shower. There's a yellow leaf, edges umber, caught in Blair's hair and he tugs it free.

Blair's mouth comes against his in a hopeful kiss, his lips chilled and sweet.


Blair snuggles so close in bed that Jim can't turn over without waking him, can't stretch out without bumping into the point and prod of Blair's cock. Jim grumbles but keeps the heat low at night. He knows how to warm Blair up with the friction of his hands, the heat of his mouth. It's snowing outside, a spiteful, wet sleet, but in their bed, he's coaxing a sheen of sweat from Blair's body as Blair works himself industriously deeper inside Jim. The sheets slip to the floor and Jim cries out, meets Blair's last stuttering, shuddering thrust, and comes.


It's spring again, green and fresh. Blair's still in the loft but his room is used for storage now, and kept tidy and neat by a long-suffering Jim. Jim's bedroom, on the other hand, is littered with books, stray socks, and smells funky.

It's just the way Jim likes it.

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