****

The wind was blowing.

They half-tumbled into the small stone cottage, collapsing against the door to force it closed behind them. The storm did not want to let it shut. They were laughing and out of breath, Will's fine straight hair tangled and falling in his face, Bran's coarser, white, and sticking straight out from his head in all directions. Their knees and the palms of their hands were smudged and streaked with dirt.

Once the door gave in at last and clicked solidly closed, Bran turned to slip closed the latch while Will drew the curtains. "Should we turn the lights on?"

Bran shook his head, his lower lip caught between his teeth, pensive. "Just the lamp by the door, it's always on even when we're gone, so if anybody passes they won't think it's strange. Just figure we're still out."

Will only nodded. They turned, faced each other in the light of the dim lamp and the fading dusk that filtered through the curtains. Bran ran long fingers self-consciously through his hair, trying unsuccessfully to undo the effect of the wild wind. Will scuffed awkwardly at the heel of one shoe with the toe of the other.

"So-"

"Now what-"

They began at once, and both broke off, laughing a little uneasily-pausing, waiting for the silent space between them to grow too long, for the other to break it. This single evening was the product of half a summer's planning, of innocent manipulation and secret conversations, the culmination of weeks' worth of hidden kisses and quick brushes of fingertips across lips, wrists, faces, when no-one else was watching.

The first kiss had come unexpectedly, while still seeming like the most natural thing in the world. It was evening, when shadows stretched long across the fields and even the dark, vivid violet was fading into black in the sky. They had walked through the valley to the dark, rocky bulk of Craig yr Aderyn only so they could spend most of the day alone, something they both wanted, for all they had yet to explore the depth of their attachment to each other. That morning, they had looked at each other, and seen only the face of a childhood friend.

When Bran looked at Will, he still saw, sometimes, a quiet, pensive boy of twelve, who thought too much and used words that were too big for him, who wasn't afraid of him, and who kept coming back to spend the summers with him long after the novelty of visiting his aunt and uncle's farm had faded. And now he was taller than Bran, and a little bit broader; the roundness had finally melted from his face, but his smile was still transformingly bright, and his grey eyes still too serious and too often wistful. Bran had never asked why.

When Will looked at Bran, he could still see, if he didn't force himself not to, the son of Arthur Pendragon, sword held high, slicing the silver blossom from the Midsummer Tree with a smooth decisive stroke. He saw nobility and grace encased in smooth, colourless skin, lionheart-gold hidden behind dark glasses. Rex quondam rexque futurus. Bran was wiry, willowy, like a bough of mountain ash that would bend and sway in the wind but would be stripped of all its leaves and skin before it would break. His eyes looked clear but empty. Will wished sometimes with all his heart and mind and power that Bran would remember what they had done, but he never did.

By the time they began the trek back down to David Evans' land, they had run out of inconsequential things to say. Bran had turned seventeen a few weeks before. He had saved up enough money to buy a rather beaten-down jalopy, and he and Rhys had towed it home, but he didn't really know how to fix it and make it drivable. Will didn't either, though he thought his brother Robin might be able to offer up some pointers if they rang him in the morning and asked. He had sent a story to a magazine and gotten his first official rejection letter. Bran was playing harp in an eisteddfod at the end of the summer, if Will could extend his visit another two weeks he could go along. His father would be coming along to watch; something he hardly ever did. Will had a sudden craving for gingersnaps, and wondered what he could do to bribe his aunt into making some. Bran was sure a pebble had found its way into his shoe, but he couldn't manage to get rid of it.

The moon was a slim silver crescent, Venus hanging bright above the horizon as the sun dipped beneath it, the faint glitterings of other stars barely beginning to peek through the curtain of the sky. Will knew all their names, and he tilted his head up so he could point out Arcturus and Deneb and Altair. Cassiopeia was visible already, and the brightest part of Ursa Major, and soon-when the sun had finished setting and fading into the crooked black line of the hills-the head of the Scorpion would begin to extend. He found the hazy spot where the sparkling crown of the Corona Borealis would soon appear. He'd stopped talking about astronomy when Bran's fingers brushed against his throat.

"Sorry-I'm going on a bit, aren't I?"

The other boy's voice was lower than usual, husky, tight. "Not really. I like watching you, actually. You get so involved."

Bran had not been following Will's gaze as he pointed out the stars. He'd been watching Will. He was increasingly aware of the way the shadows fell across his friend's face, the fading light glinting from the irises of his eyes. He didn't think Will himself realised how mournful he looked, his face turned up to the darkening expanse of sky, or the wistfulness that crept into his voice (baritone, smooth and low, so different from the sparkling soprano he remembered from boyhood). He was sure that the melancholy catch in his words as he found the place where the Corona Borealis would soon be visible was not only unplanned but unrealised; he knew (though he could not remember having ever been told) that Will had an attachment to that set of stars, and it made something twist and wrench inside him. He reached up to touch Will's skin because he had to, to remind the other boy that he was there, to dispel some of that longing and perhaps to claim a fraction of it for his own.

"We could stay and watch them come out, if you want, and you can tell me all about them." Bran did not care about stars, not the way Will did, but as the dusk was rapidly fading and their path was bringing them closer to home, he realised he was not ready for the day to end. He didn't want to see his father's perpetual sadness, however much love it concealed; he was not yet ready to return to a world of work hard, down to earth, three times a week chapel and a cup of black tea every evening. There was something about Will, and the approaching darkness and the shadows stretching across the valley and the freshness of the night breeze, that made time irrelevant. It could have been the twelfth century as easily as the twentieth, or maybe time was not really moving at all, and the two boys were caught in a moment of eternal twilight. The thought was oddly reassuring.

"Okay." Will grinned at him as he spread his jacket out on the grass and tossed himself back onto it. "I'm not ready to go back yet either, really." There was no indication he had noticed Bran's preoccupation with him, or that the feathery brush against his throat had bothered him-but as Bran stretched out on the cool grass next to him, he noticed Will, eyes fixed upward on the sky, resting his fingers against the place he had touched.

As the last vestiges of sunset drained from the sky, Will introduced each star as it appeared. Bran did not know where he had learned it or why, only that the sharing of it seemed to please him. They followed the line of the Dipper to where dim Polaris was not yet visible, and from there to the long twisting tail of Draco and boxy Hercules.

"There's the one that makes me think of you," Will said softly, pointing almost straight overhead. "Lyra. The harp...well lyre really, but it's close."

Bran squinted upward, trying to follow his gaze. "Where?"

"See Vega? The really bright one, there? It's like a little box with that in the corner."

"What, there?" Will's extended arm swayed, long and shadowed, and Bran tried to follow the motion of it. "All I see is the cross you pointed out earlier."

"Mm. Cygnus. Higher up than that. Here-" Will's fingers encircled Bran's wrist and he scooted closer, directing the pale boy's hand toward the centre of the sky. His skin was cool. The tips of his fingers were smooth in places where Bran's had thickened to callouses from years of harp-strings, and his index finger was almost tender when it brushed the back of Bran's hand to point upward. "You were looking at Deneb...go up to the next bright one...see?"

Bran made a small noise of acknowledgement deep in his throat. His insides had twisted again, in the moment that Will had touched him, and he wondered briefly, if he claimed to never be able to see Vega at all, if maybe Will would not let go.

"Now right next to it," Will continued, and his voice was softer, subdued, as if the casual touch had affected him as well, "there are four stars...not as bright...right there, see?"

"Yes," Bran whispered. Lyra was faint, and did not really resemble either a lyre or a harp, but still it seemed nice to have a constellation of one's own, that one could look up on any summer night and locate. He envisioned, for a moment, standing on the hill behind his home, catching sight of /his/ set of stars, and that perhaps Will, far away at Hunter's Lane, would be glancing up at that same second and thinking of him.

"Well there then," Will said softly, echoing his thoughts. "It's yours, now." He dropped their hands back onto the grass, but did not let go of Bran's wrist.

They lay there in silence. For all he professed interest in the glorious expanse of the night sky, Will's universe had narrowed to the cool, smooth feel of Bran's hand, the even rhythm of the other boy's heartbeat pulsing beneath his fingers, the vague hiss of his breath. It heartened him, that Bran had not pulled that hand away, but he was at a loss for what further to do with this information. His entire consciousness focused on the place where their skin touched, the way Bran's palm was warmer than his own, the thick skin padding his fingertips, his close-clipped nails. He liked to slide his finger into the dip of Bran's knuckles, the way the pale skin rolled beneath the pressure of his touch. He wondered what it would feel like to slip those slender musician's fingers into his mouth. It was not the first time he had considered this, merely the first time while the object of his occasional fantasies was within arm's reach. He wondered if he dared.

But Bran was not saying anything, nor had he reclaimed his hand, even after Will had unconsciously begun his slow caresses. The Old One realised, in a daring, subversive moment, that he had within him the means to repair the situation even if it fell apart. It was a thought he was immediately ashamed of. His powers were not to be used, in these days after the suppression of the Dark, save in great need.

//But,// that seditious little voice inside him mused, //if you did-just this once-who would know?//

It was this that made him bold. However ethical he claimed-and wanted-to be, the seed had been planted, and the thought that he could press on and, if things went badly, make Bran forget as much of the incident as necessary had given birth to more enticing, if irritatingly vague, images about the allure of white skin and pale lips that would not be expelled from his mind's eye. And maybe it would not come to that anyway. And still Bran had not pulled his hand away.

Will lifted it to his lips, tracing the dip and curve of those long, pale fingers with his tongue.

Bran's breath caught, his only audible reaction to this bold move. Beneath Will's lips his hand trembled a little, but he did not not reclaim it. Narrowed golden eyes fixed on the juncture of joined fingers, the rest of his body motionless, still.

His fingers tasted like salt. This sensation grew weaker, traveling down the back of his hand, to the slim white wrist that was all but flavourless. There was a thin scrape along the outside of his hand, and there he was metallic with the faint pearls of dried blood. Will's mouth tickled his palm then, followed the length of his life line with his tongue, swirled in the soft fold of skin between his thumb and forefinger. He let his teeth graze over that crease, and Bran let out a whimper.

"Will...I can't breathe." It was not a literal truth, nor was it what he had meant to say. He felt the weight of Will's grey eyes on him, the damp trails left by the explorations of his tongue. His heart was pounding frantically somewhere in the vicinity of his throat, and its throbbing in his ears was probably the reason he was feeling so dizzy. Or perhaps not. Will's head jerked up in surprise, his grip on Bran's hand faltering, but realised quickly that his companion was not in any real danger of suffocation. Metaphor, then-so he offered his own breath in return. Their faces drew together, slowly but inexorably, til Will's chapped lips hesitantly met Bran's damp ones-there they hovered, tentative, barely touching. It was not a very first kiss for either of them, but it felt like it was. There was no headlong dive into one another's mouths, not even experimental probing of curious tongues. They merely waited.

It was Bran, this time, who pressed forward finally, who parted his lips, who let his tongue trail questingly around the circumference of Will's mouth. He propped himself up on one bony elbow, his hand still enfolded in Will's; the other reached to brush haltingly at the fine brown hair falling in Will's face. It was soft, untangled, so devastatingly easy to run his hands through. So he did. He let it flow between his fingers, treasured the way wisps of it would cling to his palm even after he let go. He felt Will's lips begin moving slowly against his own. Beneath his tongue, he could feel the indent of teeth in Will's lower lip, where he was constantly nibbling at it when he felt awkward. He tasted like wintergreen lip-balm and smelled like grass after a hard spring rain.

Will moaned, his breath ghosting warm against Bran's face, and pressed deeper into the kiss. He cupped the pale cheek, stroking his thumb along the line of his jaw, where he could feel Bran's heartbeat racing unevenly. His world had narrowed even further, his universe consistent only of the places where their bodies touched. Bran's tongue was hot, nimble, delving with ever-increasing confidence into his mouth. Strong, slender fingers slid from Will's hair and gripped his shoulder, pressing him back into the grass and his rumpled jacket.

Spica had just climbed above the horizon, dangling below crimson Arcturus. The fainter stars were becoming visible at last, tiny pinpricks of white and gold. As recently as half an hour ago, Will would have found them magnificent; but now they wavered in his vision. He was preoccupied now with those same colours in another form; the white of Bran's hair and skin against his own, the tawny gold of his fluttering eyes. A slender shadow dark against the heavens, he lay awkwardly atop Will, who wrapped both arms around his back, frustrated by the barrier of his thick jumper and fumbling for the hem to hunt for more smooth skin beneath. He heard a gasp as he found the knobby ridge of Bran's spine and stroked lightly up the length of it, tore his mouth free to press his hungry kisses into the curve of that smooth white neck, slip up to toy with the lobe of one ear. The salty-sweet taste of his skin was stronger there, and the muted herbal scent of shampoo. Bran's teeth grazed his collarbone, and he whimpered into the skin beneath his lips. For the first time in years, he thought it might be all right after all, that he might somehow survive the long years ahead as watchman of the Light, that he may not have the Pendragon next to him but he might still yet have Bran. And that maybe that would be enough.

The Herdsman was nearly in the centre of the sky and Lyra was dipping low when they pulled apart at last, panting, breathless, clambering unsteadily to their feet, brushing broken blades of grass from their clothes and hair.

"I feel like I ought to say something meaningful, now," Bran admitted softly, his voice low and gravelly and little more than a whisper. "But I don't know what."

Will was possessed of a good deal of knowledge, vast and varied. He knew the secrets held within the depths of the sea, he had been fire and air and soil, he recalled with clarity the antediluvian dawning of the earth and the screaming birth of humankind. He had touched minds and worked magic, he knew Words of Power that could reshape the world. Despite all this, he had no easy answer for the raw, hungry surge of emotion brought on by the sight of Bran Davies, lined in pallid moonlight, the bruise of Will's kisses darkening his lips, picking grass out of his hair.

"I meant it," he said, lest there be any doubt, any shadows of regret lingering between them.

Bran looked up sharply, the corners of his mouth twisting upward, dark and mischievous. "Of course you did." He touched his fingers to his lips, as if to capture the essence of those kisses. "It was only a matter of time, really."

And so it had begun, smooth and simple and natural, as if it had always been what Fate or God or the High Magic had intended. At supper they traded secretive smiles over plates full of rarebit and dumplings, and if they were feeling especially brave, Bran would rub his ankle up the side of Will's calf under the table. They found excuses to be close together. Sometimes Bran would smudge a sheet of music and ask for Will's help in deciphering the notes, or Will would try to read something in Welsh and need Bran's help in translating, and they would lean over it together, their heads almost touching, breath warm and intoxicating against each other's skin, their fingers brushing together as they turned pages. They offered themselves up for any chore or errand that would take them away from their extended, adoptive families, simply for the opportunity to steal secret, eager kisses as soon as they were alone. Once the initial awkwardness had been breached they had no more need for hesitation, and they fumbled with one another's bodies confident that they both had full permission to do so. Will especially liked Bran's neck, the way his shoulders angled to meet it, the way it dipped into a hollow at the base of his ear. Bran liked Will's hands-'scholar hands,' he called them, both smoother and a little larger than his own, his fingernails ragged because Will always seemed to need to be chewing or nibbling on /something/--if not his nails, then his lower lip, or the cap of a pen, or a particularly thick blade of grass. He liked to tease about how Will's mouth always needed to be busy, because it was usually a good excuse for Will to find some part of Bran's body to occupy it with.

They had to make excuses a few times. Nobody thought it was strange that they spent so much time together; their friendship had been exclusive in its way since they were children. Bran had, in time, overcome the exile of his childhood and made a few friends of his own-Megan Preston-Jones who served coffee to tourists in Aberdyfi on weekends, Ifan Williams whose mother directed the church choir, Cai Morgan who had moved from Cardiff to live with his grandmother at fourteen, after his parents had split up-but always he had kept a certain distance from them. There was no-one in his hometown who had ever infiltrated Bran's life and heart, not the way one odd, plain, pensive English boy had done ever since he appeared on his mountain at the ripe old age of eleven. But still Bran's colourless skin marked easily, and early on when they were careless, it was difficult to hide the evidence of Will's attentions. His lips were always bruised now, though fortunately his father never looked too closely at that-he had asked, though, about the deep brown-purple mark on the side of Bran's neck, in that place Will liked best to kiss. Bran had looked surprised at the discovery of it, and said they had gone to see Cai Morgan who had been trying to teach him the fiddle. There were other, similar marks, all down his chest and in the folded crook of his arm, the inside of his wrist, the angle of one hip. Will was careful after that, to keep his kisses and clutchings to parts of Bran's body he could cover up easily. It was not nearly so difficult for Will, whose skin was already tanned dark and roughened by the wind, and another small bruise or patch of colour could slip by unnoticed.

They tested boundaries, and broke them down by degrees. In the beginning it was heady enough to meld eager mouths, to let fingers stray over hair, cheek, collarbone, to slip barely under the hem of a shirt. When that was no longer enough, tongues followed the fingers' path, circled a nipple, delved into the slight hollow of a navel, tickled the slight rise of ribs. They alternated in who would be the brave one, who would urge their fumblings into the next act. It was Will whose hands first ventured below Bran's hips, fumbling with the buttons of his worn grey jeans til there was not the least possibility of taking the other boy unawares, and yet it was all Bran could do to lie on his back and remember to breathe until Will had achieved his goal, wrapped fingers loosely about his cock, toying-run along the length of him, brush against the head, circle, squeeze. Will's grey eyes flickered from the work of his own hands to Bran's face, gauging, testing, seeking out the most minute shifts of touch that made Bran's eyes roll back in his head, that heightened his breath and evoked the plaintive moan that echoed in Will's skull for days afterward. (Neither of them slept that night, but replayed over and over each remembered sensation. Will's aunt asked him if he was feeling all right at breakfast the next morning; Bran missed breakfast entirely.) It was the first time he ever made Bran come, and the very idea that he /could/, that he /had/, made him giddy. It took a concerted and deliberate effort not to break into a wide, goofy smile that would have made anyone who saw it immediately suspicious.

He managed to keep his composure suitably calm til just before lunch. That in itself was a task harder than many magical challenges the Old One had ever faced, and he very nearly blew it entirely when Bran sauntered into Aunt Jen's house, the first few buttons of his white shirt undone to bare his collarbones and a smooth V of pale skin, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black Levi's that fit just well enough to remind Will of what they hid. Bran called a greeting to him, and stood leaning against the doorframe between dining room and den, his arms crossed over his chest. While Jen was putting the kettle on for tea, he lowered his dark glasses to peer over their rims, and Will caught the devious gleam in his tawny eyes. He would have felt very plain in that moment-he was already regretting having only packed a rather mundane selection of t-shirts and sweaters and jeans-had it not been for the ill-concealed hunger in Bran's gaze. It was too much. "We're going out, Aunt Jen!" he called, and grabbed Bran by the elbow, and was dragging him outside when his adoptive aunt's head poked out of the kitchen, her expression quizzical.

"Checking the fences up on the south hill," Bran explained hastily over his shoulder. "Just came to grab Will to help me-" and then they were outside, and on their way to freedom, and already near-desperate for one another's touch. They walked fast up the hill, trying not to seem overly enthusiastic about investigating fences, and as soon as they were out of view of the house Will pulled Bran against him and kissed him hungrily.

"You.../tease/...."

Bran laughed a low, throaty chuckle into his mouth, cut off any further words by tickling the roof of Will's mouth with his tongue, fingers digging into his arms; the taut tingle haunting Will's groin sent shivers through his body. He rocked against Bran, found his lower lip caught lightly between the other's teeth with a quick hiss of breath.

But, "Not here," Bran murmured, and let him go, and turned away to march steadily up the verdant hillside and behind the rocky ridge that topped it, and it was not merely the climb that made him short of breath. The afternoon was comfortably warm, the sun-glazed grass soft under their feet, with a fresh breeze winding its way down to the valley. Will found Bran far more interesting to look at than the scenery he'd seen every summer since he was eleven, and made no secret of the fact he was staring. Not that Bran seemed to mind-he would turn, sometimes, and grin, let his tongue run the length of his bottom lip, and then toss his head and start walking again.

Bran was not frequently the first to initiate a new development in their relationship, but once he got an idea in his head and decided it was what he wanted, he went after it with a confidence that made Will envious. It had been that way since their first kiss; Will may have given into temptation and begun it, but Bran was the one who had pushed him down into the grass. Now he determined they were far enough from the houses to take Will's hand, teasingly stroking the back of his hand as fingers interlaced. That touch alone was electrifying.

They chose their trysting-places carefully, because for all they made an effort to be left alone, there was no telling when Owen or John or Rhys or David would come upon them. The spot they were making their way toward this day was one of their favourites, for practical reasons as well as aesthetic ones. Millennia of erosion had hollowed out a small grotto in the lower part of one hillside, surrounded on all sides by the rise of the upland pastures. Its chief advantage was that in the event that someone did approach, they would be able to hear before they were seen, and have a few short but crucial moments to make themselves decent before they were spotted. It was for the same reason they never stripped completely. Much easier and faster to tug one's clothing into place than to have to retrieve and struggle with it. (And even then, casualties were inevitable-one of Bran's shirts was missing two buttons, and Will's favourite blue t-shirt had ripped in the sleeve, because once they had been sure they heard footsteps, and a dog barking. It was a false alarm, only the wind carrying sound farther than it needed to go, but it had reminded them just how precarious their position was.)

Bran crested the last hill before their valley hideaway, and turned for the last time, pocketing his glasses, grinning. "Well? Walk faster, English boy. I know you're back there so you can stare at my bum, and I'm flattered, but I'm getting impatient."

"You know what else you are," Will answered mildly, "is full of yourself." And before Bran could manage any response more deliberate than a smirk, he sprinted across the remaining few paces that separated them and tackled him. With momentum behind him, his startled victim had no chance of keeping his footing, and the two of them tumbled down the hillside, grasping at each other. They landed in a heap at the bottom, arms and legs entangled, on a blanket of soft grass. Bran rolled atop Will as soon as they confirmed the absence of injuries, his palms slippery, his breath coming hard.

"Careless, you are," he said conversationally, as if he were commenting on the pleasant weather, as if he were not straddling his very aroused best friend and pressing his wrists into the grass, as if he were not regarding that same friend with a predatory gleam in his narrowed golden eyes suggestive of a tiger contemplating its dinner.

Will wanted very much to return fire-any remark would do, really-but found that his brain had been mysteriously deprived of the ability of language. In the absence of anything scathing or witty, he let out the only two words that had formed. Even that came out less forceful than he intended, a plaintive demand: "Kiss me."

The words had exactly the effect he wanted. The smirk vanished from Bran's white face, and he dove for Will's mouth, sealing their lips together. He tasted like toothpaste and coffee, and he kissed like he could never get enough of it, probing the recesses of Will's mouth with the determination of an explorer and the wonder of a child. He only ever closed his eyes if he needed to, if the sun were shining in them, otherwise he kept his gaze focused on Will's face as if he were not entirely convinced the other boy would not dissolve beneath his fingers if he stopped looking at him for even a second. Will wriggled beneath him, his arms still pinned above his head, arcing his hips; Bran gasped into his mouth and rocked against him. His grip on Will's wrists slipped and he made no move to recapture them, but braced himself on either side of Will's shoulders. His white hair fell forward, curtaining his face, the soft ends brushing against Will's cheeks.

His hands freed, Will groped for the buttons of Bran's shirt-he felt like his fingers were swollen, or simply not obeying his commands; the intensity of Bran's motion against his wanting body, the growing fever of their kiss, it made him light-headed, conspired to make his fingers fumble ever more desperately with the recalcitrant fastenings. Bran chuckled into his mouth, a warm exhalation that tickled the back of his throat, and rather than being helpful, he slid his hands under Will's green t-shirt, drew them up his chest, baring his skin, the cotton bunching up under his arms. He liked inhibiting Will's fine motor control, liked seeing the other boy rendered helpless beneath him by desperate wanting for things Bran's hands and mouth would do to him. It struck him with wonder every time-not an issue of control or dominance, it was just /fun/, heady as the drugs Ifan Williams took to parties or the madness of Cadair Idris. He did it because he could, but also to make sure he still could, to determine that nothing had changed, he had not been dreaming, that the marks he left on Will's tanned skin were not something he had imagined. They were fading now, remnants of earlier explorations of eager flesh. He released Will's lips that left his own burning of wintergreen, kissed along the line of Will's jaw and down his neck, nipped at the juncture of collarbone and shoulder. Will's shaky moan warmed the side of his face, ghosting against his temple; there was a shift beneath him, and then Will's mouth had laid claim to his earlobe. He whimpered, frozen still for a moment while a warm wet tongue traced the edge of his ear, delved for a heartbeat behind it, as teeth grazed lightly over his skin. When he could move again he ducked his head, turning the attentions of his mouth to Will's left nipple, his fingers to the waistband of Will's jeans.

Will squirmed as Bran's deft fingers slid inside his pants, he left off trying to capture any part of Bran with his mouth and let his head fall back; he found a rock under his neck but didn't care, couldn't possibly bring himself to care. At that moment, with Bran's tongue delving into the dip of his navel, hands stroking silkily down the length of his already weeping erection, Will would have been hard pressed to care had the Black Rider appeared at the head of all the armies of the Dark and set the entire mountainside on fire. The slight discomfort of a rocky hillside, of his shirt bunching in his armpits, these were negligible, unimportant. Bran's hands were talented beyond all rational belief, and yet for all his confidence the most intoxicating hesitance still lingered in his touch-so carefully he gauged Will's reactions, curious at what caused them and still amased that he could evoke them at all. His husky "Like that, then?" contained a genuine question, one easily answered by Will's breathless, "God, yes!"

He could feel, rather than see, Bran's smile-the soft twist of upturning lips against the skin of his lower abdomen. His body jerked in eagerness at the proximity of that warm mouth, his heart thundering in his chest with an uneven, syncopated rhythm. He wanted-oh, he wanted, things he had no idea how to describe let alone ask for, and even if he could he had lost whatever part of his brain controlled what came out of his mouth. But Bran knew, had known and planned, been leading up to sweet deliverance from the moment they left the house; his lips closed over the head of Will's cock, experimental, curious. Will's shaky moan was beautiful, encouraging. Bran took his time in exploration, evaluation-tongue's slow swirl, the heat of his breath, the exhilarating hum, vibration when he paused to ask, "are you all right?" and "how's this, then...?" Will never answered with anything more articulate than his name, or "please," or a garbled cry that had nothing of words in it at all. His fingers tangled in Bran's fine pale hair, though any thoughts he had about guiding his motions, or indeed doing anything more than holding on for dear sanity, were washed away almost immediately by the sensations that flooded through him. He was lost, a willing prisoner to the ministrations of Bran's mouth, his fingertips, his body sprawled atop Will's legs in the afternoon sun.

When he came, choking out Bran's name, his hips bucking as his remaining consciousness drained from his head to his groin, it startled them both. Not that it hadn't been at least somewhat expected, it simply occurred too suddenly for Bran to prepare for it, for Will to warn him. Bran jerked his head back in surprise, his fingers fumbling only slightly in their grip; Will lost his hold on Bran's hair, his fingers clenched, fisted the empty air, fell limp at his sides. He felt like his body was floating several feet in the air, though that explanation didn't quite account for the pebbles digging into his back. He stared glassy-eyed into the sky, contemplating nothing beyond the way his chest rose with each long breath, until he was dragged forcibly back into the realm of consciousness by Bran poking him in the ribs.

"Hey...you're still alive there, Will, right?" The smooth, warm tenor was sultry and extremely self-satisfied.

Will smiled dizzily up at him, a solarised silhouette with messy hair, dark against the blue sky. "My God." He meant to say more, but language failed him. Bran fixed him with his favourite smug, self-assured smile. His dark glasses were perched on his nose again, but they had slid down and he was peering over them.

"I would have settled for 'lover,' but 'god' will work." Will swatted at him ineffectually; he was still coming down off the most spectacular high of his life and the sun was in his eyes, it didn't surprise him that he missed.

"You were full of yourself before. Now you're going to be insufferable," he predicted. Bran laughed, and bent over him and kissed him hard. "What time is it?"

Bran pushed his glasses up, glanced at his watch. "Late enough that somebody'll miss us soon," he said relunctantly. "And that there's probably no chance of getting your aunt to sneak us a snack before tea." Will fixed him with a blank stare, and he grinned sheepishly. "Well I missed lunch, and so did you. It's a long walk up here. I'm hungry."

Will rolled his eyes, and grinned, and tugged his pants back up, drying his stomach with the hem of his shirt. "Then by all means, let's get you fed. I'm sure there's some food left unguarded on this farm somewhere." He fastened his jeans, and paused, propped up on one hand with the pebbled ground digging into his palm, and did nothing but /look/ at Bran for a moment that stretched out so long that the object of his attention finally squirmed under his scrutiny, and grumbled-

"What? Am I growing horns out of my skull or something? What d'you keep looking at me for?"

"You're beautiful," Will answered, without hesitating. And Bran, for all his confidence and attitude, bit down on his bottom lip and turned his head to look down at the ground. "You are," Will repeated, and then added, more suggestively, "Amasing, too."

"Inspired," Bran answered, and grinned at him.

By the time they finished actually checking the fences and trekking back through the lower pastures to the main farm, it really was time for tea. Years ago, before things had happened that only Will now remembered, it was a rare thing that John Rowlands took tea in the Evans house, and rarer still that Owen Davies joined them. But John's wife Blodwen had died (again, in circumstances only Will knew the truth of), and he had started coming round more often, and then Bran had as well and his father had followed, and now it was a regular occurrence for Aunt Jen to have a full table. Today there was another man with them, tall and dark and familiar to Will, though had to struggle for a name to attach to the face when he hurried into the house after Bran, still flushed and dizzy with their exploits in the grotto. Luckily they assumed he was simply worn out from the exertion of having to do more work than he was used to.

"Ah, Will, bachgen," John Rowlands said warmly. "You might remember, but it has been a long time. Idris Jones Ty-bont, if you recall."

"Oh yes," said Will politely. "We took Pen there once." He did not say anything more about the incident, because Bran was still in the room, and however much the Welsh boy had forgotten about the events of that day, he knew some things would not have faded: the death of his dog, his headlong bicycle flight from Clywyd to Ty-bont, shredding Caradog Prichard's tires. He would remember hiding in the cabin at the top of the mountain with Will and Pen and his father; he would not remember what was revealed to him there, or the story that unfolded between the neighboring farm and Tal y Llyn.

//"Oh yes," Owen Davies said. "I knew. I tried not to believe it, but I've always known. She came from Cader Idris, you see, and that is the Seat of Arthur, in English. With Arthur's son she came out of the past, because she had betrayed the king her lord and was afraid that he would cast out his own son as a result. By enchantment of the dewin she brought the brought the boy into the future, away from their troubles-the future that is the present time now for us. And she left him here."//

Will remembered, but Bran would not, ever again.

But it was years in the past now, and dwelling on it would only make Will lonely and miserable, so he distracted himself by glancing past Rowlands to where Bran was helping Aunt Jen reach the extra plates; he had to stretch himself very tall and the hem of his shirt rode up and left bare a spot of white skin before the waistband of his black jeans. All thoughts of ancient magic fled completely from Will's mind, replaced by the longing memory of his lips against that skin, seeking out Bran's sensitive spots and ticklish ones, investigating the angular jut of his hipbone as denim peeled away from his body--

John Rowlands and Idris Jones were still looking at him, and he got the idea they were waiting for him to respond to something they'd said, so he temporised. "I remember Mrs. Jones for certain," he grinned. "She makes perfect Welshcake."

Idris Jones laughed at that, his dark eyes alight. "I shall be sure to tell her you remember. As long as it has been, I'm sure she'll be glad to hear it made such an impression."

"We'll need you boys to send the flock on up to the higher pasture in the morning," John Rowlands explained. "Idris here has some troubles with foxes it seems, and we're going down to give him a hand, but we'll likely be gone til suppertime tomorrow, or almost."

Bran, a stack of plates in his arms, caught Will's eyes across the room. "Are all of you going, then?" he asked, as if curiousity were his only motive for asking. "Not that Will and I can't handle it on our own. We'll be fine."

Owen Davies nodded. "If we want to get Idris' sheep moved and find where the foxes are hiding before late tomorrow, it will take all four of us, I think. If you like, I'm sure Mrs. Evans wouldn't mind your staying here...."

Bran shot his father a look-I'm seventeen, it said, and you haven't worried about leaving me alone in a good many years, so why start now? He summoned well-practiced scorn to his face. "Nonsense, I am hardly afraid of the dark, am I?" Then he grinned, wide and bright and mischievous. "Besides, I've a better idea. Will can come stay in the house with me, and it'll save me the walk down here to fetch him when it's time to work in the morning."

Will barely picked up on his cue to look affronted that he wouldn't be able to wake up on time on his own, because a split second previous, his brain had realised that meant a whole night alone with Bran, during which all the people who might otherwise intrude on their privacy would be miles away. "I'm perfectly capable of getting myself there," he managed to grumble, then grinned. "Probably be fun, though, staying with you."

The look Bran shot him over his father's shoulder said, you have no idea.

"Did you take a fall, Bran?" John Rowlands asked as they took their seats. The boys sat next to each other, squeezed closer together by the presence of an extra body at the table. "You've grass stains on your shirt."

"Ah, that." Bran's gaze flickered to the telltale green patches on his white shirt in bare acknowledgement, and reached across Will's plate for the cheese. "Blame Will for that, he tackled me."

Amusement quirked the corner of John's mouth when Will defended himself: "You were baiting me."

Bran shrugged diffidently. "Was I?" Under the table, his leg nudged Will's, and he rubbed his ankle temptingly, slowly, teasingly up the side of Will's calf. Next to him, the brown-haired English boy dropped his knife, and it clattered against his plate and down onto the floor.

"Are you all right, Will?" Aunt Jen asked in concern, and he just nodded awkwardly.

"I'm fine-sorry-just had a clumsy moment there." He smiled beamingly at her, that ridiculously guileless expression that, as the youngest of nine children, he had long since perfected. He ducked under the table to retrieve the errant utensil, holding onto Bran's upper thigh for balance. Bran barely concealed the quick hiss of inhaled breath, suddenly very grateful for the dark glasses that hid how wide his eyes must surely have gotten when Will, all apologetic innocence, used the opportunity of searching beneath the table-fumbling, feeling at chair legs and between people's shoes-to let his fingers dip into Bran's lap and between his legs. And then, too soon for what either of them would have enjoyed but very nearly too long to keep them from being hopelessly obvious, he emerged triumphant and breathless with his butter knife in his fingers. "Found it. Just going to go wash it off, I'll be right back." And then the chair next to Bran was empty, and he forced himself to concentrate on his bread and cheese and apple pieces as if his hunger were the most important thing in the world, and he and Will had not just been surreptitiously feeling each other under the table, at tea and surrounded by conservative Welsh sheepfarmers. He wondered how he was going to survive until they were alone again.

But survive they did, and soon after tea the men departed for Ty-bont. Bran and Will promised Aunt Jen, after she insisted, that they would come back and let her feed them again at supper, and then they went to feed the dogs and kiss each other behind the rosebushes. The wind picked up and it started to rain, and they half expected their plans to be ruined-but David Evans phoned before dusk to say they had their work cut out for them regardless of the weather and it might take them a bit longer than planned. Jen thought it all a wonderful opportunity to spend time with the boys, and wouldn't Bran play a while, and Will could sing a hymn or two with her, and they would have enjoyed themselves had not the pull of the empty cottage haunted them. Will watched Bran's slender pale fingers stroking harmonies across his harpstrings and nearly forgot how to breathe; Bran was transfixed by the way Will's tongue slipped out of his mouth and licked across his lips to wet them when he reached the end of a phrase. He was grateful when Will pleaded weariness and they made their escape through the dark and the rain, blown about by the wind, holding hands.

Which brought them to the moment, when they had forced shut the door and closed the shades and both started to speak, and then both fallen silent, when they stood facing each other, barely inches apart, Will nibbling at his bottom lip and Bran shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

"I feel like I should offer you a cuppa, or something," Bran admittedly, softly, as if the decision to keep the room dim had muted his voice as well. "Like I should act a proper host and put on tea."

Will grinned, a little awkwardly. "No need. I'd rather-well, I don't want any tea," he finished lamely. His cheeks warmed, and he knew he was blushing-he pondered the strangeness of his reaction, that he could, with a completely straight face, grope Bran under the tea table in a room full of people, yet be so utterly tongue-tied when they were alone.

But Bran just giggled nervously. "I don't either." With deliberate care he closed the distance between them, his face gone suddenly very serious and somber, his breath hitching a little as he cupped Will's round tan face in his white hands and drew him in to kiss. It was slow and tender and blissfully thorough, coffee and cake and rainwater and leftover music, his tongue slipping between Will's parted lips, the gesture returned. It was subdued and quiet but intensely driven, and Will barely noticed when he pressed himself closer against Bran's body or when his fingers slid into Bran's pale hair and tangled there.

"I wonder what it would be like," Bran whispered against his mouth, "if we-you know-if we lived here, together-instead of having to sneak around-"

Will nibbled a slow line along the ridge of Bran's jaw. "If we lived here," he murmured between kisses, between grazing his teeth lightly across pale skin, "you wouldn't feel like you had to be a host, you'd be after me to wash up the dishes or something."

There was more of arousal than amusement in the throaty chuckle that escaped from Bran's lips. "Ah, but not yet...not when there are other things I'd rather have you do...." Long fingers slid meaningfully down Will's chest, circled his navel, and ventured on below.

"Ah," said Will, arching into him, grinding against him, forgetting to breathe. "We'd never get anything done then, we'd always be in bed."

"Yes," Bran agreed, unrepentant. He let go of Will, only long enough to grasp his wrists and draw him along toward his room. It was a plain room, but every angle, bit of furniture, and scattered trinket all screamed Bran, that it was his own space because he had made it so. His bed was plain, pushed up against one wall, but the quilt was Mrs. Rowlands' work, a cheerful motley of blue and white and green in a star pattern with fraying threads and stains around the hem. There was a desk, cluttered with papers, a flashlight, a stack of fantasy novels. Photographs tucked into the frame of a cracked mirror: Bran and his father, both growing steadily older with each snapshot, one of Will and the three Drews from a long-ago summer, a pretty dark girl, a young man with wild red hair and sparkling blue eyes (the name "Cai" was scribbled in the corner) and a fiddle in his hand, an older Will wrapped up in his coat in the snow, grinning triumphantly at the Christmas tree leaning against the side of the Evans' house. Pencil sketches in various stages of completion pinned to the wall with plastic tacks, depicting everything from the dog Pen to the Dysyni valley itself to armoured men with swords and shields and a tall fair woman in a blue gown. There were several of an ancient warship, surrounded by mist and spray. Pridwen, Will recognised, and his stomach twisted, and he buried a swell of longing in Bran's willing mouth.

Bran's fingers slid beneath his shirt, peeling wet cotton from rain-chilled skin, and Will burned everywhere he touched. Will took his time with Bran's buttons, reverently kissing each bit of smooth white skin as it was revealed; Bran whimpered into his mouth, his translucent skin flushed and hot, his white shirt rendered transparent by rain. They moved in a dizzy whirl of cotton and denim and shoelaces and skin. They had never been completely naked together before, they had seen all of each other but not at once. Will decided that Bran had some of the stance of a bird in him, long bony-slender limbs in flyaway angles from his body, fey and wispy as if he were something more than real. And Will, Bran thought, wore the body of Traditional Boy as if it were a disguise he didn't quite fit, he had an athlete's wiry muscles but a scholar's hands and old, old eyes, and the mandala-shaped burn scar on his arm was not the kind of thing a boy got by playing outdoors. And there was something in those eyes, and in the salty-wintergreen taste of his mouth and the way the tips of his fingers brushed feather-light against Bran's chest, that said I have been waiting for this since before I knew it, I have wanted it since before I knew what it was.

"Will," Bran whispered. He caught Will's hand and brought it to his lips, in tribute to their first hesitant touch, his tongue traced all the long crooked lines that crossed Will's palm. "This might be the only time we have like this," he began. He came close to forgetting what else he meant to say when Will's leg wrapped around his own, the sole of his foot gliding up his leg to the back of his knee. "The only chance we have to-you know-"

Will nuzzled into the hollow between shoulder and neck, his breath hot between slow kisses. "I know. I thought that too." He moved his foot and Bran's knees buckled, and they both tumbled sideways onto the bed, landing with arms and legs entangled on top of Bran's blue patchwork quilt.

"I should tell you, though," Will murmured, pausing to circle Bran's nipple with his tongue, "that I've never done it before-not quite sure how it's supposed to work, with boys."

"Oh, that." Bran muttered, trying to sound more nonchalant than he really felt. "I've a vague idea." He grinned, his golden eyes syrup-dark and slitted. "I think we'll be able to figure it out. We'll need something...slippery. So it doesn't hurt as much."

Will nodded. He was exploring the possibilities of having Bran entirely naked under him, drawing long lines with his tongue from Bran's shoulder to his opposite knee, with lots of pausing for extra attention in between. "Which of us...?" He shrugged hopelessly, still unused to speaking plainly about the things their bodies wanted to do.

Abruptly he was flipped onto his back, and Bran was straddling him, leaning over him, a predatory glint in his tiger-tawny eyes, his tangled white hair curtaining his face. "Why, didn't you know?" he purred, low and sultry. "You've entered my lair, Sais bach, and now you're mine to do with as I please."

In spite of the self-assurance that Bran always wore like skin, there was something in his voice that told Will if you don't like it, say so and we will change, but Will realised, a bit unexpectedly, that he did like the idea, very much in fact; Bran's words and the tone of his low voice intoxicated him all over again and he just nodded dumbly. Bran bent close to bring their lips together and kissed him dazzlingly hard, then he murmured, "be right back," and slid off the bed. His leg dragged across Will's stomach.

The Old One watched him as he padded unselfconsciously across the floor to the chest of drawers and knelt there. In the pause he could hear the wind outside, and the raindrops pounding heavily against the windowpanes-all things he had stopped paying attention to when his world had contracted to leave room only for one albino boy's touch. Bran found what he was looking for and stood, grinning sheepishly at Will as he held up a small packet, beige with some kind of flower on the front. "Massage oil," he explained. "It was a gag gift for-god, nevermind, who cares?" He broke off and tossed himself back onto the bed, wrapping his arms and legs around Will and rocking into him, nibbling at his collarbone, drawing his hands down his sides. "How do you want to be?"

The confusion in Will's lust-fogged grey eyes said plainly that he didn't know, and Bran pushed him back into the mattress, crawling between his legs. Will yelped when Bran tried to push his knees up too high, and grumbled that he wasn't that flexible, and Bran apologised by kissing the inner hollow of his knee. "Just get on your knees then, we'll do it that way," he mumbled into Will's skin, crawling down the length of his body, his lips skimming teasingly over his cock, and Will only whimpered in what was probably agreement. Bran crouched above him, hands straying over his body, reveling in all the firm lines that were Will, so different from his own sharp angles. His skin was softer than it should have been, softer than it looked, and again Bran had the idea that Will's very ordinary body, his round face and straight brown hair and tanned skin and wiry legs, that it was all some kind of disguise. He discarded the thought and brushed his mouth across Will's ankle. "Whenever you're ready, cariad."

Will pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, noting awkwardly that Bran's face was no longer in his vision. It was a loss, but at the same time there was something erotic in it, a sensuality in the disassociation of sight and touch. Bran's hands, suddenly slippery and warm with oil, began at the small of his back, as if he could pretend, when they slipped to more private places, that it was entirely accidental.

Bran was fascinated, by Will's body and his own preparation of it, by the way his back was tanned but the colour shifted abruptly to pale at his waist, and yet was still darker than his own when he rested his hands against it. He noticed the way the oil made skin glossy, obscuring small imperfections like the faint scar above Will's right hip. He coated his hands and drew one finger slowly, lightly, all the way from the base of Will's spine til he ran out of skin, and was rewarded by a low, breathy moan. Experimentally, he slid one finger inside Will, he heard the other boy's breath catch and felt his entire body tense, he probed deeper and Will dropped his head and whispered something utterly incoherent. Entranced, desperately aroused, he investigated further-he tested combination of hands and fingers and breath and kisses and as much of Will's body as he could reach at once, until a shaky English voice demanded, very slowly as if he were having trouble forming words, that he "stop bloody teasing and deliver already."

"Impatient," he answered-or rather, tried to answer, because his voice didn't work quite right and suddenly his body reminded him that /it/ was very impatient indeed, and he just moaned and scrambled up onto his knees.

Will felt Bran begin to press into him, oil-slick hands sliding against his back, slipping, pausing, fingers digging into his hips. He felt his body split, stretch, his nerves screaming, on fire, aching, pleading. "Stop-"

And Bran stilled, almost instantly, frozen in place by that single word as if it prohibited not only motion but speech and breath. He forced out, "Do you want me to-"

"No!" Will flailed one hand behind him, grabbing for some part of Bran, missing entirely. "Not stop, like really stop, just-just let me get used to it." He could hear Bran's ragged, shallow breathing behind him, feel his long fingers tremble against Will's hipbones. His own hands were pressed into the bed, clenched around a triangular patch of green calico, his elbows stiff and braced. He made himself breathe, long and slow, could almost feel the oxygen winding through his blood and muscles, and his body gradually relaxed. Bran felt it too, eased his hips hesitantly forward, gently massaging the small of Will's back. He wanted to ask is that all right then? better? worse? do you like it? does it hurt? but he couldn't, because when he tried to speak he only managed an incoherent whine-almost a squeak really, entirely undignified and probably not sexy at all, but all he was capable of anymore. He asked with his body instead, and interpreted Will's answers with the same. He had thought about sex often enough, imagined it, fantasised about it-most often with girls, a few deliciously guilty times with boys and at least two of those with Will-but all the anticipation in the world, up to and including everything they had done to this point with mouths and hands, could not possibly have prepared him for the reality of it. He slid into Will with agonising slowness, claiming a victory every time Will pushed back against him, so close to losing himself in these tiny movements and breathless moans. He wanted to move, to hold on to Will's hips and drive in hard, claim him forever, he wanted to wrap his arms around Will's body, damp with sweat and oil, and there to remain motionless and entwined forever. He wanted to cry and beg and sing and breathe Will in like air, because surely if he had Will he didn't /need/ air.

"-'Sokay-" Will gasped out, panting, his voice tight. "I mean-you can move now-" He spoke incompletely, in fragments, too overwhelmed to apply words to sensations. It was impossible to name what he felt, and he was too caught up in it to analyse it-or to want to. It still hurt, but it was the most exquisite torment imaginable, pain bound in rapture, it turned him inside out and made him see planets in the cracks of Bran's old pine headboard. There was no rhythm to it; Bran would thrust forward a few times, moan, clutch at Will's hips or thighs or shoulders, regain himself, thrust again. Will's arms ceased to hold him upright and he collapsed forward, Bran jerked in surprise, his nails dug into skin and something in the angle and quickness of motion made Will half-scream his name. That motion, brush, that broken cry finished both of them. They drowned in each other, Bran whispering things in Welsh that were at most half-words, Will biting down on his lower lip til it bled, both utterly lost in the slide of skin on skin, yes please god you I oh! Bran bent forward over Will, braced himself on one arm, kissed dazedly along the ridge of Will's spine and across his back. He reached beneath them both and took Will's cock in his hand, and then it was too much, too much and he came before he was ready, shuddering, grasping at Will's body because he didn't know where his own ended. He understood vaguely that Will had followed, his hand was wet and warm, but for one endless transcendent moment he had neither substance nor form, and all his essence was caught up in the echo of his own name on Will's lips.

They collapsed together, remembering how to breathe. Bran was still inside Will, his arms wrapped possessive and tight around his chest, their legs entangled. It was still not close enough. Bran would have melted into Will entirely if he could, until not even air or the smallest part of a molecule could come between them. He buried his face his Will's neck, breathing in the scent of his hair and the tang of sweat and sex.

Will shifted, wriggled a little in his arms, and pressed a kiss to the inside of his elbow. It tasted more like his own mouth than Bran's skin. "I love you too," he said softly, "but you're squeezing all the breath out of me." Reluctantly Bran loosened his hold, and pulled away, lying back and staring glassy-eyed at the ceiling. Will made a small discontented noise at the sudden distance, and draped himself atop Bran's body, pillowing his head on Bran's chest and completely ignoring the damp places and the mess they'd made of the bed. He stroked his fingers through Bran's hair, smoothing the tangled white locks. Once he strayed to Bran's face and down his cheek, and he felt damp streaks there, but said nothing about them, because he knew they were on his face, too.

"I do, you know," Bran said softly after a moment. "...Love you, I mean."

"Yes," said Will, "I know."

"It's going to be too short a summer."

Will smiled wistfully and kissed him. "It's going to be too short a night. I don't think we'll get lucky enough for foxes at Ty-bont twice."

"True." Bran's hands slid up Will's slick body, he pulled one away to hold it up and look at it, squinting in the dark. "And we make too much of a mess to be able to sneak off and do this-if they notice bruises and grass stains, I can only imagine what they would say if I brought you back all covered in oil. I could try to say I was planning to cook you, but that might land me in worse trouble, really." His voice was light, teasing, but his arms encircled Will again, holding him possessively.

Will twisted in his arms, tenderly kissed the underside of his chin. "Don't think about it now. We're still pretending."

"Are we?" Bran smiled. "And you are still in my lair. So I think I will hold onto you all night-unless you start to snore, in which case I may be forced to smother you with a pillow-and then, when we wake up, we can have a shower, and then you can help me dispose of the evidence by helping with the laundry. Is that domestic enough?"

"Mm. Depends on what we do in the shower," Will mumbled sleepily into Bran's chest.

"I can think of things." His attempt to sound wicked and seductive was interrupted by a yawn.

"Good, you can show me in the morning." Will snuggled into Bran, eyelids already drooping; his body was sore and wet and sticky and yet he was blissfully content when Bran pulled the quilt over them and dropped a kiss on the top of his head.

"Nos da, cariad." Bran imagined for a moment, brushing his lips across Will's fine straight hair, that this was the beginning of something, something grand and beautiful that had simply been waiting for them to find it, burgeoning in Destiny's belly until just the right moment to be born. He let himself believe that it could go on forever, because Time was meaningless when compared to love. He let himself drift to sleep with Will Stanton in his arms and knew he had never felt so complete.

[fin.]