Author: Daydreamer
Date: 10 July 2004

Holding Hearts

I'm holding his hand.

When we moved to come upstairs, he reached out and took my hand. I don't think I've held his hand like this before. I've held his backpack, held his jacket, held his hair back when he was sick. I've held his wallet, held his shopping, held a towel for him when he stepped out of the shower. I've held his face in my hands, held his eyes with my own, held his body tight to mine, wrapped within my arms.

But I've never held his hand.

He reached out for me to take his hand and I was at a loss as to how that gesture was to be taken.

Was he the child, reaching out for the hand of someone who would protect him?

Or was he the lover, reaching out to connect with the one he loves?

The one who loves him.

I just don't know.

And now, he's sleeping, exhausted from the emotions of the evening. He wears a pair of old sweatpants, no shirt. The waistband rides low on his hips and the white gauze bandage stands out in stark contrast to his darker skin. I shudder to think of what it's going to cost him when I have to take the tape off that lightly-furred abdomen.

So I'm sitting here, holding his hand.

It's an odd gesture between two men. Men and women who are in love hold hands all the time. But even with society's slightly more tolerant view on homosexuality, you just don't see two males holding hands. Not after the age of five, anyway.

But he's got me in a vise-grip, even in his sleep and if holding his hand is what he needs now, I'll hold his hand.

We'll have to talk, and let me tell you, that's a favorite on the Jim Ellison list of things to do. Right up there with wisdom tooth extraction and gunshot to the belly.

I don't think what happened tonight -- with the knife -- is an indicator that Sandburg's suddenly gone round the bend. I'm concerned -- sheesh, who wouldn't be? -- but I don't think he's suddenly suicidal. I mean, wouldn't he have been more likely to hurt himself when all this shit was happening? And since he didn't ... I still have to admit it amazes me that he's as together as he is, all things considered. I think tonight was an aberration. He knew Naomi wasn't listening to him -- wasn't hearing him -- and I think he just reached out in desperation and did this thing with the knife without thinking. Anything to make her react.

And it didn't.

No reaction.

No response.

No reward.

Unless I'm the reward. He certainly got my attention.

And Simon's.

And I can only hope that we will be enough. His friends and I -- can we love him enough for all of this to fade away? Give him enough to help him heal? Be there for him for as long as it takes?

Simon's been a rock thus far; no reason to suspect he'll change.

And I'm sure as hell not going anywhere.

He squeezes my hand in his sleep, growing slightly restless and I squeeze back. "I'm here, baby," I whisper and he settles immediately.

It's a little frightening to have someone depend on you so completely, to respond to you so fully, to need you so intensely.

I snort at my own thoughts. What the hell am I talking about? I act like Sandburg is the only one who's dependent, needy. Sentinel here, remember? Dependent on my guide for just about everything. Need him just to survive.

But, when I force myself to dig a little deeper, I have to admit, it's more than that. Forget the sentinel stuff, forget needing a guide. Forget the way he saved my life when my senses were so whacked out; I didn't think I was going to have a life anymore.

Face the fact that you need him, Ellison. This unique person who is Blair Sandburg is somehow the other half of who you are. He complements you perfectly, makes you complete. The pieces of your life that were missing, the elements of your past that had gone astray, he fills them in and straightens them out and makes life worth living.

I squeeze his hand again, gently, and brush his lips with my own.

He snores in response and it makes me laugh. Even in his sleep, Sandburg knows I can only take so much of the emotional stuff, and today's been full of it.

I mean, look at me. Big, buff Ranger-cop and what do I do? Fall completely apart in a public place and cry like a baby. Just like I'm planning on making Sandburg talk about his little stunt with the knife, I know without a doubt he's going to want to talk about my little breakdown as well. I can hear him now. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of, Jim. Consider it to be a chemical reaction you had no control over. Stress hormones build up over time. Normally,' he'll laugh when he says that and grin that quirky Sandburg grin, 'you'd be able to get rid of them by pounding things.' And I'll remind him that I did go to the gym for just that reason. I'm embarrassed now. I'll be embarrassed then. But he won't let me stay that way. He'll take my hand and tell me that too many things had happened, there was just too much to deal with and pounding wasn't going to work. He'll say my body needed something more -- hence the tears. And then, he'll hold me and I won't be embarrassed anymore.

Hmmm -- that's pretty good. Wonder if Sandburg will give me a pass on exploring the events of the day if I tell him I figured it out?

Nah -- he'll tell me we need to do it together.

And that's okay, because I think I'm going to have to trade off discussion of my little emotional meltdown in order to get discussion about the thing with the knife. And if it's what's best for Blair, it's a tradeoff I can live with.

But all that is for tomorrow. For now, I am content to just sit here, holding his hand.

I think back to what he said tonight, that all this remembering, all this stirred up stuff, started when I was late to pick him up one day. I don't even remember the day. We've been so comfortable with each other for so long, that my picking him up on one particular day doesn't even stand out. But I wonder what it was I did, or didn't do, that brought all this to the surface. I wonder if I'd never dragged his box out, would all this still have happened? If I'd stayed with him, not gone after Stanley like I did, would that have made things better? Did my actions just perpetuate his trauma? Did finding his NanaKat help things? Or did it just stir up more memories? I could sit here and second-guess myself all night and never have an answer.

But one thing my karmatically-minded, destiny-driven lover would probably agree on, we wouldn't have had this -- I lift his hand to my lips -- if we hadn't set off down this road to explore his past.

I kiss his hand again. It's weird, sitting here beside the bed, holding his hand, instead of being in the bed, wrapped around him. I'm not even sure why I'm still sitting here, why I haven't crawled into bed with him yet. Somehow, maybe because holding his hand is new, I just don't want to move yet.

We came together so slowly, so gradually, so inevitably. Every time he hurt, I held him. I held him in my arms. Held him on the couch. Held him in my bed. And he held me. He's strong, this partner of mine. This hasn't been a one-way road. We've walked it together. Blair was abused. But Blair is strong. I've had my share of times when the rough spots in life have beaten me down and he's held me. Held me together, held me up. Held me safe in his own strong arms and let me give it up for a while. Isn't that what partners do -- what lovers do? Relationships are never 50/50. They're 60/40, or 70/30, or even 90/10, but the percentages keep shifting and as long as it works out in the end, when you're really in love, you don't keep score on who's the strongest, who's the bravest, who's turn it is to do the laundry or scrub the bathroom. You just have faith that the two of you will balance each other out -- strong and weak, happy and sad, quiet and talkative, yin and yang.

And somehow, if you're really, really lucky and you've found the right person, it does.

I look down to where our hands are clasped and realize that I'm not just holding his hand, he's holding mine as well. It's mutual, it's sharing, it's what we're about. His eyes are open and he's watching me. Wonder how long he's been awake?

"Come to bed?" he murmurs and I nod. I'm loath to let his hand go and cling to him for a moment.

"Jim?" he says, his voice still low, "you can let go. Holding hands is just a symbol ..."

I let him go, strip, and am in the bed before he can finish his thought. He turns, lays his head on my shoulder and cuddles against me. His hand rests on my chest and I take mine and place it likewise on his. I can feel the blood pumping in his heart, feel our bodies falling into sync.

"What counts," he whispers, his lips tickling my ear, our twin hearts pounding, "is holding hearts."