If you're afraid of your shadow falling across
Another life, shine less brightly upon yourself,
Step back into the rank and file of men,
Instead of preserving the magnetism of mystery
And your curious passion for death. You are making yourself
A breeding-ground for love and must take the consequences.

— Christopher Fry, The Lady's Not for Burning, Act II.

The latest iteration of Quark's to have opened in the quadrant is dim, almost deserted. Cris orders a drink and once received takes himself to the table in the nearest corner. He wishes it were tomorrow already, keen to meet his contact, do the deal and be shot of the place, free and moving out in the ceaseless night again, not spinning on the spot in this space station. The glass makes its way to his lips and he welcomes again the cold to his mouth, the burn to his throat that's never quite enough, and throws it all back. With a bit of luck, a few more of these and he'll be able to waste a couple more sleepless hours in a haze.

Small wishes.

Relighting his cigar and eyeing his empty glass, he's of a mind to get his next when he catches sight of a new arrival sliding onto a stool. Something about the patron tugs at him. The man's back is to him, the light too low for certainty, but there's a distinct clamber in his chest.

Ease of spine, grace of movement, weight of understanding.

Unmistakable.

The man turns slightly, and there's that face again. Profile of a Roman emperor. Cris grins to himself; Chakotay would hate the analogy, but his nobility and dignity are who he is and shine out of him, despite the fact he doesn't see them in himself.

He would have seen Cris on arrival. But he's left Cris with the choice.

"Here we are again," he says quietly, when he steps up behind him. "Another hellhole."

Chakotay turns, lips already rising into a smile. "Cristóbal Rios."

Gliding up from his position, Chakotay reaches out a hand, and the energy between them is just as Cris remembers, warm and alive like the texture and scent of newly split heartwood. Chakotay's palm lingers in Cris's for a moment, meeting his eyes, before giving a press and releasing.

How long has it been since anyone looked at him with that much care and interest?

How long has it been since he let anyone?

Six years, two months, and some days.

They both sit and Cris orders another brandy.

"Here for this year's palio?" Chakotay jokes lightly, turning his own glass in the neat circle of condensation as he takes him in.

Cris wonders what he sees now. He's no longer that lost boy. A lot thanks to this man.

"No." Cris's lips play at a smile. "I've a ship," he says, taking his cigar from his mouth. "Small transports, supply runs. I'm meeting a client tomorrow." There's a little pride in his tone; he hears it and wishes it wasn't there, but at the same time, nice to be honest, nice to tell the only other person he's wanted to tell.

Chakotay searches his features, smiles when he finds what he is seeking. "That's great," he says with genuine feeling.

Cris makes his own survey of Chakotay. There's no tension, no sign of that prodigious pressure of duty hanging over him this time. His shoulders are relaxed, his posture loose and open.

Cris well recalls the curl of joy for his friend that he'd felt on seeing footage of Chakotay recently, Kathryn beside him, during the official launch ceremony of the new Former-DMZ Resettlement Council. An organisation Chakotay had helped establish, and of which he was now the first elected senior elder. The council was to negotiate the complicated process of resettlement of the contested planets, many still uninhabited some 20 years after the war, providing guidance and mentoring to leaders and communities, helping to rebuild, restore.

"I've heard about the council you're with now. Quite something."

"A much less dirty job." Chakotay tips his head wryly. "Mostly." But his eyes are radiant.

"Are you here for long?"

"Couple of nights."

For the first time in a long time, Cris wants to hold on to a moment. "I never got to tell you my thoughts on why we're two peas," he says, the words just spilling out, tender and honest and dishevelled like bruises.

"And I never lost my interest in hearing about that." Chakotay meets his look, reaches across and takes the cigar from Cris's lips, brings it to his own and draws a mouthful of smoke before stubbing it out.

They walk to Chakotay's room, up the stairs again, chosen merely because it is closer than his own and there is an urgency between them.

A little larger than his but the room is similarly nondescript and sparse. Viewport opening out into the emptiness. Chakotay slings his jacket over the lone chair and steps back to Cris, who grasps at him, fingers gripping into his shirt, dragging him into a kiss, biting at his mouth, lapping for his taste, only separating to better get his fingers at buttons and fastenings, to let his hands do what they have yearned to do from the instant he saw this man again, denude him as thoroughly, powerfully as Chakotay begins to strip Cris of his own clothing, firm and sure, all taut energy and gentle restraint.

There is this straightforward openness, an understanding, a freedom. Because their hearts and minds are bound to others, because Chakotay has seen him at his worst, because Cris recognises in Chakotay something of himself and he senses Chakotay feels the same.

It is like sinking into the warmest of comforts, calm oceans, sunlight. Even as it already was last time.

They move to the bed, and somehow untangle themselves long enough to lie down. Cris turns himself around so he is level with Chakotay's shaft, which bucks at him as he draws his mouth to the swollen-smooth tip in a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. He suckles at the moisture there, swirls his tongue, and Chakotay moans. Cris's free hand grasps a hip, bringing Chakotay's body towards him, urging a thrust, just as Chakotay's mouth makes contact with his own hard member.

There's a stillness before motion. Then all of Chakotay is in his mouth, in his throat, and there is sucking and sensation, moving, swaying and low groans that are felt not heard and caresses that promise, promise. And so soon there's the white hot pressure of the knife of light, light so bright, so cleanly vicious, that extends to cut and stroke, cut and stroke, cut and stroke into blissful submission, to unseam souls from earthly constraints. Tightening as one, bodies locked, they come together in their endless, circled embrace. Ouroboros, Cris thinks. Eternity swallowed. An infinite cycle of death and rebirth.

They slip free from one another and this time Chakotay moves himself so they're lying with their heads at the bottom of the bed.

"Afilar," Cris swears, rolling onto his back, flinging an arm up beneath his head. "That was incredible."

Chakotay grins, leaning on his elbow to look down at him. "Agreed." He folds in and nuzzles his nose under Cris's chin, licks and nips across skin and beard to the hollow beneath his ear and grazes with his teeth, before giving his lobe a little bite.

As fulfilled as he is, the coarse, slick caress sets Cris's body fizzing once more. He can't resist rubbing his knuckles through Chakotay's short hair, opening his curled hand to drag lazy fingertips down the back of his companion's neck, pulling gently at the silver hairs at his nape.

Chakotay shivers at his touch and yawns, falling back against the bed. "I'm not as young as I used to be," he says. "But we're not nearly finished." He levels his gaze at Cris, raises his eyebrows. "So don't leave, okay?"

Cris nods. "Okay."

"Good." A look of wistful anticipation, a brush to Cris's cheek, a soft, soulful kiss, then Chakotay is asleep in seconds.

Cris doesn't consider proper sleep, not any more. He has little control over when it finds him, avoids it if he can; he just always hopes that when it happens, he'll wake not shrouded in sweat and shaking. Careful not to disturb Chakotay, he slides out of bed and into the chair, shifting Chakotay's jacket and tumbling out the blanket folded underneath.

Drawing it around him, he tucks a leg up into his chest and watches Chakotay in repose. This man who is finally home. It took him a long time to arrive, Cris reflects. Most of his life.

His heart is full with care for him.

Gentle, circling fingertips thread through his hair, trace down the side of his face. Cris blearily opens dozing eyes to the dusk of the room, his line of sight ascending with his arousal up the shadowed contours and edges of Chakotay's naked form, up into warm, welcoming eyes.

"Come back to bed." Voice rough and low. Cris unfolds himself from the chair a little stiffly and lets Chakotay lead him the couple of steps back, lay him down on his front and lazily caress, kiss and stroke him into a state of low, peaceful fever. He works into the cricked muscles of Cris's neck, his shoulders, along his spine. Back and forth, alternately firm and light, catching all his nerves and licking them up into a quiet heat. His body adrift over Cris's, skin against skin, occasional delicious bump of hard cock against his backside.

Chakotay kneads into a particularly tight knot. The muscle trembles and relents. "Better?"

The question roves beyond the room. Before, his answer would have been emphatic.

And probably untrue.

"I'm not sure," he admits. He lets silence fall between them, concentrating on his lover's palms and deft fingers. Finally, a sigh and a confession: "You look like him … like Vandermeer …"

Chakotay is massaging his arm now, up and down. "I've seen pictures. A friend pointed out the resemblance once, although I didn't see it." There's a pause. "It's fine, Cris," he says gently.

Then wise, curious fingers trace the outline of the siren, and Cris is undone.

Gripping at the sheet, he feels the realisation tight in his throat. "I'm still … I'm still lost." He's never talked to anyone like this. But he's never let anyone this close before either.

"You'll find your peace – and your purpose," Chakotay says. His hands have drifted to Cris's other arm, and his movements continue unabated, calm but sure, brooking no argument. "Do you believe me?"

Cris turns his head further into the pillow so his voice is muffled. "You can't know that."

Chakotay slips off him and taps his hip. "Over." When he complies, Chakotay pulls on a hand and Cris sits up, resigned to facing him.

"Yes, I can," Chakotay tells him, catching and holding his gaze. "You're searching. You're not giving in. That's most of the battle. You'll find it." He leans in, presses his lips to Cris's forehead. Very quietly, he says, "Corazón querido," and draws him into a gentle hug, and Cris tenses like he's in danger, his head dropping to rest in the curve of Chakotay's shoulder.

Does he need this?

It hurts to need this.

To stop and just be. To meet another in this place in the race and mess of his life which is in between.

Chakotay simply waits and Cris is unable to move.

Here's someone who has faith in him. Someone like himself, who's suffered like him, who reminds him of someone he loves … loved.

A murmur, against his hair. "You love him. Don't let that go."

Chakotay can read his mind too. That should be proof enough.

His body gives a slight shudder, and he feels himself soften into the embrace.

"I … want to believe you," he says. Then breaks away from this connection which is too much, kissing his way down the tan skin of Chakotay's neck. The big man shivers, and Cris runs a hand suggestively over his smooth chest, letting his lips follow.

"Subject closed?" Chakotay teases, his breath uneven.

"Ah-huh," Cris says, trailing his lips and flicking with his tongue, stepping back into that safer, relentless drive onwards, losing himself in the remembered salty-musky taste that is Chakotay.

"You can't solve— Ah … your problems this way," Chakotay says, gently amused, not so gently aroused.

"Going to try," Cris informs him. Peering up at him from under cocky lashes, he takes a dark nipple between his teeth.

Chakotay gives an honest to god growl. "Alright," he gasps, "guess it's worth a shot." His hand grasps the back of Cris's head, tugging him away from his body to take his mouth in a fierce kiss. The roughness is exactly right, exactly necessary, and Cris meets him in kind.

He pushes Chakotay down into the sheets and climbs on top, settling on his knees. "I'm going to take care of you," he says, suddenly filled with a powerful need to do just that, to gift kindness to this man who seems to know just what Cris needs a moment before he knows himself.

Eyes deepen. "Oh yeah?"

Chakotay grasps his thighs, and Cris leans in to kiss him his answer, before his lips and teeth and fingers flow down Chakotay's front, nipping and scratching lightly and enjoying the feel of him starting to squirm beneath his attentive hands and mouth.

Tongue dips into navel, licks downward, through the unbelievably soft streak of hair that marks Chakotay's otherwise smooth torso and into the rougher hair below. He sucks in a finger, and Chakotay hisses at the sight. Cris gives him a sly grin before sliding his wet finger between his lover's legs and inside, curving and pressing up into him, bringing his mouth to Chakotay's hard heat, giving himself completely over to pleasuring him, until he can't stand how good it feels to have him there, against his tongue, filling him, fucking him, Chakotay's scent intoxicating, and his body tight with tension, quaking and shuddering. Then, right then, Cris lifts his head and sits up, slides off and out of him to shared involuntary noises of loss.

Breath ragged, Chakotay motions to the drawer beside the bed, and Cris's hands are soon smoothing, gliding over Chakotay's cock, slick and wet. Repositioning above, Cris carefully begins to lower himself. Chakotay reaches to grip his hips, guiding and supporting, and the simple touch is a turn on like he can't believe. His muscles are taut and tremble in protest at the slow descent but it's better than heaven, every little twitch and pressure and strain and ache like golden-sharp sunlight. Brown eyes snake over his body as incrementally they slide together, and Cris nearly loses it, from the terror and wonder of being observed in this way, from seeing his own vulnerability mirrored in Chakotay.

Joined finally, in that summer all their own, there's that stillness again, a caught second. Then Chakotay's face duskens as Cris slides them through a first long, slow stroke. Oh, it's so good, too good, and neither can hold back. Whispered words urge Cris on, faster, harder. Balancing on his hands, he can't touch himself, but oh does he want, he wants, oh Dios, he wants— And Chakotay finds him, curving his hand around and stroking, pumping him. Then that sun, the heat, all that dazzling light of comfort seems to gather in the room, surround them, lift them up together as first Chakotay then he flies apart and flares out into its rays.

"What about you?" Cris asks, when they have returned to themselves.

"That night we met … you helped me. Very much." Lying on his back, he looks to Cris, and reaches a hand to his cheek. "Tonight too," he says with a smile.

Something like awe passes through Cris, something too like a kind of contentment. "I wasn't sure," Cris says, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"I was lost in my own way, had been for a while. You let me … see things differently. That night – you – played a big part in why I'm doing what I am these days."

The oft-felt, long-harboured uncertainty ebbs away. But then there's that all too familiar rush of sadness. Memories of who he didn't help, who he failed in the worst way imaginable. Cris swallows, sweeps his palm down Chakotay's side to distract himself, thankful to feel a diverting rise of desire again. "I guess we have good timing, si."

There's a flicker of concern in Chakotay's eyes, and he shifts onto his side. "Cris," Chakotay murmurs, nothing more, just reaches out and lays a hand on his arm for a second, and somehow this small gesture helps.

"And … Kathryn?" Cris says, pressing on. "You're out in the open now."

"Yes."

"Good. It's about time."

"Past time. It was difficult to live like that," Chakotay says, matter of fact, accepting the change of subject without fuss. He turns over to look up at the ceiling. "After all those years, first in the Delta Quadrant. Then back here and having to deal with the complications of being back, the complications of …" his voice trails off. Cris hears the ghosts in the spaces between Chakotay's words.

"But you didn't expect it to be simple," Cris says.

"No. I didn't … We didn't."

"That's real love, worthwhile love."

"Yes," Chakotay says, a little taken aback, and smiles. There's a silence. Eventually, he says, "She'd like you, you know."

"Dime con quién andas …" Cris says. "You love her, so she must be extraordinary. I'd like to meet her." His fingers wander to Chakotay once more, down his shoulder, along an arm. He feels his lover's body stir, stray into the touch.

Chakotay rolls up and over to straddle him. "Oh, you will." His eyes regard Cris, a hand moving featherlight down the arch of Cris's neck, across his chest, enjoying his body. "And I mean that." His smile grows wicked and heat furls in Cris's belly, courses downward. "She'd really like you." Chakotay's palm tracks lower, skims over heated skin, coarse hair. How he's recovering this fast, he's no clue, but he's hard again and Chakotay is too.

"Yeah?" he pants. "Well … she's a beautiful woman." And the thought of what Chakotay is suggesting and his touch together almost send him over the edge again.

Chakotay's hand is curling around both their cocks, stroking slowly, rubbing them together. Oh Dios, the friction is exquisite, and his mind is unable to hang onto anything now, save the sensations and sight of this gorgeous man working them both.

"Cristóbal …" Chakotay husks, as if just enjoying the feel and sound of Cris's name in his mouth.

"Ah— Stop saying my name like that," Cris grumbles contentedly, winding up into his bliss, "I won't last."

"Like what?" Chakotay says, keeping his voice playfully even, the only tells the tiny, luscious quirk of his full lips and his dancing, lust-heavy eyes absorbing Cris's every subtle response to him. "Cristóbal …" he drawls again, his voice like the deep, dark sand of an ocean floor. And he knows just when to press those lips once more to Cris's own, just when to make the kiss deeper and dirtier, work into his mouth with his sinful tongue, and Cris's climax is upon him, rocking and strong, but simultaneously all aether and air, nothing but waves of that indescribable sunlight, Chakotay catching both their moans in his mouth, and, as his own pleasure crests, holding Cris to him like he is something precious.

Chakotay fetches a couple of damp cloths and they clean each other up, then he draws the covers up over them both.

"Do you sleep?"

"No."

"Stay here."

Chakotay's arm comes over and gently pulls him in, Cris's back against his chest.

This. This … softness. All this care and compassion. This is what shocked him the first time. How that raw, wonderful threat of attraction could so easily become the slowest, sweetest sighs and kindnesses. So alike, even their differences complimentary, understanding the other's needs almost implicitly. Both exhausted by violence and death and confusion. By so much hardness, and that consuming, inescapable sense of responsibility that defines … yet can sometimes, Cris now realises, set free.

This, Cris wants to say. This is why. This is what I want to explain.

But there's of course no need.

"Thank you," he whispers, and Chakotay's arm tightens around him briefly.

Perhaps it is okay to stop sometimes. To breathe. For things to be in progress.

Until he's ready to heed the siren's call.

Translations
afilar — Chilean slang for "fuck"

dime con quién andas — "tell me who you walk with" (the first part of a Chilean saying: "tell me who you walk with, and I'll tell you who you are")

corazón querido — "dear heart"