Perfection is rare in Jim's world now. Magnified by his senses, most things, most experiences, turn out to be flawed; minutely, sure, but once you know…

He can't enjoy a cold glass of water when he's thirsty, not with his taste buds cataloguing the additives and minerals; will never again run his hand over Blair's skin and compare it to silk in a rare romantic moment without knowing he's lying.

But when it snows from a pale-blue sky and he sees a captured flake in the sunlit tangle of Blair's dark hair, evanescent and fragile, he knows he's found something he can find no fault with.

Purity of form combined with beauty. His eyes are entranced by intricate lattices of white, dazzled by the prismatic lightshow.

And there are more whirling down to settle softly on Blair: on his face, his shoulders, his smiling mouth, when he tilts his head back, eyes closed; tiny pieces of perfection on an imperfect man.

They melt when they meet Blair's skin but Jim can't regret the loss of chilly, transient perfection. Not when he gets to kiss melted snow off Blair's cool lips and leave them warm again. Not when he runs his tongue lightly over those chapped, roughened lips, loving the way earlier kisses have left them marked, teeth-dented, bitten to ripeness.

There's nothing about Blair he wants to change.

Nothing.

And he scoops up a handful of snow and crushes it into a ball for Blair to throw high and wild into the air.


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