by Lisa Henry
He did believe in destiny. It was in all the old stories, wasn’t it? And sometimes men fought it, but destiny always won out, for better or for worse. And whatever happened, he and Ciaran had bound their destinies together. But they’d chosen to, hadn’t they? At least for this little while. Even when they were separate, they’d still be bound in a way, alive because of one another, and wasn’t that just as powerful as together and in love? Wasn’t it just as precious? Darragh told himself it was. It had to be. Because he’d told Ciaran he loved him, and Ciaran had said they were bound. That wasn’t the answer that Darragh had wanted. It ached.
Darragh knew what love was, and he knew what heartbreak was, and Ciaran gave him both at the same time. Could do it with a single smile.
“You look sad,” Ciaran said.
“Not sad,” Darragh said. “Tired.”
It wasn’t really a lie. It also wasn’t the sort of tiredness that could be cured by sleep. It was the weight of Ciaran’s memory. Even now, even when Darragh was holding him, he could only imagine how it would feel to miss him. He could imagine feeling this same strange mix of melancholy and regret even when he was old. His memories of Ciaran would never be free of sorrow. They would always be weighed down.
Ciaran nodded. “Rest, then. I got some sleep. I’m fine. You lie down, and I’ll stay awake.”
“I don’t need rest,” Darragh said, nearly choking on the words. They felt sharp and thick in his throat. “I need … you.”
Ciaran lifted a hand to Darragh’s face, cupping his bearded cheek. “You have me, Darragh. For as long as fate allows.”
Darragh closed his eyes and leaned his head into Ciaran’s touch.
As long as fate allows. It would have to be long enough.
Darragh’s scruffy beard rasped against Ciaran’s palm. It made him look older and rougher than he was. Ciaran knew better. Darragh’s closed eyes, the line between his brows, his tightly compressed lips—Darragh was anxious. Afraid, maybe. Of the future? Or of what he’d said?
“Ciaran, I love you.”
Darragh’s idea of love was born from his naivety and inexperience. It didn’t judge him. It couldn’t, because beggars couldn’t be choosers. Ciaran wasn’t lacking—filthy, used-up, damaged goods—in Darragh’s eyes, but only because Darragh had nobody to compare him to. It was naive, but it was still love. Maybe even love in its purest form, second only to the bond between mother and child that Ciaran remembered vaguely but still strongly.
Ciaran knew it was a fragile thing. Hold it up in front of the world, and it would get ripped into a million pieces. Love like that could only exist in a vacuum. Or, he supposed, a place like this, a long-forgotten shrine kept safe and hidden and close to the heart of the earth.
It ached that Darragh had said it, that he’d meant it. That the only person he’d found to speak those words to was the man who had lied to him repeatedly, who had run from him, and who was still manipulating him, even now. For comfort, and for solace, and to feel safe.
“I love you,” he’d said to Boru too many times, when he’d meant please don’t hurt me. Ciaran was afraid that was all the words meant now. All they would ever mean. That when Darragh said them they were true—a naive truth, but a truth all the same—but echoed back from Ciaran they would be nothing but a hollow lie. Contaminated.
But Darragh was so desperate to hear them, and Ciaran wanted to give him something. Words were all he had.
“Darragh,” Ciaran said, his voice low. He stroked Darragh’s cheek. “I love you, too.”
Darragh’s eyes opened, full of shining wonder, and Ciaran suddenly felt so powerful. More powerful than ever before in his life. Then, afraid to lose the feeling, he rose up onto his knees and straddled Darragh’s thighs. He held Darragh’s face between his hands and stared into Darragh’s blue eyes. Darker than usual, in this place. Deeper.
“I love you,” he said. The words came more easily this time, like a lie that grew smooth with practice. Ciaran leaned forwards to kiss Darragh. It didn’t have to be a lie. It wasn’t. Wasn’t. In this place, it was true. In this place, Ciaran was capable of love, and worthy of it. He shivered as their lips met.
“You don’t have to say it,” Darragh murmured back, and his voice was gentle, his grip soft and sure. “I’m not him. You don’t have to lie.”
Ciaran froze. That stung. It tore all his feelings of power away, and he tried to claw them back. “It’s not a lie. It’s not.”
“So it’s not. I just … wanted you to know. You don’t have to lie to me to make me feel good. Or like a man.”
Ciaran stared into Darragh’s eyes, wondering how he’d wounded Darragh so much that he had to protect himself now, protect himself from words. Words had always been Ciaran’s weapons. His armour, too. But he’d used them so much against Darragh. Too much. Which left actions—the same arsenal he’d used with Boru and every other man in Dublin.
God. He wished he’d saved something of himself for Darragh. Some part of him that wasn’t spoiled or ruined. Ciaran wished there were some way to show Darragh what he meant to him, something that wouldn’t just seem like a cheap parody of Boy.
He stroked Darragh’s hair back from his forehead and regarded him intently for a moment. “Kisses,” he said at last, and Darragh frowned at him in confusion. “You can have those, Darragh. No other man—not here, at least—has. Hasn’t wanted them from this dirty mouth. But you—”
“You’re not dirty, Ciaran.” Darragh’s quiet voice cracked with anguish. “You’re not.”
“But you don’t think I’m dirty,” Ciaran finished with a smile. “Even in a hole underground, you don’t think I’m dirty.”
Darragh smiled as well. “Maybe a bit.”
Ciaran surprised himself with a laugh. “Well, you’re fairly dirty yourself.” He scratched his fingers through Darragh’s growth of beard. “You’re practically a bush man with this.”
“Is it bad?” Darragh asked with a wince.
“I like it,” Ciaran leaned forwards and kissed the corner of Darragh’s mouth gently, the beard rasping against his lips. “Could use a trim, but it’s very manly. Suits you.”
“You could use a trim, too.” Darragh’s fingers curled into Ciaran’s hair, giving it a playful tug.
“First thing I would do is have a bath,” Ciaran said, leaning into Darragh’s possessive touch with a pleasure he wasn’t accustomed to anymore. He had liked it once, though, to be a little rough, to manhandle a guy and be manhandled back. “A good, long soak in a hot bath. Then real food, none of this processed shite, and then I’d go to sleep in the biggest, softest bed you can imagine. After that, you could take me to get my hair cut any way you wanted.”
Darragh smiled at him, and Ciaran wondered when Darragh had become a part of his old escape fantasy. “We’ve still a tub in my village, but with no running water, you’ve got to boil rainwater yourself. And share, usually. Can’t say I’ve had too many hot baths.”
“Oh, well,” Ciaran said carelessly. “Maybe while you’re spending the day digging in the fields or chasing down sheep or whatever it is you do, I could be filling the bath so we could share, hmm?”
And just like that, he’d shoved himself into what must have been Darragh’s escape fantasy. He could see the moment it happened: the look of sudden surprise that crossed Darragh’s face, as though the possibility had really never occurred to him. “You’d … you’d do that? For me?” His face coloured. “That’s so domestic.”
“Well,” Ciaran said quietly, “why shouldn’t I want something like that?”
“Because you’re so smart,” Darragh said, flushing. “So clever. Too clever to be looking after a lout like me.”
“But you can look after me?”
“I mean, you could do great things,” Darragh answered. “You could help so many people.”
Ciaran shrugged. “So why not start with you?”
Darragh laughed, as though it were a joke. Maybe it was; Ciaran couldn’t tell. Maybe he
wasn’t in any shape to help anyone, and even someone as kind as Darragh knew it.
“No, because I’ve got to start with you. I can’t do great things. I can feed my people and try to get medicine and chase down sheep, but that’s all. I was hoping getting you home could be my great thing.” Darragh’s smile faded. “Then, years from now, when I hear your name again, I’ll know I had a part in whatever it is you do.”
“Don’t pin your hopes on me,” Ciaran said. “I tried to do great things. I failed. I got people killed. I put food and supplies into the hands and mouths of Boru’s fucking army. Or gang or whatever you want to call them. I didn’t help anyone, Darragh. All I did was help Boru oppress them.”
“So did I,” Darragh said stonily. “You’re not the only one who failed.”
Ciaran closed his eyes. “I’m so tired of this, Darragh. So tired of always feeling the same hopeless desperation. Give me more than that. I know you can.” He opened his eyes again, and dropped one hand to twist it in Darragh’s jacket. “You love me? Then do it. Love me. And I’ll … I’ll love you.”
It could be so easy, in this place, if they let it.
“Please,” Ciaran whispered, his gaze fixed on Darragh’s.
“Yes,” Darragh said, his voice cracking.
So easy.
Ciaran leaned forwards into Darragh’s kiss, into the roughness of his beard and the softness of his mouth. Hot breath and such perfectly clumsy lips, the lips of a man who had kissed so rarely. Ciaran’s alone. Ciaran threaded his fingers in Darragh’s hair, tilted that face to the perfect angle, and continued to kiss him. Darragh let him take the lead, like always. Never pushing. Never forcing.
“I want you,” Ciaran said, shifting to move his mouth along Darragh’s jawline and wondering how perfectly smooth it would feel after a shave. He loved the way that Darragh’s groan vibrated under his lips. “I want you to fuck me, so if you don’t want that, tell me now.”
Darragh leaned his head back against the wall, another groan rising out of him. “I want that.”
And yes, he did. Inside Darragh’s rough-hewn work trousers, Ciaran could see the thick, imposing length of his cock begging to be freed.
Ciaran framed it with both hands, the action forcing a huff of breath out of Darragh. “So big,” he said, remembering it inside him, how good but intense it was and not sure if he was ready for it again.
“You always say that,” Darragh replied, a little broken-voiced. He lifted his hips nonetheless, so sweet and innocent and needy.
“That’s because it always is.” Ciaran flashed Darragh a smile, then scrambled off his legs. He grabbed the strap of Darragh’s pack and hauled it closer. “Gonna need this.”
Ciaran found the first aid kit and opened it. He took the lube and stood up. Socks, trousers, shirt, and jacket—all off. It was cold, but he didn’t mind. Not bad enough to make him lose his erection, anyway. And Darragh was big and warm, and Ciaran couldn’t wait to get closer to him. He stood watching, shifting from foot to foot as Darragh scrambled out of his clothes, as well.
Naked together was new. Naked together could be theirs. Both of them, skin to skin. Equals.
And yet, that was the moment Darragh fell to his knees.
“What are you—”
Darragh took him by the hips and turned him, gently pressing him chest-first to the carved, rugged wall. Darragh’s big hands, fingers spread, cupped his thighs and gently nudged his legs open, until Ciaran could feel hot breath between his legs.
“Darragh, I’m dirty,” Ciaran warned.
“You’re not. Nothing about you is.” Darragh’s hands were on his arsecheeks now, kneading them, thumbs gliding inward, seeking to spread him open. His breath followed.
“I mean, I haven’t had a bath. Since Dublin. I’ve been in the boot of a car for Christ’s sake. And then walked for a day!” His palms flattened against the wall, feeling out the pattern of the chevrons. As much as he protested, he still felt his body falling slack, so hungry for pleasure, pleasure that was his alone, a gift. Because no one had ever—not even back home—no one had ever done this for him.
“Oh Jesus.” Ciaran closed his eyes as Darragh pressed his mouth against the cleft of his arse. So warm. Then Darragh’s mouth moved lower, his tongue flicking out, and Darragh’s hands moved to his hips, encouraging him closer. “Oh, Darragh,” Ciaran moaned, no protest left in him. He leaned his cheek against the wall and felt it again: that strange murmuring as though the earth itself was whispering. Probably nothing more miraculous than holding a seashell up to your ear, but in this place, it felt magical.
Especially with Darragh nuzzling deep against him, lapping wetly at his taint and the backs of his hanging balls, using the pads of his fingers now to spread his spit around and around Ciaran’s hole. Never entering him, even though his hips jerked every time in blatant invitation.
“Not yet,” Darragh finally said, the low rumble of his voice and the scratch of his facial hair making Ciaran whine. “Not until I’ve got you good and ready and shown you how much I …” His face pressed deep again, tongue dragging right over the dimple of Ciaran’s hole. That didn’t enter him either, just swiped him again and again, maddeningly wet, so maddeningly fucking good that Ciaran was seriously considering rutting against Newgrange’s stones, even if they broke his cock off.
He huffed out a laugh at the thought of that. Wondered if Newgrange had seen crazier sacrifices or not. Wondered what some archaeologist in a few thousand years would make of that. He traced a chevron with his finger, discovering the shape of it, his body trembling.
“Darragh,” he murmured. Not a plea for more. An acknowledgement. A sudden need to say his name, to breathe it against the ancient stones so that they remembered it, as well. “Darragh …”
“Ciaran,” Darragh said back, his voice muffled, his breath cold now on the wetness between Ciaran’s legs. One of his hands slipped from Ciaran’s hip to take Ciaran’s aching cock in hand. Not jerking it, just holding it tight. “I’d like to fuck you now. If that’s all right.”
“Yes, God, yes.” Ciaran pushed his upper body forwards, face and arms flat to the wall, trembling legs spread and arse out. All for Darragh.
He’d do this for Darragh. And for Darragh, he’d enjoy it. He’d do it for himself, too, for the chance to love and be loved in return. This was a place of mystery, of magic. Anything was possible here.
He heard Darragh fumbling with the lube. The splurt of the tube as Darragh squeezed it too hard. Nervous, maybe. Or anxious to get going. It made Ciaran feel that much better. Even though so much of it had been terrible, filthy, cruel, he still liked being the experienced one, liked the strange power it gave him. The authority.
Darragh’s hands found his hips again. Slippery with lube, this time. The big, blunt head of his cock rubbed crookedly, inexpertly, up and down the crack of Ciaran’s arse, trying to find its way. Ciaran didn’t reach back to help, though, just leaned against the wall and sighed and thrust his arse out more, perfectly compliant. That was how he wanted it. To be perfect for Darragh, everything perfect.
The hand vanished from his hip for a moment. The head of Darragh’s cock notched against Ciaran’s hole and, very slowly, began to push in. Then the hand was back, holding him, gentling him. Ciaran bore down, and his breath caught as Darragh’s cock opened him from the inside. An unavoidable moment of pain, and Ciaran’s erection flagged, but then it eased, and Darragh waited. Waited until Ciaran shifted and began to rock his hips. He was so tall, and Ciaran so short, that the barest twitch had him claiming Ciaran completely.
For a long time, only the sounds of their breaths filled the chamber.
“Faster,” Ciaran murmured at last, bracing his hands on the wall, scraping his fingernails over the etchings carved so deep into the stone. Asking something for himself, that was so strange and fresh. Filthy as he’d been, he felt brand new.
The hum of the earth was drowned out by the familiar slap of flesh on flesh, but that felt new, to
o.
Darragh fucked up into him hard, grunted as his jerky thrusts attempted a smoother, quicker rhythm. Trying so nobly to give Ciaran what he wanted.
Because he loves me.
I’m brand new, and he loves me.
Ciaran’s cock was hard, aching, but he didn’t touch it. Didn’t think he’d be able to hold himself upright with one arm. Didn’t want to let go of the wall. “Darragh …”
Darragh snaked a hand around him. Rolled Ciaran’s balls in his palm at the same time as he laid a row of kisses down the back of Ciaran’s neck. His big body was drenched in sweat, and the cavern that had once felt cool was suddenly oppressively hot and muggy. Ciaran felt it, too, his own slick sweat running down his body, washing him as it went. Purifying him.
“There’s a storm outside,” Darragh bit out, giving Ciaran’s cock a few slow pulls before sliding his palm up Ciaran’s body, cupping his pec.
“We’ll be safe in here,” Ciaran gasped.
Darragh’s breath growled into his ear, masculine and possessive. “You’ll always be safe with me.” Another rough, arrhythmic thrust speared Ciaran to the wall and lifted him up onto his tiptoes. Between the wall and his chest, Darragh’s hand covered his heart, fingers kneading, the motion sexual and somehow completely chaste at once. Somehow everything.
Darragh was so good to him. Gave so much to him.
Ciaran sucked in a deep breath and clenched around Darragh’s cock. Heard Darragh’s answering groan. Kisses covered Ciaran’s throat and shoulder, wet and interspersed with nips of teeth. Ciaran shivered.
“Can’t …” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. “Can’t hold on.”
“Don’t,” Darragh rasped in his ear. He slid his hand down Ciaran’s sweat-slicked body and curled his fingers around his cock. “Let go. I’ve got you. Ciaran.”
Ciaran.
One more pound of Darragh’s hammering cock inside him, one slippery twist of Darragh’s wrist, and Ciaran came, his knees buckling. He slumped against the wall, the blood pounding in his head. Too loud to hear Newgrange whispering to him now. He ran his trembling hand over a carved symbol as Darragh came, as well, shuddering and jerking into him.
