Symphony for Stars and Planets, Part 2
“I told you we had things in common,” Kirk gloats later.
“Hmm,” Spock says, and takes his rook. “Check.”
“Damn.” Kirk sighs. “All right, all right, I get the point.”
He reveals himself to be an excellent chess player, though, enough of a challenge that Spock really does want to continue playing with him.
But it turns out to be impossible to avoid talking to someone when you’re in the same room with them, which certainly makes hating Kirk indiscriminately that much more difficult. Spock finds himself learning too much about his partner to truly do that. He reluctantly allows discussion, then gets drawn in. He finds himself following up eagerly on things Kirk told him in the halls, which he’s held back from doing because that would be giving in. Whereas now, it's only polite.
(He avoids the thought that he gave in long ago, and merely persisted with the dislike because he was stubborn.)
“See?” Kirk says after a few weeks, settling back into his chair and smirking. “I’m not so bad.”
Spock rolls his eyes. “You are tolerable,” he admits, folding up the chessboard.
Kirk mimics a cheering crowd and pumps his fist in the air, and Spock tries not to smile.
-
(4)
It’s very much a downhill slope from there.
They become a little group of sorts, against the odds--him, Nyota, Sulu, Chekov, McCoy, Kirk, and Scotty. It begins with occasional dinners after rehearsal and progresses to eating together almost every night, then hanging out practically whenever they can. There’s something incredibly, strangely easy about it, like slipping into a place that was meant for him. He gets along with the others in a way he’s only ever been able to do with Nyota, and it's comfortable and smooth.
He gets along especially with Kirk. He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him by this point, but somehow it does: being friends with Kirk is as easy as breathing. For all their differences, they fit together like--he breaks off that thought before it can become dangerous, flushing a little. They fit together like good friends ought to. They make an excellent team, and he can read Kirk in an unconscious way he thought it took years to learn to do. They can finish each other’s sentences and predict each other's actions. They spend most of their free time together, and it feels right. He only persists in calling Kirk “Kirk” as a joke, now, and Kirk grins every time he hears it.
And yet. And yet, he thinks, pressing his lips together tightly. And yet in the course of becoming friends, his fascination with and attraction to Kirk has bloomed into something else altogether. He suspected it might happen, of course, but he hoped he would be able to keep himself controlled enough to stop it.
No such luck. Jim Kirk makes him sing, body and soul.
Spock avoids putting a name to it and shoves it further down in himself. He knows more than anything that he can’t acknowledge it now, not when it threatens their close friendship and other things. He shouldn’t even be thinking of it at all, but at least if he is thinking of it, he can keep it to himself.
He spends more time practicing than ever before, slipping into that space in his mind where everything blurs together and becomes simple to handle. Music has always been like a kind of meditation to him; with his hand on his violin, his apprehension melts away, so he hides himself among the notes as best he can and tries not to think of Kirk very much.
-
Nyota confronts him about it at one of the bar crawls she and their little crew have taken to dragging him on. He thinks he’s being subtle, watching Kirk crowd into the space of some blonde against the bar of the third place, but apparently not, because within moments, she appears to raise her eyebrows at him.
“Hello, Nyota,” he tries.
“Don’t give me that! You’ve been staring at him all night. Do you like him?” she demands, blunt as ever.
He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. The weird yellow light of the bar is reflected in it, making a shadow world in the water, and he wishes for a moment he could escape there, away from these questions he knows will lead to dangerous territory. “Who?” he asks, throat dry.
“Boys,” Nyota mutters, elbowing his drink away so she can stand directly before him, unbalancing him. “Kirk, Spock. Do you like him?”
Spock's heartbeat kicks up. “He’s a better companion than I would have expected. He’s quite good at chess,” he offers, avoiding her eyes and hoping desperately she won’t push it.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it, you irritating--seriously. Do you like him?” She pushes a hand lightly against his chest.
The bar is too loud, he thinks. He can barely hear himself breathe. He waits a beat too long to say anything, then stays silent because he’s certain it won’t do him any good.
He’s right. Understanding washes over her face. “You do like him,” she says, and it’s so, so soft. Soft enough to break hearts.
He shrugs, and wishes he hadn’t come tonight. He should have spent his time practicing instead.
“Okay, you like him; have you noticed he’s been flirting with you like crazy?” she asks, in that special concerned you’re-my-best-friend-but-you’re-a-bit-slow tone of hers.
He shrugs again, drops his eyes from her face. “He’s--a tool,” he mutters, stomach aching. “You said so yourself.” That’s not the reason he won’t make an advance, but it will serve for now, he thinks.
She shakes her head and sees right through him. “Yeah, okay, he is,” she says, sighing and tossing a glance over her shoulder at Kirk. “But I was kinda maybe wrong about him. He’s been pretty damn nice since we started hanging out, you have to admit. And he’s funny, and really smart, too, and--not malicious.” She laughs a little. “So he’s a tool, but he’s kind of our tool.”
She turns back to him and pierces him with a glare. “And you like him. So why don’t you make a move?” she says.
He closes his eyes against the barrage of lights and listens for a few moments to the frantic rhythm of his heart. Unbidden, memories come to him, and when he opens his eyes to escape them, she's standing there, arms crossed and eyes expectant.
“You know why,” he says finally, gritting his teeth and squeezing his glass till he feels it might break. “Dammit, Nyota. You know.”
She’s quiet for a blessed moment, then takes his chin in her delicate hands, smoothing her fingertips lightly over his jaw while the bass thumps in the background.
“Your dad’s not here, Spock,” she says, brown eyes huge and gentle. She strokes the side of his face with the back of her warm hand. “You can live a little, sweetie," she whispers. "You can go on a date with him if you want to--no one’s going to stop you. It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
He swallows over the lump in his throat and shakes his head, because he doesn’t know what to say.
His father would be so angry, if he did, so disappointed. He can still remember exactly how cold Sarek’s eyes felt when he confessed, sliding over Spock in the half-dark of the living room. Closed-off and icy, too furious for words--
Which of course Spock understands; truly, he does. It goes against Sarek’s expectations and desires, that Spock’s like this. It hurts Spock, yes, but he understands. His father is, in many ways, right to be disappointed in his son, he supposes. And Spock doesn’t mind living the rest of his days alone to avoid being even more of a disappointment, if possible.
It’s no hardship. He has the best friend he could ever have in Nyota, and requires nothing more. Music is the only partner he truly needs, the only thing that will ever understand him as fully as he understands himself. It's only logical.
But Nyota’s never felt that way about it, of course. She wants more for him.
Dear, darling Nyota. He’s not sure he’ll ever understand what he did to deserve her. She figured the whole mess out before he did, and has been with him every step of the way since that night he stood at the end of her bed, fingers paralyzed on the buttons of his shirt. She’d just taken one look at his face and pulled her bra back on, sudden understanding and sadness flashing in her eyes, but no anger.
They’d spent the night in that bed, but not the way he’d planned. She’d stroked his hair while he lay curled over her lap, shaking, into the small hours of the morning. She’d said the same things then, too; it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with you.
He knows, objectively, that she is right. It’s an aspect of his biology that he has no control over, after all. It’s not as if he chose to be the opposite of what his father wants. But the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier. And it certainly doesn’t make his attraction to--to James T. Kirk, of all people--it doesn’t make that easier at all.
No. His father’s been hurt enough already, by his mother’s death and Spock. There’s certainly no need to take it further by flaunting it in his face, is there? To disappoint his father again, for Jim Kirk’s idle, careless flirtations, would be nothing less than foolishness. He feels the certainty of it like a cold hard pit in his stomach. He swallows against it.
“He’s not serious about it,” he finds himself saying. “He’s like that with everyone, Nyota, and I couldn’t risk--not unless I was sure he wouldn’t break my heart.”
He immediately wishes he could take the words back. He would rather have worded it any other way; what a disgustingly humiliating thing to say. God, this whole thing is just--so fucked up. He rarely swears, but this is an occasion that calls for it.
He feels Nyota’s arms come up around him, and he goes willingly, dropping his face into her neck. He squeezes his eyes shut and the world's reduced to sounds, safe and dark, far away from golden boys and their devastating smiles.
“I think he might mean it," she whispers into his hair after long moments. "I really do. And he’d be good for you." A pause. “You’d be good for each other.”
He says nothing, just keeps his eyes shut tight and pulls her closer.
-
He leaves the bar after that, though it’s only eleven. He heads straight home to his dark room, and doesn’t bother turning on the lights. He collapses on the bed and tries to catalogue his thoughts, pushing his sluggish brain. Order, he knows; facts and certainties don’t betray you. Facts and certainties don’t often laugh with you and make your heart stumble in your chest. If he can organize himself, this won't be quite as terrifying.
But if he's going by facts and certainties, it’s no use denying it to himself on any level any longer, is it? he thinks bleakly. Because it’s a fact, and a certainty: he’s attracted to Jim Kirk, and more than just sexually. He’s mentally and emotionally attracted to Jim Kirk, his intelligent, funny, and surprisingly deep friend.
He laughs humorlessly as he remembers his conviction several weeks ago that Kirk was nothing but a shallow, manipulative bastard who used his natural charisma to exploit others. Kirk and exploitation do not belong in the same sentence, he now knows. Kirk has the charm, to be sure, but also a deep, unfailing affection for most of humanity that leaves him incapable of true malice. He’ll tease and joke and walk the line, but when a thing’s important to you, he respects it. No, Kirk is not cruel. He's compassionate and exhilarating in a way not many people are. And challenging: he enjoys drawing Spock into conversations of complex philosophy, which are exciting and enjoyable even if the two of them disagree. Or perhaps because they do. Spock is comfortable fighting with Kirk, because he knows somehow that the bond he and Kirk have goes beyond petty arguments.
Being with Kirk is so easy. Kirk makes him happy, just by existing, and he can’t imagine ending their friendship after this is all over. The very thought tightens his breath into a thick coil of unhappiness under his ribs.
He frowns. If he were more certain about things like this, he’d say he’d fallen in love with Jim Kirk.
He pauses, considers. Swallows, and reels a little in the face of epiphany. Well. That’s--that's hideously inconvenient.
But being in love or as close to as he's ever been changes nothing, he decides after a moment. What else is there to do but what he's been doing? He’ll put it to the side like always. Wind it up inside him and hold it apart from himself. He can’t allow it to interfere with the music, or their friendship, after all. If he gets any indication that Kirk means it as more--but that’s highly unlikely to happen, so there’s no point in thinking of it, is there? All he has to do is keep it to himself and everything will be fine. Yes.
He presses his palms to his face and closes his eyes and doesn’t know what to think at all. This is like a whirlwind and it’s knocked him off his feet; he’s left stumbling in its wake without logic or reason, left only with the feeling that a star has exploded in his chest.
He rolls off the bed and pulls his violin out of its case. Some things only music can fix.
-
“So,” Kirk says a few days later, “you and Uhura. How long’s that been going on?”
Spock almost drops his pawn. “Excuse me?” he asks, smoothly taking Kirk’s bishop instead.
“Fuck,” Kirk mutters, glaring at the board. “Damn you. I said, you and Uhura? How long’s that been going on? You two make a cute couple.” He cups his chin in his hand and scowls at the pieces. He’s been distracted these last few days, and Spock hasn’t been showing any mercy. He’s currently down to one knight, a rook, one lonely pawn, and his king and queen.
“We’ve been friends since high school, if that’s what you mean,” Spock says, examining the board with studious concentration. There are seven ways Kirk could win, if he played carefully.
“No, that’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Kirk mutters, reaching out to hold onto his knight but not yet making a move. “Hmm. I meant, how long have you been dating?”
Here’s another instance where his aversion to lying will do him a disservice, Spock thinks with a mental sigh. Kirk's sure to question him further, now. “We’re not dating,” he says.
Kirk looks up, blinking in surprise. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“But the other night, in the bar, I saw--” he frowns. “Why aren’t you dating?”
Spock shrugs and glances back at the table, resisting the strong urge to toy with a pawn. “We tried. We weren’t suited to each other,” he says instead.
Kirk reels back a bit, and peers closely at Spock’s face, confusion written in every line of his body. Spock looks back at him with false calm, hoping his expression gives nothing away. So far it’s been surprisingly easy to pretend he feels nothing more than friendship for Kirk. He supposes he must have been doing it unconsciously for quite a while now. But it's like holding his breath: it gets harder and harder the longer he keeps it up.
“Are you going to make your move?” he asks to cover, nodding at the chess pieces.
“Oh! Oh. Yeah,” Kirk says, dragging his eyes back to the board.
He reaches for the knight again, then tilts his head to look up at Spock sideways. There’s an emotion in his eyes Spock hasn’t seen before, which he can’t quite place. It sets his nerves thrumming with confusion and some horrible misplaced thread of hope. “Kirk?” he asks quietly. “Is something wrong? You seem--distracted,” he adds, managing to keep his voice even.
“You’re coming to that party tonight, right?” Kirk demands, ignoring Spock’s question.
“I--hadn’t planned on it, I must admit. I do not know Gary Mitchell very well,” Spock says, blinking.
“No, you’re coming,” Kirk says firmly. “You’re coming. You have to come.”
Spock swallows. Kirk is oddly focused, and having all that energy directed at him is more than slightly intoxicating, even with Kirk discussing such mundane things. “Well, I suppose I could,” he replies, a bit helplessly.
And Kirk grins, wide and bright. “Awesome. I’ll see you there, then. Don’t leave before finding me, okay? Good.” He places his knight with a flourish. “And there. See what you can do with that, Vulcan.”
Hearing Nyota’s joking endearment from his mouth is almost too much to bear. Spock bites his lip and concentrates his entire being on countering Kirk’s attack, and wants things he knows he shouldn't.
-
The first thing he notices is that the party is very loud. Mitchell seems to have invited half the city, and they’re all shoved into his room and spilling out into the hallway, dancing to some bizarre combination of Vivaldi and techno. Spock hesitates at the fringe, but Nyota tugs him forward with a quelling look. “You said he would be waiting for you,” she reminds him, and he nods and follows her into the knot of people at the doorway.
Inside the crowd is no less prevalent; after fifteen minutes of standing at the wall with Nyota with no sign of Kirk, feeling caged in, he goes off to find a cup of punch, which he nurses sitting in a lone chair he finds while Nyota dances with Scotty and Sulu.
“Spock! There you are! I’ve been looking for you!” comes a sudden voice from his left.
Spock looks up and finds Kirk standing next to him, wearing a golden-yellow shirt that by all rights should look horrible on him. Naturally it only serves to make him look more handsome. Spock swallows and immediately regrets coming.
“Hello,” he offers, quietly. “Big party. A little insane, I must say.”
“Yeah, Mitchell’s parties are always pretty crazy,” Kirk says. He taps Spock’s shin with the toe of his shoe. “You having a good time?”
Spock shrugs. It’s been a long day, and he’s tired and in no mood to be hiding his affection for Kirk. It takes too much out of him to not smile at his friend like he wants to; he almost wants to leave rather than test himself like this.
“Wanna get out of here?” Kirk asks, interrupting his train of thought.
Spock frowns up at him. “But you said--didn't you want to come?”
“Yeah, but I wanna show you something more.”
“But--“
“Come on, come with me,” Kirk urges, tugging at his hand. His eyes are wide, and the icy blue of them goes straight to Spock’s stomach like a jolt of lightning. His hand is very warm against Spock’s. “Please, man. I swear, it’ll only take ten minutes. You can come back right after, if you wanna. Just come with me for a little bit, I wanna show you something.”
You can live a little, says Nyota in his mind.
Heart fluttering, Spock forces himself upwards, feeling more terrified than he ever has in his entire life. “All right,” he says.
And Kirk’s face--there are no other words for it; Kirk’s face lights up. Grinning hugely, he pulls Spock along behind him, through the throng of people until they’re through the door and into the hallway.
“Where are we going?” Spock asks, with a slight tremble he knows he will deny till death.
“It’s a surprise,” Kirk says, grinning back over his shoulder. He doesn’t let go of Spock’s hand, but grips it lightly in his own as he leads Spock down the hallway, until they’re near the single practice rooms. Spock is--confused, at the very least. Confused, and hot, and a million other things. Kirk’s skin feels electric against his, and his heart, he feels, must be beating loud enough that the world can hear it and use it for a metronome.
Kirk stops suddenly at a door and opens it, one-handed. He pulls Spock inside and closes it behind them, then flips on the light. Spock’s eyebrows go up before he can check himself.
“This is a piano room,” he observes. It’s also very small, as practice rooms tend to be. There is only enough space for the piano and one chair.
“Yep,” Kirk says, dragging him further forward. He lets go of Spock’s hand and pushes lightly at his shoulders until Spock sits in the chair, then whirls around and pulls out the piano bench. Spock’s stomach churns in confusion. As far as he knows, Kirk does not play the piano, so what is he doing?
“I don’t understand--” he begins.
“Shh,” Kirk tells him, turning back to smile. “Just listen, okay?”
Spock frowns, and nods.
Kirk turns back to the piano and lays his fingers lightly over the keys. A calm expression settles over his face, and without warning, he begins to play, eyes closed.
Spock watches and listens, and is blown away.
The piece Kirk has selected is soft and sweet, trickling down over the higher octaves and lingering on low, mellow notes. It flows through the room, building and falling in waves, and Kirk treats the music so tenderly that Spock finds himself holding his breath, transfixed. Kirk always puts the whole of himself into his music, but Spock’s never--Spock’s never seen him play something like this, trailing his fingertips over the keys with a lover’s gentleness. He’s glowing with it.
It makes Spock’s blood race, and he wants things he knows he shouldn’t: Kirk’s hands caressing Spock's skin with the same single-minded adoration he is showing the piano. Spock can’t look away, imagining it almost against his will and trying to keep his breath. He grips his knees tightly, heart beating in time with the music, and just listens.
Eventually, Kirk stops. He lets his hands rest for a moment as the sound fades from the room, then turns to Spock and smiles a small, private smile, the likes of which Spock has never seen on his face before. He’s reminded of how exactly how close he and Kirk are sitting, and he finds his mouth has gone very dry.
“I didn’t know you played the piano,” he says quietly, to break the weighted silence.
Kirk’s smile widens, and he ducks his head, shrugging a little. “Not really something I advertise,” he says. “I’m not really that good, compared to everyone here, anyway.”
Spock shakes his head, still shocked. “You’re very good,” he counters, truthfully. “What--the piece is beautiful; I’ve never heard it before. What’s it called, and who is the composer?”
Kirk grins. “Thanks. I haven’t decided on a name yet; whaddya think of ‘Spock’s Song’?”
Spock’s heart stutters in his chest, and he blinks back in confusion. Surely the world has turned too hard on its axis; the ground has leapt from under him. This can’t be real. “You--you--” he tries.
Kirk’s lips quirk in a smile, and he turns until he’s facing Spock on the bench, legs crossed. “Yeah. About that,” he says. “I’m just gonna come right out and say this: I kinda like you. Maybe a lot. Actually, we can scratch the kinda and the maybe and just say: I like you, a whole damn lot. And I’d really like it if you’d go on a date with me. A few dates, actually, and if you haven’t cut my balls off by then--” he grins again, hopeful-- “I’d kinda like to be your boyfriend.
“And I promise I’ll leave you alone, if you say no,” he assures. “Or we can keep playing chess. Whatever you want, man. Look, I don’t wanna screw things up, here, I just thought I’d take a chance after--well, after what you said earlier. Figured maybe that was the reason you and Uhura never worked out, after all. So, uh, whaddya say?”
Spock can’t find the words to reply. He is struck absolutely dumb, for once in his life. Kirk--who could have anyone, any person in the whole entire world--Kirk is here, in this room, offering himself and his music to Spock. He wrote a song for him, unless Spock’s misunderstood. That’s--momentous.
His father be damned, Spock thinks feverishly; he won’t get two chances at this.
“Yes,” he manages, finally, pressing his shaking hands against his legs.
Kirk grins at that, eyes sparkling. “Really?” he asks.
Spock nods. The room seems too small to contain what he’s feeling, but he wishes it were even smaller, that they were pressed even closer together, skin to skin and atom to atom. God, Kirk wants him. If there’s a headier feeling than that, he’s never known it. He bites his lip over a smile.
“Awesome,” Kirk says, still grinning. “Awesome. God, am I ever glad I don’t have to lie and blame this on alcohol.” He leans forward and peers up at Spock through his lashes. “Can I kiss you?” he asks--straight out, blunt and brazen as he always is. But Spock can see the sweetness in his eyes, and it’s dizzying.
“I’ve never--” he starts, swallowing. “Not with--”
Kirk smiles. “We can go slow, then,” he promises, reaching out to slide a warm hand around Spock’s neck and pulls him forward until their lips meet.
Spock and Nyota kissed, before, but this is nothing like that. Nyota was soft and lovely; Kirk is all angles, and his hand is very firm on Spock’s neck. He holds nothing back in his kiss, sliding his tongue into Spock’s mouth and just going for it like it’s the most important thing in the world.
And it’s slow and hot and wet and unbelievably good. Spock finds himself gripping Kirk’s side tightly through his shirt as Kirk angles his jaw and presses deeper into his mouth. His entire body is suffused with warmth, and everything's bright and charged and utterly perfect. He has the very irrational thought that he never, ever wants to leave this room. Wants it to be just like this, forever, curled up so closely that no one can tell where Kirk ends and Spock begins.
Eventually they have to breathe, though. Kirk pulls back just a little, resting his forehead against Spock’s so their shallow breaths mingle. Kirk sighs, pressing one last light kiss to the corner of Spock’s mouth. Spock can feel the puff of Kirk’s breath on his own lips, and it sends shivers all through him.
“Was that okay for you?" Kirk whispers. "‘Cause it was pretty fucking great on my side." It’s intimate--soft and muffled, like they really are the only two people in the universe. Spock can't help but press a little closer.
“Yes, Kirk,” he breathes out.
“Jim,” Kirk corrects, leaning back a little further and smoothing his thumb under Spock’s ear with an affectionate grin. “First-name-basis now, doncha think?”
“Jim, then,” Spock murmurs back. He can’t stop himself from smiling so hard it hurts his cheeks.
Kirk--Jim--Jim beams back at him, and moves forward on the bench until they’re pressed even closer. His fingers tangle in the hair at the back of Spock’s neck, and he brings his other hand up to trace the ever-present violin bruise under Spock’s jaw, feather-light.
“Jesus, you drive me crazy. You know that?” he says, blue eyes reverent. “You’re something else. Special," he says, mouth lingering over the word. "You really are.”
Spock doesn’t have words to reply, so he simply presses a hand to Jim’s face and leans in to kiss him again, happiness enough for a thousand symphonies welling through him.
-
It’s unbelievable how smooth they sound by the end of the week. Pike can’t get over it; he raves on about how he’s never worked with a group this with each other before. “It’s like magic,” he’ll tell them, smiling the proudest smile they’ve ever seen him wear. “I don’t know what it is, but you guys have it.”
Every time he says this, Jim kicks back in his chair and smirks at Spock from all the way across the room. It’s you and me, he’ll mouth, and Spock can never quite stop himself from smiling, amused, before shaking his head. Jim takes credit for an awful lot of things.
(Though admittedly, in this case he may be right. Spock’s still not going to let him have the satisfaction so easily. That would take all the fun out of it.)
fin
“Hmm,” Spock says, and takes his rook. “Check.”
“Damn.” Kirk sighs. “All right, all right, I get the point.”
He reveals himself to be an excellent chess player, though, enough of a challenge that Spock really does want to continue playing with him.
But it turns out to be impossible to avoid talking to someone when you’re in the same room with them, which certainly makes hating Kirk indiscriminately that much more difficult. Spock finds himself learning too much about his partner to truly do that. He reluctantly allows discussion, then gets drawn in. He finds himself following up eagerly on things Kirk told him in the halls, which he’s held back from doing because that would be giving in. Whereas now, it's only polite.
(He avoids the thought that he gave in long ago, and merely persisted with the dislike because he was stubborn.)
“See?” Kirk says after a few weeks, settling back into his chair and smirking. “I’m not so bad.”
Spock rolls his eyes. “You are tolerable,” he admits, folding up the chessboard.
Kirk mimics a cheering crowd and pumps his fist in the air, and Spock tries not to smile.
-
(4)
It’s very much a downhill slope from there.
They become a little group of sorts, against the odds--him, Nyota, Sulu, Chekov, McCoy, Kirk, and Scotty. It begins with occasional dinners after rehearsal and progresses to eating together almost every night, then hanging out practically whenever they can. There’s something incredibly, strangely easy about it, like slipping into a place that was meant for him. He gets along with the others in a way he’s only ever been able to do with Nyota, and it's comfortable and smooth.
He gets along especially with Kirk. He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him by this point, but somehow it does: being friends with Kirk is as easy as breathing. For all their differences, they fit together like--he breaks off that thought before it can become dangerous, flushing a little. They fit together like good friends ought to. They make an excellent team, and he can read Kirk in an unconscious way he thought it took years to learn to do. They can finish each other’s sentences and predict each other's actions. They spend most of their free time together, and it feels right. He only persists in calling Kirk “Kirk” as a joke, now, and Kirk grins every time he hears it.
And yet. And yet, he thinks, pressing his lips together tightly. And yet in the course of becoming friends, his fascination with and attraction to Kirk has bloomed into something else altogether. He suspected it might happen, of course, but he hoped he would be able to keep himself controlled enough to stop it.
No such luck. Jim Kirk makes him sing, body and soul.
Spock avoids putting a name to it and shoves it further down in himself. He knows more than anything that he can’t acknowledge it now, not when it threatens their close friendship and other things. He shouldn’t even be thinking of it at all, but at least if he is thinking of it, he can keep it to himself.
He spends more time practicing than ever before, slipping into that space in his mind where everything blurs together and becomes simple to handle. Music has always been like a kind of meditation to him; with his hand on his violin, his apprehension melts away, so he hides himself among the notes as best he can and tries not to think of Kirk very much.
-
Nyota confronts him about it at one of the bar crawls she and their little crew have taken to dragging him on. He thinks he’s being subtle, watching Kirk crowd into the space of some blonde against the bar of the third place, but apparently not, because within moments, she appears to raise her eyebrows at him.
“Hello, Nyota,” he tries.
“Don’t give me that! You’ve been staring at him all night. Do you like him?” she demands, blunt as ever.
He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. The weird yellow light of the bar is reflected in it, making a shadow world in the water, and he wishes for a moment he could escape there, away from these questions he knows will lead to dangerous territory. “Who?” he asks, throat dry.
“Boys,” Nyota mutters, elbowing his drink away so she can stand directly before him, unbalancing him. “Kirk, Spock. Do you like him?”
Spock's heartbeat kicks up. “He’s a better companion than I would have expected. He’s quite good at chess,” he offers, avoiding her eyes and hoping desperately she won’t push it.
“That’s not what I meant and you know it, you irritating--seriously. Do you like him?” She pushes a hand lightly against his chest.
The bar is too loud, he thinks. He can barely hear himself breathe. He waits a beat too long to say anything, then stays silent because he’s certain it won’t do him any good.
He’s right. Understanding washes over her face. “You do like him,” she says, and it’s so, so soft. Soft enough to break hearts.
He shrugs, and wishes he hadn’t come tonight. He should have spent his time practicing instead.
“Okay, you like him; have you noticed he’s been flirting with you like crazy?” she asks, in that special concerned you’re-my-best-friend-but-you’re-a-bit-slow tone of hers.
He shrugs again, drops his eyes from her face. “He’s--a tool,” he mutters, stomach aching. “You said so yourself.” That’s not the reason he won’t make an advance, but it will serve for now, he thinks.
She shakes her head and sees right through him. “Yeah, okay, he is,” she says, sighing and tossing a glance over her shoulder at Kirk. “But I was kinda maybe wrong about him. He’s been pretty damn nice since we started hanging out, you have to admit. And he’s funny, and really smart, too, and--not malicious.” She laughs a little. “So he’s a tool, but he’s kind of our tool.”
She turns back to him and pierces him with a glare. “And you like him. So why don’t you make a move?” she says.
He closes his eyes against the barrage of lights and listens for a few moments to the frantic rhythm of his heart. Unbidden, memories come to him, and when he opens his eyes to escape them, she's standing there, arms crossed and eyes expectant.
“You know why,” he says finally, gritting his teeth and squeezing his glass till he feels it might break. “Dammit, Nyota. You know.”
She’s quiet for a blessed moment, then takes his chin in her delicate hands, smoothing her fingertips lightly over his jaw while the bass thumps in the background.
“Your dad’s not here, Spock,” she says, brown eyes huge and gentle. She strokes the side of his face with the back of her warm hand. “You can live a little, sweetie," she whispers. "You can go on a date with him if you want to--no one’s going to stop you. It’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
He swallows over the lump in his throat and shakes his head, because he doesn’t know what to say.
His father would be so angry, if he did, so disappointed. He can still remember exactly how cold Sarek’s eyes felt when he confessed, sliding over Spock in the half-dark of the living room. Closed-off and icy, too furious for words--
Which of course Spock understands; truly, he does. It goes against Sarek’s expectations and desires, that Spock’s like this. It hurts Spock, yes, but he understands. His father is, in many ways, right to be disappointed in his son, he supposes. And Spock doesn’t mind living the rest of his days alone to avoid being even more of a disappointment, if possible.
It’s no hardship. He has the best friend he could ever have in Nyota, and requires nothing more. Music is the only partner he truly needs, the only thing that will ever understand him as fully as he understands himself. It's only logical.
But Nyota’s never felt that way about it, of course. She wants more for him.
Dear, darling Nyota. He’s not sure he’ll ever understand what he did to deserve her. She figured the whole mess out before he did, and has been with him every step of the way since that night he stood at the end of her bed, fingers paralyzed on the buttons of his shirt. She’d just taken one look at his face and pulled her bra back on, sudden understanding and sadness flashing in her eyes, but no anger.
They’d spent the night in that bed, but not the way he’d planned. She’d stroked his hair while he lay curled over her lap, shaking, into the small hours of the morning. She’d said the same things then, too; it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with you.
He knows, objectively, that she is right. It’s an aspect of his biology that he has no control over, after all. It’s not as if he chose to be the opposite of what his father wants. But the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier. And it certainly doesn’t make his attraction to--to James T. Kirk, of all people--it doesn’t make that easier at all.
No. His father’s been hurt enough already, by his mother’s death and Spock. There’s certainly no need to take it further by flaunting it in his face, is there? To disappoint his father again, for Jim Kirk’s idle, careless flirtations, would be nothing less than foolishness. He feels the certainty of it like a cold hard pit in his stomach. He swallows against it.
“He’s not serious about it,” he finds himself saying. “He’s like that with everyone, Nyota, and I couldn’t risk--not unless I was sure he wouldn’t break my heart.”
He immediately wishes he could take the words back. He would rather have worded it any other way; what a disgustingly humiliating thing to say. God, this whole thing is just--so fucked up. He rarely swears, but this is an occasion that calls for it.
He feels Nyota’s arms come up around him, and he goes willingly, dropping his face into her neck. He squeezes his eyes shut and the world's reduced to sounds, safe and dark, far away from golden boys and their devastating smiles.
“I think he might mean it," she whispers into his hair after long moments. "I really do. And he’d be good for you." A pause. “You’d be good for each other.”
He says nothing, just keeps his eyes shut tight and pulls her closer.
-
He leaves the bar after that, though it’s only eleven. He heads straight home to his dark room, and doesn’t bother turning on the lights. He collapses on the bed and tries to catalogue his thoughts, pushing his sluggish brain. Order, he knows; facts and certainties don’t betray you. Facts and certainties don’t often laugh with you and make your heart stumble in your chest. If he can organize himself, this won't be quite as terrifying.
But if he's going by facts and certainties, it’s no use denying it to himself on any level any longer, is it? he thinks bleakly. Because it’s a fact, and a certainty: he’s attracted to Jim Kirk, and more than just sexually. He’s mentally and emotionally attracted to Jim Kirk, his intelligent, funny, and surprisingly deep friend.
He laughs humorlessly as he remembers his conviction several weeks ago that Kirk was nothing but a shallow, manipulative bastard who used his natural charisma to exploit others. Kirk and exploitation do not belong in the same sentence, he now knows. Kirk has the charm, to be sure, but also a deep, unfailing affection for most of humanity that leaves him incapable of true malice. He’ll tease and joke and walk the line, but when a thing’s important to you, he respects it. No, Kirk is not cruel. He's compassionate and exhilarating in a way not many people are. And challenging: he enjoys drawing Spock into conversations of complex philosophy, which are exciting and enjoyable even if the two of them disagree. Or perhaps because they do. Spock is comfortable fighting with Kirk, because he knows somehow that the bond he and Kirk have goes beyond petty arguments.
Being with Kirk is so easy. Kirk makes him happy, just by existing, and he can’t imagine ending their friendship after this is all over. The very thought tightens his breath into a thick coil of unhappiness under his ribs.
He frowns. If he were more certain about things like this, he’d say he’d fallen in love with Jim Kirk.
He pauses, considers. Swallows, and reels a little in the face of epiphany. Well. That’s--that's hideously inconvenient.
But being in love or as close to as he's ever been changes nothing, he decides after a moment. What else is there to do but what he's been doing? He’ll put it to the side like always. Wind it up inside him and hold it apart from himself. He can’t allow it to interfere with the music, or their friendship, after all. If he gets any indication that Kirk means it as more--but that’s highly unlikely to happen, so there’s no point in thinking of it, is there? All he has to do is keep it to himself and everything will be fine. Yes.
He presses his palms to his face and closes his eyes and doesn’t know what to think at all. This is like a whirlwind and it’s knocked him off his feet; he’s left stumbling in its wake without logic or reason, left only with the feeling that a star has exploded in his chest.
He rolls off the bed and pulls his violin out of its case. Some things only music can fix.
-
“So,” Kirk says a few days later, “you and Uhura. How long’s that been going on?”
Spock almost drops his pawn. “Excuse me?” he asks, smoothly taking Kirk’s bishop instead.
“Fuck,” Kirk mutters, glaring at the board. “Damn you. I said, you and Uhura? How long’s that been going on? You two make a cute couple.” He cups his chin in his hand and scowls at the pieces. He’s been distracted these last few days, and Spock hasn’t been showing any mercy. He’s currently down to one knight, a rook, one lonely pawn, and his king and queen.
“We’ve been friends since high school, if that’s what you mean,” Spock says, examining the board with studious concentration. There are seven ways Kirk could win, if he played carefully.
“No, that’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Kirk mutters, reaching out to hold onto his knight but not yet making a move. “Hmm. I meant, how long have you been dating?”
Here’s another instance where his aversion to lying will do him a disservice, Spock thinks with a mental sigh. Kirk's sure to question him further, now. “We’re not dating,” he says.
Kirk looks up, blinking in surprise. “You’re not?”
“No.”
“But the other night, in the bar, I saw--” he frowns. “Why aren’t you dating?”
Spock shrugs and glances back at the table, resisting the strong urge to toy with a pawn. “We tried. We weren’t suited to each other,” he says instead.
Kirk reels back a bit, and peers closely at Spock’s face, confusion written in every line of his body. Spock looks back at him with false calm, hoping his expression gives nothing away. So far it’s been surprisingly easy to pretend he feels nothing more than friendship for Kirk. He supposes he must have been doing it unconsciously for quite a while now. But it's like holding his breath: it gets harder and harder the longer he keeps it up.
“Are you going to make your move?” he asks to cover, nodding at the chess pieces.
“Oh! Oh. Yeah,” Kirk says, dragging his eyes back to the board.
He reaches for the knight again, then tilts his head to look up at Spock sideways. There’s an emotion in his eyes Spock hasn’t seen before, which he can’t quite place. It sets his nerves thrumming with confusion and some horrible misplaced thread of hope. “Kirk?” he asks quietly. “Is something wrong? You seem--distracted,” he adds, managing to keep his voice even.
“You’re coming to that party tonight, right?” Kirk demands, ignoring Spock’s question.
“I--hadn’t planned on it, I must admit. I do not know Gary Mitchell very well,” Spock says, blinking.
“No, you’re coming,” Kirk says firmly. “You’re coming. You have to come.”
Spock swallows. Kirk is oddly focused, and having all that energy directed at him is more than slightly intoxicating, even with Kirk discussing such mundane things. “Well, I suppose I could,” he replies, a bit helplessly.
And Kirk grins, wide and bright. “Awesome. I’ll see you there, then. Don’t leave before finding me, okay? Good.” He places his knight with a flourish. “And there. See what you can do with that, Vulcan.”
Hearing Nyota’s joking endearment from his mouth is almost too much to bear. Spock bites his lip and concentrates his entire being on countering Kirk’s attack, and wants things he knows he shouldn't.
-
The first thing he notices is that the party is very loud. Mitchell seems to have invited half the city, and they’re all shoved into his room and spilling out into the hallway, dancing to some bizarre combination of Vivaldi and techno. Spock hesitates at the fringe, but Nyota tugs him forward with a quelling look. “You said he would be waiting for you,” she reminds him, and he nods and follows her into the knot of people at the doorway.
Inside the crowd is no less prevalent; after fifteen minutes of standing at the wall with Nyota with no sign of Kirk, feeling caged in, he goes off to find a cup of punch, which he nurses sitting in a lone chair he finds while Nyota dances with Scotty and Sulu.
“Spock! There you are! I’ve been looking for you!” comes a sudden voice from his left.
Spock looks up and finds Kirk standing next to him, wearing a golden-yellow shirt that by all rights should look horrible on him. Naturally it only serves to make him look more handsome. Spock swallows and immediately regrets coming.
“Hello,” he offers, quietly. “Big party. A little insane, I must say.”
“Yeah, Mitchell’s parties are always pretty crazy,” Kirk says. He taps Spock’s shin with the toe of his shoe. “You having a good time?”
Spock shrugs. It’s been a long day, and he’s tired and in no mood to be hiding his affection for Kirk. It takes too much out of him to not smile at his friend like he wants to; he almost wants to leave rather than test himself like this.
“Wanna get out of here?” Kirk asks, interrupting his train of thought.
Spock frowns up at him. “But you said--didn't you want to come?”
“Yeah, but I wanna show you something more.”
“But--“
“Come on, come with me,” Kirk urges, tugging at his hand. His eyes are wide, and the icy blue of them goes straight to Spock’s stomach like a jolt of lightning. His hand is very warm against Spock’s. “Please, man. I swear, it’ll only take ten minutes. You can come back right after, if you wanna. Just come with me for a little bit, I wanna show you something.”
You can live a little, says Nyota in his mind.
Heart fluttering, Spock forces himself upwards, feeling more terrified than he ever has in his entire life. “All right,” he says.
And Kirk’s face--there are no other words for it; Kirk’s face lights up. Grinning hugely, he pulls Spock along behind him, through the throng of people until they’re through the door and into the hallway.
“Where are we going?” Spock asks, with a slight tremble he knows he will deny till death.
“It’s a surprise,” Kirk says, grinning back over his shoulder. He doesn’t let go of Spock’s hand, but grips it lightly in his own as he leads Spock down the hallway, until they’re near the single practice rooms. Spock is--confused, at the very least. Confused, and hot, and a million other things. Kirk’s skin feels electric against his, and his heart, he feels, must be beating loud enough that the world can hear it and use it for a metronome.
Kirk stops suddenly at a door and opens it, one-handed. He pulls Spock inside and closes it behind them, then flips on the light. Spock’s eyebrows go up before he can check himself.
“This is a piano room,” he observes. It’s also very small, as practice rooms tend to be. There is only enough space for the piano and one chair.
“Yep,” Kirk says, dragging him further forward. He lets go of Spock’s hand and pushes lightly at his shoulders until Spock sits in the chair, then whirls around and pulls out the piano bench. Spock’s stomach churns in confusion. As far as he knows, Kirk does not play the piano, so what is he doing?
“I don’t understand--” he begins.
“Shh,” Kirk tells him, turning back to smile. “Just listen, okay?”
Spock frowns, and nods.
Kirk turns back to the piano and lays his fingers lightly over the keys. A calm expression settles over his face, and without warning, he begins to play, eyes closed.
Spock watches and listens, and is blown away.
The piece Kirk has selected is soft and sweet, trickling down over the higher octaves and lingering on low, mellow notes. It flows through the room, building and falling in waves, and Kirk treats the music so tenderly that Spock finds himself holding his breath, transfixed. Kirk always puts the whole of himself into his music, but Spock’s never--Spock’s never seen him play something like this, trailing his fingertips over the keys with a lover’s gentleness. He’s glowing with it.
It makes Spock’s blood race, and he wants things he knows he shouldn’t: Kirk’s hands caressing Spock's skin with the same single-minded adoration he is showing the piano. Spock can’t look away, imagining it almost against his will and trying to keep his breath. He grips his knees tightly, heart beating in time with the music, and just listens.
Eventually, Kirk stops. He lets his hands rest for a moment as the sound fades from the room, then turns to Spock and smiles a small, private smile, the likes of which Spock has never seen on his face before. He’s reminded of how exactly how close he and Kirk are sitting, and he finds his mouth has gone very dry.
“I didn’t know you played the piano,” he says quietly, to break the weighted silence.
Kirk’s smile widens, and he ducks his head, shrugging a little. “Not really something I advertise,” he says. “I’m not really that good, compared to everyone here, anyway.”
Spock shakes his head, still shocked. “You’re very good,” he counters, truthfully. “What--the piece is beautiful; I’ve never heard it before. What’s it called, and who is the composer?”
Kirk grins. “Thanks. I haven’t decided on a name yet; whaddya think of ‘Spock’s Song’?”
Spock’s heart stutters in his chest, and he blinks back in confusion. Surely the world has turned too hard on its axis; the ground has leapt from under him. This can’t be real. “You--you--” he tries.
Kirk’s lips quirk in a smile, and he turns until he’s facing Spock on the bench, legs crossed. “Yeah. About that,” he says. “I’m just gonna come right out and say this: I kinda like you. Maybe a lot. Actually, we can scratch the kinda and the maybe and just say: I like you, a whole damn lot. And I’d really like it if you’d go on a date with me. A few dates, actually, and if you haven’t cut my balls off by then--” he grins again, hopeful-- “I’d kinda like to be your boyfriend.
“And I promise I’ll leave you alone, if you say no,” he assures. “Or we can keep playing chess. Whatever you want, man. Look, I don’t wanna screw things up, here, I just thought I’d take a chance after--well, after what you said earlier. Figured maybe that was the reason you and Uhura never worked out, after all. So, uh, whaddya say?”
Spock can’t find the words to reply. He is struck absolutely dumb, for once in his life. Kirk--who could have anyone, any person in the whole entire world--Kirk is here, in this room, offering himself and his music to Spock. He wrote a song for him, unless Spock’s misunderstood. That’s--momentous.
His father be damned, Spock thinks feverishly; he won’t get two chances at this.
“Yes,” he manages, finally, pressing his shaking hands against his legs.
Kirk grins at that, eyes sparkling. “Really?” he asks.
Spock nods. The room seems too small to contain what he’s feeling, but he wishes it were even smaller, that they were pressed even closer together, skin to skin and atom to atom. God, Kirk wants him. If there’s a headier feeling than that, he’s never known it. He bites his lip over a smile.
“Awesome,” Kirk says, still grinning. “Awesome. God, am I ever glad I don’t have to lie and blame this on alcohol.” He leans forward and peers up at Spock through his lashes. “Can I kiss you?” he asks--straight out, blunt and brazen as he always is. But Spock can see the sweetness in his eyes, and it’s dizzying.
“I’ve never--” he starts, swallowing. “Not with--”
Kirk smiles. “We can go slow, then,” he promises, reaching out to slide a warm hand around Spock’s neck and pulls him forward until their lips meet.
Spock and Nyota kissed, before, but this is nothing like that. Nyota was soft and lovely; Kirk is all angles, and his hand is very firm on Spock’s neck. He holds nothing back in his kiss, sliding his tongue into Spock’s mouth and just going for it like it’s the most important thing in the world.
And it’s slow and hot and wet and unbelievably good. Spock finds himself gripping Kirk’s side tightly through his shirt as Kirk angles his jaw and presses deeper into his mouth. His entire body is suffused with warmth, and everything's bright and charged and utterly perfect. He has the very irrational thought that he never, ever wants to leave this room. Wants it to be just like this, forever, curled up so closely that no one can tell where Kirk ends and Spock begins.
Eventually they have to breathe, though. Kirk pulls back just a little, resting his forehead against Spock’s so their shallow breaths mingle. Kirk sighs, pressing one last light kiss to the corner of Spock’s mouth. Spock can feel the puff of Kirk’s breath on his own lips, and it sends shivers all through him.
“Was that okay for you?" Kirk whispers. "‘Cause it was pretty fucking great on my side." It’s intimate--soft and muffled, like they really are the only two people in the universe. Spock can't help but press a little closer.
“Yes, Kirk,” he breathes out.
“Jim,” Kirk corrects, leaning back a little further and smoothing his thumb under Spock’s ear with an affectionate grin. “First-name-basis now, doncha think?”
“Jim, then,” Spock murmurs back. He can’t stop himself from smiling so hard it hurts his cheeks.
Kirk--Jim--Jim beams back at him, and moves forward on the bench until they’re pressed even closer. His fingers tangle in the hair at the back of Spock’s neck, and he brings his other hand up to trace the ever-present violin bruise under Spock’s jaw, feather-light.
“Jesus, you drive me crazy. You know that?” he says, blue eyes reverent. “You’re something else. Special," he says, mouth lingering over the word. "You really are.”
Spock doesn’t have words to reply, so he simply presses a hand to Jim’s face and leans in to kiss him again, happiness enough for a thousand symphonies welling through him.
-
It’s unbelievable how smooth they sound by the end of the week. Pike can’t get over it; he raves on about how he’s never worked with a group this with each other before. “It’s like magic,” he’ll tell them, smiling the proudest smile they’ve ever seen him wear. “I don’t know what it is, but you guys have it.”
Every time he says this, Jim kicks back in his chair and smirks at Spock from all the way across the room. It’s you and me, he’ll mouth, and Spock can never quite stop himself from smiling, amused, before shaking his head. Jim takes credit for an awful lot of things.
(Though admittedly, in this case he may be right. Spock’s still not going to let him have the satisfaction so easily. That would take all the fun out of it.)
fin