"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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