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The setting was Breughel's "The Harvesters", as best as they could reconstruct it in their shared

memory. The noontime sun was high and many of the farmhands were resting in the shade of one of the

trees that dotted the field. Some were sitting on bales eating the packed meals they had brought, or

talking; others simply slept. Those who had already eaten continued their task of cutting down the

golden stalks of wheat that blanketed the hillsides.

Two men stood at the edge of the hill and gazed down across the gently waving sea of grain. At the

base of the hills was a picturesque Flemish town and a few assorted vegetable farms, and beyond

that, the sea. It was a veil of rippling silver silk, shining in the sunlight.

Without taking his eyes off the scene's pure beauty, the man with the wavy, graying hair took the

other man's hand. Their fingers wove together, and they stood still and silent for a while, deeply

enjoying the sensation of the other's warm touch. The more the created scene filled their senses,

the more real the fantasy would become--each, feeding off the other's conjured sights, sounds, and

fragrances. As a delicate wind blew the ocean's salty tang across the wheat fields, each blessed the

Vulcan bond, the telepathic wonder that permitted them this profound contact when corporeal intimacy

was not an option. Current circumstances being what they were--

That did not matter here. This was their self-created world of mutual dreams.

The workers ignored the couple walking hand-in-hand past the rows of stacked wheat. There was no

reason to inject the natural curiosity of true Flemish peasants toward such strangers into the

artificial paradise, and besides, they were all occupied with the crop. Harvesting time was and

always would be a busy time in the sixteenth century, preserved carefully as it was in oils and

loving brushstrokes.

Past the field, they came to a little grove of trees. The steeple of a church just beyond the next

hill was partially obscured by their generously leafy branches. Jim and Spock looked down, and

together they spun a cover of grass for the soil of the grove. It was soft and fluffy, and it looked

very comfortable.

Spock removed a blanket from the folds of his robe, and Jim nodded in agreement. They spread the

blanket across the grass and then sat down on it, the tree branches above them waving in the


Four seconds later, they were all over each other. Jim cupped Spock's face in his hands and pulled

him into a thorough kiss. Spock's dark robe enveloped Jim in its billowing wing as the Vulcan's

embrace pushed him to the ground. The buoyant grass gave under their weight like the softest of


Jim ran his hands over Spock's backside and around his thighs. When his hands slid between them to

fondle tender places, he was surprised by how clearly he could feel the texture of Spock's penis

through the robe. He could feel each individual ridge marking the separation between the soft,

fleshy head and the stiff shaft. When he moved the robe out of the way, he discovered the

reason--beneath the black cloth, Spock wore nothing. Jim's hands roamed ravenously over the

green-tinted skin.

He pulled tightly on Spock's erection. Feeling its firm warmth fill his hand aroused him further, so

that his own penis poked up from his pants and nudged the Vulcan's. Spock dug his hips into Jim's,

causing their organs to rub together with Jim's hand caught haphazardly between them. After riding

there for a few moments, happily squashed between the two grinding erections, it went to work on

Jim's fly so that skin now met skin.

Focusing on each other's eyes, they pressed their bodies together rhythmically. Their mouth crashed

into a kiss as they sensed and encouraged the approach of orgasm. They were completely locked

together when they came.

Their embrace melted a little in the sunlight and Spock rolled off to one side, one hand

affectionately playing with the buoyant hair above Jim's ear. "Was the scenery as ideal for you as

you had hoped?" he whispered softly in his misty baritone.

"Mmm...." Jim sighed wantonly. "So gorgeous... oh, and the wheat fields look nice, too." He sent

Spock a sly grin and rubbed his own relaxing penis languidly. "Reminds me a little bit of where I

grew up, except we didn't have the hills--or the sea."

"I find interesting symbolism in your selection of painting," Spock observed as he adjusted his

robe. "Harvest time in many cultures is a season of decadence and celebration, since food stores are

now plentiful."

"Are you calling me decadent?" Kirk smiled.

"We have just engaged in a very sensual act," Spock reasoned.

"You're right; that's something to celebrate." For a moment, there was a twinge of wistfulness in

Kirk's twinkling eyes. Then it blinked away, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position. "Well,

Spock, what about you? What work of fine art are we off to next? Only, let's not visit Jackson

Pollock this time..."

Spock caught his impish expression and hid it away in his soul for further treasuring. "You are

quite capable of creating Pollock's haphazard splotches on your own," he pointed out, eyeing the

splash of semen on Jim's thigh.

"Touché." Kirk grinned.

"The twentieth-century Dutch artist M. C. Escher, with his lithographs and woodcuts, depicted

imaginary worlds with the illusion of medieval architecture," said Spock. "However, his buildings

could never be built in three-dimensional space. He used the artistic conventions of portraying

three-dimensional structures on two-dimensional paper, but the structures would be impossible to


"And you're suggesting we go into one of them?" Kirk considered this for a moment. "Into one of

these... impossible structures?"

"Since our adventure takes place only within our minds, we have the opportunity to experience these

structures, or whatever approximations of them our subconscious intellects can produce, in our

perceived reality," Spock explained.

"Well, all right," Kirk agreed, "but can you pick one that isn't quite so... unstable?"

"I will send us to 'Waterfall'," Spock told him. "The only contradiction in the structure is that

the water, having fallen, flows up and against the flow of gravity to replenish the waterfall."

"That sounds perfect." Kirk grinned. "Symbolic, in a way."

"It is a positive feedback loop where none should exist."

"Positive feedback has its place, Spock." Kirk rubbed Spock's arm affectionately, reminding him that

their love was one of these places.

The Flemish harvest scene grew blurry and disappeared. The world became black and white, and shadows

made of crosshatch inkstrokes moved with an unnatural moire effect with each change of perspective.

Kirk looked down at the penned lines that made up his arm, turning it sideways to watch the

crosshatch pattern shift. Then he looked at Spock, to steady reality. Where the two-toned world had

bleached Kirk's hair to white, accented only at its waves, Spock's black hair and dark eyes were

shining and brilliant as ever. Even in pen and ink, the man was beautiful.

"Looks like we're sticking with the agricultural theme," Kirk remarked, gesturing towards the

cultivated terraces that covered the steep slopes around him.

"Indeed," agreed Spock, observing, "The plants at the base of the building resemble Terran


"What good is a fantasy world if it isn't--totally--fantastical!" They started to climb the stairs

of the building together, progressing arm-in-arm through the complicated, pueblo-like structure

towards the running water on the roof.

The couple strolled along the water-drain that flowed the wrong way over four right-angled

switchbacks, up and up towards the waterfall at the structure's summit. They took their shoes off,

and let the cool water rush over their feet as they followed its ascending path.

After passing under the first of the two columned towers that peaked the building, Kirk stopped

Spock with a touch to the arm. "We're not going to slide down the waterfall, are we?"

"No, I did not have that in mind."

"We should stop here, then. Look," Kirk pointed, "the waterfall starts under the other tower."

"I agree," said Spock. "Shall we bathe, Jim?"

"I bet it's the perfect temperature," Kirk smirked as he removed his pen-drawn shirt.

Divested of their clothing, they relaxed into the water. The movement felt good against the skin and

the liquid had a faint but pleasant scent. Kirk picked up a natural sponge that had materialized at

his mental summoning and began to slowly but vigorously scrub Spock's back. He used his other hand

to pour water over the scrubbed places after the sponge had moved on.

Drawing close to Spock's head as he continued his scrubbing lower down, Kirk placed a tiny kiss on

the side of Spock's neck. Spock responded with a peaceful sigh and a flicker of his eyelids. "The

sensation of your touch is most pleasant."

"Every day, a new part of my body starts to miss you," Kirk murmured. "Earlier today, I think it was

my shoulders. They missed your fingerprints."

Spock turned around in the water and placed both his hands heavily on Kirk's naked shoulders. Water

dripped from his fingers and ran down Kirk's chest. Spock did not speak; he only gazed into Kirk's

eyes, knowing that their meld was doing all the communicating for him.

"We can't recreate smell," Kirk observed.

"No, it appears not."

"You smell so good, you used to smell like..." Kirk paused.

Spock stopped his line of thought by kissing him on the lips. With the sponge still in his hand,

Kirk put his arms around Spock and pulled him closer so that their bodies met. They were stuck

together by their wet skin, and were soon partially submerged with their legs wrapped around each


"I'm sorry, Spock," Kirk whispered into the pointed ear he was chewing. "I'm so glad we still have

this. I can't imagine what I'd do without it--without *you.*"

"I love you, James Kirk," was the reply.

Far away from second-millenium Holland, on a planet the Terrans called Romulus, the physical form of

an old man called Spock cha'Sarek sat in meditation in his chamber. Outside, his pupils and

followers, the young Romulans who believed in his call for unification with their peaceful Vulcan

cousins, guarded him as they always guarded him during these mysterious moments of solitary journey.

No one was to disturb him when he withdrew into this chamber--they would make sure of that, as they

had done for the many months since he had first arrived.

And even farther away from that, in an energy ribbon called the Nexus, the physical form of James T.

Kirk was sitting in a similar state of solitary repose. He was sitting on the grass, leaning against

a tree with his eyes closed, as he had done countless other times during his seventy-five years of

separation from his bondmate. Decades had passed since he had been ripped from Spock's side, but

thanks to the telepathic strength of their Vulcan bond, they had never, would not accept this

separation with passive grief.

In the joined fantasy, atop Escher's tower, they climaxed against each other once again as the water

flowed over them up, up, and over the impossible waterfall.

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