Keywords: sf mf mm series X-Moderator-Review: 7: nice wrap-up
Archive-name: ContinuingEd-4
He awoke at last to a touch on his brow. Shifting his position, he felt that a coverlet had been laid gently over his bare skin. His eyes opened slowly, and he saw a smiling impish face before his.
"Rala . . . " he whispered.
"Yes." The other man leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss on the tip of Julian's nose. "You have been asleep for a long time." Julian's eyes widened then.
"Am I -- "
"Late for duty? No, you are not." Limber fingers ran delicately over his cheeks and neck, toying with his rumpled hair.
"Where is . . . my Lady?" he asked.
"She has been called elsewhere," Rala told him softly, seeming to know why he asked. "She wanted me to be here with you when you awoke." He brushed the backs of his fingers against Julian's cheeks, and both men could hear the rough scratching. Rala smiled beautifully. "A choirboy in shadow," he remarked and was rewarded with yet another blush beneath deep cafe au lait skin.
One dark hand came out from under the warm coverlet, taking Rala's. Julian brought it to his lips, and kissed the palm. "Will she be back soon?" he asked. Does Rala know?
"I would imagine so. She did not wish to leave." The misty blue eyes seemed to look straight through him. "Come." He held out his hands to the Fleet doctor, indicating that he should rise. "We will break our fast in the spa; she will know where we are when she returns." Uncertain, still shaking from his epiphany, Julian rose slowly, his head spinning partly from his rising, partly from something else. Rala's peaches and cream body stood before him; he wanted so badly to want him, to feel desire, but so wrung out was he that he could feel nothing more tempestuous than caring and tenderness. Rala seemed to sense his emotional exhaustion and simply stood before him smiling, then stepped back as Julian rose and placed his hands in his. "You seem tired," he said, brushing his fingertips over the other man's slender chest. That chest rose under his fingers in a beautiful sigh.
"I suppose I am." He said nothing else, though, and Rala did not pry. For the better part of an hour, they sat in the warm bubbling water, back in the jasmine field with the birds serenading one another overhead. Delicious light foods were there, fruits and other things appropriate to fast-breaking. They ate in easy silence at first, then could not resist play as they fed one another and finally spent the rest of their time in lazy love. Julian's Lady entered not minutes after they had drifted apart in the water, and removed her clothing wordlessly, lowering her body into the water with her pupils -- her pupil, and her silent consort. Both men drifted to her and kissed her lovingly, and yet one's eyes spoke more loudly, more impassioned.
"I have something for you, Doctor," she told him. "I will give it to you later." Again, time passed in friendly silence, with Rala's head cradled in Julian's lap, and Julian's against the moist breast of his Lady. Three bodies dozed together, quiet and sated in innocent animal togetherness.
Time passed, however, and Julian could not put that out of his mind. I must go soon, he found himself thinking. She must go. We cannot be to each other what we must . . . Tears, lost in the bubbling water, traced fragile tracks down his cheeks that were only a bit warmer than those traced by his sweat. He pressed himself more tightly aginst the body of his Lady while Rala dozed in his lap.
He tried to put his uniform on with slightly more cheer than a condemned man, but failed to do so. Rala saw this, and came up behind him, touching him so tenderly. Julian turned to face the other man, and again felt the electrifying newness of what he had learned from him. His body began to react to Rala's nearness again, and had he not been so preoccupied with his leaving, and the leaving of his bonded love and Rala, he might have found pleasure in it. As it was, he could only drop his gaze as he stood so close to the other man's unclothed body, like pink marble. One hand lifted of its own accord to fondle the fair chest, and drifted down to Rala's waist and hips, to his pert sex in strawberry curls.
"Like me . . . " he murmured once again, and his eyes rose to Rala's then; the other man caught his breath. Drawn together, separated by no propriety, the men kissed, their lips brushing over each other's so delicately that Julian felt the hairs at his neck stand on end. They embraced, and for a brief few moments, Julian let himself be supported by Rala, falling into the other man's strong arms. His eyes were tightly closed. "Rala . . . " Strong hands rubbed his back, pressing away some tension.
"I will always remember what we did for one another, Doctor," the other man breathed quietly.
"What you gave me . . . " Julian began, but could not continue. "Oh, Rala . . . " He held his lover's back more tightly.
"Doctor, I've shown you something that has always existed; it's always been there for you." He nestled his face against Julian's elegant long neck. "I just opened a door for you. It's up to you to step outside."
"And will you be outside, waiting for me when I do?" Julian pulled away from Rala, his eyes shining but his cheeks dry.
"When I can be." Again, they kissed, with measureless devotion and tenderness. "But Doctor, there's more than just me on the other side of that door."
"When will you be here next?" was the only think he could think to say to her. When will you take me inside you again?
"I do not know," she said, her sorrow at his departure, at her own, so evident in her eyes that Julian wanted to cry. They touched. "But I will return." Her eyes gazed straight into his. "I swear it." He could not stand to see her before him and not take her in his arms. She stiffened, still shaken by her bond to him. "Julian," was all she said. He said her name on a breath, and held her more tightly. She pulled away from him then.
"Here is what I have promised you." She walked to where a little device was sitting on the bed, pin straight and neatly made after their shattering play. Picking it up -- he could not make out what it was -- she turned and came back to him. "Hold out your hand," he was told. He did so.
She placed the mouth of the little device between his thumb and forefinger, on his palm. It gripped the little flap of skin gently, and he felt a sensation of warmth, and a light stinging. Taking back his hand, he massaged it firmly. "What was that?" he asked.
"Look." He did so, and saw a tiny shape there, so tiny that it would have been mistaken for a smudge had he not looked more closely. Peering at his hand, he could just make out three little shapes -- circles, they were. One white, one red, and one black . . . she had explained to him the significance of the colors, and the circles, and he had understood, or thought he had. And yet . . . "It is permanent," she told him. With an undercurrent of urgency, she took the hand in hers and brought it to her lips, kissing the little emblem fervently. "You are marked." Her lips moved against his palm. "You are mine."
"Lady . . . " he said, but she raised a finger to his lips.
"No. You need never call me that again. At least . . . " and she smiled deprecatingly, "not when we are alone." He did not reply to this though, only took her face in his hands and brought it to his own. She gasped as they kissed, he without bonds, for the first time in the light of day.
"Julian, I . . . " she began. "Oh, my consort . . . " Her arms embraced him tightly.
"My love," he replied.
His fist clenched as he recalled the pain of their parting, and he nearly crushed the glass he had been holding in his hand. It had been three weeks since she had left, and each passing day had gotten better, but only barely. His head jerked upright, and he realized that, despite the noise and lights of the bar, he had fallen into reverie for the fourth time since coming there. He had sat alone, and his empty expression had forbade all from disturbing him.
For the first few days, he had felt only the glow of what he had learned, both about his Lady and about himself. He had been delighted to see the bodies of the people in Quark's -- men and women -- as beautiful, and had had a number of sessions of light flirting, though nothing beyond that. He still couldn't bring himself to do anything so soon . . .
Sighing, he supposed that sooner than he thought, he would be able to enjoy a liason with any of the beautiful people who entered and expressed a desire to do so, but for now . . . the pain of his Lady, of his bonded love's departure was still uppermost in his mind.
He swirled the apple synth in his glass, watching the little vortex spin down in the center, seeing the glittering lights all throughout the interior of the bar sparkling and turning into spun candy in it. The sounds of the people, ecstatic victory huzzahs and moans of fickle bad luck, spun into the drink as well, and he sipped it. His love had told him of how wonderful sights and tastes and scents would be for him; he had spent several long moments at a Promenade vendor caressing a bolt of midnight blue velvety material just that morning. The sensation of it slipping between his fingers had nearly intoxicated him. That morning, he had almost been late for duty, and had to gulp his gahwa after falling into the sharp cinnamon taste. Even music seemed deeper to him, and he wondered about learning an instrument. In a quiet moment, his love had told him that his hands were those of a musician, with his long nimble fingers and supple wrists, and while he had never had an ambition toward music before, he wondered at it now. Doumbec, he thought. Or Spanish guitar. Perhaps sitar? He had sat up late that night, listening to playbacks of Ventachakalam and Segovia and Yodh and wishing that he could make such music.
Cookbook tapes had begun to spring up in his quarters, almost littering the place. He had tripped over one while getting out of the sonic shower and since then they had been arranged a little more neatly on his desk instead of being strewn all over the floor and bed. Atop these tapes were others on massage, and shyatsu. The base methods were certainly familiar to him as a doctor, but not as a devoted practitioner; he was unacquainted with the subtler spiritual nuances of each.
"Julian? Are you all right?"
Again, he had fallen into reverie; his head whipped around, and he saw Dax standing in front of his table. "What?"
She looked down at him with some concern. "I asked you if you were all right," she repeated. "You've been a little . . . down lately."
Down, he thought. That's not the half of it. "I'm okay," he said. She took the seat opposite him.
"You don't sound okay. You were practically walking on the ceiling that day, and then you just about shut down." She leaned forward. "What's wrong?"
An outright lie was beyond him, especially where Dax was concerned. She was so beautiful, and he had gradually grown horrified to learn that he had begun regarding her as a big sister of sorts as his time on the station grew. "Nothing I want to talk about," he said.
"Sure?"
"Yes." He smiled a thin little smile then. "Sorry for the past few weeks, though. I guess I've been a little . . . out of sorts." A silent nod. "I'll get over it." He smiled again, to reassure her, and his eyes dropped back to his drink. The smile disappeared.
Dax reached across the table and patted his hand. Normally, the mothering gesture from her would have annoyed him, but this time he only took comfort in her offered friendship. "If you want to talk," was all she said. He smiled at her again, a little more genuinely this time.
"I know." She rose then, and was gone from his field of view. Another long string of minutes passed as he watched the synth descend the glass, and heard the cacophony of the bar whirling around him. He had just fallen into another reverie when yet another voice disturbed him.
"Friend?" Julian turned and looked up to see a slim caitian standing before his table. She looked down at him quizzically. At his silence, she smiled. "You pretty human," she said conversationally, "but seem not so happy." She gestured to the seat opposite him. "Sit?" He nodded finally, with a tired but honest smile.
She sat fluidly. "You less than happy," she told him again.
He stared at his empty glass. "Yes," he told her. "Less than happy."
"Why?" The expression on her angular face was quite genuine, and he saw that she was very slender and tall for one of her kind. Her mane was tawny, almost butterscotch, and her claws had been cut back and decorated -- a merchant marine of her people; he recognized the pattern.
"I've lost someone very . .. important to me," he said slowly, unsure of how he could explain this to her.
"Lost someone? " she queried. "To life after life?" He recognized the caitian metaphor.
"No," he told her. "She hasn't died, just gone away." He sighed. "They've both gone away."
"Two people lost?" She leaned forward, and he saw that her eyes were exactly the same shade as her mane; her skin was barely lighter. She looked as if he had been carved out of amber.
"Yes, two lost." He swallowed.
"Pretty human, you love both?" Caitians were known for being rather direct, but the question still startled him.
He nodded, and his eyes were drawn down to the little mark of his love and his bond. For the thousandth time, he fingered it and clenched his fist. "Yes, I love both."
She sat back, her fluid spine settling into the booth easily. "You play?" she asked him gently. He did not reply. "You feel better after." She gestured to him. "You pretty human. I take care you, and we not play if you not want play."
Her eyes were on him, and her smile was very open and sweet, even with her curved canines glistening at him over her lips. The offer was so direct and so honest, he found himself no longer wanting to be so painfully alone in the bar. The thought of her getting up and going elsewhere, and leaving him to melancholy, suddenly seemed very unattractive to him. "I don't know if I'll want to play," he told her.
"I know," she replied. "But you sweet pretty face. I no want pretty face be so sad." Her hand brushed his cheek. "We not play if you not want play." Despite himself, Julian smiled. "You treat my shipsister," he was told. With sudden acuity, he recalled the caitian woman who had been rushed into the infirmary with plasma burns over her back; her deep auburn fur had been singed off in places, but she had responded well to treatment, despite being badly frightened. "She like you, say you nice to her. I nice to you."
Julian's smile grew, finally, and he felt as if the albatross has finally begun to find its wings again. He was still unsure of playing, as she put it, but felt hungry for some closeness and warmth. "I'm Julian," he said, holding out his hand. She took it, taking care not to scratch him.
"My mother-father make Serengeshtal," she told him.
"Serengeshtal," he repeated, and she smiled at how close he had come to pronouncing it correctly. She nodded, copying the human gesture, and stood up.
"Come, pretty nice Julian. Play not, or maybe play. I make close to you. You feel better."
I feel better, he echoed silently to himself. Again, he smiled and laughed just a little, standing. The caitian woman, Serengeshtal, grinned back at him, her canines making her grin seem larger. She clapped her hands once, the caitian expression of suppressed laughter, then held out one to him. He placed his in the palm, taking care to avoid her claws, then saw that she had sheathed them.
"I no scratch," she said, then her grin took on a hint of wickedness. "Unless you like scratch."
He laughed again, even lighter this time and with no hint of wryness. "We'll see, Serengeshtal." They exited Quark's, hand in hand.
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