Affliction

It had been the season, the man would tell himself afterwards, though he wouldn't believe it. But he wasn't meant to, not really. It was only practice for when he would have to lie about it later. That he had been lonely would not be called into question, and that it was an especially bitter December had been well documented. More homeless had died in the streets during that winter than in the last three combined, and all for want of warmth, of shelter. How long had Jean-Luc been without warmth? Without shelter? Should he have lain down to die among the indigent when there were strong arms opening to enfold him?

He knew what his family would say, and his neighbors, but for once he wasn't asking them. For once the only opinion that mattered to Jean-Luc was his own, and he was going to listen carefully enough to hear it, however meekly it might present itself at first. It was strange to think of any part of himself as meek. He was gentle, certainly, and calm, but years of responsibility and discipline had hardened him, and he had had no one to temper his rigidity. No, that wasn't quite true. He had allowed no one to temper his rigidity.

Jean-Luc had known of Q's affection for as long as he had known of what he had come to think of as Q's affliction, which was many years by that December. He had learned of both on a soggy, liquor sloshed evening when their friendship was young, when they, in fact, were young, and still full of optimism for the fulfillment and satisfaction promised to obedient children and dutiful young adults. At first, Jean-Luc had played the part of bewildered but stubbornly broadminded friend, finding it easy to mimic the tolerant disgust he had seen occasionally in the schoolyard and more often at home. However, it eventually became apparent to Jean-Luc (and possibly to Q, though his friend was possessed of far too much grace to mention it outright) that Q's affliction was shared between them.

So many nights had been wasted on that charade, the man couldn't help thinking, although he found it a dirty thought and tried to put it away. It all seemed dirty to him, stained, while at the same time feeling like the most immaculate thing he could readily call to memory. What could be dirty about it? They hadn't fallen into bed one night only to find themselves falling further the next morning, onto the altar, with a helpless, soft-skulled new life nipping at their heels. They weren't neglecting the attention or affection they had promised someone else to frolic together in illicit rendezvous. Jean-Luc had been married to his work, and Q was always and forever married to himself, and their one illicit rendezvous had been fraught with grief and twenty years in the making.

More dirty thoughts haunted the man as he lay alone, knees knocking with cold, under an army blanket in his unforgiving twin bed. He had told himself for years that his insistence on using army surplus clothes, utensils, and linens was rooted in a sense of nostalgia or even pride, and he maintained publicly that he was simply used to a Spartan lifestyle that could not be accommodated by more civilian articles. Now, though, in the dark, he had to wonder whether he hadn't simply been punishing himself with deprivation -- deprivation of comfort, deprivation of convenience, deprivation of individuality. And what he had allowed Q to do to him, what he had wanted Q to do to him that night, last night, mere hours before the birth of the new year… had that been punishment, too? Or had it been an eleventh hour reprieve? He had difficulty imagining a healthy man lying passively on his side as his friend huddled behind him, forced close by the narrowness of a bed built for one and drawn closer by… what, exactly? Love? He was sure that his father loved his uncle who was not really his uncle, but certainly such a thing had never happened, could never happen, should never happen between them. Desire? Was it possible? It had felt like desire, pressing against him, pressing inside of him, while he did nothing to stop it. No, he was being too generous with himself. He had not been passive; he had whispered pleas in the dark, or, more specifically, he had whispered, "Please… Please… Please." He had raised his knee and opened himself to Q. He had wished for the nerve to turn around and lie on his back, to watch it all with dilated pupils in the near-black.

Would a healthy man do that? And yet, he had had every opportunity to be healthy. His parents were kind and understanding, and their high expectations had only spurred him to achieve his high potential. School had not been as easy for him as it had seemed for some others, but perhaps that was because he hadn't let it be easy. He had refused to let his classmates by with the insensitivity and irresponsibility so characteristic of young people in his experience, and he had found that if he spoke to one of them calmly, on an individual basis, he could often get his point across. It had been in school that his natural leadership qualities had begun to show themselves. Perhaps if he had not felt so responsible for others, if he had not put himself into the unenviable position of role model for so many, he would have allowed himself more freedom to pursue his… questionable interests. As it was, with the exception of emergencies, he had made a career out of taking only those actions he could thoroughly justify, of which loving another man had never been one. If a young subordinate came to him for his advice on the subject, the best he had ever been able to offer was an understanding, "I really don't know." But his career was over now, and had been for several years. Maybe it was time to unshoulder the old requirement of outward justification. He had to admit that if any part of him had truly objected, the event that now made him feel alternately sullied and euphoric would never have occurred.

When Q had come to him with nowhere to go and no other friend on whom to impose himself, Jean-Luc might have offered his bed and gone to curl up in the armchair across the room. Instead, he had told himself that the exceptional cold made sharing the bed with anyone preferable to sleeping alone, and his friend had not objected. Why should he? Jean-Luc thought bitterly. Q had been waiting, always waiting, for his friend to find the courage to let go of the pretense of difference between them. As much as he resisted accepting himself, Jean-Luc had long ago accepted Q for who and what he was, and he found that it was strangely easy to see things from his point of view where the two of them were concerned. When they had been young, he had watched Q dally here and there, always with only mild enthusiasm. Even when his friend bubbled and gushed about a particularly promising new companion, it was always with the mutual understanding that whatever he may enjoy about the company of another was overshadowed by his enjoyment of the opportunity to share it with Jean-Luc. As he thought about it, the old soldier increasingly regarded Q's respect for his self-imposed boundaries as unfortunate. How might he have responded to a more overt advance? How might his life have been different? Would he be happy now, warm and content, or would he have merely exchanged old regrets for new ones? But no way of looking at the situation could make any of it Q's fault. Q had given him exactly what he had wanted but had never had the heart to ask for -- acceptance. Jean-Luc could only hope that the deep acceptance he was now sure he had always felt for Q had been communicated as clearly.

What if it hadn't? It would be regretful but not the end. It wasn't over, *they* weren't over. He still had time to say something, to do something. Any time now, the latch on his door would shift and Q would ease himself into the dimly lit one-room apartment with his arms full of things, Q's things. It could be an old friend taking brief refuge while he set the affairs of his life in order, or it could be something more. For the first time, Jean-Luc truly understood how much of the decision lay on his own shoulders. He knew now that there was nothing glib or transitory about Q's affection for him; that much had been plain from the moment he came, in desperate silence, into his friend's loving hand, full of him and surrounded entirely by his warm acceptance. Jean-Luc wasn't sure whether he could say it out loud, wasn't sure whether he could pronounce his own affection the way most lovers might expect, but maybe Q would understand. Q had done nothing but understand, in all their years together. It seemed obscene to expect still more from him, but if it were the only way it would have to do. Jean-Luc hoped that in time he would be able to pay his friend what recompense was fitting for a lifetime of understanding and sacrifice.

The door clicked, squeaked, and then Q's form was outlined in the sickly light from the hall for a moment before it closed again.

"Jean-Luc? Are you awake?" There was a swish and a thump as Q laid his burdens in the far corner.

"I'm here." Jean-Luc watched as Q's gaze wandered blinkingly until his eyes became accustomed to the near darkness. He wondered if his suddenly shallow breathing was as audible as it seemed to him, but if Q noticed he gave no sign.

"Are you cold, Jean-Luc?" Understand, Jean-Luc thought. Please, if there is a God, Q, understand just once more. Q neared the bed on heavy, quiet feet.

"Yes." Jean-Luc closed his eyes and didn't breathe again until he felt the mattress shift with the weight of Q sliding into bed beside him. A strong arm slid across his chest and drew him in as though it were a familiar, natural thing to do, and somehow it was.

"Better?" Frozen with fear but melting by the moment, Jean-Luc pressed his face into his friend's neck.

"Yes, Q. Yes."