Screams filled the younger Malone's ears and smoke his nose; the water would be coming soon. Terror clawed at his chest as he realised they were all about to die, in spite of his efforts. He glanced at Blake and wondered, what should I say about the situation, my feelings, or any of this? He shook his head at the completely pointless distraction, eyes settling on his boots. Either way, the words were stuck in his throat. Does it even matter? I fell in love with the man from the letters, but I barely know the man in front of me and now I never will. Finally he threw out, "I didn't think he'd follow me."
Blake cupped his chin, forced him to look up. Blake's eyes were kind and sorrowful. "I know." Blake pulled him in and for a moment he wasn't sure what Blake was doing, then they were kissing, Blake's taste filling his mouth. He was pinned against the somewhere-burning hull, Blake's skin was hot against his, his mind was filled with the thought that they could have made this work, if only they'd had more time.
Father Michael Malone started awake, heart pounding. He could almost still taste Blake on his lips. Sitting up, he pushed the blankets aside; as usual after these dreams, he was hard and tempted to just finish the job himself. As usual, he ignored it all as he washed and dressed. Damn Blake for being so interesting, Michael thought as his mind flicked through the letters he had, in fact, read years ago. Michael had been a young teenager at the time, and William Blake had seemed almost like a fairy tale prince. Or the Elf King luring people to their destruction. Clergymen are supposed to be the pinnacle of virtue, after all. That had been what his father had reminded him when he'd learned of the crush. This is your own fault. You need to learn to be more proper, my boy. Michael had to admit that his father was right, much as it rankled.
In an uncharacteristic bid to do better, Michael bypassed his office (and the wine kept therein) and started mindlessly pacing between the pews. Really, why does it matter? He asked that nasty voice in his head. There are a few gays in town, they always come to me for confession, and I always absolve them. What does it matter, then, especially since I haven't even done anything? He had actually thrown something like that at his father once. He could still hear his father's reply: "My boy, the only reason we can offer forgiveness is because of our piety. I'm afraid yours is sorely lacking."
Yea, well, that was pretty rich of him to say, considering what he did to 'teach me better.' Michael was momentarily lost in a flood of memories, of his father's insistence that "Therapy like this is very effective, my boy. I'll soon have these ungodly feelings for men driven out of you." All too well, he remembered his father's insistence that he could do it himself, no need to spend money to send Michael away, all the pain that soon followed. Not wanting to think about that any more, Michael stalked to the broom closet and retrieved a rag, then brusquely began to dust and polish the old wooden pews. That all happened a long time ago. He shook his head. I've been praying for healing for years. Why hasn't God answered? Why do these dreams still plague me? Feeling overwrought, memories plaguing him like flies to roadkill, Michael finally dropped the rag and headed back to his office.