by Aimee
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RATING: NC-17, I guess. There's sex, but it's not terribly graphic. *shrug* Whatever.

DISCLAIMER: Tom Paris, Harry Kim, and the entire Star Trek universe belong to Paramount and UPN. I am blatantly infringing on their copyright by writing this story. However, I don't care.

WARNING: This story contains descriptions of sexual intercourse between two men. If you don't like that, or if you are underage, hit delete now.

ARCHIVING INFO: Yes to R'rain. Anyone else, please ask first.

SPOILERS: Tiny ones for "Waking Moments."

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Today was a perfectly miserable day, gray and dreary and rainy and cold. It was, in fact, a perfect day to curl up with a book and read, except I didn't feel like reading. So I wrote instead. This is what I came up with. It's a straightforward PWP: just the sex, ma'am. If you find a plot, you're trying too hard. It's also a missing scene from the episode "Waking Moments," inspired by that moment at the end of the episode when Tom and Harry walk into the mess hall together, all sweaty. I'd appreciate any feedback telling me what you all think.

And now, the story.

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Harry stood in the doorway of the gymnasium, enjoying an unexpected opportunity to watch Tom Paris unobserved. It was late enough that he'd expected to have the gym to himself, but apparently Tom hadn't been able to sleep either. Ever since Voyager's run-in with the aliens who lived in the dream world instead of the waking world, he'd suffered from an acute case of insomnia; he'd hoped that, with a thorough enough workout, he'd fall asleep out of sheer exhaustion. So he'd gotten out of bed and come down here, only to find Tom had beaten him to it.

And instead of getting exercise, Harry stood by the door, immobile, as a sweaty, flushed Tom Paris rode a stationary bicycle, legs pumping, the muscles in his buttocks rhythmically bunching and releasing. . .

He must have made some sort of sound, for Tom's head suddenly popped up and snapped around to face him. "Oh! Hi, Harry. Couldn't you sleep either?"

He had to clear his throat before he could answer. "Hey, Tom. No, I just couldn't seem to drop off tonight. I thought some exercise might do me good."

Tom had stopped pedaling; Harry felt faintly disappointed. "I guess great minds think alike," the pilot joked. "Hey, here's an idea! Are you up for a little hoverball?"

"Sure, why not!"

"Great! This bike was getting a little boring. All that work and you never go anywhere -- what's the point?

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Feeling a little existential tonight, Paris?" He felt absurdly pleased when Tom laughed. & quot;C'mon. A ball game sounds like fun," he grinned.

Tom clapped him on the back, and they headed off to the hoverball courts together.

---

Harry balanced on the balls of his feet, bouncing slightly, all his attention focused on the ball. A limp, sticky lock of his hair fell off his forehead and into his eyes; he brushed it aside impatiently. His muscles ached, his lungs burned, he was sweating like a horse, and he was losing the game to boot -- but, God, he felt good! This was just what he needed, a moment of simple enjoyment spent reveling in uncomplicated physicality. He sighed happily. The computerized chirp signaling the start of the round sounded, and he was off, launching himself headlong at the ball hovering nearby.

He dove for the ball, deftly grabbing it and control of the game away from Tom in one smooth motion -- or he meant to, anyway. But somehow his foot snagged itself on an uneven patch of the floor, and he staggered clumsily forward a few steps before losing his balance completely. He landed in an untidy heap positioned directly in front of Tom's feet. Tom, of course, immediately proceed to trip over Harry, and he fell with a resounding smack! right on top of him.

Harry stared at Tom's appalled face only inches away from his own -- perfect kissing distance -- and finally couldn't control himself any longer. He began to laugh. Not some amused snort or half-hearted chuckle -- no! This was a full, all-out, close-your-eyes-and-convulse-on-the-floor belly laugh. He lay on the floor under the half-naked body of his absolutely beautiful best friend, and roared with slightly hysterical hilarity.

"Harry? Are you all right? Harry!" Tom's voice quickly changed from concerned to alarmed. Harry heard him, and tried to get himself under control, but found the task impossible. "Harry, are you. . . are you laughing?" The dumbfounded confusion in that question set Harry off again, and he dissolved into a fit of undignified giggles.

"You are! You're laughing! You. . . you. . ." Tom snickered. "It's not funny."

Harry managed to get enough breath into his lungs to gasp, "You. . . you're laughing too."

"I am not," he said, and promptly collapsed into a spasm of not-laughter.

Long, mirth-filled minutes passed. When they had both finally wound down, Tom murmured, "But it really isn't funny. You could have been hurt!"

"I know," Harry said. "Sorry."

"S'okay."

At that moment, Harry became conscious of the fact that Tom still lay on top of him, their bodies pressing together. They had both taken their shirts off long ago in the heat of their game, and now the pilot's still-sweaty, naked, heaving chest rubbed against his own, Tom's breath blowing hot against his face.

He began to get an erection.

"Uh, Tom," he said and tried to sit up, but only succeeded in pushing himself even closer into his friend's body. "Tom," he repeated breathlessly.

"Harry," Tom moaned back.

He took a closer look at the blond man's face. His cheeks were flushed and his pupils dilated, and he was breathing more heavily than he really needed to. That might have been the result of the recent laughing fit, if not for the hard-on Harry could feel pressing eagerly against his own.

"God, Tom," he gasped in surprise and desire, and kissed him.

Time held still. Nothing moved, nothing stirred, the world itself held its breath. All minor details withdrew themselves from Harry's consideration, leaving him free to focus his attention on the important things: the taste of Tom's kiss, the pressure of his lips, the feel of his sweat-slick shoulders gliding under his hands, the texture of his skin, Tom's hands tangled in his hair and cradling his head with an unexpected tenderness even as he devoured Harry's mouth with explosive, passionate intensity. He found the universe in Tom's embrace.

Harry slid his hands down Tom's back and into his shorts, caressing the round flesh he found there. Tom gasped aloud in response. With his cry, the spell was broken, and the course of time resumed -- but strangely.

Instead of the normal, smooth flow of time's river, the current drifting evenly by, one hour per hour and one minute per minute, this river was filled with odd tides and eddies, and didn't seem to want to be contained by its banks. Sometimes it raced by, a raging torrent of white water, other times it was barely a trickle, moving sluggishly through the mud and stretching seconds into eternity.

Afterwards, Harry found his memory of this first time distorted and unreliable, large portions of it blurred into indistinctness in his mind. Instead, he had a series of unconnected moments burned into his brain, fragments of crystallized sensation. The feel of Tom's nipple contracting into a sudden, hard pebble under his tongue. The taste of Tom's skin, salty and musky, a powerful aphrodisiac. The sound of Tom's voice alternately murmuring endearments and shouting demands. The way Tom's whole body writhed and wriggled when Harry found a particularly sensitive spot. The throb and pulse of Tom's cock in his grasp. The ache and almost-pain as his own cock hardened even further at the touch of Tom's hand. The wicked, joyful glint in those blue eyes as Tom flipped Harry to his back and sucked his erection down his throat. The unbelievable intensity of the pleasure and satisfaction he felt as his orgasm flooded his central nervous system. The less showy but equally powerful emotions that overtook him as he watched Tom find his own peak.

The look on Tom's face. The clasp of Tom's hand.

The sound of Tom's voice. "I love you, Harry."

They lay naked on the floor of the gym, entwined in each other. Harry felt distinctly disinclined to move. He was perfectly comfortable where he was, wrapped in his newfound lover; why should he ever need to move again? The bridge would just have to get along without him. Let Voyager sail where it would. Who needed the Alpha Quadrant? He'd already come home.

Time passed, back at its normal, sedate pace. Beside him, Tom finally stirred. He absently pressed a kiss to the ensign's neck, and said "You hungry?" in a sleepy voice.

Harry considered. On the one hand, all he wanted to do right now was take Tom back to his quarters and make love to him again, to immerse himself in his lover and not come up for air until morning. But, on the other hand, he actually was hungry; a late-night snack sounded awfully tempting. His stomach growled, loudly, making the decision for him.

"Guess so," Tom laughed, and rolled to his feet, pulling Harry with him.

Oh well. At least they were sure to have the mess hall to themselves at this hour of the night, which presented some. . . interesting. . . possibilities. All those kitchen utensils. Harry's eyes glazed.

"All right," he said. Tom glanced at him askance; he supposed he had sounded a trifle. . . enthusiastic.

The ball was still hovering patiently in midair, waiting for them to play. Harry grabbed it -- managing to stay on his feet this time -- and put it away. "You know, next time we play hoverball, I'm going to win," he said teasingly.

Tom smiled -- an odd smile, somehow both happy and serious. "But you won this time, Har."

"What? Are you kidding? You beat the pants off me!"

Tom's eyes gleamed, but he didn't take up the straight line Harry had handed him. Instead, he said simply, "We both won."

A pause. "Yeah. I guess we did."

They left for the mess hall hand in hand.

---

End