Disclaimers: I don’t own them, I lease them month-to-month. This story contains graphic homosexual situations, so if that squicks you, stop here. Thanks to my wonderful Betas, Marion Sherringham, Wendy, Rawly, Sheila, Caro Dee, and Stacey Holbrook.
When Blair moved back into the loft, Jim pulled out all the stops, doing ‘courtship rituals’ like there was no tomorrow. Making Blair’s favorite pot roast, of course, stocking the cabinets with algae mix, ostrich meat, couscous and sultanas, filling the Volvo with gas and taking it for a tune-up and a set of brand new tires. You know, nothing big.
But the one that seemed to go over best was helping Blair unpack, restoring all the masks and little tapestries to their rightful places, drawing out all the odd stories of where everything had come from. Since Blair sorted his books by topic, Jim knew he would be useless at shelving them, so he offered instead to hang stuff in closets and fold clothes in drawers, knowing it was probably the last time things would be put away neatly. The afternoon was going pretty well until Jim pulled out an odd item and stared at it. “Sandburg?”
“Yeah?”
Jim held up the long white dress and sash. “You want to tell me why you have a dress in here, Chief?”
A strange look flitted across Blair's face, followed by a weak smile. “Uh, Jim, why don’t you hang that up, okay?”
Oh yeah. Jim smelled blackmail material. “Oh come on, Chief, I think it would look good on you. You could wear it to the Halloween party, go in drag as a hippie chick or something.” He noticed some grubby marks on the front, old stains, faded and set from multiple washings. “You should really get this thing professionally cleaned, though. Looks like you get a lot of use out of it.”
Blair looked a little nauseous. “Jim, come on, man, that’s not funny, okay?”
“So what is it?”
“It’s a kittel.”
“And a kittel is?” Jim asked.
“Okay, promise you won’t freak?”
“Yeah, of course.” Jim promised, puzzled.
“It’s a shroud.”
Jim's stomach rebelled, looking at the old stains. Blair hadn’t dug this thing up from a grave, had he? “Sandburg? What are you doing with a shroud?”
“Damn it, I knew you were going to freak about this.”
“Answer me!”
“Well, it’s my shroud,” said Blair, reasonably.
Jim dropped it and leapt backwards as if burnt. “That’s sick!” He backed out of the room. “Even for you, that’s over the line, Sandburg!” He couldn't stop thinking of that horrible moment when couldn't hear Blair’s heartbeat, when the most important person in his life had been abruptly reduced, if only for a moment, to a lump of meat. How could Blair flirt with death like this?
Blair followed him into the living room. “Jim--”
“What, you’ve just been waiting for a drowning or a shooting or something? You’ve got it all planned out?”
“Jim, it has nothing to do with Alex, or you. I’ve had that kittel since I was fifteen. It’s normal.”
“In what alternate universe is that normal?” Jim railed. “I can’t believe this. There are fucking grass stains on that thing, Sandburg. You’ve been wearing it.”
“Well, yeah--”
“Normal people do not play Ultimate Frisbee in their death shrouds, Sandburg!” Jim stormed upstairs, shaking, before he could say or do something he’d regret. He just kept flashing on the tacky feel of chlorine on his fingers, the flat taste of it in his mouth. How could Blair bring that -- that thing into their home?
“Jim, come on, man, let’s talk about this.” When Jim didn’t answer, Blair stood at the bottom of the stairs and said, “Okay, I’ll talk and you can listen. I know you can hear me up there. Kittels are traditional Jewish ritual robes. I got mine in a bazaar in Yemen with Naomi. You wear it to be buried in, but you also wear it to get married in. You wouldn’t think it was crazy to own a wedding tux, would you?” He waited for a response, but Jim just lay facedown on his bed, unable to form words. “Okay, maybe you would feel that way after the way your marriage worked out, but you see my point. You also wear it for all the major holidays: Yom Kippur, the Passover feast, New Year’s, the whole kit and caboodle. It also goes over really well at native drum circles and Wiccan rituals … unless they're sky-clad, of course,” he amended with a chuckle. “I’ve worn this thing maybe six times a year for almost half my life, mostly to outdoor rituals and big feasts, hence the stains. And yeah, I’m going to be buried in it someday, but I’m planning for that day to be a long ways off, okay? No Alex-type detours in the near future, and lots and lots of good memories socked away in that kittel between now and then.”
Jim’s cheeks were very wet and warm now, and he didn’t really feel like answering Blair. He just listened to the soft tread as his friend made his way up the stairs.
“Jim?” The bed dipped as Blair sat down beside him.
Jim twisted his head to look at him, and that was bad, because Blair had the damn thing on now, he was wearing that shroud that was a little tight in the shoulders and stained at the knees, and it looked far too at home on him.
“See?” Blair said gently. “It’s just a piece of clothing. It only means what you make it mean.”
Jim launched himself at Blair and grabbed the damned shroud, hauled it up over Blair’s head with a snarl and threw it over the railing. But that was still no good, because the mothball smell of it had permeated his flannel shirt and jeans, infecting Blair with the scent of death. Jim wadded Blair’s shirts in his fists and stripped them off too, throwing them hard enough to hear a soft whang as they landed on a big stock pot in the kitchen.
“Jim? What the hell are you doing, man?”
The jeans were next. Jim shucked them, growling as they tangled in Blair’s boots. He solved the problem by hauling the younger man’s feet up over his head, pulling off the whole mess with a couple of sharp yanks, and sending it flying after the shirts.
Blair looked scared as hell, naked and golden in the afternoon light. “What--”
The smell was all over him, mothballs and chlorine, and Jim pushed the struggling man down on the bed and butted his head against Blair’s chest, rubbing his own living scent off on Blair like a cat marking its territory. “You do not,” he growled, “play with death. Do you understand me, Sandburg?” Blair gasped as Jim rubbed his cheek up against Blair’s hair, skimming his hands up and down Blair's furry chest.
“Oh God,” Blair moaned, thrashing as Jim pinned him. He was half-hard despite a lingering scent of fear, his heart thudding against Jim’s fingers. Jim licked the curve of Blair’s ear, and the drumming grew louder. “Jim…”
“You’re mine,” said Jim, moving down to crush Blair’s lips like fresh raspberries, delicious and tart against his mouth. He bumped his own denim-clad erection against Blair’s thigh, and despite the initial flinch, Blair squirmed to rub experimentally against the alien hardness, groaning as Jim reached down to reward him by stroking his erection. “You don’t get to die. You don’t get to leave me.”
“Ngh! Jim…”
“Say it. Say you're mine.” Blair’s nipples were hard and sweet under Jim’s teeth, but even better was the thick column of Blair’s offered throat. Jim tongued the sweet pulse of it, suckled and bit it as Blair wailed underneath him. “Say it and I’ll let you come.”
“Yours,” Blair sobbed. “I’m yours, please, please, Jim!”
And Jim reached down with his other hand to rub that sweet spot right behind Blair’s balls, felt the younger man’s scream as his seed unraveled in long, dizzying ropes all over their chests and bellies. He felt his own explosion take over, snapping his hips against Blair’s body, trying to fuck him through his jeans, his whole body clenching tight as a fist as the orgasm battered him, and he clung desperately to Blair as he shuddered and shot what felt like a quart of semen, filling the room with the heady scent of it.
He shucked off his soaked jeans and pulled Blair into the safety of his arms. It was a long time before either of them could find words. “Told you, man. Good memories.” Blair chuckled. “Boy, if I knew that thing was going to be the magic bullet that got me into your bed, I would have worn it when I met you at the hospital. I guess this makes it my wedding gown, huh?”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Sandburg. I told you, you’re not wearing that thing. You’ll be lucky if I ever let you wear clothes again.”
Blair snickered. “Sounds like a plan.”
End.