Cecily
It was like magic. I'd heard enough about the process, and I'd read up on both dreaming and Dreaming, but this amazing sweep into such a beautiful setting was nothing short of magic. My father would never approve of such practices, but here and now, this experience with Yusuf had me slightly speechless as I looked over a bay as beautiful as a postcard.
"Is it always like this?" I asked, turning to look at Yusuf. He was smiling at me, and sunshine dappled the terrace as it came between the shadows of the date palms.
"It's whatever the dreamer chooses," he told me. "In a dream, anything is possible."
"And this is your dream?"
"This time, yes," Yusuf reminded me. "But you are filling it. The people are all parts of your thoughts."
He looked happy, beaming at me, and I loved the way the breeze stirred his curls. Impulsively I took his hand, delighted to share this moment with him. "Can we walk? Go places here?"
"Of course," he agreed, and his fingers lightly squeezed mine. "Anywhere you wish to go, Ceci."
The old nickname—I had not been called that in a long time. His mother had started it, years ago, and to hear it from Yusuf made me blush. It was only when I looked down that I realized how I was dressed—another surprise. Rather helplessly I gazed at the sari, discomfited and yes, under that, secretly delighted. "Ohhhhh. How did-?"
"I'm sorry," he murmured, abashed. "Whenever I think of home, and all that I love in it . . . I pull all the best together. You do look nice in it."
"Dress-up," I blurted, stroking my free hand over the delicate fabric. "I tried on one of Harsha's years ago, remember?"
When he nodded, I blushed. To cover myself, I tugged his hand, and we went down the terrace steps into the sand. It was warm, and I laughed, delighted with how much like home it truly was. The only thing missing was scent, but other than that, everything was beautiful.
There were people on the beach—a drink vendor's cart, and sunbathers and tourists. Most were smiling at us, and I smiled back. I also was still holding Yusuf's hand, and he didn't seem to mind at all as we strolled along. The day was bright, but somehow there was no glare, no need to squint.
"I can see why people like this!" I told Yusuf happily. "To be lucid in the best and brightest setting—that's very tempting."
"There are charms," he admitted. "Perfect weather and delightful company, but there are drawbacks too, Ceci. Some of the senses are . . . impaired."
"Oh?" I couldn't think of what he meant, but he nodded his head to the vendor's cart.
"Taste, and scent, for most people. A few have all of them intact, but not many."
"But—!" I meant to ask more, but a woman bumped into me; she apologized for knocking me against Yusuf and hurried on across the sand. I stared after her, and he tried to soothe me.
"She's protecting you . . . I think," he murmured, hands along my upper arms. I didn't mind leaning back against him, to be honest. The knowledge that Yusuf was there, supporting me felt very good, and I turned my head just as he turned his . . . so near.
The sun, and the sea and the sand. Standing there, pressed against his chest. . .
Yusuf didn't move away and his eyes! So intense! My stomach fluttered. We were so close now, and all of me felt pulled; drawn towards him with a tip of my face up to his in what I knew would be very . . . good . . .
A blink, and suddenly I was looking up at a glass ceiling, with darkness beyond it. Sadness pierced me with needles of regret even as I blushed, all too aware of how *close* I had been to—
Yusuf cleared his throat and I looked over to see him sitting up, his own moon face flushed. "So! Um . . . that is . . . what dreaming is like . . ."
"Yes," I replied dumbly. "I . . . can see now why people choose it."
"Yes," he echoed, and I realized he sounded as hollow as I felt. "Still, it will never take the place of reality. Sweet as things might be in a dream, they're not real, and it's dangerous to think that they are."
Confused I looked at him, my mouth slightly dry with fear. Was he regretting the Dream? Yusuf turned his wheelchair away, and I slowly rose from the chaise, feeling a rush of sorrow deep inside.
I had been a fool to think that Yusuf might care for me the way I cared for him; that was apparent now.
Without a word, I carefully tugged the micro-needle lead out and reached for a sterile wipe to clean my wrist, but Yusuf leaned over and took it from me, turning my wrist up and lightly dabbing at it.
His fingers were warm, and damp.
"Ceci, I'm sorry. I never meant to . . . make you uncomfortable. Dreams are tricky places, and sometimes we don't have as much control over ourselves there as in the waking world," he murmured without looking at me.
I blinked. "But . . . I am the one who should apologize. After all, it was my dream."
"You did nothing untoward!" Yusuf protested. "I was the one at fault, I was the one who very nearly . . . put everything at risk."
Yusuf
Fool, fool that I was . . . I could not believe how quickly everything might have been undone in a moment. The only excuse I could make was that everything had been so perfect in that glorious second. Cecily looked so exquisite in the sari, and when she stumbled against me, it seemed so natural to hold her—
-and very nearly kiss her. I should be grateful the Dream ended before I thoroughly shocked the daylights out of Cecily, but in truth how I'd wanted to kiss her.
Just once, even if only in a dream.
But back here in reality, far from my too-tall palms and overly-bright beach it is easy to see that this was better for both of us. I tried to believe it, to see the sense in it.
But it was difficult. Cecily looked so . . . upset. I quietly cursed myself for my regrettable impulses and busied myself packing up the Pasiv as the silence grew between us, empty and . . . emptier.
Then, the silence broke with a small sound that broke my heart: a sniffle. When I looked up, Cecily quickly turned her face, but not before I'd seen the glittering streaks of tears down her cheeks.
In one bleak second I saw my entire future in wet ashes, and the panic of that galvanized me. "No! Cecily please don't cry. I'm so very not good with crying, please, dear!"
I babbled; I do that when I am at a loss, and the prospect of losing Cecily was enough to make me sound like some idiot stream, words cascading as I tried to stem the flow of her tears. Somehow I managed to catch her thin wrist again, and tug her closer; she didn't resist, and by sweet, dear luck, she crumpled into my arms so I could sit her in my lap.
So light, so warm—I held her, still talking like some gabbling fool, wiping her tears with my thumbs, and trying to hold her face so I could look in her eyes, bringing Cecily closer to me. She clung to me, and tried to say something, but I couldn't really hear her, I was too afraid to hear what she might say.
Never have I felt such a distress and delight at the same time, and I found myself nuzzling her, breathing in the perfume of her skin, brushing my lips against the wetness of her tears and suddenly it was no longer about comforting my little gazelle, oh no . . .
I was kissing her. There can be no doubt; my mouth pressed to Cecily's, and the absolute softness of her full-lipped, tender kiss sent volts of joyous fire through my veins.
I couldn't breathe, I couldn't talk, and most certainly I couldn't STOP since I wasn't thinking either. Instinct is an odd, odd thing, and has the capacity to take the reins away from a person's rationality. In this case, I was, as Eames would so inelegantly put it, snogging up a storm.
And wonder of wonders, Cecily was kissing me back! I dimly felt her hands cup the back of my head, keeping me close—not that I was about to pull away. Deep into a second kiss, the irresistible urge to taste her lips made me bold enough to open mine, and what had been blissful before was now a delicious pleasure as she did the same.
Not that I wish to kiss and tell, but Cecily and I, well—it was quite a while before we stopped. Long enough for night to fall and all the streetlights come on outside the warehouse. I had no true sense of time, only of my dear one in my arms. Finally though, she pulled away after one last kiss and sighed, a sweet gusty sound that I echoed.
"Yusuf, for the last few years I have wanted to do that," she murmured, shy now as she played with a curl of my hair. "I never thought I would."
"Years?" I repeated, smiling at her. "You were not alone. My God, Cecily, you don't know how long I've been . . . waiting. Hoping, but not brave enough . . ."
"No, I'm the one not brave, my sweet!" Cecily protested, laughing. "I would come into your pharmacy and pass the time, wishing I had the courage to say something that would tell you how I felt—"
"—And I would sit in my pharmacy, hoping you would come in so that I too, might have a chance to tell you of my feelings," I broke in, feeling amused frustration. "So the two of us have been dancing around each other without even knowing it!"
"So it seems," Cecily laughed. "I had no idea you cared for me in any way beyond friendship, Yusuf!"
"Well I do," I huffed. "And have, for almost as long as I've known you! Honestly, Ceci, the day Harsha brought you home . . ." I shook my head, ruefully amazed at how much time had been . . . wasted. I reached over to lift her chin and look into her eyes.
Such eyes—I suppose a man in love always sees his beloved as beautiful, but in all honesty, Cecily does have astoundingly beautiful eyes.
"Cecily, I love you," I managed in a voice that was not nearly as steady as I would have liked. "I have for so very long—"
My reward for this confession was another warm kiss as Cecily surged upwards against my mouth, and for a while we didn't need to speak.
