"You're supposed to light it with a piece of last year's log."
Jim sat back on his heels, ash, flaky and soft, clinging to his
fingers. "It's the first year we've done it, Sandburg. I'm seeing a
problem here."
Blair stared at the piece of wood they'd chosen as the Yule log because
it was solid and would burn well, and sighed.
"Traditions have to start somewhere," Jim pointed out.
"True, true…" Blair dipped his fingers into his glass and let the
falling droplets of wine splash down onto the gnarled wood. "There.
Light it."
The flames leaped high, promising safety and good fortune for the
coming year, and Jim watched them for a while, finding shapes in the
flickers and the wisps of smoke, before taking Blair to bed, something
in him needing their own ritual tonight. Blair had been pretty specific
-- and explicit -- about the phallic symbolism of the Yule log and it
had stirred something awake in Jim.
Blair's skin smelled of smoke and his fingers were still faintly
stained with wine. Jim pressed Blair's palms together as they knelt on
the bed and bent his head, sniffing, then tasting. His tongue lapping
over Blair's fingers and then, as they parted for him, he sucked on
them gently, one by one, until he could only taste Blair.
"What are you doing?" Blair whispered, his voice husky.
Jim shifted closer, feeling the nudge of Blair's cock against his
stomach, hard and eager. "Come on, Sandburg," he murmured. "You
lectured me all night about this. Consider it a practical application
of using something small to light something bigger."
He pushed Blair to his back and smiled down at him before giving one of
Blair's fingers a final kiss.
Then he slid down the warm, solid length of Blair's body to what was
waiting for him, new, untouched, waiting to be consumed by the heat of
his mouth and then renewed, reborn from the embers.
Beneath them the Yule log smoldered, sparks flying upwards, the wood
giving up the heat of a score of summers.
And beneath Jim, Blair did the same.
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