A/N: I got a lot of negative reviews for this chapter. Yup.

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Enterprise High

being a high school AU of ST: XI

with many hijinks

and much angst

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Chapter Twenty-Two: Where No Man Has Gone Before

x

Spock was thinking about Amanda.

She used to make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch, back on Vulcan, and even though he got teased about them, he was fiercely proud of those sandwiches. One day, Stonn stole a whole half of one of those sandwiches and ate it and discovered it was actually very good. None of the other kids had believed Stonn when he said how tasty the sandwich was, even though Vulcans didn't lie, and Stonn had gotten really angry, but he had never beaten up Spock again, and the bullying slacked off a quite a bit as a consequence.

When he and Sarek got karsh, a mild, flu-like sickness only Vulcans could catch, Amanda propped them on the downstairs couch and brought them bowl upon bowl of plomeek soup. That week of sniffles and fever and nausea was somehow one of the best of Spock's life. He talked to his father more than he usually did, and Amanda was sweetly determined to take care of her family with large quantities of comfort food, movies, and board games. They stayed up late together, watching old Pixar films and eating ice cream.

When I-Chaya, right after they moved to Earth, was hit by a car, Amanda went into lieutenant commander mode. Spock had frozen in absolute shock when he saw I-Chaya crumpled on the street, bleeding copiously. Amanda had not hesitated. She'd gathered the mangled sehlat in her arms, placed him gently in their car, and drove like a madwoman to the nearest vet's office, where she had breathed threateningly down everybody's neck until they got an exobiology specialist over from the San Francisco Zoo to help with surgery. I-Chaya was fine after two weeks of recovery, nine boxes of dog bones, and Amanda wouldn't say how much money—not that it mattered.

Spock should have been making conversation with Lady T'Pau instead of thinking about his mother, but he simply couldn't. Instead, Sarek was doing most of the talking. As such, he shot Spock lots of subtly unhappy glances for not participating in the discussion. Spock was not being rude—he was responding to all of T'Pau's queries and keeping to the topics, as was expected of Vulcan children in conversation with their elders, but he was clearly distracted.

Finally, T'Pau let Spock excuse himself. Spock fled upstairs. T'Pau had always sort of reminded him of a character out of a very old human novel, a Lady Catherine de Bourgh, except that T'Pau wasn't nearly as evil, but she did have the same haughtily intimidating manner and preposterously opulent lodgings. Spock remembered telling his mother about this thought, just a few days ago, and remembered how much she'd laughed.

Spock pinched his ears and decided to meditate. He unrolled a sh'horun carpet propped against the wall, lit a jasmine candle and placed it carefully in front of the carpet, and settled, cross-legged, onto the floor. He stared at the candle, counting his breathing and focusing on the give and take of his lungs (like he had back at the house), and imagined that he was giving up pieces of his conscious mind to the flame. After a time, he had stripped all fragments of himself away and was nothing but a kernel of steady, luminous thought, resting in the ether, breathing in and breathing out and nothing more.

After an hour or so, there was a knock at his door. Spock had closed his inner eyelids; now he opened them and lifted his glasses to rub his eyes. "Enter," he said.

Sarek came in. Spock looked up at him.

There was little preamble. "Emotions run deep within our species," Sarek said quietly. He sat down on Spock's bed. Spock rose to move beside him, watching and listening to his father intently. "Your behavior with T'Pau today was excusable, but it should not continue. Such emotions as you would like to express nearly destroyed our race, thousands of years ago, before we embraced the teachings of Surak. Our ethic of logic offers a serenity humans seldom experience."

"Do you feel that serenity, father?" Spock said.

"Yes," said Sarek. Spock was struck by his assurance and steadiness. "I feel that serenity. I feel the loss, but in so doing, I respect her memory by handling it with the utmost consideration and logic."

Spock had presented this question before, when he was younger, and he was sure he would receive the same answer, but he knew the answer would seem different, now. "Why did you marry her?" Spock asked.

"As the Vulcan ambassador to Earth, it was part of my duty to study and adapt to human customs. It was only logical that I make a human my partner in marriage."

"Only logical," Spock repeated. He thought about Uhura, and all of the things that had initially attracted him to her. She was a logical companion for him. But she was only logical, and nothing more; no matter how much he enjoyed her company, he never felt more than a calm sense of contentment around her. Had his parents been the same way, quietly comfortable, willing to ignore the pulsing beat of passion within them?

There was little else to say. Sarek told Spock that he, T'Pau, and a number of older Vulcans would be having dinner together at the Vulcan consulate, and that Spock was welcome to come if he wished, but Spock still did not feel like socializing. He declined the offer and, when Sarek left, called Uhura. He was always reassured by her presence, no matter how conflicted he felt over their shared feelings.

x

"Ohmygod, my communicator. It's Spock. What do I do, what do I do?"

"Answer it! Put him on speakerphone. No! Wait! Don't forget to be an ice queen! Aloof, cool, disinterested—"

"We're actually dating, Jim, ice queen's only when you're trying to get guys to notice you—"

"Okay, whatever, just, answer it! Try to sound like nothing's wrong—"

"Nothing is wrong, you idiotic—uh, hello?"

Spock's voice dribbled out of the communicator. Uhura hastily hit the speakerphone button and his voice rose to fill the room. Uhura and Kirk were huddled on Kirk's bed, staring intently at the device, totally still, although moments before they had been scrabbling at each other and waving their arms.

"Nyota," said Spock, his tone utterly and unreadably distant. "How are you?"

"Uh," said Uhura, trying to ignore Kirk, who was mouthing such useful advice as, Be cool! Don't sound too eager! But be sympathetic! "I'm fine. What about you?" It was easy to instill her tone with concern.

"I am well enough," said Spock. "I am at Lady T'Pau's residence. My father and I will be staying there until our house has been rebuilt. I was wondering if you would like to visit me."

Do it! flailed Kirk. But be aloof!

"I'd love to," said Uhura. "I'll be along in an hour or so; I need to shower." She hesitated. "I love you. I'll see you in a little while."

"I look forward to your visit," said Spock, and hung up.

"'I love you?'" cried Kirk. "Are you insane? You're throwing yourself at him!"

"But I do love him," said Uhura. "I can't tell the truth?"

"There is a time for the truth and there is a time for… fudging. Oh, Christ, now you've got me all on edge." Kirk fluttered his hand at his face. "Go ahead and get ready. I think I'll invite Bones over since mom is gone." Winona had left an hour ago to start an updated training course at the Academy that met every night for a few weeks.

"Okay," said Uhura. "I'll call you afterwards, alright?"

"SLAP. Let's do this."

"Did you seriously just say 'SLAP?' As in, 'sounds like a plan' translated into lame?"

"I'm a sucker for the '20s, okay?" Kirk stuck his tongue out at her. "Get out of my house! I have a boyfriend to make love to."

"Oh, God, I don't want to know. Bye."

Kirk laughed as Uhura fled.

x

"Hey," said Uhura softly. "How are you?" She was standing in his doorway, having been let into the house by one of T'Pau's servants. Her long hair was down, curling loosely around her shoulders, and her eyes were soft.

Spock gestured for her to sit next to him. She did so, sinking into the soft bed, and he wrapped a hot arm around her, leaning into her. She leaned right back, perfectly comfortable, her worries starting to melt away.

"I am coping well enough," said Spock. "Thank you for coming to see me."

"Anytime, Spock," said Uhura. Hesitantly, she leaned to his face and kissed him, gently and slowly.

He kissed her back, just as hesitantly, shifting against her. After a time, his arms came up to wrap around her as his hesitation disappeared. He pushed her down onto the bed, covering her entirely with his heat, kissing her neck, her collarbone, all of the skin revealed by her low-cut shirt.

She writhed under him, quite unable to control herself (not that she would if she could) as he nuzzled her pulse. He wasn't going fast enough—she shoved him off of her, grabbed his face and kissed him deeply, then captured one of his hands and brought it to her mouth. He watched, wide-eyed and nostrils flared, as she licked each of his fingers, and then, quite obscenely, the webbing between his second and third finger. He made a strangled noise and she released to him to remove his shirt, and then her own. She bore him back down, mirroring his earlier actions, but with more intensity, grasping at the opening of his slacks as she did so, biting at his ears and neck.

He stiffened when she touched him, when she had gotten his slacks and underwear off, when she herself was naked above him. She felt a foreign tension in his abdomen and thighs. It was different and unusual, and quite unwelcome.

"Calm," she said soothingly to him in Vulcan.

He closed his eyes tightly in response.

She had never seen this reaction before. Generally he kept his eyes open—in fact, during their intercourse, he rarely blinked. They'd had sex, what, six times, now? She momentarily hated herself for forgetting the number.

"What is wrong, Spock?" she asked, again in Vulcan.

"Please do not speak in that language," Spock whispered in English.

Uhura had fucked the language into his ears, before. She'd discovered that Vulcan massively turned him on when she had moaned his (perfectly pronounced) full name a week ago. She didn't know why he wanted her talking in English, she didn't care; she was dripping for him, by now. She ran a flat hand across his chest as she pulled herself against his body, craving him, letting his strange behavior go. But he was no longer moving in response to her ministrations, and his tension remained.

She looked up at his face, rather than at her hand on his chest, and saw that he was watching her.

"Ready?" she whispered, sitting up and moving to straddle him.

"No," he said, putting out an arm to stop her. "Wait."

She thumped back down. What was that tone in his voice? She had never heard it before, and it filled her with apprehension. "What's wrong?" she asked again, this time in English.

He looked almost confused as he tried to answer. "I—I do not want—" (he was going to say 'this,' but something got turned the right way around in his tangled neural pathways and instead, he said,) "—you."

She jerked back from him, abandoning his intoxicating warmth. The words were forceful as a slap.

"I did not—" he tried to say, but he had meant that final word on some level, and he could not lie. "I am sorry," he finished almost defensively.

The hurt on her face made his heart break a little. "I know this is hard for you," she said softly, "but you can't—" She took a breath. "You can't say stuff like that, unless you really want to—want to go there."

"I am sorry," he said again, showing no real remorse. She was trying her best to be patient, but he did not look as apologetic as she liked.

She decided to ask him the question she had wanted to ask since they had started dating on that luminous night two months ago. "Does it make you uncomfortable that I love you even though you don't love me?" she said, staring straight into his eyes.

And for a while, he did not answer. He just stared at the ceiling. She felt sick. It was like she was seeing something on the inside of him fighting physically to come out.

"I suppose," he said, after a significant pause, "that I was—am interested in you because you are interested in me. I like you. I like dating you. But I, I wanted to be your friend, for a while, and then instead we were going out, and at the time I did not think we were moving too fast, but now I think we are."

"Moving too—what were we doing today that we haven't done already?" she demanded.

He said something, quietly. "What?" she said sharply.

"Emotions," he said again, still quiet. "You are here, in my bed, the day after my mother has died. I cannot share this with you, not yet, and maybe not at all."

"Maybe not at all?" she repeated faintly, realizing he was talking about a mind meld, which he had never offered to perform with her. "Spock, if you—"

"I would rather not speak on the matter at this time," he said, a breath of frost appearing in his tone, reminding her irresistibly of earlier in the day, when he spoke so coldly to her. "Would you please leave?"

With that, she felt more naked than she ever had, around him or others. She leaned down and snatched her shirt off of the floor and covered herself ineffectually with it. He just kept staring at her, unashamed by his own graceful nudity. His expression was on the verge of hateful, and it set off something inside of her.

"You cannot play the unwilling accomplice here," she spat at him, hugging the shirt tight over her body. She was standing, now, stalking around the bed to fetch her other clothing. "You are just as at—at fault. You never said no and I'll be damned if you didn't come just as many times as I did."

Spock blushed slightly; he was still uncomfortable actually discussing sex, which she generally found endearing.

"I do not deny my complicity," he said, attempting composure. "But I must ask you to leave. I am not emotionally prepared to have this conversation with you."

"Will you ever be?" she snapped. There was so much surging around in her—regret, embarrassment, anger, and most of all, that same insistent passion for the boy who was lying on the bed like a goddamn plank. She regretted saying those words as soon as they left her mouth, but she was not about to take them back, not after he had refused to take back the statement that had started all of this.

"Leave," he said, his hands trembling.

She threw her clothes back on in a whirlwind and slammed the door as she left, too angry even to give him a final truculent glare.

He stared at the door for a long time, then heaved himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom to throw up.

x

Bones came—and went. Kirk stared out of the window, watching Bones's fast-retreating back. He shoved down the bile he felt in his throat and flinched when Bones slammed his truck door.

Shit, he thought, shit, I have to calm down—

It was all flickering back. The hands, the hands especially, holding his wrists. He cracked his jaw, panting, trying to distract himself. He rubbed his face. God. It can't come back. I've been doing so well.

"Shit," he said aloud. His mouth was dry. He found a bottle of water near his bed and drained it. Fuck, Bones, fuck. I really messed up. No, you really messed up. No, shit, it was my fault, it was all my—

He took a long, calming breath. That worked for a few seconds. He snatched a copy of Catch-22 off of his bookshelf and opened it. He had hollowed it out years ago to create a hidden compartment. Every time he used the thing, he said an apology to Joseph Keller, who, really, would probably be fine with his book's new use.

There were some small tab pills in the book, and he took three of them, letting them dissolve on his tongue, which immediately felt fuzzy and thick. The drug was called birch. It was a less-extreme variation of methamphetamine, which he didn't normally take, but he'd left the cocaine he'd bought recently at Sulu's yesterday, afraid that police would be at the scene of the fire and in too much of a hurry to dispose of the stuff properly. He had bought the birch halfway through last summer and had used it just twice. He remembered it being very effective, and he'd never had a flashback quite this strong before (never allowed himself to): he really needed a strong high again.

He wasn't sure what to do. He needed the distraction, soon. He decided to call Uhura and invite her to Antinomy's; they had become friends that morning, hadn't they, while bonding over relationships? And who else could he talk to about the fight? He didn't know Gaila well enough, even though she probably had what he needed, and there was basically nobody else.

He dialed. She said, "Hello?"

"Nyota. I just had a fight with Bones."

"Oh no. I'm so sorry. This is a bad day for relationships, isn't it?"

"It really is. How's Spock?" He rubbed his forehead; something itched deep in his skull.

"Horrible. He was fine, and then, he said—"

"We should meet somewhere. Talk about it. Let off some steam."

"I could do that."

"What about a club? What about Antinomy?"

"Well, alright. Actually, that sounds great. I can go get a seat right now." Antinomy was a half-lounge, half-club with beautiful architecture and medium-priced drinks. "I take it you have a fake ID?" Uhura was eighteen and didn't need one; the drinking age had been lowered from twenty-one about a hundred years ago.

"Yeah, of course. I'll be there in an hour."

"Okay. Bye."

x

Kirk swayed, mouth dry. The drugs weren't working fast enough. The flashbacks were getting bad.

Bones grabbing his arms. "Dammit, Jim, I'm your boyfriend, not a contortionist. Quit tryin' to—" Kirk kicking backwards, catching Bones in the stomach. Bones letting go with a surprised "Oof!"

Bones, kissing him gently—Bones's teeth grinding against his hip—Bones's light, pale breath on his neck. Kirk, trying to convince himself that this was Bones, not—that it was Bones.

Segements. Pieces of memory, floating, orderless, flicking out of their anchors and driving at him, misinterpreting what had happened, forcing comparisons.

Bones being the heat, the pressure on his back, the sharp pain. Bones being the fist. Bones being the half-face. Bones on the floor. Bones as pieces. Bones as bones…

Bones as the sharp.

Shit, shit, shit. Kirk tried to shove it all away. He took another two pills, swallowing them down with a Smirnoff from the refrigerator, screw what his mom thought. He braced himself against the floor's cool linoleum. (How he had he ended up down there?) The fight—he could barely remember it clearly, now. It wasn't Bones's fault. It was his fault. He hadn't reacted well to something—what hadn't he reacted well to? It was important that he remember. He had to tell Uhura. He was meeting her. He was meeting her at Antinomy's. Wait, those most recent pills he had taken… they were what was clouding his memory. They were bad, and they were making him feel sick—

He staggered to the sink and threw up into it, ejecting most of the last two pills he had taken from his body before they could completely sink into his bloodstream. He realized blearily that he might have just overdosed again. He swayed, hands digging into the counter as he retched. He felt much better. It was all the last two pills—why had he even taken them? (Because the memories are starting to coalesce. Shut up, I know.)

He checked his reflection in the mirror. He was fine. He was perfect. He was ready to go.

He left for the club.

x

Kirk showed up at Antinomy's in more solemn clothes than Uhura expected. He wore a brightish green button-down shirt and rather drab gray and green reeds as pants. He'd done his eyes in emerald catchers, though, and festooned his ears with sanik spikes, a new and popular trend from the fashion-plate Ridyah colony on Altair V. But he wore none of the traditional neon colors, thin bracelets, and thick necklaces associated with clubbing.

Uhura's own extravagance soothed her. She was wearing her brightest colors: insane yellows and pinks and oranges, mainly, since her skin was dark. She had lined her own eyes in sapphire catchers that sparkled in the flickering lights, and painted yellow lines across her face with Sahora skin paint that glittered and flashed. Kirk had only drawn a couple of Sahora lines on his cheeks, in a restrained green—why was he so interested in matching?—while she had done most of her face, neck, and arms. She didn't have any sanik spikes, so she had just put about twenty false earrings all over her ears.

She knew something was wrong as soon as Kirk took more than a few steps towards her from the entrance to the club. He had a hard time with the floor, as if he wasn't sure which way was up, or forwards. His hands and face were twitching and when he sat down at the table she'd gotten a fifteen minutes ago, and she saw that his pupils were completely blown, so much so that he flinched whenever the lights strobed over his face.

"What did you take?" she demanded.

"Birch," he said, flicking his hand airily, as if it didn't matter. "Clear shrake." He was using the drug's other name.

"I didn't know you were an addict."

"I'm not. Just a causal user. Recreational."

"You seem pretty coherent," she said warily. He looked strange, sure, and moved even stranger, but his words were not forced or slurred.

"I can speak fine," he said, eyes fixed on a point behind her shoulder. "The world shifts a little to the side, and up, but my vocal cords still work."

"You're an introspective druggie, then."

"Quit harshing." He glanced at her, a speculative look on his open face. "We shouldn't fuck, should we?"

She sighed. "I shouldn't tell you this, but you really are one of the most attractive men I've ever met. However, that does not mean we should fuck."

He grinned. "Thanks. I'm with you, though; it'd be a bad idea, under the circumstances." He paused, shaking his head. "Lights in my ears," he said by way of explanation. "Listen, what makes you beautiful—it's all that steel beneath your skin, and the flint in your eyes. You emote your brain as being this, this dangerous, fantastic dragon, and I can hear it roaring every time words come out of your mouth."

"Poetic," said Uhura dryly. "You're weird when you're high."

"Thank you. I do have to fuck somebody, though. To get the sharp to go away." He wrinkled his nose and flicked idly at the edge of the table as if he was trying to get something off of it.

"To what?" said Uhura curiously, but a waiter approached to take their drink orders. "Just a shot of Jack and a Coors Light," said Uhura to the girl.

"Make that two," said Kirk.

"What's this about the… sharp?" Uhura asked when the waiter had sashayed away. Kirk watched her go, rather distracted by the woman's large, clawed feet.

"Sex," he said, leaning back in his chair. He shivered unconsciously. "I don't like it rough. Bones does, he really does. That's what we fought about. We had penetrative sex for the first time today—well, we tried to; I put up a pretty big fuss instead and it all went to shit. We're not sexually compatible, as it turns out, and he just can't understand that there are all of these sharp walls up around me."

"… Walls?"

"Yeah. Geometric. They have sharp patterns, and if I get too close to them they hurt." He shook his head again. "See, you can't repeat the patterns," he continued. "I don't date, not really. I don't repeat patterns or they come find me. Routine would be so nice, but I don't know what's behind the sharp walls, and," he shrugged, "I can't get by them, anyway."

Uhura wasn't sure she understood the metaphor, or even knew if Kirk realized he was using metaphor, considering he was on birch, which was pretty potent shit.

"So, this sharp thing has to do with Bones liking… rough sex?"

"Yes."

"Like, how so?"

"He has the typical masculine rape fantasies. He would like to dominate and force me to submit."

"And?" said Uhura. "Submission can be fun. The next big revolution in our society is legalization of plural marriage and the expansion and acceptance of quote-unquote deviant sexual practices. There's nothing wrong with wanting to hold somebody down. Or wanting to be held down." Or ball-gags. She knew it was strange that she was supporting kinks, but this thing with Kirk and Bones didn't seem like a big deal, not if it was something as common as domination and submission.

"Politics abhor me," said Kirk. "Ever since I blew up that voting booth, the national sections in the news lean away from me, I swear. That's not what I'm talking about, though. This—this isn't about paraphilia."

"It sounds like it is."

"It's about evocation," he said, as if that explained everything. "About dredging. Finding and repeating." He shivered, very hard, his whole body vibrating. "There are pros and cons of this," he whispered, eyes wide and dry, suddenly fearful. "This getting high. The distractions are easier, but the memories are stronger. Shit. I need more color. Dance?"

"Our drinks—"

"I'll be right back," he said seriously. "I've got to throw the gun away."

And he disappeared into the crowd. Throw the gun away? Uhura repeated to herself, confused. What on earth does that mean?

The drinks came and went. She rushed down her shot and nursed the beer more slowly, watching the pulsing crowd, feeling the warmth of the alcohol seep into her veins, rushing through the webbing of her body. She felt distant from Spock, who seemed suddenly foreign to her. Uhura liked being part of a crowd, loved the feeling of following a greater will than her own. It was not that she lacked independence, but that she enjoyed being swept into actions lone people could not orchestrate. She waited for Kirk to get back; waited for the moment when she would leap into the people and move with them.

She was not particularly angry with Kirk. There was something clearly wrong with him that she had not known about. He seemed like he needed help, and she was nothing if not compassionate—well, okay, that was a lie, but she was nothing if not knowledgeable, and maybe she could help him. Plus, he was rather interesting in an altered state. But birch, though. That was a pretty hard drug. It wasn't problematically addictive, but it had some serious side-effects and was definitely illegal.

He came back after a short time, maybe five or ten minutes later, wiggling out of the crowd. He was shining, his paint smeared and his shirt unbuttoned to below his pecs. His hair fell, damp, across his face, having already lost most of its gelled standing power. He fell down into the chair next to her and tossed back his shot. He looked much happier.

"Here's how it works," he said conspiratorially to her, more jittery than ever. "The walls are sharp, right? And they're coming for you—that's what drugs do, they make everything accelerate—so you have to find the same situation and change it before the walls get to you. You have to recreate it and take control. Not dominate—just shift—with the help of the drug. It forces the walls towards you, yeah, but then it also helps you avoid them. See what I'm saying?"

This sounded like a coping mechanism, of sorts. "What situation are you trying to change?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I've forgotten, thanks to the birch. I've thrown the gun away." He pronounced the phrase differently, this time, like he didn't know what it meant anymore; it had definitely had a distinct meaning the first time he'd said it. "I've been doing it all summer, but it keeps coming back, even though… Bones!"

Uhura glanced around quickly, thinking Kirk saw Bones somewhere, but he was nowhere in sight. She looked back at Kirk just as he started talking again—evidently he had simply realized something about his boyfriend.

"Bones isn't good for me," Kirk pronounced matter-of-factly. "Ever since the first time he made me flashback. He's too sharp; he wouldn't even work with the birch." Uhura tried to speak, but Kirk cut her off, staring at her. "Is Spock too sharp?" he asked.

Uhura was rather taken aback. "He can be," she said, still not sure what Kirk meant, exactly, by 'sharp,' but thinking she had an idea. "He's not like us, you know. He's an alien—an actual alien." She said the word like it was new, wonder in her voice—she had never realized before that Spock's differentness could be truly attributed to his species. He seemed just so human, but he wasn't—a different people with different customs and bodies and expectations had brought him up on a different planet. "It makes sense, now, that he doesn't understand."

"Understand what?" asked Kirk curiously.

"Doing the right thing with what you have," she told him. "That's what he doesn't get. It's not right, to him, that I love him but he doesn't love me back, even though it's okay that that's how it is." She looked through her lashes at him as she took another drink of her beer. "Does Bones love you?"

"I don't know," said Kirk, contemplative. "I think so. He has sharp in him, but I think that helps, actually… which is strange. They don't fit, in my mind." Kirk finished off his beer. "Spock should love you," he said frankly to Uhura. "You're a lion. A tall tree. A thing of wonder." He stood and held out his hand to her. "Let's dance."

She let him pull her onto the floor, into the people, into the crying mass.

x

Chekov was having an awesome night.

Gaila had called him at around ten and asked if he wanted to go clubbing. He'd been clubbing a few times, back in Russia, with older friends, and had really enjoyed it. He was deeply honored that Gaila had asked him to come with. The others she invited were seniors, boys and girls with long, shining hair and 5.9 GPAs and designer clothes. She said she had taken a liking to him, winking over the vidscreen and referencing their night together at the beginning of the year. He considered fainting. They went out for nourishment, first, having appetizers at an upscale restaurant. He ate some incredible blush calamari and downed a glass of claret from a crystal carafe. Gaila was incredibly nice, and so were the glamorous boys and girls. He was a bit suspicious of them, since he felt so out of place, but Gaila was just quirky, it seemed, and simply wanted to bring him along, with no catches or requirements.

Then, they went to Antinomy's, Gaila gaining entrance with her pheromones and personality alone. The bouncer didn't even ask for IDs.

Chekov was instantly in love. The place was solid color, stripes and dots and swirls covering the walls, floors, and ceiling. There were revolving, flashing lights taped onto every surface, and the dance floor was thick with revelers. There was a quiet bar area that he was quite disinterested in. With Gaila and the others, he pressed onto the dance floor, elated by the noise and hue.

He saw Uhura first and waved franticly at her until she saw him and squeezed through the mass to press up against him. The heat of her body was vaguely uncomfortable since he had no particular romantic interest in her, but she did not seem their closeness, so they danced near to each other, unable to converse because of the volume of the music.

She melted away, eventually, leaving him with a tiny finger wave and a smile.

And then, a few minutes after the girl he had been trying to grind with left with her stupid boyfriend (who had shown up just after she had started paying attention to him), Chekov saw Kirk.

Actually, Kirk saw him. Kirk was playing the crowd, trying to figure out who he could get to screw him in the back alley, when the birch nudged his mind and, like a fucked-up guardian angel, pointed him towards a skinny, sad-looking Russian kid who was, of course, very familiar.

In Kirk's mind, the sharp walls retreated a couple of inches as Progress Was Made.

Kirk danced over.

The music felt like a soft, insistent scarf wrapping itself around Kirk's brain. He stared at Chekov through it. Christ, could the kid look any hotter? The gold shirt he was wearing could barely be counted as such since it was basically netting and he'd painted purple Sahora over what looked suspiciously like his entire body, judging by the swirling lines that, dear God, dipped down his chiseled hipbones and pranced through his curly goody trail. Kirk gulped heavily and dragged his eyes upwards, pushing away the clouds that had formed next to his ears. Chekov was beaming up at him through his ridiculously long lashes. Nothing this sexy could possibly be legal. The scarf of music fluttered around, getting thicker. Kirk could barely see through it. He batted absently at it, trying to get a better look at Chekov.

Chekov, who wasn't high on birch and who saw no scarves anywhere, pressed himself unashamedly against Kirk, whose shirt was completely unbuttoned now, displaying a thick chest dripping with sweat. Kirk felt halogen flash through his veins. He wrapped himself around Chekov and kissed the boy deeply, tasting cool mercury in his young mouth. Chekov made a surprised noise, thinking for a second about Bones and infidelity and trust and stress and mistakes and, for some reason, Sulu, but after a while he melted into Kirk's mouth, so that Kirk, almost obscenely, felt Chekov slide into him as he sucked the silver out of Chekov's lungs. The sharp paled, pulling back even further, so far removed from him Kirk that forgot the sharp was there.

Kirk's whole body was shivering from the birch and the electricity of Chekov's skin. Mercury filled him, weighing him down; if he thought about it (which he didn't), he would realize that the mercury was guilt, poisonous consequences; the obvious taste of medicine and the slantwise glare of disapproval and the ominous psh noise of hyposprays being cocked. The mercury was Bones.

They moved around each other, Kirk emulating the scarf of music twirling about his head, leading Chekov by the boy's flat hips. A sort of warm veil was rising to cover both of them, obscuring them (it seemed to Kirk) from the rest of the crowd.

Neither of them were sure how they got outside and bribed a bouncer and found a not extremely dirty corner. Gold, Kirk thought. Gold mesh, and a chest, lips burning up my neck, the scarf fluttering away. The beat of the music was faint, pulsing at Kirk's back; Chekov had shoved him against the wall of the club and was trying to abolish their zippers. Kirk leaned back, so hot he shivered. Chekov was a brown-eyed crusade of sex, a thousand naked armies marching heavy-heeled over Kirk's goosebump-ridden flesh. Every panted word that came out of Chekov's mouth destroyed Kirk with its urgency.

They didn't know how long it took; didn't care. The sharp walls were utterly gone when Chekov finally came, choking his orgasm against Kirk's neck, his lips little brands of fire. They raised their arms as one and wrapped themselves once more around each other, trying to regain control over their lungs.

Neither of them had spoken the entire time.

x

Uhura boggled.

"Oh God," she said. "Oh God. Oh God. Oh Christ."

"You are repetitive," accused Kirk, aiming a finger at her. They were back at their table, Kirk having returned for another beer to find Uhura nursing a Cardassian sunrise and evidently able to smell the sex on him (or at least accurately identify the fleck of honest-to-God semen on his cheek).

"You. Had sex. With Pavel. That's not good. That's bad. That's very bad."

"You are so wrong. It was damn good. It was like being attacked by chocolate phoenixes."

"That—that doesn't even make sense."

"Think about it for a while."

"You know, I don't think I will. Jim, what about Leo?"

Kirk flinched. "Yeah. I know. I'm going to tell him tomorrow."

"Oh God. Jim, he is really not going to be happy."

"There was nothing else I could do," Kirk said. "You have no idea what the sharp is like." He scrubbed his face in his hands. "I have to go home."

"Oh my God, what is wrong with you?" Uhura cried. "You seem so fine most of the time, and then you go and get high and cheat on your boyfriend out of nowhere!"

Kirk stared at her.

"The birch is wearing off," he said absently. "I can feel it. I'm going. Good luck with Spock."

"Jim, I—"

"Save it. I have to go home."

"Why?"

"I just do. It's what I do afterwards. I go home and I go to sleep."

"Jim, you don't—"

"Thanks for coming with me. I'll see you at school tomorrow."

"Jim—"

"Nyota." He staggered to his feet and loomed over her, putting his arms firmly on her shoulders. "If you really love Spock, then you'll know that his needs outweigh your needs. Think about that."

He patted her on the cheek and swept out, only clinging to the wall half of the time for balance.

x