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The dream is a lot less fun when you can’t wake up. The promise of Penacony—planet of festivities, paradise without end—loses its shine when it really doesn’t ever end. Each day the same as the last. An unending song that loops right back around to the start, an echo of an echo.
Gallagher does what he always does. He puts in his hours, laughs at Siobhan’s jokes. Keeps to himself, mostly. When he wakes up it’s midnight. When he goes to bed it’s midnight again, and no time has passed at all.
Maybe this is a problem unique to him. Everyone else in Penacony seems to want to be there, or is at least there by choice. There’s supposed to be a line between the dreamscape and reality; you’re either in one or the other, and when you’ve had enough you go looking for greener pastures, always chasing the promise of paradise. But paradise was meant to be abandoned. What’s a dream you can’t leave, but a prison?
Gallagher lights another cigarette and tries not to look at the sleeping body next to him.
On the other side of the bed, Sunday is a long stretch of downy feathers and exposed skin. His presence seems almost unnatural in the gloom of the hotel room, a statue collecting the weak moonlight. Lithe lines and sculpted marble. If Gallagher lets himself look he’ll want to reach out and touch, to run a finger down the trail of feathers along Sunday’s spine to the dip in the small of his back, to press down on the purpling bruises on his hip until his blunt nails leave marks. But he shouldn’t. So he looks away.
He shouldn’t be smoking either, but he hasn’t gotten in trouble for it yet. He’d thought that Sunday would pluck the glowing stub from his mouth and throw it out the open window. But all he does is shift sleepily in bed.
Gallagher takes another drag, and Sunday finally rolls over, sliding a cool hand up Gallagher’s shoulder.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“Midnight.”
Sunday’s are half-lidded, his expression unreadable. Slowly, he plucks the cigarette from Gallagher’s fingers and brings it to his own lips. The ember glows. The smoke is worse coming from Sunday’s mouth, rising in the space between them and stinging Gallagher’s eyes.
For a moment Gallagher thinks Sunday will put out the cigarette on his bare chest. But then he just reaches over and delicately grinds it into the ashtray on the bed stand.
He looks up at Gallagher. Maybe he expects an apology or something, because he always seems to have unrealistic expectations and Gallagher is his favorite dog to kick. That’s tough luck. Gallagher thinks he should probably say something to appease him— sorry I was born, do you want to kick me now or later? —but all that comes out of his mouth is, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Sunday says, “Don’t talk.”
Gallagher shuts his mouth. Always the obedient dog. He briefly thinks about getting up and leaving, but then he stays where he is. He wonders how much of that is the chain Sunday has looped around his throat. Sunday is very good at that: putting ties around other people so he can forget how much his own chafes.
Then Sunday’s hand is on Gallagher’s jaw, pulling him down. A few hours ago he’d tasted faintly of mint, like he’d just brushed his teeth, but now he just tastes like smoke and Gallagher. Still, the chill remains. Sunday seems to run at a lower temperature than most people; maybe it’s a Halovian trait, or maybe it’s unique to him. It doesn’t matter. He’ll warm up soon, being this close to Gallagher.
The kiss shifts into something deeper, more demanding. Sunday hooks a leg around Gallagher’s thigh, grinding up against him in a lazy rhythm, and something coils, burning, in Gallagher’s gut. Arousal, probably. It’s probably a lot of things, but arousal is the best of the possible options so it’s the only one Gallagher lets himself consider.
Gallagher runs his hand down Sunday’s spine and feels the feathers quiver as they slip through his fingers. He kisses Sunday back and wishes he were somewhere else.
As always, Sunday makes no effort to conceal his desire. His dick is hard against Gallagher’s thigh. Gallagher doesn’t know if a second round will even be enough to sate him; when Sunday gets like this, he doesn’t stop demanding until he’s completely satisfied. There is no doubt in Gallagher’s mind that he does not consider this a weakness. Wanting has never been something he bothered to conceal around Gallagher. Maybe he doesn’t think any of this is real. Maybe to him, Gallagher is temporary. Everything is temporary in a dream. But more likely he is simply unafraid of overplaying his hand because Gallagher is not a player.
There’s no point in overthinking it. Gallagher’s hard too; he wants Sunday. He has always wanted Sunday, despite himself. When he reaches for Sunday’s entrance he finds it still slick from earlier. That’s his cum, leaking out of him. The thought burns, sends him reeling.
He tries to get his fingers in him but Sunday pushes his arm away. “No, don’t bother, just fuck me.”
Gallagher would have liked to draw this out, to stretch Sunday open while he whines and begs, but this will have to do. He pins Sunday down on the bed, shoves his thighs open. How indecent he looks, spread out underneath him like this. Spread out for him.
He pushes all the way inside in one hard movement and Sunday’s head falls back, his mouth open. “Gallagher,” Sunday breathes, “Don’t—”
Gallagher doesn’t want to hear Sunday talk either. Always telling him what to do, what not to do. He fucks him in quick thrusts, not giving him time to adjust. The words fall away into bitten-off moans. This is it: the realest part of the dream. The world narrows down to touch and heat and Sunday beneath him, goddamn Sunday, does the Family know what he gets up to in the dreamscape? Do they care? None of this should be happening. Gallagher doesn’t know why anyone lets this happen, himself included.
He snaps his hips forward. Again. And again. It feels incredible; Gallagher knows it must hurt Sunday, not enough lubricant to make it easy, but Sunday doesn’t seem to care. He digs his fingers into Gallagher’s shoulders, urging him forward, to fuck him harder, rougher.
Sweat rolls down Gallagher’s forehead. He thinks maybe his hands are shaking; he braces one of them against the headboard and tries to let himself dissolve into the moment. The pleasure swells up inside him; he has no choice, can’t do anything but to pound Sunday into the mattress.
Finally Sunday manages to gasp out, “Touch—touch me—” and Gallagher automatically reaches for Sunday’s leaking, neglected cock, but then Sunday grabs his hand and guides it up, up to the pale column of his throat.
Something shivery-hot knifes through Gallagher—how many times has he imagined this? His hand, on Sunday’s narrow throat. He can feel his adam’s apple move when he swallows. Soft wings flutter against his knuckles. When Gallagher presses down with just the slightest bit of pressure Sunday moans so loud Gallagher’s afraid the whole hotel will hear him, and his hole clenches around where Gallagher is speared through him and Gallagher just keeps going, keeps fucking him, dragging sweet wails and gasps from his mouth.
Is this what Sunday wanted? Is this what he needs? It doesn’t seem right, watching pleasure contort Sunday’s face. Ecstasy looks wrong on him, like someone who has forgotten how to feel happiness and can only approximate it with delirium.
Gallagher lifts up one of Sunday’s slender legs, spreading him further apart, and the new angle has him pressing in even deeper. Hitting something inside Sunday that makes him squirm with every thrust.
It doesn’t take long to send Sunday over the edge. There might be tears in his eyes when he comes, head thrown back, pupils unfocused. Gallagher tries to look but almost immediately Sunday turns away from him, denying him. His heartbeat is wild under Gallagher’s fingers. Wet stripes of cum decorate his abdomen, and his softening cock lies between his legs, still untouched. He must be getting oversensitive; he makes a noise of complaint when Gallagher resumes fucking him, driving up into him with single-minded focus.
“‘S too much—ah—Gallagher enough, Gallagher—” Sunday starts struggling now, plain in his discomfort, and Gallagher feels something vicious claw its way up his chest, hooking in wherever it finds purchase.
Sunday should have never come here; Gallagher should have never let him in. There was a moment he had thought—well, Sunday was always angry at him, or contemptuous, or dismissive, but never afraid. Sunday did not know how to be afraid of something that wasn’t real. But maybe he was wrong about that. Dreams are real, too.
Gallagher does not stop.
He was never going to stop.
“Gallagher—I’m telling you—” Sunday’s breaths are ragged and wet, strained under pressure. He’s like a prey animal with the way he thrashes under Gallagher, soft and caught, unable to push off the weight and escape.
Slowly, the hand that’s wrapped around Sunday’s throat squeezes tighter. The noises die. Sunday’s eyes are wide. And there; the tears Gallagher was looking for.
Scrabbling nails claw against Gallagher’s back, digging into skin. Probably hard enough to draw blood. Gallagher doesn’t really feel it. This is worth the pain now, worth it to feel something real, or something close to it. He pushes up Sunday’s legs, nearly folding him in half. Sunday’s chest is heaving; his eyes roll back in their sockets, damp lashes fluttering, and when Gallagher loosens his grip slightly, just enough for him to get air, the sound he makes is so low and obscene and desperate that Gallagher immediately spills, soaking Sunday’s heated insides and filling him up. He thrusts a few more times, fucking his release back into Sunday. It’s messy. Filthy. Gallagher can’t hold himself back.
When he finally stills, he stops to catch his breath. Pulls out carefully. Sunday is already pushing him away again, impatient, and Gallagher lets him be shoved off this time. He catches himself on his elbows, looking back down at Sunday.
Sunday glares at him. There are new bruises blooming on his neck. They will be gone when he wakes up, like this never happened at all. He juts his chin out as if he is unashamed of them. But he still yanks the sheet up to his waist as if to hide the wreck Gallagher made between his thighs.
“You horrible brute. I should have known you couldn’t be trusted to have even the most basic self control,” he bites out. His voice is broken glass.
“I was hoping if I did a bad enough job you wouldn’t ask me to do it again.”
“That’s not for you to decide.”
Gallagher looks at Sunday for a long moment. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”
Sunday regards him with glacial disdain. He wipes the wetness on his face with the back of his hand. Then he curls up, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
Gallagher sighs. The sweat is cooling on his own skin, already uncomfortable. “At least let me get a towel to clean you up. Can’t sleep like this.”
“No. Stay here.”
He really is impossible.
“Fine.” Gallagher settles next to him. “Whatever you say, kid.”
Sunday fidgets a little. After a moment, he rolls over to face Gallagher. Close up and in the drape of the moonlight, Gallagher can see the little details he missed before—the hollows under his eyes, the sallowness of his cheeks—classic signs of dreamer sickness. It’s no surprise Sunday developed a case of insomnia, spending all his time working in the dream and not getting enough solid REM in the real world. There are loose feathers caught in his hair, little downy pieces tangled in the silvery locks. Gallagher resists the urge to comb them away.
Sunday’s voice is small and just barely imperious when he demands, “Hold me.”
Gallagher blinks down at him. It seems out of the blue; maybe he’s just missing his sister. Can’t sleep alone, and the other bird’s flown the nest. It's a good thing Gallagher’s here. It’s a good thing Gallagher can never, ever leave.
He halfheartedly flops an arm over Sunday’s shoulder. A poor imitation of comfort. But it seems to be enough—Sunday’s eyes slide shut and the creases on his face slowly relax. Soon his breathing is deep and even, lost to sleep.
Like this, Gallagher’s pinky is just barely touching the edge of Sunday’s halo. It’s warm. He doesn’t think Sunday noticed. He never let him touch his halo before.
Gallagher looks away. With his free hand, he reaches for his pack of cigarettes but finds them empty. Sunday had put out his last one. He crushes the empty container with his hand and lets it fall to the floor.
Somewhere out the window the great clock on the tower chimes. The dream is ending, but the dream has been ending for a long time. The eternal ticking of the timepiece goes on. He looks at his watch on the bed stand, the real one, the one Mikhail gave him. He’ll have to get up and go to work in a few hours. He wonders if Sunday is going to leave first or if Gallagher will have to wake him up. He doesn’t know why Sunday stays when he is the only one who can choose to leave.
Does Sunday know? Does he know what this all means to him?
He bites his tongue.
He hates that he’s always thinking of Sunday.
With a sigh, he rubs his eyes. Tries to scrub away the imprints Sunday left on his mind: his voice, his touch, the look on his face when he was on the cusp of falling asleep. That strange, uncanny softness. He didn’t think there was anything soft left about him.
Well, that made two of them.
He closes his eyes and waits for the next fleeting, insubstantial dream.