THE LOST HOURS

Auto pilot, force of habit, ingrained routine - Jim Ellison didn't care what mechanism was responsible. All that mattered was that, somehow, he got from the station to his home in one piece. Despite the images in his mind's eye, despite the undertow of rage/despair/fear pulling him toward recklessness, he made it through the door, made it to his accustomed spot on the balcony, beer bottle in hand. Behind him the loft was dark and quiet, the echoing ticks of the small hours of the night only half heard. As usual when he needed to do this, he had moved as silently as possible, so as not to wake his sleeping partner from his much needed rest.

With a deep breath that made it's own way in and out, he stared out at the city, not seeing it, but instead pulling his senses in, focusing them on the rooms behind him. Oddly, it was always the *feel* of the place that struck him first, and hardest. At times he thought that even if he had no enhanced senses, he would be able to tell through his skin if Blair were home. His energy reverberated through the loft, like a low electrical charge through some somnambulant machine. The air currents still swirled with his movement; he could feel Blair's heat calling to him from the bed.

Sound was always next; perhaps because the soft respirations and heart beat were part and parcel of the stored power in the room. Those two sounds wove under and around the more mundane ones of a dwelling: water pipes, wood creaking, distant human step or voice.

As for scent, all he had to do was actually pay attention to it. He had grown so accustomed to simply filtering out of his conscious mind the overwhelming aromas and odors that surrounded him constantly, he had to sometimes remind himself to *smell.* Opening his mouth slightly, so that he could taste as well as scent, he drew in a slow, measured breath. Meals, past and present, clean laundry, and traces of people who had been in and out of the loft recently were all blended into a perfume called 'home'. Riding over that was the fresh, happy fragrance of Blair, with the undertone that said 'resting Blair,' and he savored that one, comparing and locking it in his memory.

Last, and hardest was sight. He closed his eyes because if they were open, it became perversely harder to bring up only what he wanted to see. Mentally fixing the location in his mind, he turned toward the shelf in the living room, then forced himself to look at it. He'd often thought that that one place in the loft spoke most clearly of his life with Blair. Before it hadn't even existed; now it sat there with the odds and ends of their shared interests or common experiences: a photo or two, one of Blair's fetishes brought back from Peru, candle sticks they had picked out together. He swept a glance over every item, automatically categorizing it, then added the image to all the rest of the sensory information he had gathered.

Wrapping the gesalt of it around himself like a warm, comforting quilt, he braced himself, then closed his eyes again. He deliberately called up the memories of the day that he had skulked to this spot to avoid. Each one was pulled out, brought to crystal clarity with every dram of its sorrow, or horror, or pain. He looked at it unflinchingly, accepting its impact, letting it fill, fill, fill his mind, come to over flow, then drain away. Over and over he repeated the process, scouring his thoughts for every last one, until at last, he was empty.

No anger left. No disgust. Nothing. Just a hollow man berefit of anything that made him a man. Then, and only then, the sensory fabric he had woven around himself was invited inside, allowed to drift in a wisp at a time to take the place of what had been cleansed away.

This part of the ritual was new. In the past he had been content to stay empty, finding it a kind of peace. Not a perfect one, perhaps, but one he could live with; one that made it possible for him to keep on working as a soldier or cop. Oh, he'd been aware he'd paid a price for it; that he would be cold and distant, unable to respond to the life in others.

Then it hadn't mattered.

That changed.

He had ignored the consequences to the point it had nearly destroyed what he loved and needed most. One night, standing here and raging, he had turned that ultra clear mind's eye on the pain in Blair's face when he had been shut off, closed out, yet again. He had let his own pain at hurting the younger man grow, intending to let it go, too, when he realized that this was one sorrow he *needed* to keep with him. That to let go of it was like letting go of a piece of Blair, himself, and he could no longer do that. *All* thoughts of his lover, even the painful ones, were necessary to him.

Fighting to hold onto that memory, grasping after it as it faded, he had nearly zoned on the effort. At the last second the sound of his guide stirring sleepily, disturbing the calm of the house, had brought him back. Desperately he had grabbed for that tiny noise with every bit of will he possessed and dragged it into himself. It felt right, so right, he had done the same with all his senses and, for the first time, let that input replace what he had banished.

It was the first true peace he had ever known in his life. The difference amazed and awed him, and he had stood reveling in it until the sun rose to reflect off the wet tracks on his cheeks. Now he luxuriated in it, stretching and yawning hugely, making his jaw and back creak. Finishing off the last of the beer, he went inside and went about cleaning up for bed.

Mind quiet, but body still too restless to sleep, he crept up the stairs and knelt on the foot of his bed, cherishing his partner with his eyes. This was different, too. Oh, he had always resorted to the empty and joyless relief his own hand could give him when his body needed the release to be able to relax. And, the first time he had wanted the physical peace to go with the mental, he had awakened Blair and loved him until they were both shaking with exhaustion.

But that was hardly fair to his lover. Blair was the sort who slept deeply and woke hard. And, once completely awake, it was often impossible for the grad student to go back to sleep. Not wanting to bother Jim, he would simply lie there wandering in his own thoughts. Knowing Blair had his own black memories to combat in the lost hours of the night, Jim avoided disturbing him to just to tire his own body. It was easy enough to tend to it himself, and Blair thought it was beautiful that he could take such pleasure from just being beside him.

The thought made him smile and he lay down beside the moon-clad figure, carefully not touching. Stealthily he leaned in for one short, sweet kiss, barely long enough to capture the taste he'd crave until he died. Laying his head on the pillow next to Blair's, close enough to be caressed by the infitismal breeze of breath coming from him, Jim reached for himself, dislodging the towel he wore from his shower.

Gingerly winding around one finger several strands from the cloud of curls scattered over the pillow, he hurried himself along with the other hand, eager to finish so he cuddle the warm body close and slip away. He watched the fleeting expressions cross Blair's slumbering face, comparing them to the ones he remembered and cherished most: the joy exploding there the first time he'd confessed his feelings, the wonder the first time they'd joined, the ecstasy he'd created one memorable evening when they'd set out to see how high they could drive each other.

With a tiny sigh, Blair's eyes fluttered open, still replete with dreams, and those dark, beckoning depths were enough to send Jim tumbling over the edge, free falling right into them. He floated down into awareness a few minutes later, drawn there by Blair clumsily cleaning him off. Taking the towel from him, Jim finished quickly, then gathered the drowsy man into his arms. "Shh, shh," he whispered. "It's okay, go back to sleep."

Winding both arms around his neck, Blair pressed close and asked softly, "Love me?"

Damn. Joel or Simon had called. More than willing to answer Blair's need for reassurance, but reluctant to wake him completely, Jim turned his lover under him and began to slowly, deeply kiss him. The familiar play of tongue over tongue was languid, coaxing warmth, not demanding fire. They began to glide against each other in matching laziness, murmuring nonsense sounds of pleasure. For a long, dreamy time they flowed around and over each other, erections sometimes only half hard despite the silky sensations of flesh on flesh. Finally, the tide of arousal began to crest for them, giving their movements more strength. Taking his weight on his elbows and holding Blair's head with a palm on either side, Jim looked down into the upturned beauty and began to thrust in earnest. Beneath him, Blair moaned, fingers clutching and grasping at his hips.

With a last drive upward, Blair gave a hushed cry and spilled between them, shivering as he did. The slick heat trembling against him was the last bit Jim needed; he buried his head in the welcoming curve of Blair's shoulder and neck and came. He hid in the fragrant dark, rocking gently to prolong the feeling, holding the precious body tightly until he felt Blair slide away into deep sleep.

Fumbling, he tidied both of them and dragged a sheet up against the chill in the air. He lay on his side, scooting down so that he could lay his head in the hollow of Blair's shoulder. Automatically one of his lover’s arms came up to curl around him, squeezing briefly, then settling heavily over his back. Cuddling under the weight of it, Jim allowed himself to go limp, nuzzling at the hair under his nose as he did.

Matching his respiration to Blair's, listening to his heart follow the pattern of his mate's, Jim gathered together the tranquility and silence of this small world and took it with him into sleep.

 
The End