The rest of the world had fallen away and left him with Spock. Their bodies were pressed tightly together, all hardened muscle and flesh, drenched in a fine dusting of sweat, blood, and sand. Hands clumsy and trembling, clambering, enveloped in sand, caressing roughened skin.
They were balanced on the thin line between sex and fight. Spock's mouth was on his in starved want, those beautiful fingers, dexterous, tightening around his neck. Sand came between them, rubbed an unpleasant warmth into their skin as the friction of their bodies excited it. There was pain, but it was muted with the bitter sense of pleasure.
Spock's mind raged in all the fire of Vulcan, burning and consuming sensation, replacing it with a primal sense of raw completion. It was nearly like a meld, but more penetrating, more invasive, sweeping Kirk's existence into a flood of Spock.
Spock was trying to kill him.
But then he wasn't.
A moan left Kirk's lips and he wasn't sure if it was from the pressure against his wound, or just the feel of Spock against him. Spock's heartbeat fluttered against his fingers. He instinctively tightened them to feel it pound harder. Eyesight wasn't enough to take in the world he had discovered through touch alone, so he left it behind in awe of the power throbbing in and around their bodies.
Maybe it was the drug in his veins. There was numbness, suddenly, and Kirk desperately yearned for it to be gone. Spock's mind was no longer a torrent rushing against his own. The heat was leaving his body, and there wasn't even a clarifying surge of cold to take its place and bring his thoughts into the realm of sanity.
He was going, going, the world collapsing in a spiral of breathlessness, Spock fading away before his eyes, the act of feeling no longer a physical thing within his grasp, but a mere remnant of what had once been.
Kirk drifted into blackness wishing only to feel Spock again before he would lose the chance forever.