//
This story is completed
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!
Matt can't stand this. It's worse than when he was tortured by the crazy neo-Malthusians in Venezuela, worse than the chest wound that forced Phlox to actually put him in restraints for two weeks to let heal.
The bruises have begun to fade and his arm hurts less now, though the strangely shaped, almost goopy-looking cast doesn't inspire much confidence. He's able to make it above deck to dump his ‘waste' himself now, though the effort leaves him panting and out-of-breath.
Reed has been uncharacteristically silent and taciturn. Perhaps it's because, forbidden from fighting, they have nothing to say. But he doubts it. Reed is a man with a story, probably similar to his own with a rebellion in him and a certain degree of academia. Matt wants to know it. He wants to learn because . . . damn, this old dog needs some new tricks now that this strange world and this strange world has robbed him of everything he knows.
He finds himself humbled – embarrassed that Reed had to care for him like a sick child, stroke his brow when he whimpers in sleep, stretch his abused limbs, hold his hand through the pain. Maybe that's why they can't seem to speak. They've become too intimate, almost more intimate than lovers (Matt certainly wouldn't hold a bedpan for any of his girlfriends), and only because they're the only two humans on the planet.
But they need to talk – the silence that was once a protective cloak is now cloying.
He spots Reed sitting on the railing, overlooking the wide ocean and the big blue sky – the one familiar in this world of monsters and slimy things. The Mil'aka is tending to the sails right now. He . . . she, according to Reed, hasn't lowered herself to speak with Matt, which is fine by him. She's one of them – the enemy he's been fighting in sleep and the waking nightmare that has been his stay here. And, as any good soldier, he knows that you don't get close to the enemy. You don't allow yourself to see their humanity, even if they are human, because one day you might have to kill them.
Reed turns long before Matt reaches him, the telltale thump of his slow limp an easy giveaway. Matt curses his weakness and is further humiliated by the fact that Reed stands abruptly, striding over with a grace that Matt used to have and wonders if he will ever have again, to help the wounded soldier sit down near the railing. The cautious concern unnerves him as he tries to push Reed's hands away.
"Lieutenant, we need to talk."
"I know," Reed whispers.
"First . . ." first, this is so hard. But, as proud a man as Matt is, he's always believed in being an officer and a gentleman. He hates it, but he owes Reed and he's not too big a man to let him know that. How could he be after Reed running those dexterous fingers through his hair was the only thing that relaxed him enough to put the delirious dreams to rest? "First, I need to thank you for everything you've done for me."
"Don't mention it," Reed mumbles, pulling his knees closer to his chest.
"Look, Lieutenant, I'm grateful, for everything. You saved my life, and where I come from, that's no small favor. I know we haven't always gotten along, but I need to know where we stand . . . what you want. Tell me what you want and I'll do it."
Reed chuckles slightly and hangs his head.
"What? What's so funny?"
"You're finally asking to take orders from me."
Matt laughs along, relieved to know that he still can. "I guess I am."
Matt isn't sure what he wants the answer to be. All he's know of Mil'al is pain and hate, but Reed seems to have caved out a life for himself here. And yet, Matt still can't stand the thought that they'll be spending their last days confined on a ship with a crew of three. How long will it take until they kill each other.
But all doubts are washed away when Reed turns to him, suddenly earnest. "I want you to stay."
Matt smiles. If he's being honest with himself, he has to admit that this is what he wants. He's not ready to face the world that is Hil'al; he doubts he ever will be. After what they did to him, he could go his entire life without looking upon another Hil'aka. "I'd like that."
"You could be my first mate."
"Don't you already have one?" Matt nods over to the Hil'aka where it stands watching them from a distance.
"The Hil'aka don't believe in rank. Then, I guess you would be an equal partner."
Matt laughs. "I don't know the first thing about sailing. I grew up in the desert and my family certainly wasn't the yachting type. To tell you the truth, I don't care much for the water."
"Me either. But you adapt."
"I suppose you do. But if you want to us to be equals, you're going to have to stop calling me, ‘Major.'" They've come too far to hide behind rank now, as much as Matt wants to.
"Fine by me. It makes Tar'a uncomfortable, you being so seditious and all."
Matt looks away, startled by the hurt that seems to rise up out of nowhere. He was just doing his job . . . no, not his job. But all that pain. And for what?
"Why'd you do it?" Reed asks quietly.
"I wanted to be a soldier all my life, from playing with GI Joe as a kid to JROTC in high school to the military. I didn't know how to be anything else."
"But you're so much more," Reed says with startling conviction.
"Yes, I'm human."
And nothing can argue with that statement, with the melancholy in the tone. Because here, that's all they are. That's all they need to be in order to be more the same than they are different.
He's come to an agreement with Hayes. The man's not going to be much help for a while, but he's getting better, and the controls should be fairly easy to operate, considering the way they're set up for Tar'a.
All he needs to do is to break the news to the third member of this motley crew.
"Tar'a?"
"Yes, Mal'colm."
"I need to speak with you."
"Then speak." He can't tell whether or not she's being short with him. Her colors are muddied by what is obviously fatigue.
"I would rather we speak below deck."
She blinks at him, flashing yellow. She's confused.
"I would like to speak in private."
"Yes, of course." She's embarrassed.
He opens the door for her – odd because it's not Mil'akan custom, but she seems to like it.
"So, about what did you wish to speak?"
"I'd like to make Maj . . . Hayes a part of this crew."
"He must pay off his debt to us, yes?"
"No. I want to make him a partner in this."
"Mal'colm, he will poison us with his warlust!"
"No he won't. Tar'a, he's a good man and I trust him. Please trust my judgment on this."
"Very well."
He finds himself embracing her, the strange opaque flesh no longer frightening him or feeling odd against his skin. He's surrounded by colors again, lost in brilliance and beauty and timelessness. He can feel how much she cares for him and it's like electricity humming through him.
But it's not enough.
Matt is a terrible sailor. He fully admits it. He curses like one, though, flattening himself to the deck as the boon nearly hits him in the head – again.
"You're getting it." Malcolm says, though his tone is wry. Sometimes Matt can't take the dry sarcasm. It's just too much sometimes.
"Sure. You'll sail us back to Earth before I get this," he grumbles, pushing himself off the rich wood of the deck with a wince.
Malcolm kneels down by his side. "Hey, you okay?"
"Yeah, just a little winded." He hates being this weak. He still sleeps far too much – more than the four to six hour of his military regimen - and there are weird aches and pains brought on seemingly by changes in the weather. His only solace is that Malcolm thinks he remembers that it might be time to take the cast off soon, and then Matt can see if he can still use his arm.
Malcolm reaches down a hand, only to make a dive down to the deck, practically on top of Matt as the boon swings back.
"Looks as though I have a bit to learn myself," Malcolm laughs. It's dry too, but comforting. Back when he was . . . the Hil'aka don't laugh with their voices, so he never thought he'd hear laughter again.
They lie there together on the deck, taking in the warmth it's absorbed from the sun, breathing in deep after surprise and laughter.
"You learned to sail as a kid?" Matt asks, as Malcolm rolls over so they're lying shoulder to shoulder, looking at the sun they can almost convince themselves is Sol.
"Before I could ride a bike."
"No kidding."
"I loved the ocean. Father was so proud of me. He thought I was going to be the model naval officer."
"So what happened?"
"Aquarphobia. It turns out, I only loved the ocean when I could stay on top of it."
"Ironic."
"Indeed. I tried to get over it. But after that, nothing was ever really good enough. Everything I did wasn't because I wanted to, but because I was making up for the fact that I didn't take to water like a Reed should. After a while I just got tired of trying to break even."
"I bet your Father'd be proud now, though, wouldn't he?"
Malcolm is silent for a long time. "I find it hard to believe that anyone could be proud of the mess we've gotten ourselves into."
"But we're still alive," Matt offers, not bothering to deny the horrible platitude that it is.
"Come on." Malcolm jumps to his feet, offering Matt a hand. "You still have a lot to learn and the day is young.
Matt smiles resignedly. It's too much to expect Malcolm Reed, Mr. British Military Precision, to open up more than that.
This is a familiar fantasy. He comes back to his quarters sweaty and greasy from training. Hoshi is there, waiting for him, wearing nothing but a silky red robe embroidered with golden dragons. She looks so small beneath it, but her eyes sparkle with wisdom and lust far beyond her years. "Matt," she purrs, crawling on all fours up the bed, the robe falling open to expose small pert breasts. Her lips and cheeks are painted red and her smile is so seductive.
In reality, Hoshi was an attentive but shy lover. She was not the exotic sex kitten he always imagined hiding behind the quiet exterior. But she was opening up. The night she did wear the silk robe was May 5th, the day of the dead in Mexico. She wore it as they sat before a candle she borrowed from T'Pol and told stories of their ancestors.
In his fantasy, Hoshi does not let him kiss every inch of her. She doesn't even let him pleasure her. Her skin is just as silky as he remembers and her lips as soft, but her kisses are demanding, not sweet as she forces him down onto the bed, ties his hands with the silk belt of the robe, letting it fall open completely, begging for him to touch.
She fucks him hard, taunting, not letting him come until she allows, never letting him get the upper hand.
In his fantasy, the ceiling opens up and they're in the middle of the desert, under familiar stars, the cool night breeze blowing through Hoshi's fine hair, and the moon so mesmerizingly bright.
When he comes, he sees the moon wide in her eyes and wishes he were back on Earth.
Matt pants down from his orgasm, finding his own hand on his cock instead of his lost lover. He thinks that maybe they had a chance, if he'd let it become more, which he couldn't. He'd come so close to dying so many times. He couldn't put someone he truly cared about through that, no matter how much he might have wanted to. But then again, maybe his feelings for Hoshi are mixed with his longing for all things familiar. Maybe he never loved her at all, just loved the promise she represented, tickling the romantic buried deep beneath the hardened soldier.
He opens his eyes to find dark eyes staring down at him, skin white but changing, radiating a yellow of confusion against the dark wood of the ceiling.
Matt scrambles back against the wall, pulling thin sheets over himself. The Mil'aka still frightens him, even if Malcolm seems to have made friends. He can't shake the nightmares – flashes of creatures, all the same, distinct only in the fervor with which they hated him.
"Mal'colm did not tell me that you have a fifth appendage," Tar'a states matter-of-factly.
Despite the fact that Tar'a is clearly unembarrassed and uncomprehending, Matt blushes. At least the embarrassment helps to wash away the fear and calm his breathing.
"It's not exactly an appendage."
"It appears much like one."
"It's used for . . . it's used in sex for humans. Only males have it."
"Oh." Tar'a appears thoughtful. "I did not know that. What were you doing with it just now then?"
"I was . . . well, sometimes you can . . . pleasure yourself."
Tar'a turns even brighter yellow. "How does one feel the essence of oneself?"
"For humans sex is just pleasure. It feels better with someone else, but it can still fell good alone."
"Oh. I am sorry I have interrupted then." Tar'a seems to wander back above-deck, leaving Matt wondering what it would be like to feel the essence of another. People write poems and love-songs and epic novels about it, but he's a simple soldier, a grunt, and he thinks that such things must be beyond him.
"Hold still, Major!"
"I thought ranks upset people."
"Well, you're upsetting me! Now stop fidgeting."
Matt wonders whether or not he should admit that the ulak'ai skin that Malcolm has wrapped one side of the knife in is tickling him as Malcolm tries to cut the cast off.
"This is for your own good, you know. I could just leave it on." Malcolm scowls, looking like he's actually considering it.
But Matt has feel the cool air against sticky itchy skin and he wants more. He wants to see if he is truly healed. "No, no, Malcolm, it's fine. I promise I'll stay still."
Malcolm eyes him suspiciously but continues. It still tickles but Matt manages to restrain himself. When it's finally off, he heaves a sigh of relief, flexing his hand experimentally. He has maintained full use of his hand and wrist, it appears, but when he tries to twist his arm at a certain angle he feels a sudden pain, gasping.
"What is it? Did we take it off too early? I was afraid of this . . ." Malcolm's frowning like it's the end of the world, but Matt's not ready to admit defeat just yet.
"No. It's far better than I thought. I just need to work with it some." He grabs Malcolm's shoulder with his newly freed hand. "You did good. Thank you."
Malcolm flashes him a small smile before launching into another string of worries. "Maybe we should get you a brace or something. We could have one commissioned at our next stop. I think we're scheduled to stop into Fei'al. They're known for their handcrafts. I'll see what we have to trade . . ."
Matt wants to tell him to shut up, but it's kind of nice to have someone worried about him for a change. It's infinitely better than his handlers not even believing his injuries were anything more than fear.
"He's worried about you," Tar'a says as Malcolm wanders off in search of more ice. He can't tell if she says so fondly or if it's something else – a color pattern he's not yet familiar with. He hasn't had much practice understanding Mil'aka expressions. His opponents tended to have only one.
"He's prone to over-thinking things. Malcolm should have been an academic. He's too intelligent to be a soldier – sometimes in a really bad way." Matt thinks back to all of Malcolm's paranoia about him trying to take over the security of the ship – more suited to paper-pushers and office-workers squabbling over molehills than an officer who's duty was to follow orders and save lives, nothing else.
"And you?"
"Me? I'm just a dumb grunt with delusions of grandeur." He smiles a fond but bittersweet smile, thinking of all the smart people he's seduced into his bed – all the people who want to believe badly enough to fool themselves into thinking that he's more.
It feels so good to be able to fully dip into the water again. He remember summers, hotter then hell, going down to the community pool with his cousins and a bag full of waterguns, playing for hours. Also, he thinks fondly of the sexy lifeguard with the well-worn swimsuit that his twin sister once tricked into giving her mouth-to-mouth. He wonders about her – if she's still living in the commune out on the old Navajo Reservation. She was happy last time they spoke and he can only wish that she still is.
"Be careful, Hayes!" Malcolm shouts from above him. "I'm bloody-well not jumping in to rescue you!"
Matt looks up and rolls his eyes. "Come down here, then! The water's cool. You could use a bath!"
Matt hears a disgusted snort and smiles. They've made port a couple miles up the Ren'al plateau, where they're building a canal much like the historic one in panama before it got ‘restored' and transport was made by shuttle. There are a series of waterfalls here and the water is clear and green like a few select sections of the Colorado where he used to raft or canoe with his Boy Scout troop. For him, water was only ever a relief from the heat of the desert, nothing more, but he has to admit that this is beautiful – the slow running tide, the gentle green water lapping at the side of the ship, floating and looking up at the almost-always clear blue sky, free of smog and all the industrial remnants on Earth.
"Please, Malcolm!" he whines, uncharacteristically. "It's really nice." His first instinct is to taunt and prod until Malcolm complies, like with his cousin Jeffrey who was always afraid the water would get stuck in his ears and never come out. But he knows, deep down, that it's childish and cruel. Of course it's probably equally cruel when he paddles out midway and starts flailing his arms about, pretending to drown. But for some reason it's important to get Malcolm down here.
Part of him knows that Hayes is only joking, but Malcolm can't get rid of that one percent panic that Hayes might actually be in trouble. He's not as strong as he likes to pretend – Malcolm hears how at night his breathing is rough and labored.
So, he doesn't really think when he dives in, rough canvas pants and all. For a second he panics, not knowing which way is up, but the water is clear and a brilliant green, like a Mil'akan smile. And then there are strong arms on his shoulders, hauling him to the surface.
Malcolm sputters, but his pride makes him pretend that he's just wiping some water from his eyes and knocking it out of his ears. He's shaking just slightly, surrounded by so much water and feeling like there could be anything beneath the deceptively bright surface. But Hayes' smile is wide, like there's not anything to fear in this whole wide world and he can't help but give a small smile back.
Hayes heaves sigh of relief that this didn't turn out badly, grabbing Malcolm's hand and beginning to drag him over to a floating raft, anchored near the shore. There are a few Mil'aka sunning themselves on it, but they are quick to move off as the two oddly colored Tak'ai approach.
Malcolm is not an incompetent swimmer, of course, as it was a requirement in the Starfleet fitness test. But Hayes stays close nevertheless and Malcolm is embarrassed to realize that he finds comfort in that
"Isn't it gorgeous?" Hayes asks, climbing up onto the raft and sunning himself.
Malcolm eyes him speculatively. Hayes has gone completely nude, figuring the Mil'aka won't know the difference. His body is well scared, and his upper thighs and hips are blindingly white compared to the tan he's developed before. Malcolm doesn't know why he can't stop staring. He's seen Hayes naked before, bathing him and applying ice to his bruises when he was sick, but this is different. Maybe Malcolm never thought he see another person's simple beige flesh ever again.
"Are you coming, Malcolm?" Hayes says, sitting up and reaching a hand down to offer Malcolm a hand up.
"Yes. No thank you. I'm fine." Malcolm is almost self-conscious now and kicking himself for it. There's only one other person on this planet and since when has he really cared about Hayes?
Malcolm pulls himself up besides Hayes, definitely not looking at him. His pants are clingy and uncomfortable. He shifts and fidgets a bit.
"You should take those off, Malcolm."
Malcolm can't make a big deal out of it, of course, and risk Hayes thinking that he's even more neurotic than Hayes must surely already believe, so he shucks the pants, still not meeting Hayes' eyes.
Malcolm is surprised at how nice this feels, the waves rocking them gently back and forth. He rolls onto his stomach and rests his head between his arms, letting the sun warm his back and tickle the hair on the back of his knees.
Hayes seems to be thinking the same thing, because he stretches out next to Malcolm and moans. "Mmmmm . . . isn't this great?"
"Wonderful," Malcolm replies, going for sarcastic, but not quite making it. "I can't believe you got me in the water, Major. Not even Tar'a has managed it."
"I'm just that charming." Hayes flashes him a grin and Malcolm wonders if there's not some truth to it.
He hasn't done this in a while. Of course, it's like riding a bicycle – you never forget. He falls into his own personal rhythm immediately, knowing exactly how fast, exactly how hard. It's strange – maybe some sort of here-to undiscovered result of being cut off from all recognizable humanity has made it almost unnecessary for him to satisfy his more . . . primal needs. Perhaps he's sublimating into the exhausting business of running this ship or caring for Hayes or into his not-quite-sex sessions with Tar'a, which seem to have become regular, if not always surprising somehow.
But now . . . seeing all that naked flesh definitely started something, even if it was hairier and more well-muscled than his usual fantasies. He doesn't think about T'Pol and that skintight catsuit or the Andorian with the huge breasts and all the innuendo or about Hoshi Sato, who he knows that Hayes was seeing, though they'd never talk about it. He only knew because it was his business to know. No one else did – he can't figure out why, because it wasn't against the regs.
Instead, he just thinks about skin sliding against skin, rubbing a hand down his chest, wanting to feel again, wanting everything familiar and easy. He thinks about smells – a woman's perfume, a bouquet of flowers, the thick musk of sweat and cum. He thinks about warmth, the way it radiates out from deep beneath another human body, so different than the slick cool of the Mil'aka. He thinks about silk and cotton and down pillows and a real mattress, even a military-issue one. He thinks about the moonlight and the street lamps of London in the rain and tea and a smoke afterward.
And then the soldier in him comes awake and he hears footsteps, however soft, approaching. He thought he was alone above-deck – that Hayes and Tar'a were sound asleep and he had the deck and the wind and the stars to himself, but he's wrong.
A form looms above him and without the moonlight he can't even see the light in his eyes, though there's only on person it could be. "Want some help with that?"
He can just imagine the arrogant half-grin, the intense scrutiny of the green eyes he can't see. But he doesn't say no. In the darkness everything is so surreal. He can pretend that it isn't Major Matt Hayes that settles down beside him, unzipping his own pants and reaching out to take Malcolm, heavy, in his hand.
Malcolm wants to gasp and protest that he's not like this – he never has been. And if for anyone . . . not for Hayes. But it feels so good to have another hand on him, starting up an unfamiliar rhyme as the other hand caresses Malcolm's body, from the rough patch of stubble he now allows on his chin down to the heaving surface of his belly. He bites his lip, but still cries out with need for the contact of a caring touch.
Matt's no stranger to this. He's never really considered his sexuality before, but he's pretty sure that mutual handjobs fall in to a grey area that's easily tied off and contained, just like any credible threat. Sex itself is far too intimate for some situations. But sometimes you need to get off. Sometimes you need to be taken care of, feel the presences of another human being and feel them share in your need and your lust and your pain.
Malcolm must not be a stranger to this either because he's quick to return the favor, finding his way in the darkness. Matt wonders what Malcolm's thinking about – probably T'Pol's ass. For his part, Matt thinks about the last time he and Hoshi were together – she said ‘I love you' and he didn't dare say it back.
They jerk each other, looking up at the stars and not finding a single familiar constellation there. They don't speak afterwards.
He and Malcolm have found a familiar peace. Neither of them are the most talkative of people. They're private, schooled in the disciplined distance required of superior officers, often isolated by rank and propriety. On Enterprise, after they stopped fighting, they worked together in almost total silence. But this is different. It's less awkward. Maybe because the silence of the ocean is so much more peaceful than the silence of a spaceship. They're no longer working at cross-purposes, instead helping each other with a practiced coordination that's almost frightening. Matt wishes he knew they would work together so well while they were on Enterprise – when it mattered more.
Matt would have expected this to be more awkward. Every third night, when it's Malcolm's turn up on deck, Matt finds himself wandering up there. He knows he should probably stop. He knows that if he wants to regain the upper hand he should make Malcolm come to him, but he doesn't. He makes his way across the creaking deck in the darkness and they sit side by side, bringing each other off in silence. It's never bothered him to not discuss it before when he was out in the field and helping a buddy out. It's something you don't discuss. But he feels as though they're going to have to do it eventually, considering that they're the only ones here, so it's not going to just stop on its own. They won't find other outlets, get transferred, get scared.
But they're both comfortable in the zone of plausible deniability, so instead they talk about meaningless things when they need to. Matt has never been one for small talk and he doesn't think Malcolm is either, but sometimes, you just need to share something. You need to bring something up to make sure that it really did exist, that this life and this ocean aren't the whole world and the rest of humanity just a dream.
Malcolm sits down next to him, looking out at the sea. They'll make port in Sil'al tomorrow - the trade embargo is due to finally end today and they need to renegotiate with some of their less than legal contacts.
"I miss Ben and Jerry's," Malcolm declares, out of nowhere. It's strange, hearing him talk about food, when Malcolm always seemed to be a man of few luxuries. When he was at the academy he apparently ate the same three meals every day for a year. "I liked their tropical mudslide ice cream – the one with the pineapple and the chocolate."
But, Matt's not above reminiscing. "I had my first date there. I took Ellie Simco to get ice cream when we were fourteen. She was the typical girl next door with the frizzy brown hair and the freckles and the button nose and everything. God, I had a crush on her. I was so excited, I dropped a bowl of ice cream in my lap."
"The suave officer, Matt Hayes making a first date goof? I'd never . . ."
"Yeah, well, it turned out not to matter. She'd agreed to go out with me as a joke with my sister. All the time I spent fantasizing about her and trying to get her to go bike riding down to the canyon with me, let alone get my parents to let me spend a second alone with her and it turns out that my sister was screwing her brains out every spare second they got. Why is it that girls get away with ‘sleepovers' when they're like five and guys get watched like a goddamned hawk?"
"Your sister . . ."
"Twin, actually."
"Your twin was sleeping with the first girl you went out with?"
"And a lot of subsequent ones. She found my junior year prom date passed out in the bathroom and proceeded to deflower her."
"You're kidding me."
"I wish I were. Mel was always so jealous of me and I could never understand why. She could do whatever the hell she wanted and my parents wouldn't care. She left home when she was eighteen to join a commune and my mom didn't even bat an eyelash."
"Jesus."
"I drew a line when it came to my team of course. She came to visit me at the barracks. Slept with Money, Perkins, Hawkins and Kemper at the same time, and Cole - twice. Luckily, McKenzie put a stop to it – gave her a black eye when Mel tried to slap her ass. Nobody slapped Mac's ass and got away with it." That much had been obvious to Malcolm from day one. "I told Mel she deserved it and we haven't spoken since."
Malcolm just stares, dumbfounded.
"And you thought your family was screwed up."
"Oh they most definitely are. Just . . . in a different way. My father had this bug collection – everything from beetles to butterflies to hornets, lined the walls of his study – every spare inch. And he'd sit in the middle of all these dead insects like the bloody lord of the flies, prim and proper and utterly pleased with himself. Madeline was terrified of the place. It gave her nightmares. She used to sneak into my room at night because of it."
"When we were sixteen, my mom took us to Antarctica for the signing of the EarthGov charter. My sister was arrested for public indecency in 32 nations – running down consulate row, naked. All but one pardoned her as a minor, feeling the frostbite was punishment enough."
"Which one tried her?"
"Lets just say Mel's no longer welcome in Singapore and leave it at that."
Malcolm chuckles, but plunges onward. "My father used to wake Maddie and I up at 5:30 in the morning playing Reveli on an antique bugle and make us run five laps around the house and do push ups."
Matt grins. A competition then . . . "When I was five, my dad took me out into the middle of the dessert with half my sister's discarded doll collection and a riffle to teach me how to shoot."
"Father had me memorize the details of every major naval conflict in history before he would even let me touch his gun. I had to recite them white doing crunches."
"My dad wanted to install a sprinkler system in the backyard by hand, but decided it was too hot to stay out there digging, so he ‘appropriated' some of that old stockpiled C4 from stores and busted our watermain trying to blast trenches."
"Your father was . . ."
"Army, Sergeant Major. He was killed in the line of duty when I was 16."
"I'm sorry."
Matt bites back the ‘Are you?' he normally answers this question with. He can tell that Malcolm genuinely is sorry. "It was tough. But he wasn't around a lot, anyhow. And when he was . . . things tended to explode."
"My father was around a lot, but not present most of the time. He was an Admiral, but more the paper pushing kind. He was such a bloody hypocrite pushing me around about my size and my fitness when he had one of those big hard beer-guts, and the most rugged sailing he'd done in years was yachts and cocktail cruises." Malcolm spits the words, surprising Matt with their vehemence. "God, I hated him. Actually drew up the plans for his murder when I was twelve. Could've pulled if off too, if I hadn't been sent off to boarding school where I couldn't get my hands on any proper explosives."
"Sounds like you and my dad would've gotten along. He was a demolitions expert. Died when a trainee accidentally set off one of the mines they were deactivating in Korea. He was real military – old school enlisted right out of high school. He wanted me to be an officer though."
"Mine wouldn't have settled for anything less. He filled out my application to the Naval Academy himself – when I was thirteen."
"Okay, I guess that qualifies as a little strange. Though, your sister didn't sleep with your high achool gym teacher."
"Madeline? She was so straight-laced and such a bookworm I would think she was asexual if she didn't have two kids."
"And your father's idea of a family vacation wasn't to take his kids on survival training in the desert and make them eat snakes."
"No, my father took us sailing. In order to teach me how to swim, he just dropped me off the side of the boat. I almost drowned. Had to be given mouth to mouth."
Matt wants to say ‘that's horrible' because it is a horrible thing to do to a child, and it hurts him that Malcolm had to go through that. Yet, in a weird way, he understands. His dad was friendlier about it, but he believed in trial by fire and put it to the test in the raising of his son. Matt loved him for it – getting to handle heavy weaponry at a young age, camping and hunting, and being given the responsibility of looking after his sister, though they were the same age. It's a fine line between breeding tough hardened independent and capable soldiers and scaring people for life and sometimes there are mistakes – fewer with the more advanced psychological screening processes now in place, but they happen. And, as callous as it might seem, Matt believes that it's worth it.
He still can't bring himself to say anything though.
"So what's it like, to be a twin?" Malcolm asks, looking sheepish.
"What's it like not to?"
Today, Matt's universal translator went all wonky. One second he was asking Tar'a about a shipment of uluk'ai hides they were supposedly taking to Ne'al when suddenly all he could hear were some clicking and hissing and almost moaning noises. He panicked. Tar'a panicked – that much he could tell from her coloring. Of course, Malcolm was only a call away.
Luckily, Malcolm's translator was still working and he was able to reset it so it worked for both of them. Malcolm managed to fix what was just a wire break with some stuff from stores, but it made them both realize how much of a crutch it was and the frightening possibility that one day the translators might truly go and they would both be stuck unable to communicate.
Tar'a was confused at first, because to her, they had both always spoke Hil'ala and she did not question that there was an intelligent being in the world that did not. But after they explained the situation, she agreed to teach them.
Matt wasn't looking forward to it. He hadn't studied language since he learned Latin, and that was only to read all those old war stories and tactical reports. Hoshi had been trying to teach him Klingon with little to no success.
Of course that opened a whole other can of worms – a can that Matt hadn't been aware he even had until that moment. Hoshi. He missed Hoshi. Matt wasn't used to missing people. He didn't get attached. He dated girls. He left them. They left him. He got assigned somewhere else. It was an adjustment but he rarely reminisced about long lost lovers, asking himself what might have been if he let them get close. If he hadn't lost his father and been forced to give up on ever really liking his sister and hadn't joined the military where you'd die for the guy fighting beside you, but you didn't blink when you gave the order that would send him to his death, then . . . maybe. The first rule of Matt's world was that you never, ever, asked yourself ‘what if?'
But he's asking now. Because he's no longer military.
He's asking, what if, when she had murmured, awed and breathless, snuggled close against him, ‘I love you' . . . what if he had said it back? Would he have meant it? Would it have changed anything?
What if he wasn't trapped here? Would he eventually have said it? Would he have meant it? Would they break up like every other one of his failed relationships? Would they be disgustingly domestic, get married in the spring on Earth with Captain Archer doing the honors? Would they raise the family he swore he'd never have, because he swore he'd never say those words too? Would they end up resentful and divorce? Would they live happily ever after?
He doesn't know. But he wants to. He misses her. But, just as much, he misses what might have been.
He shivers, even on this almost-Mediterranean night.
They say that the stars are cold, but he knows that's not true. He knows that they're actually burning balls of gas so hot that they can melt even the hardest of metal. They could melt diamonds, though he wonders what liquid diamond would look like. Would it be crystal clear, or bubbly like champagne? Would it hurt, sharp to the touch like those diamond knives that cut you so fine you wouldn't even feel it until you were bleeding out?
He's full of so many questions tonight. And that too, reminds him of Hoshi.
She's the one that told him that the stars were cold. She said that it was only people and planets and words and cultures, that gave space any meaning at all. She'd look out the window and shiver, and then draw back these curtains she'd fashioned out of rough hand-woven cloth from Brazil. She was the only one on the ship he knew that kept curtains on her window. There was no need to keep the light out, because space was always dark.
But she did it for another reason: space was lonely.
And the sky looks so lonely now without the moon. Only he can't surround himself with culture and literature and wonder because he's a soldier and austerity is all he knows. He can't find a curtain big enough to hide the loneliness that is this sky.
Malcolm says that the Mil'aka don't experience loneliness. Sometimes that confuses him. Sometimes it makes him jealous or sad and he doesn't know why.
Then he looks up to find that he's not alone anymore. Someone . . . Malcolm –it has to be Malcolm- is standing there, staring down at him as he looks up at the sky, barely casting a shadow without the moonlight. Matt doesn't know whether or not to be relieved.
Malcolm looks down, sees Hayes more contemplative than he's used to. This is the first time he's taken the initiative, been brave enough, to come up here and seek Hayes out. But today frightened him. It was just another reminder of how alone they are, how isolated.
He looks into Hayes' eyes –the only part he can really make out in this light- and sees more sadness than he's ever seen there. Hayes is strong. He's a warrior. Even the deaths of people he cared about and was obviously close to, didn't seem to provoke hurt like this. Hayes looks raw. And just like his beaten vulnerability, it's wrong. Malcolm wants to fix it. He wants, strangely, to protect a man who's never needed protecting from anyone or anything.
Malcolm doesn't say anything. He doesn't think. All he wants is to make that naked empty look in Hayes' eyes disappear. So he bends down, fumbling with the ties on Hayes' thick woven pants, yanking them down. He can't really see Hayes' cock in the darkness, though he's felt it. It's not long, but it's thick, circumcised, velvety, but always hard before he even touches it. But it's not now. It's soft and just as vulnerable as Hayes himself. And that's not acceptable. So, Malcolm leans down and licks it. He doesn't know why. He cradles Hayes' balls in his hands. They're delicate too, but solid, and he massages them gently. He's never done this before, but he's a guy and he knows what guys like. In fact, he and Hayes are so much alike in so many things that he knows they have to be alike in this.
He doesn't question as his lips close around Hayes' soft flesh, feeling the rush of blood as it hardens. Hayes is warm, unlike his empty bunk, so isolated and cold. And as Hayes starts to leak a slow drip of precum, not unsavory, but strange, into his mouth, Malcolm feels whole in a way he hasn't in a long time. He feels like he's actually doing something meaningful for the first time in a long time. The thing that bothered him about the Navy, almost more than the water, was how pointless it was – there was no challenge to Naval power, hadn't been in fifty years. He couldn't go sailing around when new threats were developing every day beyond the big blue sky, among the stars mariners knew only as guides. And now, he's protecting someone, helping someone, bringing them pleasure.
Matt's panting. Malcolm's sucking his cock. And, in truth, he's not sure how he feels about that. It's further than he's ever gone with another man before. But he's learning new things every day – like a new language, a new trade, that he might have had a chance at loving someone if he just let himself.
He remembers the last time Hoshi gave him a blowjob. For someone with such a skilled mouth, she wasn't all that good at it. It was either too fast or too slow or too hard or not hard enough, her nails digging into his hips, sometimes hitting the wrong place on his balls. But she always did it, obediently, almost, like she had to make up for something – like every time he went down on her, she had to return the favor. But she couldn't understand that he liked it, that he loved to please her even if she didn't reciprocate.
And then one day, he put a hand on her shoulder, gently pulling her up for a gentle kiss, tasting himself on her lips, and not finding it as erotic as he probably should. And he said:
"Stop."
Malcolm halts almost immediately, executing a pretty skilled martial arts move as he rolls silently to his feet.
"I'm sorry . . . I didn't mean too . . ." Malcolm's blushing. He turns to go.
"Malcolm . . ." Matt says, wanting to explain himself. He's not against what Malcolm was doing. He'd even be willing to try reciprocation, but it's just the wrong time. Most guys would say he's crazy to turn down a good blowjob, but he feels as though he'd be taking advantage of Malcolm somehow, thinking of an old girlfriend while the guy was sucking him off. It's a strange thought, but Matt doesn't dwell on it.
Instead, he looks back up at the stars and shivers.
Things are tense between them after that. Matt's almost frightened to go up and see Malcolm on his watch at night. And during the day they don't speak and the silence isn't friendly. They snap at each other, having an argument as fierce as their days onboard Enterprise.
"It's too dangerous, Malcolm. Tar'a agrees with me! There's an embargo on Ne'al for a reason. They don't have anything vital to us. It's not worth the risk!"
"The milk of Ren'ala fruit in critical to infant Mil'aka development. We broke the Sil'ala embargo from day one and succeeded. We're the only ship fast enough to do this. We need to do this." Malcolm is starting to sound dangerously like Captain Archer, tortured bleeding heart and all. It's horrifyingly civilian - to think in terms of ethics and grand objectives and hidden meanings instead of the mission at hand, and the risk to the very real men you put in danger every time you issue an order. He always thought that Malcolm was a bit too academic for a soldier.
"So some supplier in Ne'al can charge mothers everything they have to get milk for their infants?" Matt's not under any delusions - sometimes the system of economics can be just as violent as war.
"It's better than not having it."
"It's none of our goddamned business, Malcolm," Matt shouts, stepping right up in Malcolm's face. They're both red and panting from so much shouting. Tar'a is just standing in a corner, flashing a deep blue of fear and anxiety. It must look like they're about to hit each other. And Matt thinks that it's probably not far from the truth – they've done it before.
"Innocents are dying and it's within out power to stop it. We have a moral obligation . . ."
"Bullshit. We don't owe them anything, Malcolm. We had a moral obligation to protect our people, our planet. These people killed Chang and McKenzie and Rostov. Or have you forgotten that? They fucking beat me within an inch of my life. I know it's easy for you to forget that, Malcolm, but it's not so easy for me." The Hil'aka are the enemy. They're trapped here with them, persecuted, alive only because they've got knowledge hundreds of years more advanced. "They would have no problem killing us if we weren't so damn useful. And they have no problem killing infants of their own species. Do they really deserve our sympathy?"
Malcolm takes another step, so that they're practically nose to nose. Matt uses his height to loom, looking down at steely grey eyes. Malcolm spits the words, but there's disappointment in them, undeniable. "I thought you were a better man, Hayes."
"I guess I'm not," he growls.
"Well, we're going anyhow."
"Says who?"
"I say. This is my ship."
"I thought we were equal partners in this. Tar'a and I say no. There's no rank here, Malcolm."
"No, Major, but just because we left Earth behind, doesn't mean we can leave behind what makes us human."
That's bullshit if he ever heard it. Matt knows humans. He knows what they're really like. They appear civilized and harmonious when they can afford to – when the enemy's out there in the lonely void of space. But, push comes to shove, he's seen men kill. He's seen them torture and rape and murder because they thought it was fun. He's seen a man turn on his brother to spare his life. He's seen soldiers kill civilians and turned a blind eye. He's killed himself and he knows that Malcolm has too and he can't figure how Malcolm can delude himself like this.
"I'd hate to be circumventing your authority or anything, Lieutenant," he snaps, sarcastically recalling memories of time long past. "But if we're doing this mission you can sail yourself, because I ain't fucking doing it."
Malcolm raises his hands, like he's going to throw a punch. Of course, Matt knows that Malcolm's not going to sucker-punch him, even if he's mad. They've always obeyed some sort of soldier's code of honor, even when they broke all the rest of the rules. Matt turns his back. This argument is over, as far as he's concerned.
He hears Malcolm storm off, as well as Tar'a comment, following him. "I told you he was a seditious influence."
Hayes pulls at the laces ineffectively, trying to get them tighter.
"Here, let me help you with that," Malcolm offers curtly, not meeting his gaze. When his fingers brush Hayes' forearm, tying the leather-like brace onto his bad arm, Malcolm feels a spark of electricity run through him. It's been a long time since they've touched, and he's found that he misses it.
After Malcolm's finished and they've both wrapped their fists in cloth, they take the familiar sparing stance. Hayes has agreed to the supply run to Ne'al, but only if they agree that they won't be taken peacefully if captured. They're breaking the law for a good cause, and they're going to be ready to defend themselves.
Tar'a doesn't approve of course, but she's above-deck, tending to the ship and they're down here in one of the just recently emptied storage holds. It smells a little moldy and like Sil'ala fruit, but he doesn't care. He already feels the familiar rush of adrenaline the narrowing of focus, the power.
Malcolm makes the first move – a right hook that Hayes blocks easily.
Malcolm smiles, looking at the glint in the major's eye. Hayes has been dying for this, and so has he. They've been soldiers for too long to forget it. Hayes comes at him with a combination, left hook, right jab. He blocks, adding a leg sweep.
Hayes isn't caught off balance though. He just grins. "Going to have to do better than that, Lieutenant."
Malcolm grunts, throwing three more punches. He's mad now. Hayes is taunting him, teasing him like he did before. The fourth punch connects with the side of Hayes' jaw.
Malcolm smiles. It feels good to get hit again. Hayes ducks behind Malcolm and gets him in a throw hold, using that Klingon move Malcolm taught him so long ago.
Malcolm lands on the cloth-padded floor with a smack, but he's quickly back on his feet.
"Never teach an opponent all your tricks," Hayes grins even as they both know that he and Malcolm aren't enemies anymore – they can't be.
Malcolm gets in a kick to the chest and then another Klingon throw move that he hadn't used before. Hayes is on the floor panting when Malcolm smirks and says. "Never do, Major."
Hayes leavers himself up, breathing hard and deep. Malcolm has a wicked smirk on his face and Hayes smirks right back, vaulting to his feet and attacking almost immediately.
It's a blur as they attack and parry, circling their way around the small room, nothing but the sound of grunting and flesh meeting flesh echoing throughout the chamber. Malcolm can't even keep track of the moves anymore as they become one person, one fluid motion, a dance of sorts.
He almost has Hayes pressed up against one of the walls when the major ducks a punch, bowling him over. They land on the floor, with Hayes on top of him, pinning his arms above his head. They both pant, so close that their sweet drips together and mingles. Malcolm wonders why he never noticed how intimate this was before.
He lifts up his legs, and uses them to flip Hayes off him, moving so he's on top, straddling his opponent and grinning.
Hayes' eyes are bright and his lips full as Malcolm licks at a bead of sweat that runs down the side of his face to the corner of his mouth. Their groins are pressed together as Hayes struggles up against him, and the friction is making Malcolm hard. It's a physiological reaction, he knows, to which Hayes himself is not immune.
Hayes doesn't stop struggling though, stubborn bastard. And Malcolm won't let go. This is torture, and yet it feels so good. They haven't touched each other in weeks now and before, Malcolm had really started to get used to it. Going back to just his own hand and fantasies of people far away weren't really cutting it anymore.
"Malcolm," Hayes says, though it sounds more like a plea than a reprimand. His gaze is intense and his eyes so green. The immediacy of the moment is startling against the surrealism of those nights beneath the moonless sky.
Malcolm can't help it. He leans down, licking at another bead of sweat that escapes Hayes' tongue, down his neck. It tastes salty and close and so undeniably human. He gets harder.
Hayes is actually trying to thrust against him now, dispensing with the uncoordinated struggles, though his hands are still pinned.
Malcolm needs more friction. He needs more purchase. So he releases Hayes' hands to plant his own on the floor. But once released, those hands come up around him, dragging him, not unwillingly, down for a kiss.
It's violent. Hayes bites down on Malcolm's lower lip, thrusts his tongue deep into his mouth, taking possession of it, claiming it, and Malcolm returns, parries, like their sparring match.
It feels so good. So necessary. Hayes flips them so he's on top, pulling his pants down, and releasing Malcolm's. They're both commando – regulation underwear long worn out. Hayes grabs both their cocks in his fist and they both trust into it, still kissing frantically. Hayes' other hand digs into the skin of Malcolm's back and Malcolm bites down on Hayes' shoulder as he comes.
They go swimming afterwards.
Okay, so Matt doesn't think he's gay. One time he thought that if Mel so obviously was, then there was a chance that he might be too. You know, some of the women-loving hormones floated over to her side of the womb so maybe some of the male-loving ones floated over to his – not that he knows anything about science. He kept a lookout for any hidden attraction to men, just in case. But other than that one dream he had about going to Olympics in Ancient Greece and wrestling his football coach naked, he didn't show any signs. The Greeks liked things naked after all, and Matt was proud that his dreams happened to be historically accurate. He wasn't the best student, but he'd always been good at history. He chalked it up to that.
And he's always sort of believed that all human beings are inherently bisexual to some degree. Matt is a pretty flexible guy when it comes to living situations. He's lived most of his life in military barracks or on assignment somewhere, so of course he is. And he generally learned to make the best of it. If he's stranded on an alien planet sailing, of all stupid things, weak and hurting and not able to fight, then why the hell should he deprive himself of sex as well, just over a stupid little thing like the only other compatible sexual partner (he doesn't know how the Hil'aka have sex, and he doesn't want to) on the planet happens to be a man? That's just making a fuss, and he's learned from a very early age that you did not make a fuss unless lives depended upon it.
And really, why bother? He's not ashamed that he enjoyed kissing Malcolm. He's not ashamed that ever since their sparring match, all he can think about is the feeling of Malcolm's toned muscles beneath him, of the passion of their lips meeting, of the tickle of Malcolm's beard even as he was biting down on his lip –when had Malcolm grown a beard? He's forgotten. It . . . they make sense.
He misses contact. He misses intimacy. He misses fighting, and that had been more a fight, more passion, more focused, more exciting than anything a girlfriend, not even Hoshi, could give him.
On Earth, Matt wasn't gay. But he's not on Earth.
Which is why he stands, walks up to the deck where he knows Malcolm will be working, standing between the folds of the sails, not white but blue in the starlight, like ghosts.
Malcolm's standing on the prow, looking down into the sea, as dark and brooding as his thoughts as the ship slices the waves the way Enterprise used to cut through the black of space with life and color and culture and all the things that Hoshi used to say keep the cold at bay.
"You're overthinking this," Matt says. It's strange – this is only the second time in all of their nocturnal encounters when they've spoken. But it doesn't feel wrong.
Malcolm grunts sarcastically, only his silhouette showing against the starscape, but he's not disagreeing.
So Matt steps up to him, takes his face in his hands and kisses him as desperately as he did before. Because this is what they both need to survive. It doesn't have to be any more complicated than that.
The first time he lets Malcolm fuck him is pretty much an accident – no joking. They've been having sex for months. It's the best sex that Matt has ever had. They scratch each other, bite each other, beat each other black and blue, and when they come, it's so hard that sometimes Matt blacks out - and all from just friction and blowjobs and sixty-nines, nothing too complicated.
Tar'a has been avoiding them both, speaking to Malcolm in whispers about it and avoiding Matt. It doesn't matter of course, because he doesn't really like her anyhow.
But, then again, she was the one that suggested the whole penetration thing, oddly. He overheard her asking Malcolm why they did what they did if they could not "share the essence" or something like that.
And he finds that he wants that, almost desperately. Because that's what all the scratching and clawing and biting is all about, after all. It's about trying to get closer, because the rest of the world is twisted and cruel and the only way to go is in and that's what they needed.
So why not share their essence? Why the hell not? There was no one here to tell them ‘no' – no Starfleet, no military command and their stupid frat regs, no judgmental homophobic neoPuritans, no sexy-crazed girlfriend-stealing sister.
That's when Matt starts noticing Malcolm's ass. He has a nice ass, a firm one. Not as round as Matt's used to, but tight looking and muscular and definitely squeezable. He's squeezed it. So, he starts paying special attention to it, nipping it, kneading it, licking it once. He's make suggestive comments and given lewd looks and done everything he'd be afraid to do with women because it's ungentlemanly, and he's always believed in being both and officer and a gentleman. He'd thought Malcolm would take the hint - being British and all, he should be good at all the subtle innuendo shit. He reads Shakespeare, for christsakes!
But Malcolm is apparently denser than Matt thought, or really good at denying things, because when Matt says, "I think we should consider penetration," when they're lazily making out and stroking each other up on the deck in the midafternoon sun, Malcolm nods and proceeds to stick a finger up Matt's ass.
Of course, before he can protest, Malcolm's found this spot . . . this spot that a girlfriend of his a long time ago had been particularly obsessed with. He doesn't even remember her name now. But he remembers why he liked her so much as Malcolm crocks his finger, sending a wave of heat and need spiraling through him. And by that time, he figures, the best way to share their essence for the first time might be just a little different than he'd planned. Flexibility on the battlefield had always been one of Matt's strengths.
Though the next time, he's going to put up much more of a fight.