Rating: PG

Dedication: to Linsey and Xandri, for indulging me. It was a big indulgence.

Notes: ‘somewhere i have never traveled’ is by ee cummings. The full poem is used here. The interpretations are my own, so I wouldn’t quote it in your lit crit assignments :)
Sequel to Lullaby.

The distant hum of the warp drive was the only sound that intruded into the dimly lit cabin. Outside the window, the stars streaked by, a beautiful optical illusion that was completely ignored by the two men inside. They had more immediate concerns.

“That tickles,” Trip protested playfully as he squirmed under Malcolm’s ministrations.

Malcolm laid his hands on the engineer’s bare shoulders and held him until he ceased moving. “You need to hold still,” he chastised gently. Picking up the towel, he stroked it firmly up and down Trip’s back, drying and smoothing the flat planes of skin. “Otherwise this won’t work.”

Trip folded his arms and rested his head against his hands, relaxing as Malcolm discarded the towel and began to stroke and soothe with his bare hands, the light massage easing away the tensions of the day. “Mmm, I could get used to this.” He felt as if he was melting directly into the mattress. “Hell of a way to start a poetry lesson.”

Malcolm ran his palms down either side of Trip’s spine one last time before turning away to fiddle with the box he had brought with him. “Don’t worry, Mister Tucker. I haven’t forgotten my promise to fill the woeful gaps in your American education.”

Trip laughed softly, feeling boneless and light. “Pity they didn’t make poetry comic books, huh?”

It was Malcolm’s turn to laugh. “Never fear, I’m making the appropriate allowances for your visual fixations.” Planting a hand squarely between Trip’s shoulder blades, Malcolm swung one leg over so he straddled Trip, firmly pinning his legs.

Trip squirmed, testing. “Kinky.”

Once again, he was pushed into the mattress until he stilled. “You must hold still. This may be a little chilly.”

Trip gasped and bucked as the first brushstroke slid across warm skin. “What the hell is that?”

Malcolm was obviously enjoying himself. “Hold still.”

“What are you doing?” Trip asked as he settled, panting slightly against the cool trails Malcolm was stroking.

“Writing. Hoshi was quite happy to lend me a calligraphy brush and ink.”

Trip began to make the connection. “Which poem?”

Smiling, Malcolm read aloud as he inscribed the words from memory.

“Somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near.”

Finishing with a flourish, Malcolm blew a cool stream of air across Trip’s shoulder to dry his handiwork. Underneath him, he felt his new-found lover shiver with the sensation.

“Now, what do you think that means?”

Trip struggled to recall the words up from under the flood of physical sensation. “Drowning. The poet is drowning in the others’ eyes…there’s a dichotomy there, things both strong and frail, near and far.”

Malcolm leant forward to press a kiss to Trip’s unmarked shoulder in praise. “Well done, love, well done.”

Knowing what to expect now, Trip barely moved as the fine, soft brush stroked across his other shoulder blade. Malcolm’s voice held a dreamy, far-away timbre as he spoke the words aloud.

“Your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously)her first rose”

Malcolm laughed as he twisted to replace the brush in the pot. “Discuss.”

Trip laughed, and the drying ink pulled slightly at his skin. “They’re acknowledging that this other person breaks through their defenses, opens them up where before they were closed.” Lifting his head slightly to free his arm, Trip snaked a hand back to stroke Malcolm’s knee. “I wonder if the subject was as overjoyed at it as I was?”

Malcolm intertwined his fingers with Trip’s, holding tight for a moment before releasing him to pick up the brush. “Shall we see?”

This time the brush rasped along Trip’s left flank, and he had to fight not to shiver under the ticklish sensation.

“Or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;”

Trip screwed up his eyes as both hands reached back touch Malcolm. “The guy would die for this person?”

Malcolm’s voice was cool and distant. “The greatest loves are those worth dying for.”

“No,” Trip disagreed, his head twisting on the pillow to try and see Malcolm’s face. “The greatest loves are worth living for.”

The silence lingered for a painful beat, then he felt Malcolm push forward to press warm lips against his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Better not be,” Trip groused, his heart twisted and his throat tight. “We haven’t even finished this poem.”

Malcolm laughed as he resettled himself. “I have several volumes I wish to get through. I hope you’re not bored already.”

“Anything but.” He wriggled slightly on the mattress. “But that brush tickles.”

“Almost there, love, almost there.” The cool bristles slid across his spine as Malcolm’s whispery voice filled the room again.

“Nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing…”

Trip sighed as the brush faded off around the curve of the final letter. “That’s beautiful,” he drawled quietly. “They’re seeing both sides of the whole, not just one face or the other.”

“Or they’re being allowed to see,” Malcolm offered. “You have to trust, to reveal all yourself to another.”

“Thankyou,” Trip murmured, knowing that the other man could probably hear him anyway.

The inked brush curved and dipped around the tiny space above his right hip.

“(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.”

Trip closed his eyes as the words echoed around his mind. “I…I…” He lapsed once more in to silence. “I can feel what they’re trying to say, but I don’t know if I can express it any better than that.”

Malcolm slipped around him to nestle up against his side, careful not to smudge his artistry. “Who can define why we love who we love? We can never explain the whole of our attraction. Why what we feel is love.”

Trip pressed himself up on his forearms and leaned over to press a kiss to Malcolm’s willing mouth. “All anyone needs to see why I fell for you are a pair of eyes.”

Malcolm flopped backwards, squeezing into the impossibly small space between Trip and the bulkhead. “And here I was thinking you loved me for my mind.”

“I do, and…” he laughed as he realized he had proven Malcolm’s point for him. “Okay, okay, I bow before your poetic expertise.”

Malcolm caught Trip’s shoulder as he tried to roll over. “Bow all you like, just don’t roll over. Not unless you want to smear ink across the sheets.”

Trip could think of half a dozen other things he wouldn’t mind smearing across the sheets, but he had to admit Malcolm had a point. “I better take a shower.” He slipped off the bed and held his arms out. “Wanna help me scrub my back?”

Malcolm slid off the bunk and insinuated himself around Trip’s body. “I suppose I must, consider I got it dirty in the first place.” He licked one exposed nipple and slipped away before Trip could respond. Grinning like a fool, he brushed a tender hand across Malcolm’s neck before moving away to find clean towels.

Watching as Malcolm finished screwing the lid back onto the jar of ink, placing it and the brush on a tray, he blurted out “Can I try that on you one day?”

Malcolm turned, eyebrow raised in silent challenge. “If you can find a poem you think would do it justice.” He plucked the towels out of Trip’s unresisting hands and began to saunter towards the small bathroom. “I’m a very selective canvas.”

Laughing, Trip followed him into the other room and closed the door.

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