~*~*~*~
Shadows crept across the loft as Jim sat, waiting -- yet again -- for Blair to come home. His head hurt, thumping in a rhythm that was designed to drive him crazy. It seemed that every second that he was alone, the band of pain would tighten round his eyes, until his vision seemed to waver and dance with shimmering lights.
He could have phoned, but what was the point? How many times did he have to be told that Blair was coming soon, that there was just one more stack of essays to mark, one more student to see. Once, twice, three times? How many phone calls would it take before he was desperate? Jim didn't like to think he'd passed that point many months ago, when Blair had erupted into his life.
Beautiful Blair. The man who had bewitched him within weeks, drawing him in with soft hands, gentle voice, wicked tongue and eyes that seemed to see to his soul. Dragging things from him that no one ever had. Sometimes Jim had sat and wondered why he told Blair those things, why he bared his fragile emotions to someone who was basically a stranger.
Not that Blair was a stranger now. Now he was Jim's best friend, his lover, his confidant. He'd let him into his home, and in the process his heart. Blair was everything to him, the man who could soothe his fears, make him laugh, be at his side through thick and thin. He could ease the intensity of his senses with words designed to reassure and calm. Tell him that he'd be okay, wasn't a freak, that he was a good man, a man with a gift-- that's all. Special -- sure -- but in a good way.
Blair did all that and more. He cooked and talked, would sit on the sofa and rub Jim's head after a hard days work. Using those strong hands to massage the tension away. He would pull Jim towards their bed, promising so much with just a smug smile and an upturned eyebrow.
Blair made him feel good, sorted his life, his emotions. He knew his friends, his family. Knew more about his senses than he did, and just maybe, that was the problem.
Clenching a fist, Jim harshly rubbed at his eyes, trying to clear his vision. Concentrating, he looked at the clock on the video, checking the time. Last time he'd called Blair had said he'd be home soon, only had one pile of blue books left to grade. Surely he'd be back before long? Be wanting something to eat, pasta maybe?
Decision made, Jim stood from the sofa -- switching on the lamps -- squinting as the light hit his sensitive eyes. Rummaging in a drawer, he found the bottle of aspirin, dry swallowing the tablets. Needing the temporary relief before Blair came home. Trying to ignore the bitter emotion that wanted to break free.
He tried so hard not to do that; acknowledge that feeling, even to himself. Because Jim knew that if he ever sat and thought about his life, he would begin to hate Blair, and that just wasn't an option.
He loved Blair -- totally and utterly -- and didn't want to examine how his life revolved round the student. How his whole being was based on Blair's expectations. How his senses could be settled by Blair's presence, how his headache would begin to ease as soon as Blair walked through the door. It was scary to think how much power Blair had over him and even scarier that Blair had never realised.
Jim would never tell how he sat in pain, night after night, waiting for Blair to come home. How the urge to touch Blair was like a craving, how even brief contact could calm his senses, keep him going for a few hours.
He'd never tell Blair how much he needed him, because if he did he'd have to admit it to himself, and Jim didn't want that. What man would? Who would want to rely on another so totally, even if that person was the one they loved? So he pretended, and endured, taking what he could and desperately hoping that Blair would never leave. Because if he did that, it would be the end, Jim was too dependent now. He'd like to think he could live an independent life again, but somehow he doubted it.
But no way would Jim think deeply about that, and no way would he tell Blair. It was the secret that wouldn't be shared. Ever.