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They stand for quite a while, just looking, listening,
the breeze flicking strands of dark hair up to brush
against Dallin’s cheek. Wil is warm against him, loose
and relaxed. It’s… nice. Really nice. Dallin thinks he
probably shouldn’t be thinking about how good Wil feels
against him, how warm, calming, but he can’t seem to
help it. There should be a better word for it than ‘nice’,
but it’s just really, really
nice
. So much so that Dallin is
disappointed when Wil stirs, pulls away a bit and turns.

The disappointment turns to puzzlement when Wil
reaches up, lightly takes hold of Dallin’s shirt and tugs…

turns to astonishment when Wil drags Dallin down.

Kisses him.

It’s warm and soft, but firm, Wil’s mouth gently
insistent. Dallin hesitates for only a second, molding his
mouth to meet it, holding back a small groan with all his
will when Wil’s hand slips to his nape, pulls him in. Deep
and close to imperative. Dallin hears a low hum from
Wil, answers back with a shaky one of his own.

It’s a dream
, Dallin tells himself dazedly.
No harm done, it’s just a dream.

And then it’s over, Wil drawing back, laying a light
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The Aisling Book Two Dream

brush of lips to the corner of Dallin’s mouth as he pulls
away. Dallin has to restrain himself from following after.

His chest has gone tight; breathing is more of a labor
than it should be. Dallin stares down at Wil, blinks a
little. “Why did you do that?” he wheezes.

Wil just smiles. “I wanted to see what it was like.”

Is that all?
Dallin wants to ask, but instead, he says,

“And what was it like?”

Wil grins this time, tells him, “It was nice,” and then,
like the Father before him, he’s gone, leaving Dallin
blinking at empty air.

Empty air and a river that isn’t real and stars that sing
and other worlds inside them and gods and magic and…

It’s a dream. That’s all.

“Nice,” Dallin echoes, laughs a little. He shakes his
head, drags in breath. “Holy fuck,” is all he says.

He had to really think about it to figure out where he was when he opened his eyes. Dark, the faltering gutter of a lamp wicked too low, with the faint damp smell of mold overlaid with antiseptic.

Right. The Temple. Chester.

Not standing by the river. Not kissing Wil.

Kissing Wil.

Dallin scrubbed roughly at his face.

A dream. It was just a dream.

Maybe it really was. How was he supposed to tell the difference anymore? Maybe Wil hadn’t really been there at all. Maybe the whole thing with the Father had been merely Dallin’s buried wish to confirm his own theories, and the whole thing with Wil had been…

Shit, shit,
shit
. What
had
the whole thing with Wil been? What the hell was Dallin doing making Wil an 206

Carole Cummings

erotic player in his apparently too-active imagination?

It had been too long, that was all it was. He thought back, trying to bring to mind the last time anyone had touched him with intent. That night when Corliss had introduced Dallin to her brother at her birthday party, and it hadn’t lasted long after…

Mother’s mercy, had it really been more than a year ago?

Dallin flung an arm over his eyes. Groaned.

Kissing Wil.

“Holy.
Fuck
.”

“You’re awake.”

It was low and sonorous, gravid. Dallin jolted up, almost not even noticing the sharp pinch and flaring burn of the still-healing wound, and pitched his glance to the doorway.

Backlit by the sconced light in the stone passageway, Wil’s lean silhouette slanted against the frame, hair disheveled and loose shirt open. Smudges of low torchlight slipped fingers of gold and carmine through black hair, smoky flame flicking slower than it should over skin pale as the moon, but all Dallin chose to see was eyes. Wil stood there, staring at Dallin for what seemed years, waiting for invitation, maybe, then, when Dallin remained mute, Wil pushed himself away from the door, prowling silently across the small room. He merely looked for a moment, measuring silently, then one leg came up, flung over Dallin’s hips, and Wil was kissing him again, pushing him back into the hard pillow.

It wasn’t a dream this time. The body against his was solid and real.

Reaction shot right through Dallin, and he arched just a little. Groaned when Wil responded by pressing down, shifting, digging his fingers into Dallin’s shoulders.

What the hell are you doing? This isn’t a dream, you
can’t do this.

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

Long fingers slipped into Dallin’s hair, spangling little tingles leaching from them and flushing hot over his skin.

Yeah? Why the hell not?

Without thought, Dallin’s hands came up, slid inside the open shirt, fingers tracing ribs that were well-padded with muscle now, sliding around to track the dip that plunged just below the knobs of the spine. Dragged Wil in tighter.

Wil hummed, pulled back slowly, like he didn’t really want to, and looked down at Dallin through the darkness, breath light and fast. The fitful light spattered one side of his face, gilded its angles. A small, crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth.

“Why did you do that?” Dallin asked.

What a stupid question. What did it matter, really?

This was a man who reached for what he wanted with no compunction or shame, and what he was reaching for right now was Dallin. Did Dallin really want to argue?

Wil’s smile curled wider. “I wanted to see if it was different,” he whispered.

Dallin almost snorted, but then curiosity got the better of him: “And was it?”

“It was nicer without this.” Wil’s fingertips slid over Dallin’s cheek. “You don’t have it over there, y’know.”

Dallin hadn’t known that, but he didn’t pause to worry about it. “No?” was all he said.

Wil shook his head. “No. But this will do.”

Without even a moment’s deliberation, Dallin decided the beard had outlived its dubious usefulness. He smiled, tugged Wil back down.

“I’ll shave it in the morning,” he promised. Pulled Wil in close and kissed him again.

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He’d wanted it. He’d wanted it, so he’d taken it.

Life
. A moment of stillness. Forgetfulness. Pleasure where there was so little. An empty mind—

all heat and motion. Oblivion, however temporary. Un-complicated animal desire.

Except he hadn’t expected the animal to…
purr
. A low, rumbling growl somewhere inside him he’d never known existed, and now that he knew, he wanted to shove the thing back into its shadowed den. And maybe cut its throat.

He hadn’t expected the sweetness. The intimacy. His own failure to back away from either. The refusal to blush at the sounds that had been wrung from him, and the eager asking that wound from his own throat, raspy and demanding. The willingness to allow those wide hands to guide him into an arrangement of bodies and limbs that wouldn’t tear at sutures, and then rock into it all with as close to abandon as he’d ever been.

It wasn’t as profound as when his fingers had been healed—it was the intent behind the intimacy that was different. Real emotion. Authentic caring.
Then
he’d backed away.

You’ve never called me by my name
, he’d said… after.

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The Aisling Book Two Dream

Wil had already been distracted, trying to drag himself from the morass of alien emotions skidding through him, so he’d just let his mouth take the lead:
Would you like
me to?

No one calls me by my first name
. Slow musing in the dark, like it was a revelation.
Even the Tanners call me
Brayden or just lad. Not even Manning.
And then he’d turned, pierced Wil with a weighted stare.
Yes. I’d like
you to
.

It was like boulders on his back, that stare, but Wil had juddered a smile, said it for him,
Dallin
, and grew inexplicably warm and lightheaded at the slow curl of a smile he’d got in return, discomfited by the way the name coiled about his tongue and tripped off it so easily.

Sleeping now, perhaps even waiting for him; Wil stared at—

He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth.

Dallin. His name is Dallin. You can do him that one
courtesy, considering. It’s only a name, after all.

Wil sucked in a low breath that shook just a little, despite him. Just looked.

He really was quite handsome. Features in perfect proportion. Straight nose; strong jaw; kind mouth; dark, intense eyes; wonderfully wide and fit. Anyone who looked at him, regardless of any bias, would have to acknowledge his general attractiveness. The breadth and strength that had been so intimidating once had abruptly turned intoxicating. Sweeter and more generous in the intimate dark than anything Wil had ever experienced, and his experience was hardly limited, and yet the carnal
power
had nearly taken his mind.

He’d asked Wil once what he slept with men for, and Wil had answered truthfully, if not wholly—he’d never slept with anyone for money. Not out of any kind of absurd moral conflict, but because accepting money 210

Carole Cummings

from the wrong person could mean a quick arrest and immediate induction into a workhouse, if one couldn’t pay the fine, so he’d never taken that kind of chance. For survival, though, he’d take any kind of chance, and one night of allowing another to grunt atop him for a while was now and then a fair exchange for not freezing to death. Anyway, it wasn’t as though he didn’t get his own gratification out of it—everyone generally got what they wanted, or at least what they thought they wanted.

Perhaps this had been survival of a different sort. Survival of the soul, though that sounded a bit melodramatic.

Certainly, there had been the physical fascination, but that had barely entered Wil’s consciousness before now.

He hadn’t felt an actual want…
need
until…

His head was starting to pound.
That isn’t a headache;
it’s your brain trying to claw its way through the stupidity.

He tore his eyes from Dallin’s sleeping face, pushed his knuckles into them and pressed hard.

Sorry. I’m a user, didn’t you know? I’ll use you to
make sure I don’t get exiled from my own mind, and I’ll
use you to make myself feel better after having extracted
the promise. Just because you actually care doesn’t mean
anything, doesn’t alter your usefulness; in fact, it rather
enhances it, doesn’t it?

So, why did it set every emotion Wil possessed—and some he hadn’t known he possessed—into some kind of gyrating spasm?

Because you mean to betray him, and you both know
it, and he’s going to let you, and you both know that,
too. And it won’t make him stop caring, and that’s… it’s
like…

Like a chain about his neck, constricting, cutting off breath, making it clench in his chest like a mailed fist wringing the juice from a ripe berry. Sweetness spilling over cruelty, making the ache of it burn bitter and darkly 211

The Aisling Book Two Dream

gentle. Damn it, all he’d wanted was to
forget
for a little while.

Slowly, trying not to jostle or disturb, Wil sat up, peeled himself from out the wide grip. Eased himself from the tangled bedding and limbs, and collected his clothes by the guttering light. Tried not to look down at the sleeping face, tried not to see too much.

Dallin. His name is Dallin.

Wide and tall, and gold and handsome, and yet there was the air of the lonely sort about this strange Guardian who’d made himself more worthy man than Mother’s Soldier. Not lonely in a morose sort of way, or sad-eyed and breathing soulful sighs. The sort who preferred his own company. The sort who chose partners who appealed to his intellect, as well as his nethers.

The sort who needed a shared evening to Mean Something, who would be prudishly offended if offered an empty tryst… the sort who’d be hurt to realize he’d just had one.

If this evening was any hint, Wil judged a little bleakly that Dallin’s last encounter had likely been a while ago—

he’d been so bloody
intense
. He’d likely be horrified to receive an offer of a tup in exchange for a warm spot to sleep. And then he’d give up his warm spot to sleep and hand it to the one who’d offered… then sleep in the rain, if he had to, just to keep another from selling his soul.

Wil expected his cheeks to flame, but they remained cool.

Because you haven’t sold your soul, you bloody stupid
idiot—you’ve gone and given it away. Don’t you know
you need it?

He plunged into the trousers and threw on the shirt.

Still looking and trying not to, still planted to the spot and trying to walk away.

I should have run. I should have taken off that first
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day in the rain.

And now it was too late. Now he was caged in a way he’d never even imagined.

“Damn you,” he whispered unsteadily, trembling a little with things he didn’t understand, didn’t want to know about.

Damn you for making me glad your eyes will be the
last thing I see. Damn you for making me so bloody sorry
for it, too. Damn you for making me wish there could be
more. Damn you for being so sure there could be.

And damn you,
damn you
for showing me what hope
is.

Wil scrubbed at his face, surprised and chagrined that his fingers came away wet.

“Sorry,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure exactly what for, then turned and made his blurry way out of the room.