It was getting a little hard for Pleakley to breathe. It seemed as thought there was very little air in the room. He stared up at the mattress of Jumba's bunk above him and gasped like a fish out of water as something akin to pain rippled through his body in great rolling surges.
He sat up. He was cold. No – warm. His skin prickled and his insides churned. The not-quite pain was relentless. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and wrapped his blanket tightly around his shoulders.
He'd been sweating. The bath was inviting. Softly he padded out across the hall to bathroom. He had to stop to lean on the doorframe while the black spots in front of his vision abated. Hot bath, or cold? He decided on lukewarm. Leaving the blankets in a pool on the floor, he took off his nightgown and sat down in the tub, waiting for the water to fill it up. The watermark only made it a couple of inches high before he shut the faucet off and lay gulping for breath on the cold ceramic.
The not-quite pain fairly vibrated through him now, creating a sensation of warmth and heaviness that seeped into every part of his body. He closed his eye. It was getting easier to breathe.
Strange images and feelings were bleeding into his thoughts. Things he'd never seen – sensations he'd never felt before. Bizarre things. It was like slipping into somebody else's dream – he knew the iconography was significant in ways that would unlock the secrets of the psyche if it could be decoded. . .but to him it was all just gibberish and flotsam. He didn't even try to understand it, just let it float by and melt through him like atmosphere. Except now he was the atmosphere and he was dissipating oh oh.
He didn't even notice that he'd left the door wide open and the lights off. If you'd asked him his name at that point he couldn't have told you. His breath came in and out and for a little while he was gone.
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Jumba was dreaming. It was one of those nice dreams – the nice dreams, where the world consisted of a heavy, intoxicating fog of lust and anything was possible. His ex-wife was there – of course she was, the horrible she-trog. Nobody could stir him to such an excess of passion, whether it be desire or hatred. In the light of day he wouldn't want to travel within three quadrants of her insanity, but here all three moons over Kweltikwaan were full, and very little mattered but the great curves of her body and oh joy of joys, that girl he knew back in the student labs was coming over to join them. . .
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Jumba rolled over in his sleep, slinging his arm over Pleakley's shoulder and making those soft snuffly noises that were so comforting to Pleakley each night while he slept. Tonight they were even more so, for reasons that Pleakley didn't even bother to question.
Dazed and weak, Pleakley was still fighting the strange fever that made his vision blur and his hands shake. Jumba wouldn't mind that he'd pulled himself up to sleep in his bunk beside him.
In the morning he'd give Jumba permission to conduct that examination that he'd been harping about all week. Maybe there really was something wrong with him. Whatever it was, Pleakley was sure Jumba could help. He felt better just being beside him now, feeling the warmth of his body nestled against him, with the earthy musk of his skin soothing his nerves like a balm.
Pleakley took Jumba's hand in his own, a pleasure he allowed himself sometimes when Jumba was fast asleep and wouldn't ever know. He loved to look at Jumba's hands, compare them to his own, feel their every crease and callous and imagine what it would feel like – those fingers, that palm, running across his skin. . .
Tonight he took Jumba's hand and folded it over his own. His hand nestled warm, safe, and loved, inside of Jumba's. It made him feel. . .something bigger than crying. A chasm so deep he could barely fathom it. His very cells ached. . .
Pleakley turned to face Jumba, staring up at his face with utter longing. He inched closer, until he was able to feel his chest pressed against his own, the steady thump of his heart through their nightclothes.
Pleakley leaned up. He could feel Jumba's breath warm on his face.
Gently he kissed the side of his mouth, and drew back. The simple act brought such a rush of deep, warm pleasure that Pleakley thought he might lose himself again.
He closed his eye for a moment.
He leaned up for another, this time on Jumba's cheek. Then another, on his brow. There was nothing else in the world anymore, but that beloved face, and sweet, stolen kisses.
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Jumba awoke when he realized that the skin beneath his hand was smooth and damp, not soft and downy. His eyes weren't quite opened yet – he took a moment to register how slender was the form beneath his fingers. Apparently it was a waist, because as he ran his hand downwards he discovered a leg. . .and another, and yet another. . .
And between them. . .
There was low, mewling cry and Jumba opened his eyes.
"Hmm?" Jumba mumbled softly.
Pleakey stared up dazedly from where he'd just had his cheek pressed up against the side of Jumba's face. He looked a bit strange – Jumba realized that his pupil was hugely dilated. His face shone with perspiration, and his breathing was shallow and rapid.
Jumba blinked stupidly. His fingers still lingered on the spot he'd discovered earlier – he moved them slightly and Pleakley cried out again, his eye rolling back briefly into his head and his grip tightening around Jumba's body.
Jumba realized what was happening – who he was and who it was that was here with him. Slowly, he removed his fingers from where they rested. Dimly, he realized that Pleakley's nightgown was hiked up around his hips, and his pliant legs slung up around his waist.
"Pleakley?" he asked sleepily.
Pleakley looked up at him dazedly for a long moment. . .and then another. Finally he lowered his eye, shame creeping up onto his face in crimson brushstrokes. But still his body pressed itself against Jumba, and he drew himself up to lay a long, slow kiss against Jumba's cheek. He looked up again at Jumba, dazed and terrified.
"Pleakley. . .what are you doing?"
Pleakley shook his head and closed his eye. He drew himself up to lay another slow kiss against Jumba's lower lip. A tear began to make its way down his cheek.
"I don't know," Pleakley replied, shaking his head again. He looked up to meet Jumba's eyes, fear making itself felt through the whole length of his body in little shivers that Jumba could feel all the way down his own spine.
It seemed to Jumba as thought he were still asleep. The deep, intoxicating fog of lust still clouded his vision, softening every hard edge and granting all sensations a supple, dream-like consistency.
Heavy-lidded, Jumba smiled. Pleakley was still crying. When he leaned up for another kiss, Jumba met him halfway, and they both gave themselves up to the overwhelming swell of instinct that rendered them insensate to rational thought.
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There was a good deal of fumbling, that night, and ripping of clothes. The Kweltikwaanian way of making love is not much different from the human way, and it turned out to be as good a way as any for this particular encounter, although that fact in itself was a bit of a surprise. Plorginarians were always known for their flexibility and elasticity, and thought Pleakley's addled mind had very little idea what was going on, his body seemed to know the procedure involved in this collaboration to produce a great deal of pleasure for both parties involved.