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A Heartbeat

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A Heartbeat



A heartbeat. Such a complex thing, if you stop to consider it. Most people, he is aware, do not – they know it exists, and leave it at that. The intricacies of biology and all it entails escape them, and they are content.

Intellectually, he knows that the organ is vital for the existence of any living being. That it is the strongest muscle and accomplishes its purpose of circulating blood cells that carry necessary nutrients and oxygen through the arteries and veins in the cells' endless cycle through the body. In the detached clinical processes of his mind the heart is nothing more, nothing less.

These are the observations he is supposed to make, those that are acceptable to him and his people and have been for countless eons. And yet.

Knowing the purpose behind the blood flowing through a form does not detract from the wonder he feels when he glimpses the process at work. Or, to put it more accurately, when he is reminded how its intricacies are evinced in one specific being. He refuses to dwell on this revelation, instead attempting to keep to the clinical processes, bolstering his defenses with logic.

And yet.

For instance, there is the vein located mid-temple, which pulses almost imperceptibly when that person experiences anger. Such as was happening then, when his captain was being confronted by a genocidal maniac who was threatening their people.

He could hear the teeth grinding in that jaw, and yet there was no outward sign that his captain was not in complete control of himself and the situation. Except that single, solitary vein pulsing as it fed the rage – faster than normal, as an adrenaline spike flowed through the conduits, accelerating cerebral function and allowing his captain to outmaneuver their adversary and save the day – again.

And yet.

A head turned to the side, laughing at a comment someone else made. Exposing soft flesh to any who cared to allow their attention to linger there. He most certainly did not, but could not pull his eyes away from the sight of skin laid bare.

The single vein, standing out in stark relief as the muscles were stretched. A slow beat, so much slower than his own heartbeat which had inexplicably sped up at his observation. It was almost lazy, the pace it set – perfectly representing the coiled lion-strength and intellect of the man to which it is an essential function.

And yet.

A fluttering against his skin, as his hand was grasped in another. He could hear the pulse-point on the thumb as it was pressed indelibly into his flesh, a loud claxon that silenced any other sensation as he was treated with a blinding smile.

As soon as his captain was placed back on his feet, his hand was released. He had felt oddly bereft at the loss of that feather-beat against his skin. But his captain was calling him back to duty, and he had no desire but to follow.

And yet.

A tentative touch of lips against his, as through the contact he felt the rush of blood speeding on its journey. Making the lips full, enhancing sensation and clearly signifying arousal.

He could feel the pulse-points in his fingertips, as one hand wrapped around his captain's neck. A thumb brushing just under his hem, whispering promises to the skin that begged for the touch. He was quietly amazed at his captain's daring as he deepened the kiss, his other hand reaching up to tentatively caress that temple, at the vein that is an intricate part of everything he holds dear.

Intellectually, he understands. This heart, the beat that sings to him as his captain sleeps against him, exists for one simple purpose. That the constant pounding flow of blood he believes he can feel through every inch of skin laid against his is not intended as a reminder that his captain is alive, and his.

Knowing, and the wonder that comes at recognizing the beauty of existence when encapsulated in one single man; he has found that these twain are not separate, but irrevocably entwined.