Natural State

by Jane Davitt

Jim walked into the loft and tripped on a pair of shorts left just inside the door that tangled his feet like a lasso. He staggered, caught himself, and with a volume fuelled by self-consciousness bellowed, "What the hell? Sandburg!"

Blair glanced over at him from a supine position on the couch, bare legs pale and crossed at the ankles. He took a long gulp of beer from the bottle he held and then raised his hand. Jim waited, fuming, as he kicked the shorts -- silk, deep red and scattered with hearts -- off his foot and was rewarded by a belch so ripe and fruity that his throat quivered in response.

"That's better," Blair murmured and scratched his ass, his fingernails rasping over the back of a skimpy pair of briefs peeking out from a mostly buttoned shirt, his expression blissed-out and blithe.

Jim mapped the bulge of Sandburg's junk under the plain white cotton and jerked his head to the side when the curl of Sandburg's cock gave an interested twitch and began to straighten.

He looked around the loft and found it strewn with the contents of Sandburg's underwear drawer, items of clothing glimpsed in passing when he did laundry, but passed over hurriedly. Mostly. He couldn't glance away now, because it was everywhere; on tables, draped over lamps, the TV… Sandburg owned a surprising amount of silk and at least two thongs, one black cotton, one -- shit, it was leather. Jim eyed it with mounting annoyance because the rich, heady smell of it, saturated with sweat and God knows what other fluids, was hitting him like a fist, and decided that it would pinch like hell, and serve Sandburg right.

He made his way over to the couch and stood beside it, eyebrows raised, arms crossed over his chest to stop himself reaching out to grab Blair by the shoulders and shaking him hard.

"What?" Blair asked innocently. "Just being a regular guy, Jim. Belching and tossing my underwear around, the way you like it."

Jim sucked in a breath that was a big mistake as it flooded his nose and lungs with the unmistakable scent of an aroused male, and although Blair was providing some of it, the main source of the smell was him.

Turned on by Blair looking dangerously pissed off under the smiling surface, aroused by the crossed legs and the way they made Blair's balls push up impudently, squeezed together by an invisible hand, made hard by the challenge in Blair's eyes -- and standing like this, Blair could see the effect he was having on Jim, oh, yeah, he could see.
"Clean it up, and put some goddamned clothes on," Jim said in a tight, husky growl. He turned away, heading for his bedroom, blind to the muted rainbow of colors trying to catch his attention, because his vision was filled with white cotton, stretched tight over blood-dark flesh.

"Teach you to flirt with my mother, asshole," Blair said quietly, clearly.

Jim froze, his foot on the first step. "You know I heard that, right?"

"Oh, yeah." Blair didn't sound like he cared. "But did you hear me?"

Jim thought of how many other ways Blair could've gotten his point over and smiled, his annoyance and discomfort vanishing.

"No flirting with Sandburgs. Got it."

There was a pause and then Blair said, his voice light, amused, complicit. "That wasn't exactly what I said, man."

"No inviting Sandburgs up to my bedroom, to lie on my bed and drink wine."

Blair sighed. "Are you going to make me spell it out?"

Jim turned his head. Blair was standing now, another button undone on his shirt, a lush cloud of hair showing on his broad chest. "Get your ass up here," he said, and when Blair grinned and took a step forward, added, "after you've tidied up."

Blair pursed his lips as if he was considering how serious Jim was, and then nodded.

Jim lay on his bed, stroking himself idly as he listened to Blair's footsteps cross the loft, followed by the squeak of a drawer.

When Blair appeared at the top of the stairs a few minutes later, he was wearing the leather thong, which, as clothing went, was happily, intriguingly inadequate, and carrying a photo album.

Jim felt a flicker of foreboding. "Chief?"

Blair lay down next to him, the album an awkward shape between them, all corners. He flipped it open and tapped the first photograph. "This was a dig down in Mexico my first year at Rainier --"

He really shouldn't have kissed Naomi good-bye…

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