by Merri Todd Webster

Disclaimer--Roddenberry is God the Father, Berman and Piller are Jesus and John the Baptist, and Jeri Taylor is the Holy Ghost, if she wants to be. I only sing their praises and genuflect toward the holy mountain ringed with stars by writing romantic smut about their characters.

We all know why we're here. Two gorgeous men are going to have sex in this story. That's why it's NC-17, just like "Henry & June," the very first movie to carry that rating. Those who do not wish to play this party game may leave now (but I bet nobody will).

So about this story. The two pieces of music heard in this story are "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence" and "I Sat Down Under His Shadow" by Sir Edward Cuthbert Bairstow (1874-1946). The latter, which gave me my inspiration and title, may be heard on the Collegium recording "Hail, Gladdening Light" by the Cambridge Singers. I learned both anthems while singing with a small concert choir called Sine Nomine, directed by my husband, whom I met when I auditioned for the group.

Thanks to Sir Edward, my friend George, a fine tenor who died too young of kidney failure, Amirin for beta-reading and massive encouragement, and my husband, for convincing me I can sing as well as write. (Harry's red robe courtesy of Amirin Fashions.

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Tom left the holodeck feeling more restless than when he'd arrived. Sandrine's had been busy tonight, with quite a few live, organic patrons. He'd played pool for hours, winning a tidy sum in replicator rations from the Delaneys and even beating the Captain at two games; he'd flirted with his pool partners and had some sort of fairly decent real beer, courtesy of Neelix, who'd traded for it on their last shore leave. Nevertheless, he still felt. . . edgy. Dissatisfied. Wanting something more.

When it hit him, Tom stopped in mid-stride, one foot poised above the deck. Why hadn't he noticed sooner? Harry hadn't come to Sandrine's. Tom had mentioned at dinner that he was going to be there, and of course Harry was sitting right across from him. He'd just assumed Harry would come along. Harry always came along. Something had to be wrong, then. Tom's hovering foot hit the deck, and he made for Harry's quarters.


"Harry, are you okay?"

Tom stopped just inside the door. The lights in Harry's sitting room were dimmed. Instead of the artfully hidden computer-controlled illumination, the room was lit by candles, tall and squat, white and golden, burning with a rich slow sweetness Tom recognized as the smell of real beeswax. Some sort of lush choral music was playing that, combined with the candles, made Tom think of midnight Masses at Christmas. Harry was lying on the couch, arms behind his head, dressed only in a vividly red robe. The room was too dim to read the expression on his face; Tom hoped it was also too dim to notice the hard-on he was getting. He wished he didn't always react like this to his best friend. . . He really wished the two of them could be more than friends. . .

Harry sat up, pulling the robe across his chest and tightening the belt. "Computer, halt music program." He smiled at Tom, rather tiredly. "Yeah, I'm okay. I just had a headache after shift, a pretty bad one. Thought I'd deal with it the old-fashioned way instead of spraying on a painkiller and going to Sandrine's."

"You're an old-fashioned kind of guy, Harry," Tom said, and then inwardly cursed himself for saying something so inane. Again.

Something changed in Harry's smile. "In some ways." He got up and went to the replicator, making Tom bite his lip and look away. No one should wear just silk over a rear end like that. "Want something?"

Yeah, you, Tom thought. Hey, how did that slip past the censor? "No, thanks."

Harry came back with green tea in a chunky little cup, sat down, waved a hand at Tom. Tom lowered himself onto the low couch, trying to get as far away from his friend as possible without obviously doing so. As Harry sipped the steaming tea, Tom watched his face and--not for the first time; no, more like the millionth time-- wondered how those full lips would feel against his own.

Tom shook off those thoughts like a dog shaking off water and made to get up. "I should let you recover, then--"

"Don't go." Tom stopped. Was he really hearing the need in those words, that tone, that he thought he was, or was he hearing only his own desire? Harry's dark eyes were unreadable over the rim of the cup. Harry sipped again and went on, much more casually, "I'm sorry I didn't get to see you at Sandrine's. I don't mind if you stay. If you feel like it."

Tom dropped back onto the couch, confused and not a little aroused. Harry just smiled, a typical, cheerful gee-I-really-like-you smile that made Tom relax a little, and called for the computer to resume the music.

A string of alleluias burst into the silence, seeming to roll in waves through some vast vaulted space and then to disappear. Over a hushed chord from the rest of the choir, a tenor and a bass chanted, "Let all mortal flesh keep silence, and stand with fear and trembling." A shiver went over Tom at the last prolonged chord.

"Edward Bairstow," Harry commented, in the sudden silence. "Victorian England. Wrote a lot of sacred choral music."

After a pause, another selection began. As quietly as they had ended, the chorus began, "I. . . sat. . . down. . ." all the parts low in their range. Over that support, the tenors lifted up a sensuous, aching melody that made Tom's nerves tighten, so closely did it match his own unspoken yearning: "I sat down under his shadow with great delight." He felt Harry watching him as the sopranos repeated the last three words and then soared up like larks, taking the melody with them: "And his fruit was sweet to my taste."

Tom swallowed, hard. He could not be getting an erection listening to what was supposed to be sacred music. You couldn't sing this in church, could you? And Harry couldn't be watching him with the same anguish he felt in his own vitals, wondering how the other man tasted, and getting an erection himself. . .

The sopranos hit an orgasmically high note with the words, "And his banner over me, his banner over me was love," and Tom found himself kneeling in front of Harry, Harry leaning over him in the candlelight and who could say which one, if either, had moved first, Tom's hands on Harry's shoulders and Harry's on Tom's neck and their mouths fusing as the tenors repeated, softly, "I sat down under his shadow. . ."

Later on Tom would reflect that it was exactly how he had imagined it would be-- the fullness of Harry's mouth, the easy way they touched one another, the taste of the other man, the scent of his nearly-naked body--and that had never been true before. Reality had never been as good as fantasy, until Harry's mouth opened to Tom's and their tongues slid together hungrily. This reality was better than fantasy, the dense black hair under Tom's fingers, the strength of Harry's return embrace, the shock of moving close enough together to feel how hard they both were. Tom pulled back, regretfully, while he still could, before he pushed Harry down and ravished him. The look on Harry's face, dazed as it was, said he was thinking much the same thing.

"I can go now, Harry," Tom managed to say. Had he undone the belt on that red robe?

Harry's voice was deeper than ever and his meaning unmistakable this time. "Don't go."

Tom got up and pulled Harry to his feet. "Computer, repeat the previous selection." Eyes locked on the the other man's, he steered Harry against the nearest wall. As the tenors stated the theme once again, he dropped to his knees before Harry and pushed the red silk folds out of the way. "I've been thinking about this a long time, Harry. A very long time."

And his fruit was sweet to my taste. Oh, yes. Not sweet, exactly, but precisely what he wanted. Needed. He felt Harry's cock harden in his mouth, filling him, so hot and like velvet on his tongue. So easy to take it all in and feel Harry's moan of response vibrate through both of them. This fruit was ripe to bursting, and Tom wanted to savor it. He backed off, sucking gently just on the head, and ran his hands up those deceptively soft-looking thighs, feeling firm muscle underneath, and along the insides to cup the warm weight there.

Harry's hands came to rest, lightly, on Tom's head, and it was all right. Tom used his tongue creatively and Harry's grip tightened, relaxed. Harry was stroking his hair and murmuring encouragement, "Oh, yes. Yes, Tom. Oh, that feels so good," and Tom wanted to kneel there, hearing those words, feeling that touch, tasting this man, forever, or at least until Voyager made it back to Earth. No, forever.

Tom reached up and stroked one finger, cautiously, along the cleft of Harry's buttocks. Harry moaned and shifted his feet farther apart, and Tom probed the cleft, finding the entrance and rubbing across it experimentally. Harry moaned, no, groaned this time, and his hips began moving, fingers gripping and relaxing in rhythm. Now. Tom closed his mouth around that hot flesh and took all of it in, and again, and again, not stopping, and still touching that sensitive spot with his finger. Harry's hands slipped to Tom's shoulders and clutched them. "Tom--!"

Tom sucked hard, thinking <yes Harry do it come for me>, and Harry leaned helplessly on Tom's shoulders for support and thrust repeatedly into his lover's mouth, letting go in long spurts, gasping, and Tom hung on, trembling, that needful grip hurting him but yes, it was sweet, very sweet, and Tom swallowed it all.

It took a while before Harry leaned back against the wall with a distinct thump. Tom sank back on his heels, breathing hard and wishing he had been able to see Harry's face. After a moment, Harry groped for Tom and pulled him to his feet, into his arms. Tom leaned against his lover and gave him the taste of himself that he was seeking, wrapping his arms around Harry's waist and feeling that gorgeous body naked against his clothes.

Harry tore his mouth away. "Bed." Tom followed with alacrity.

Harry set down a burning oil lamp on the dresser and lit more candles from it. Tom waited, watching the other man move, as tensely still as a small animal watching a predator. But there was nothing predatory about Harry's smile as he turned back to Tom and shrugged out of the robe. The flickering light caressed Harry's broad shoulders and sculpted thighs and highlighted hair that was black as the void outside the port. Tom was so aroused he felt paralyzed, trapped, wounded. Those feelings melted away as Harry began unbuttoning his shirt, brushing his lips over Tom's collarbone.

Tom took his lover's hands, stopping their progress down his shirt. He had to ask. "Harry, are you sure?" Harry looked puzzled by the question.

"Of course I'm sure. Would I be standing here naked, taking your clothes off, if I weren't sure?" Another heart-melting, groin-hardening smile. "I want this. I want you."

Tom slithered out of his clothes at warp speed and got Harry in his arms again. Never had that first touch of skin on skin, with nothing in between, felt so good. He heard Harry groan with the same intensity as himself, felt the other man's hands sweeping eagerly over his shoulders and back and buttocks just as his own hands were doing to Harry, kissed him even harder and more roughly and got the same in response. Yes. They didn't so much get on the bed as fall on it, still kissing, and rolled back and forth until they had to come up for air.

Tom found himself lying on top of Harry, cradled between his lover's thighs and in his arms. Harry's normally sleek hair was a mess, his face flushed, his eyes smoldering with something Tom had never seen in them, and Harry was starting to get hard again. Tom got his arms under Harry and ground his hips against him, so aroused he felt like fire instead of flesh. "Let me fuck you, Harry," he whispered.

Whatever was smoldering in Harry's eyes burst into flame. "Oh, yes," he whispered back. Tom kissed him again to hide the relief he felt at Harry's consent. He'd been afraid Harry would say no, afraid for a long time that Harry would turn him down because they were both men, or because--

The arch of Harry's body against his interrupted that thought. Time to turn his attention to Harry.

Tom bent his head once again to that delectable mouth. Part of his mind, refusing to be completely occupied, searched his memory for other kisses, other lovers, and systematically compared each one to Harry. They all lost by a wide margin. No one else was as kissable. No one else kissed so deliciously.

Intoxicated, Tom began working his way down, caressing jaw and throat and shoulders with his lips. Harry made small distinct noises of pleasure that blossomed into moans when Tom thumbed one nipple. Tom drew back and studied Harry's face, then looked at the dark nubs that were already stiff with desire. He brushed his thumb again and watched the pleasure wash over Harry's face. Oh, he liked this. Good. Tom used thumb and forefinger, gently, watching and gauging, and then flicked his tongue over the other nipple. Harry arched sensuously, his cock responding visibly.

Tom stayed right there, playing with those exquisitely sensitive nipples, until Harry was begging for more. "Tom, please, please--"

Tom stopped him with yet another kiss. "Do you have any lubricant, Harry?"

"In the--in the nightstand." Harry gestured feebly.

Tom slithered over his lover, grinning wickedly as this provoked more moans. Two hours ago he would have bet rations Harry didn't even know what lubricant was for. Sliding back down, he got between Harry's thighs, taking the opportunity to taste them as he wet his fingers. Harry quivered as Tom licked at him and then found that tender opening again with a slender finger that had no trouble gaining entrance. "Oh, yes. Yes, more." Tom raised his head and watched that beautiful face dissolve as he pressed deeper, caressing in tight circles. Harry was tight, but there was no tension, no resistance. Harry breathed deep, and Tom breathed with him and went for two fingers.

Harry whimpered. "Oh, Tom. . ." He drew his knees up, opening himself fully. "More. . ." Tom refused to hurry but kept stroking, carefully, until Harry was moving with him, his noises coming in rhythm. Finally Tom gave him three fingers, hard and fast, and the answering motion and cry told him his lover was more than ready to be fucked.

Harry started to turn over, but Tom stopped him. "No," he said hoarsely. "I want to see you. I want you to see me. I need to."

He wanted to be gentle. He tried to be gentle. Harry was still pretty tight, and the last thing Tom wanted to do was hurt him, even the least bit, in any way. But he was still moving into his lover, slowly and carefully, when Harry's arms came around him and Harry rose up, hard, and took him in all the way. Tom dropped his head, shaking all over, so close to coming he didn't know how he was going to hold back. Harry eased him in deeper yet, moaning softly, and then Tom pulled back and thrust in again, harder, and Harry hissed, "Yes," and Tom groaned, "Oh, gods, Harry," and then there was no holding back, he was fucking Harry, mercilessly, coming too soon but it was good, so good, and the best thing about it was seeing his own wildness,his own hunger, matched in Harry's eyes, and Harry held him, hard, close, as Tom, hearing himself make an indescribable roaring sound, let go completely and emptied himself into his lover.

Tom lay on top of Harry, gasping noisily, overwhelmed not just by his orgasm but by the smells of semen and sweat and desire, the two of them mingling together aromatically. He withdrew by millimeters, moving more carefully than ever, and then collapsed into a boneless heap on the bed, one hand on Harry's chest. Harry took that hand and kissed it, the freckled knuckles and the back and the palm, and rolled over and took Tom into his arms, cuddling him. That, too, felt even better than Tom had imagined.

Presently Tom recovered enough to realize that the galaxy was still spinning and Harry was hard again. He stirred in Harry's arms, noticing for the first time how comfortably they fitted together, but before he could say anything, Harry spoke.

"I have a confession to make."

"Hmm?" Tom managed.

"I didn't really have a headache earlier."

Tom processed this at something less than lightspeed. Presently he raised his head from Harry's shoulder and gave his lover a look of mock outrage."You lied?"

Harry actually blushed. "Okay, I fibbed. I did go to Sandrine's, for about 15 minutes, but I left without saying anything to you." He touched Tom's cheek. "You were already playing pool with Megan and Jenny, and you were flirting so obviously I just couldn't stand to watch."

Tom tried to process this. "So you came back here, and. . ."

"And lit the candles, and called up some music, and was lying on the couch thinking about--well, what we just did, and. . . doing something else. By myself. And then you showed up at my door."

Tom moved away enough to get up on his elbow and look at Harry. "Harry, are you telling me you were thinking about having sex with me while you masturbated?"

Harry blushed again. "Well, yes."

Tom considered this. Reviewed the times he had done the exact same thing. Postulated what would have happened if Harry had walked in on him, casually, under those circumstances. Listed possible reasons for Harry to do what he'd just admitted he'd been doing and dismissed them. Came up with a plan of action.

"Why?" he asked.

Harry waited a long moment before answering. Tom could almost see the wheels turning behind the dark eyes that looked at him so warmly and steadily. "Because I love you," he said at last.

Tom's brain went into a quiet meltdown at this response. In its present, recently overstimulated state, it simply could not process the idea that Harry Kim, whiz kid, perfect ensign, original innocent, had just told Tom Paris, disgraced lieutenant, smart-ass, general fuck-up, that he loved him. He decided he had to have heard Harry wrong.

"You love me?"

Harry nodded, smiling. "Yes. I love you. I'm in love with you."

Tom stroked the other man's cheek, so smooth, brushed his fingers over the full lips. "Harry, this may be the dumbest thing you've ever done."

"Don't even start that," Harry warned, his voice hardening so much that Tom's spine instinctively stiffened. "I'm not gonna lie here and let you beat up on yourself." His expression softened. "I'd much rather fuck you."

Tom's spine relaxed, but another part of him considered stiffening all over again. He did not even think of resisting as Harry pushed him gently back and fitted their mouths together. Strong arms came around him, warm weight settled on his chest, and all his nerves were singing as Harry explored his mouth with the same patient thoroughness that he used on the sensor logs. Tom sank both hands into Harry's hair and moaned freely as the kiss went on and on, slow, hot, tender, and almost frighteningly intimate.

When the kiss ended, Tom had no time to recover before Harry unerringly found that hypersensitive spot on Tom's throat, the one that brought him dangerously close to orgasm without ever getting near his cock. Tom growled as teeth pressed against his skin and a hot tongue went back and forth over that spot, back and forth, until he thought he would scream, and then did.

Smiling, obviously pleased with himself, Harry moved downward, nibbling, licking, and gently biting any likely spot, as if testing Tom's responses, seeing what touch gave the most pleasure in what spot. He found the best places to bite Tom's shoulders, the kissable place on the arch of his collarbone, the exact amount of pressure to use on Tom's nipples. Tom writhed as Harry flicked over his nipples and stroked his cock at the same time, so close to the edge he couldn't even say so, but Harry saw, and backed off. His hand dipped to caress Tom's balls, the hollow behind them, and the curve of his ass.

"Harry, please," Tom gasped. He made to turn over, and Harry let him. Tom settled on his stomach and spread his thighs, opening himself trustfully to Harry as he had not to any other lover in so many years.

Harry prepared Tom at least as carefully as Tom had prepared him, using generous amounts of lube. Tom groaned as strong, tender fingers opened him, filled him, coaxed him to relax. His hips came up off the bed as Harry knowingly rubbed the tiny gland, and he felt the moist tip of Harry's cock against his thigh. "More," he rasped, and three fingers slowly pressed into him, making him twist and groan. "Like that?" Harry asked, not teasing, and Tom thrust back forcefully in response. "What do you think, Har?"

"I think you're ready, love, and I know I am."

He let Harry draw him up onto hands and knees. Harry wanted it this way and so did Tom, though he wasn't sure why. It was all too likely to bring up ugly memories, and yet he wanted it, wanted Harry to take him as completely as possible. He felt Harry ease into him, that gorgeous cock that had filled his mouth now filling his body, filling his soul, and he threw back his head and groaned, the movement rippling down his spine to enclose Harry and draw him deeper.

"Oh, yes," Tom hissed, teeth gritted, as Harry began to move. "That's what I want, lover--that's where I want you, inside me-- oh, gods--" Harry was rocking faster now, repeating Tom's name, and Tom's fierce trembling was turning into shaking as Harry's increasing force pushed him. How could he have not realized it, how much he wanted this and needed it, and not just the sex but Harry? Harry, whose lips were searing his back, whose hair was brushing his skin in whispers of fire, whose hands were holding him steady as they fucked, harder still and faster, Harry who loved him. Loved him.

Harry sped up still more, groaning something incomprehensible, and his hand left Tom's hip and curled around his cock, gripping. Crying out, Tom moved between the hand that enclosed him and the cock that filled him, hearing Harry gasp, groan, and finally scream, impossible sound, and Tom exploded, Harry with him, fused by ecstasy for one endless, mindless moment.

They lay there for a long time, Harry still on Tom and in him, arms locked around him, lips on Tom's neck. As soon as Tom stirred, Harry withdrew, very gently, rolling over onto his back and gathering Tom against him as before. Tom draped himself over Harry's chest and side and leg and reached up, with effort, to touch his lover's face. "Harry?"

"Hmmm?"

"How do you know if you're in love?"

"You just know, Tom. You just know."

"Then I know."

Harry's embrace tightened, but he said nothing. The last satiated phrase of the anthem echoed in Tom's mind as he drifted off to sleep.

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End