Never free
Never me
So I dub thee unforgiven
 -Metallica, The Unforgiven
 

Life was like thorns on roses. Bitter and sharp. Cutting him to the quick, blood welling to stain his fingers. Memories of that day staining his mind, dark red covering his thoughts, his dreams, his hopes. Light from the streetlight stung his eyes, and he closed them. Memories whirled behind the closed lids, and he flinched.

Jim had hit him.

He had walked.

And now, riddled by dreams, he had walked back.

Blair opened his eyes and stared up at the loft from the street, feeling a deep chill. The numbness had been a part of him for so many days, weeks, months, he barely noticed. He welcomed it. It was the only thing that kept him sane, when every sane thing in his life had spun and vanished, like water going down a whirlpool.

The night was wet and cool. A slight fresh breeze gusted off the ocean, salty like tears, playful like laughter. It eddied around him, blowing dry the short wavy hair soaked by the earlier thunderstorm. The pavement was still damp, reflecting the streetlights as a thousand false lamps in a thousand puddles. The brick of the building was wet, and the dark red looked like blood.

The lights were on upstairs, shades drawn. Closed off.

The balcony was empty of plants.

With slow steps, Blair moved towards the door to the apartment building. His key still worked, and he punched the button harder than he intended. The elevator wheezed to a halt and opened with a shudder; he entered, and carefully ignored the dirty walls, the newspaper wadded up in a corner. He'd seen worse.

For one moment, he wished he wasn't there, wished passionately that he was anywhere but #852 Prospect Street, about to walk back into the life of a man he'd sworn never to forgive. He wished he could somehow undo those last terrible, nightmarish days, make them right, make them disappear. He wished that the ice in his stomach was excitement, not fear. He wished he'd never had the dreams, dreams of him and Jim, dreams of Jim alone and in pain, dreams of what could have been.

The walk down the hall was frighteningly familiar, from years of coming home. Home. He walked the narrow hallway carefully, placing his feet as precisely as if he was in a dance. Once he staggered like he was drunk, but the numbness inside him wouldn't let him fall, had never let him fall, and so he gritted his teeth and kept going.

His key still fit this lock, too. He closed his eyes and let the familiar rhythm of twist, push, pull carry him, memories supporting him like water. The gears ground slowly--god, when had Jim oiled this last? The door opened smoothly, though, and Blair stepped forward. Inside.

Closed the door.

And finally, opened his eyes.

The room was brilliant, lights blazing. There had never been this many lights when he was here, Jim's eyes were too sensitive. He flinched from the assualt, blinked, and finally managed to focus in a haze of moisture. The place looked like he remembered. All his stuff was still there. Jim was in front of him, dressed in a good shirt and suit pants. His jacket was across the table, neatly draped. Typical.

He looked good. Blair caught his breath in pain at the familiar form in front of him, lean and muscular and bulky--leaner than he remembered. His shirt hung drom his broad shoulders, and his belt showed wear at the wrong holes.

"How'd we do?" he asked softly, recognizing Jim's "cout clothes."

"Convicted," Jim answered in a voice that sounded almost normal. "He won't be back." Suddenly he cried out hoarsely and doubled over, clutching his eyes. "Ahhh, god," he choked.

Blair reacted without thought, without direction--he hit the light switches, sending the room into a twilight dimness. At the same time he was moving, his feet carrying him over to where Jim was huddled, keening hopelessly.

"It's okay, Jim," he whispered. "I'm back, it's okay, listen to my voice. The lights are off, come on back. It's safe. I'm here, big guy, it's okay, come on back..." he reached out hesitantly and touched Jim's back, refusing to let himself flinch when Jim went rigid. He rubbed small circles. "I'm here," he said quietly.

"No," Jim whispered, starting to shake. "No."

"Yeah." Blair quirked a reluctant smile--small and sad, but it felt unbelievably good. "I couldn't stay away. I had to come back."

"No..." the word was a drawn-out moan of denial, and a hand reached up as Jim twisted, catching his wrist with punishing strength. Blair froze, fear and fury icing his bones, but the hand gentled almost immediately, and turned caressing, soothing. "No."

"Yes," he said, trying to make his voice strong. "Jim, let go."

Jim was shaking harder now, and when he finally looked up--

Blair almost wept himself at the single silver-wet trace that etched Jim's face. "Jim," he said in wonder. "I'm here."

"Yes," Jim managed, eyes wide and vulnerble. "You're here." He blinked, and a second tear joined the first.

"You left."

"Yeah," Blair agreed quietly. "You hit me."

"I remember, Chief," Jim said hoarsely, and seemed to collect himself, wiping his face on his sleeve and pushing away, standing up. Blair followed, bracing himself; but Jim seemed eager to stay away, stay small, stay safe.

"You took the light away," Jim said, and Blair jerked.

"I what?"

"When you left," Jim said, not looking at him, "the light left with you. I couldn't see, couldn't see anything. Until now, when the light came back."

Blair stayed silent, digesting this, looking around the loft at the new lamps, rembembering the blazing light he had entered to. Jim had lost his senses.

Now they were back.

"I thought you came back before," Jim stated, interrupting him. His eyes were closed. "I thought I was going crazy. But you were here before. I saw you. But I could never touch you."

Blair could barely speak. This wasn't possible, was it? "I dreamed I were here."

The silence was almost tangible, thick and heavy, like a club, like a fist.

Jim looked directly at Blair.

"I'm sorry."

At last, the tears and pain of the last year broke free, choking him. Blair realized with horror that he was about to cry and twitched, fighting it. He wouldn't cry in front of Jim. He never cried in front of Jim.

But Jim wasn't fighting it. Jim was facing away again, and his head was buried in one arm, and his shoulders were shaking.

Unsteadily he crossed the room to Jim's side. Tugging, he pulled them both onto the couch, his knees loose and wobbly. Jim folded readily, leaning into him, and Blair cradled the great head as Jim cried and felt the ice deep inside him shatter, like ice in the spring thaw, one slow painful piece at a time. But it was sweet pain, beautiful pain, and he suddenly felt like laughing. All that had happened. All that was different. All they had been through.

"I love you," he whispered, resting his head over Jim's back, wrapping his arms around Jim's body and relaxing for the first time in a year. "I love you."

"I love you," came the muted response from underneath him, tinged with such regret and amazement and joy that Blair shivered. And smiled. And nuzzled the warm back beneath him.

"I love you," repeated Jim, stronger this time, and the words seemed to light up the dim, shadowy room, transforming it.

"It's okay, Jim. I'm okay. I'm here." And finally, finally, he was.

The End.

The way you're bathed in light
Reminds me of that night
God laid me down into your rose garden of trust
 -Live, The Dolphin's Cry