The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of hell, and a hell of heaven.
-- John Milton, Paradise Lost

Father Keogh had never prayed for so long, or with such perseverance, and it was well after nightfall when he at last lowered his eyes from the altar. He desperately needed guidance but, for the first time since he had become a priest, he had received none. And he was ashamed that his anger at Anacleto had not abated either. The death of innocents, and especially a mere child, to satisfy Anacleto's need for power over the town, over him, was unacceptable. He knew his anger stopped him from thinking clearly, and perhaps that was why he could not see what path God was laying out for him.

As for Anacleto... the bandit provoked such violent emotions in him, his naturally calm personality did not know how to deal with them. But he did know one thing: the deaths could not continue. No one else would die so Anacleto could make a point of being in charge of Quantana. No one else would die for the sake of the church. For him.

He rose slowly from his knees - frustrated, and ill at ease, and feeling as if he was being watched. It was not God's presence he sensed, because he felt abandoned and left to his own advices. With a sigh, he crossed himself. Then he turned towards the pews and saw the last person he expected.

"Good evening, Father." Anacleto was sprawled in the front row as if he owned it.

"What do you want?" The priest could not keep the loathing from his voice. Only hours ago, the man had refused his offer of redemption; his very presence inside the church was a mockery.

Anacleto clicked his tongue. "Such hostility from you in your very own church?"

Not willing to be baited, the priest asked coldly, "Have you finished celebrating your murder of an innocent boy?"

With a sigh, Anacleto leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "Father, it was a birthday we were celebrating. But you'll be pleased to know I did not enjoy the evening's festivities as I should have."

"I'm shattered."

The bandit's eyes narrowed. "To tell the truth, I spent the evening thinking over your offer." He shook his head when he saw the flash of hope in the blue eyes. "I stand by what I said - if your god's forgiveness is all you can give me, it's not enough. But luckily for us both, you have something much, much better with which to bargain for the lives of your flock."

"I know what it is you want, Anacleto, but the price is too high." Father Keogh made to turn away, weary and disappointed once again.

Anacleto leaned back, his arms stretched out along the backrest, and smiled. "You're so sure you know what I want?"

"Of course. But driving me, or even the church itself, out of Quantana will not drive God out of these people's hearts. If you had any faith at all, you would know this," Father Keogh challenged.

"Oh, you'd be surprised at the things I have faith in. As for driving you out of town - you are quite wrong, Father, if you think that's what I want."

The priest looked puzzled. "I know you would prefer me dead, but as you seem to have trouble finding efficient assassins, I imagine my departure would do just as well."

Anacleto laughed. He flexed his gloved hands and curled his fingers around the bench. "If I truly wanted you dead, Father, you would be dead. There were other, more efficient, men I could have sent instead; no one could have been more shocked than myself when I realized this. Even Old Uncle, full of tequila, would have done better." He smirked. "No, Father, you have turned out to be as resourceful and lucky as I had hoped, and the more I see you, the more I find that your departure is the last thing I want." He let his eyes rest on the priest's face for a long moment before they moved down his entire body.

Father Keogh cleared his throat, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. "I don't understand."

Anacleto smiled. "I've come to make you an offer, Father. These accidents will stop - immediately, I should imagine - if you're willing to enter into an arrangement with me."

"What kind of arrangement?" the priest asked suspiciously.

"A truce of a kind - a very special kind." Anacleto shifted in his seat, widening his legs a little. "The kind you should enjoy, Father. It will allow you to be a martyr; didn't you say yourself that a priest, more than anyone, must be willing to suffer for what he believes in?"

Father Keogh squared his shoulders. "What is it you want, Anacleto?"

Anacleto made a sound much like a purr, his eyes half closing. "You."

For a long moment, Father Keogh waited for the sentence to continue, or for an explanation of some kind to be given. When the bandit merely continued to silently gaze at him from half-lidded eyes, he grew uneasy.

Chuckling, Anacleto at last said, "Not all at once, don't worry. I'll give you time to get used to the idea. You'll find me extraordinarily patient when it comes to things I want." He winked. "There are quite a few letters left in the alphabet. I think it would be amusing to take you one letter at a time."

Drawing in a sharp breath, Father Keogh asked, in sheer disbelief, "Am I to understand that you... that..." He was grappling for words for something so outrageous, there did not seem to be a way to put it into words.

Anacleto fluidly rose to his feet and approached him. His eyes were fixed with disconcerting intensity on the priest's. "You are to understand, Father, that your precious congregation will be as safe and sound as in the good Lord's own lap, if you agree to become my lover."

Father Keogh flinched as if struck and took a step back, but Anacleto kept pace with him. "Father, I wouldn't suggest this if I didn't think you would find yourself... enjoying it." He smirked.

The priest was speechless. Protests, denials, and a thousand reasons why even capitulating and leaving Quantana would be preferable rushed through his mind one by one, but he was so utterly baffled by the outrageousness of the suggestion, none of them made it to his lips. All he knew was that God had not shown him any other way, and that he could not allow Anacleto to win. And if this was to be the price he had to pay for the lives of his parishioners, then he would bear it bravely.

"I'm flattered not to be denied outright." Anacleto smiled. He had successfully manoeuvred Father Keogh back against the altar and trapped him there. He traced his fingertips up the row of buttons on the black cassock and tugged playfully at the priest's collar. "You are either very stubborn or very brave, likely both. Either way, you're a credit to your church." He met the blue eyes which were watching him warily, and suggested in a low murmur, "Or perhaps I'm right, and you're not as averse to the idea as you should be?"

Not dignifying that remark with a response, Father Keogh narrowed his eyes. "No more lives would be lost on my account. No more accidents. No man, woman nor child will be harmed by you or your friends from this moment on."

"No one." Anacleto's voice was firm, and the humour had left his eyes. "I give you my word. But only if--"

"Yes."

The bandit looked more than a little taken aback. "You mean you agree to my condition?"

"What choice do I have?" Father Keogh asked. "Do what you want with me, and then we need never--"

"Oh no, Father, that's not the agreement." Anacleto's voice was hard, and there was a flicker of something other than anger in his eyes. "I have no desire to violate you."

"You expect me to be your... lover willingly?" the priest asked, only barely keeping his voice in check.

"I do. What's more..." Anacleto suddenly took the priest's right hand and raised it between them, stepping even closer to him. His voice dropped to deliver a promise. "By the time we get to Z, you will be begging me to take you." He raised the hand, and his lips brushed the knuckles before choosing one of them for a kiss.

Father Keogh's breathing was shallow and carefully controlled, as was his voice when he said, "Does it give you pleasure to ask me for the very thing that is most unforgivable to the Catholic church?"

"Your church and its preachings are of no interest to me, Father. If it chooses to promote the love of mankind while forbidding its own priests the pleasure of love, I can only pity you for being subject to her whims." Anacleto smirked, not releasing the hand held close to his lips. "But you are a man who can tell true right from wrong, and as for me - I am entirely selfish. My pleasure will be derived from getting exactly what I want; though you may believe me, Father, that the pleasure will be mutual."

Father Keogh huffed. "You cannot possibly believe that."

"We shall see." Anacleto smiled. "To show my sincerity, and to seal our bargain - no one whose name begins with H will die."

Father Keogh looked relieved but cautious. "As a show of good faith?"

"Not at all. To reward you for letting me kiss your hand." Anacleto laughed huskily at the stunned expression greeting that statement. "Oh, I am going to enjoy robbing you of your delicious innocence." He closed his lips over another knuckle, looking deep into the priest's eyes.

"Pray harder than ever before, Father, because I intend to spoil you for your church - one touch, one kiss, one bite at a time." And with that, he released the other's hand and turned on his heels to strut down the aisle and out into the night.

Father Keogh was left staring after him, shaking with anger and a fear for which he had no name yet.

As if to prove that he could unsettle the priest, Anacleto made no appearance for three days, and Father Keogh was just beginning to breathe more easily again, half convinced he had dreamed the entire fantastic encounter, when his peace was shattered utterly.

He was collecting flowers, for a baptism, along a path leading into the fields outside Quantana, when a soft, warm weight brushed against his calf. He glanced down at the snow white cat nudging his leg. It daintily slinked around his ankles before blinking up at him from strange golden eyes and meowing demandingly.

"Well, who do you belong to?" Father Keogh laid the flowers he had collected on the path and gently rubbed his knuckles over the top of the cat's head, between its ears. When it purred enthusiastically, its ears twitching and eyes closing blissfully, he picked it up in his arms.

The cat settled in comfortably and stretched out its forepaws, and they opened and closed on his upper arm. For one strange moment, he was put in mind of Anacleto, assuming it was because Father Gomez had told him the bandit liked cats. What had he said? He likes cats, but not from kindness. There's no kindness in him.

At the time, he had questioned Father Gomez' judgement, and despite everything he knew about Anacleto by now, he still found it hard to believe that a man who liked animals did not have some shred of kindness somewhere deep inside him.

"You look like old friends."

Father Keogh glanced up from his contemplation of the cat to find Anacleto standing a few feet away down the path, smiling.

"I take it this is your cat?"

"He seems to have adopted me recently, yes." Anacleto walked right up to him and raised a gloved hand to rub underneath the cat's chin, and it approved with a soft purr. "I was beginning to think he despised everyone else." He smiled oddly. "Each and every one of my friends has scratches to prove it."

"Perhaps you should change the company you keep." Father Keogh's suggestion earned a chuckle, and when he motioned to pass the cat to Anacleto, the bandit shook his head.

"Oh no, hold him a little longer. He looks perfectly blissful in your arms." He met the priest's eyes, and his voice dropped. "And no wonder." Father Keogh felt a blush rising to his cheeks, but was unable to break the prolonged gaze, and then Anacleto's gloved fingers were brushing the spaces between his own on the soft white fur of the snuggling cat. "Do you have a first name? Aside from 'Father', of course?" He smirked.

"Yes." Father Keogh shifted his hold on the cat in an attempt to move his hands out of Anacleto's path, but the bandit merely adjusted to the change.

"Tell me," Anacleto implored softly, the smirk gone.

The priest turned away, dislodging Anacleto's hand from atop his own, but he only succeeded in having it draw up across his chest and to his shoulder.

Anacleto chose to leave it right there, squeezing the tense muscles lightly while leaning close to the priest's ear. "Tell me," he demanded.

Reluctantly, Father Keogh said, "Michael."

Anacleto walked around him and reached out to cup his cheek, smiling when the cat nudged his hand as if to keep it away from the priest. "Would you like me to give you another letter, Michael?" His voice was like honey, and he caressed the name with a throaty purr.

The priest, who had not been called anything other than Father Keogh in longer than he had realized, shivered. "Yes," he said, telling himself that to give Anacleto his first name was a small price to pay for the safety of everyone whose name began with the letter I.

Anacleto, as if he had read his mind, smirked. "Then a little peck on the cheek should be a bargain." Without waiting for permission, he tilted his head and pressed his lips to the priest's cheek in a soft, lingering kiss. Then he drew back with a sigh. "There. That didn't hurt, did it?"

Father Keogh narrowed his eyes at him. "No," he said. It had, in fact, felt delightful. He was more than a little shaken by the warmth and unexpected softness of the bandit's finely chiselled lips, but he was not about to admit that to either Anacleto or himself.

Anacleto smiled broadly. He held out his arms for the cat, and after it had been placed there, said, "Well, Father Michael Keogh, I'll see you quite soon." The cat seemed to agree, stretching its paws out towards the priest with an imploring meow. Laughing, Anacleto turned and carried the bundle of fur back towards Quantana.

Father Keogh was seated in his study, working on Sunday's sermon, when he heard the door to the dispensary creak open. He knew it couldn't be Chela - she had gone to bed nearly an hour ago - and he had forbidden Locha to wander through town on her own late at night, assuring her he was quite safe. When he looked towards the stairs and met Anacleto's amused expression, his heart sank.

"Good evening, Father."

Father Keogh did not respond, merely watched the bandit walk to the single chair on the other side of his desk and sit down on it in his usual sprawl.

"Busy?" Anacleto asked pleasantly, not at all put out by the cool reception.

"Yes, I am."

"Don't mind me, then. I'll just sit here quietly." He appeared to settle in to do just that, stripping off his gloves and crossing his legs.

"Are you just going to sit there and watch me?" Father Keogh asked in disbelief. This time, Anacleto did not respond, except with his infuriating smile.

Tired of the game, Father Keogh returned to working on his sermon, doing his best to ignore the unwelcome visitor. He had been writing steadily for nearly ten minutes, and had all but forgotten the other presence in the room, when a warm gust of breath at his ear caused him to drop his fountain pen. A spot of black ink spread over the last paragraph just as Anacleto's hands covered his on the edges of the paper.

Anacleto's lips did not quite brush his ear when he whispered, "I try to stay away from you for as long as I can, to let you grow accustomed to the terms of our contract, but now that I've tasted your skin, I find I can think of nothing but you."

Father Keogh fought the impulse to struggle away from the bandit's proximity. After all, the hands covering his were not restricting, and the man's lips did not quite touch his skin, but the heat of his body, right behind him, felt as much like a touch as to not make a difference; he sat stiffly to avoid physical contact between them.

"Do I frighten you?" Anacleto whispered, and on the word 'you', his lips just grazed the outer shell of the priest's ear.

"No." Even that one word was a struggle to press through suddenly dry lips.

"No? It would be exciting to think you're just a little frightened of me."

"I'm sorry to disappoint," Father Keogh managed with monumental effort. He wished Anacleto would release his hands; he felt trapped.

The husky laugh was a gust of warm air across the shell of his ear, and he barely managed not to whimper at the unexpected sensuality of it.

Anacleto's hands suddenly left his to slide up over his forearms, cup his elbows for an instant, and then move to his shoulders, where they stopped for a minute, maybe two, before the thumbs began kneading into the sensitive tissue on either side of the priest's nape. Gentle, shallow pressures alternated with gliding strokes over the downy skin, raising a shiver, and suddenly, Anacleto's lips were at his ear again.

"Your skin is like velvet," he breathed. "I could never tire of touching you."

Father Keogh stared straight ahead, knowing Anacleto was able to see his profile and would analyse his reactions, but his effort became a struggle when full lips closed around his earlobe and nipped sharply, with just a touch of carefully covered teeth. Before the priest could recover from the shock, the lips parted - not to release the soft flesh but to make room for the tongue tip emerging to flicker against it as if to soothe.

With the priest's shiver - impossible to suppress - the bandit's respiration increased, and the gentle tongue flicks morphed into a suckling pressure, lips closing around the earlobe and drawing it between them.

Father Keogh's lips parted in a need for more oxygen. He was struggling to cope with the unfamiliar assault on his senses.

The hands on his shoulders tightened, and the sucking of the sensitive cartilage was abandoned, if only to accommodate a hot whisper against the damp flesh, "You're struggling to breathe, Father."

Unable to deny the obvious, considering their proximity, the priest merely tried to turn his face away, but a hand cupped his chin and held his head fast. He knew with this grip, Anacleto could easily, even inadvertently, break his neck, so he held perfectly still even when a hot tongue snaked into the shell of his ear, playing with the delicate shapes and ridges until the tip could dip into the heat at the centre. He couldn't stop the escaping gasp or the way his body jolted. The searching tongue retreated, and there was a soft chuckle as the side of his neck was caressed by Anacleto's left hand, the index finger of his right tracing the damp ridges of his ear. When he thought Anacleto would at last move away, soft lips were pressed against the side of his neck, and then his nape, and only then did the bandit stand up with a sigh.

His voice sounded breathless. "I believe I owe you the letter J."

The priest looked up, but Anacleto was already walking past him, then turning into the dark staircase. As he turned, his state of arousal was plain to see, and the priest's wide-eyed reaction was met with a somewhat sheepish smile.

Twenty minutes went by after Anacleto's departure before Father Keogh, even knowing himself alone and unobserved, dared to move from behind his desk and go up to bed. It was hours later when sleep finally claimed him.

Father Keogh considered breaking an old habit and locking his doors, at least at night. But he could not justify shutting out his congregation in order to shut out Anacleto. Besides, to do anything which endangered his agreement with the bandit would, though better for his own equilibrium, spell disaster for the town. So he did the only thing he could do - he distracted himself with his parish duties and stayed out of Anacleto's way until the bandit would next decide to pay him a visit.

He didn't expect him the very next day - not in the church or his own home, but out on the street, as he made his way into town. Anacleto was waiting for him on the corner of a building, supporting himself against the wall behind with his booted foot.

"Father," he greeted with a tip of his hat.

"Anacleto," was the cautious reply.

The bandit smiled. "Is it safe for you to walk home all alone this late?"

"Apparently not."

Anacleto laughed softly. "Perhaps I should make a habit of escorting you home from your duties?"

Father Keogh gave him a dark look. "I'm sure that won't be necessary."

"It would be my pleasure." And Anacleto moved away from the wall and took a few steps towards the town centre, looking back over his shoulder with a smirk when the priest did not immediately follow. "Coming, Father?"

Father Keogh raised his brows in surprise, but began to walk down the empty street alongside Anacleto. It was almost companionable, the way they walked silently through the moonlit night, and only when they had nearly reached his home did Father Keogh wonder which door to use. He did not want Anacleto to follow him around the back of the house, where it was pitch-dark, but he certainly did not want to be seen to be dropped off at his front door. Choosing the lesser of two evils, he turned at the corner of the building, with Anacleto's sharp boot clicks following obediently.

"Did you sleep well last night, Father?" Anacleto asked unexpectedly just as they reached the back door.

Father Keogh narrowed his eyes at him. "Certainly," he said, doing his best not to feel guilty about the white lie.

"I didn't." Anacleto barred the door with his arm. "A certain someone left me wondering whether I hadn't overestimated my own patience. But I plan to sleep better tonight."

A frisson of fear raced through Father Keogh's blood. "What do you mean by that?"

Anacleto smiled. "You needn't look so worried. I don't intend to plunder your virtue here and now."

"What do you intend to do?" Father Keogh asked against his better judgement, hoping it did not sound in any way like encouragement.

One arm still blocking escape into the house, the bandit held out his hand. "Come closer, Michael," he beckoned teasingly.

The priest did not move, but neither did he resist when Anacleto pushed himself away from the door and reached around his waist. He might be trapped, but he had no intention of assisting in his capture.

Anacleto sighed at the way the man was leaning away from him, but by the simple act of turning them until the priest's back was against the wall and then stepping forward, he brought down the distance between them to mere inches.

"I considered claiming a goodnight kiss from you this evening." Anacleto smiled at the way the priest's breath audibly stuttered to a halt. His eyes dropped to his lips, and he gave a small sigh. "But I find I want to delay that particular pleasure just a little longer."

Father Keogh kept his expression as neutral as he could manage, offering neither panic nor encouragement.

"There is something I do need, though," Anacleto murmured, his eyes roaming the other's face and his head tilting. He leaned close and breathed in deeply, his nose just nudging against the underside of the priest's jaw. "Tonight, when I go to sleep, I want to remember the warmth of your skin, your scent, your taste. I need you to fill my senses all night."

The priest averted his face, but Anacleto merely took advantage. He nudged up his chin with the bridge of his nose to teased the stretched length of his throat with his lips.

Father Keogh endured the deep inhalations and teasing lips with some difficulty, but when they were joined by the tip of Anacleto's tongue, tickling a thin line up the smooth skin, he involuntarily swallowed, and his Adam's apple rippled under the roughness of Anacleto's tongue.

Anacleto growled low in his throat, and the sound thrilled along the priest's nerves in a disconcertingly pleasurable way. Full lips closed over and sucked gently on the protrusion of his Adam's apple, raising goose bumps on the soft surrounding skin. And all the while, Anacleto kept breathing him in as if his scent was manna from the heavens.

Without any conscious decision, the priest's hands had found Anacleto's shoulders, and he was about to draw the man closer when he caught himself in time and tried to push him away instead.

But Anacleto would not be pushed, the resistance intensifying his attack, his focus on memorizing every inch of the priest's neck and every trace of his scent only increasing. His hands moved up from waist to shoulder blades, his lips seeking out a new spot to kiss and suck and then lave with long strokes of his tongue.

Too late, Father Keogh realized he was being marked. As Anacleto's property? As his prey? He discounted the shiver of pleasure at the thought as being due to lack of oxygen, and he made a second effort to push the bandit away.

This time, Anacleto allowed it, his nearly black eyes sparkling even in the sparse light. He did not explain his delighted smile, nor did he apologize for the intensity of his assault. He simply raised his index and middle fingers to his lips, then pressed them to Father's Keogh's, before saying softly, "K." Then he opened the door for the priest and vanished into the night.

Father Keogh rushed inside without looking back.

For nearly four days, Father Keogh could not leave the house, keeping Chela's curious questions about his scarf at bay by pretending a certain huskiness. It was easy, because the merest memory of what had transpired with Anacleto took his breath away; he had never felt more disconcerted in his life. Chela insisted on dosing him with his own cough syrup, and as it was perfectly harmless, he allowed it, the pretence at illness keeping him inside the house. Of course, he knew his doors were no barrier to Anacleto.

He was about to take his evening dose of the syrup when the door to the dispensary creaked open. He did not have to look up to see who it was; the shaking of his hand holding the spoon told him.

"You're ill?" came the unexpected greeting in an even more unexpected tone of concern.

Father Keogh blinked at Anacleto in surprise. He took the syrup before lowering the spoon and placing it on a saucer. "No, I'm not."

Anacleto frowned. "No one has seen you in days."

"That's because you've forced me into hiding," Father Keogh accused. He tugged down the scarf slightly where the marks of his stigma had faded to dim stains.

Anacleto's half worried, half angry expression dissolved into one of pure delight. He drew the scarf further aside, his gloved fingertips brushing the spots, and whispered, "Beautiful."

Father Keogh's stomach tightened oddly, and his voice did not quite manage to sound accusing when he said, "I must be able to carry out my duties unhindered, despite our agreement."

Anacleto did not appear to be listening. He removed his right glove and traced the marks again, one by one, with his bare hand. "Everyone should see this," he said roughly, then raised his eyes to meet the priest's. "Everyone should know that you belong to me."

"I belong to no one but God!" Father Keogh insisted hotly.

Anacleto grasped his right arm and pulled him close to hiss at him, "Your precious God, who rations his love and would forbid you the pleasure of it altogether? Who knows nothing of the warmth of flesh? Of lust, singing in your blood like a fever? He doesn't know what to do with you!" He was breathing hard, his mouth an inch from the priest's, his eyes burning.

"He doesn't know the agony I go through each time I see you. He doesn't know the need I have of you, the restraint it takes to keep myself from ravishing you right here and now." He raised his right hand, still holding Father Keogh's upper arm with his left, and laid a finger to the soft bottom lip. He groaned when he found it still sticky from the aniseed syrup. The smooth flesh was trembling, as was the arm held tight in his grasp.

"He doesn't know," Anacleto whispered, tracing the lip with his finger, pushing down a little to open the priest's mouth further and slide his fingertip inside. He gathered the sweetened saliva, raised it to his lips, and sucked it off his finger.

Father Keogh's heart was pounding, more than one sensation wreaking havoc with it. When Anacleto placed his damp finger on his lip once more, he struggled not to close his mouth around it, simply letting the bandit trace wetness over first his bottom lip, then the top one. He closed his eyes when Anacleto sucked the finger into his own mouth a second time.

"Look at me," came the harsh command, and the priest obeyed, stunned to the point of fear by the heat in Anacleto's eyes. "Look at me, and tell me that your God makes you feel the way I do!"

The response was tremulous. "What I feel doesn't matter."

"It does to me!" Anacleto hissed, then pulled the priest roughly into his arms and kissed him.

Father Keogh was trapped in his arms, trembling against the body searing him even through cotton and leather, sensuous lips nudging his own apart breath by breath until the tip of Anacleto's tongue could venture beneath the gentle plunge in the centre of his upper lip. The bandit's hands were on his back, crushing him close. His tongue tickled the soft, aniseed-sticky flesh as it pushed further to seek out his tongue, and when they met, Anacleto stroked along the red flesh, teasing the lingering sweetness from its surface. At last, he sucked on the muscle, trying to coax it to follow into his own mouth. With a whimper, Father Keogh tried to push the bandit away.

And Anacleto tore his mouth from the priest's. He did not release him from his arms, but after closing his eyes for a long moment, and then opening them again to take in the bruised, shining lips and hunted expression in wide blue eyes, he sighed.

"I never meant to kiss you like that for the first time." He rested his forehead against Father Keogh's. "I meant to be tender, like this." And he nudged the swollen lips ever so lightly with his own, tilted his head to kiss them softly, nipped at the lower one with his mouth closed around it, flicked his tongue against the seam of them without pushing inside.

Father Keogh desperately wished this kiss was as hard and demanding as the first. He was shaking in the bandit's arms, the unlikely tenderness painful in its intensity where mere force had been too overwhelming to think. To feel. He could not help the escaping sigh when the pressure of Anacleto's lips on his eased, and then the hands on his back moved up and pulled him against Anacleto's chest, and then they were cheek to cheek, and he was simply being held close.

"L", Anacleto murmured close to his ear. Then he kissed his cheek, pushed the priest away with a heavy sigh and started for the door. Before he reached it, he looked over his shoulder again and gave Father Keogh a melancholic smile. "And M."

"Why?" Father Keogh asked in a quivering voice, wondering at the same moment why he was questioning an earlier end to their agreement. The bandit's next words reminded him.

"Because the waiting is torture," Anacleto said roughly. He ran a hand through his hair, averted his eyes, and left.

Confession had ended at last, and Father Keogh went into the sacristy, deep in thought. He had found it impossible to concentrate, had been remiss in offering solace or reassurance, and had merely gone through the motions of the sacrament. It was unforgivable that while performing his duties as a Catholic priest, he could think of nothing but another man's arms around him, of the unexpected sweetness of his breath and the intoxicating taste of his lips. That it was a man he should despise - no, not despise, but draw away from a path of sin - made it that much worse. That his heart beat faster every time a door opened or Chela announced a visitor made it deplorable; not that Anacleto would ever simply walk through his front door like a guest. He appeared in the dark, unannounced and by stealth, like a bird of prey.

And he himself was developing a sixth sense about these appearances.

"Anacleto," he sighed, a moment before a shadow separated from the darkest corner of the sacristy.

"Father." Anacleto's response was almost hesitant, and he looked around as if to ensure they were alone.

Father Keogh did not volunteer any confirmation of this, though he knew that they were. He pretended to ignore Anacleto, walking to the shelf where his vestments were stored. When he heard the door separating sacristy and church close, he turned. Anacleto was stalking towards him, and his earlier thought of him as a bird of prey came vividly to life before his very eyes.

"Don't--" He began, about to warn Anacleto not to disrespect the sanctity of the church.

But Anacleto merely looked him over thoughtfully, his eyes lingering on the pristine white surplice. "You look angelic," he said softly.

Father Keogh did not know what to respond to that. When Anacleto reached out to trace his fingers first along the lacy sleeves, and then touched the elaborate lace hem, he took a step back.

"I wonder," said Anacleto. "How angelic are you really? These clothes you wear are not who you are; they're just another temptation your church likes to dangle before sinners." He looked into Father Keogh's eyes, smirking. "Tell me, Michael, as someone who has made a deal with the devil... What passions are simmering under that immaculate costume? Will you remain angelic even after a night spent trembling in my arms?"

Father Keogh swallowed hard. With some difficulty, he asked, "Why are you playing this game, Anacleto?"

"Game?" The bandit blinked.

"This agreement," the priest clarified. "Or whatever you wish to call it."

"You think it's a game?" Anacleto asked sharply.

"What else would it be to you?"

The bandit flinched, but tried to cover the reaction by turning away and striding across the small room to the window. There, he peered through the rails at the dry shrubs outlined by faint moonlight. "Let's call it... a seduction," he suggested flatly.

Father Keogh frowned. The man's entire posture had changed, his usual arrogance and self-control seemingly slipping from his grasp. He did not know what to say, nor did he understand the change, but he felt a twinge of irrational guilt at having inadvertently brought it about. It was a change which, he knew, he should welcome. After all, was his purpose in humouring Anacleto not to prove himself more resilient? To prove that his faith was stronger than the bandit's power?

When Anacleto turned back to face him after some minutes, he was wearing a mask; something about that impersonal expression struck fear into the priest's heart.

"You have no acolyte?" Anacleto asked unexpectedly.

"No, I don't." Father Keogh saw no need to point out that fear of Anacleto's wrath against the church kept potential candidates from volunteering for the task.

"No one to assist you into and out of your church garments?"

"It's of no consequence," Father Keogh said warily, unconsciously retreating a step. "I'm perfectly able to dress myself."

"What about undressing?" Anacleto took several rapid steps towards him, reaching the priest before he could find a better escape than the corner of the room. He took hold of his shoulders. "Perhaps I could be your acolyte?"

"I don't think that would be--"

"Surely," Anacleto interrupted, "such an ordinary task performed by acolytes everywhere is not frowned upon?" His voice was mocking.

"You're not an acolyte."

Anacleto laughed, but there was no humour in it. "Who knows, I might develop a taste for the duties involved. I could be a permanent fixture in your sacristy."

Father Keogh licked his too dry lips, his nerves growing more rigid by the moment, and Anacleto hissed softly, his eyes following the gesture.

"What do I remove first? This thing here?" He took the ends of the confessional stole in both hands and drew the priest closer. He looked intently into his wide eyes, sighed, and let the stole slide from his right hand, drawing it from around the priest's neck with his left. He folded it carefully, stroking the fine purple and gold silk as he did so.

"Anacleto," Father Keogh said, watching the bandit put the stole to one side. "Stop this."

"Next, your angel wings, I think?" And Anacleto untied the golden cord around his neck, taking his time. Then he drew the two sides apart and grasped the lace hem with both hands. "Up," he ordered, as if speaking to a child.

Father Keogh raised both arms, and the white surplice was drawn up over his head, leaving him clad in his customary black cassock.

Anacleto snorted on realizing he had essentially removed no clothes at all. He did not fold the surplice. Instead, he held it scrunched up in his hands, then raised it to his face and inhaled deeply. He stood like that, with his eyes closed, enraptured by the mix of incense, native flowers and, underlying them subtly, its wearer's own faintly musky scent. When he opened his eyes again and met Father Keogh's, the priest was relieved to find the earlier mask gone and Anacleto's expression more human again.

"I think you really are an angel," the bandit said wistfully. "You certainly smell like one."

Despite himself, Father Keogh's lips twitched into a smile, more of relief than humour. "How would you know what an angel smells like?"

Anacleto laughed softly. "Just because I'm far from being anything of the kind, don't assume I haven't made a careful study of one." Without putting down the surplice, he reached out his right hand and let his fingers brush the priest's cheek.

"I'm becoming something of an expert," he said. "For instance, I know they have breathtaking blue eyes." Father Keogh met the intense gaze bravely, not daring to move while the fingertips traced his cheekbone, then made a path down the side of his face. "Exquisitely soft skin," Anacleto murmured, his fingers rounding the priest's jaw and moving under his chin to tip it up a little. "Innocent lips begging to be kissed."

The priest was shocked to find himself more comfortable with this seductive, strangely tender Anacleto than with the cold and impersonal one he had glimpsed earlier. Something buried deep inside him told him it was better not to ask why.

"What are you thinking?" Anacleto promptly asked.

Father Keogh knew his cheeks flushed, and he tried to think of something to say, something neutral to change the mood of anticipation.

The bandit's next words were surprising. "You needn't tell me, if you'd rather not."

"I'd rather not," the priest said hurriedly.

This made Anacleto smile. "Good," he said softly, drawing out the word as if he was saying much more. He left his fingers under the priest's chin, leaned in, and whispered, "Let me give you something else to think about, Angel." The kiss he breathed onto Father Keogh's lips was so tender, it was scarcely more than a feather touch. Then, his mouth millimetres away, his eyes half-closed, he whispered, "O."

Father Keogh did think about that kiss, and about things Anacleto had said and not said, until the early hours of the morning. Then, feeling exhausted by the way his carefully ordered life and peace of mind were slipping away from him, he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

It was that morning that Chela had an outburst of temperament, telling him off for working too hard and sleeping too little. He endured her concerned tirade with a smile, responded to it with soothing words, and then went into the dispensary. There, he encountered much the same from Locha, who was unwilling to believe him that he was perfectly well when he dropped the third glass vial in a single hour. He was glad to take her up on her offer to take over the work for the rest of the day, and agreed when she insisted he go for a relaxing walk.

He had barely made it across the main street when the police chief rushed out to intercept him, telling him he had grave news, and that he would let him know more later. He had a murder to investigate - the murder of a man named Ernesto Chavez.

Father Keogh's blood ran cold, and before the police car had even pulled away, he was rushing towards the Hotel Martinez. Fury, betrayal and disappointment were at war within him, and he could not have said which was the overwhelming sensation.

Ignoring the hostile glares from Anacleto's friends, the priest hurried upstairs, where he found Anacleto calmly reading by the window, his cat on his lap.

"Anacleto!" he said sharply.

The bandit looked up, and his eyes widened. His expression was so open and genuinely pleased to see him that the priest was thoroughly taken aback. Not knowing how to feel about the unguarded reception, Father Keogh struggled to inject all his anger into his voice. "Is this how much your word is worth?"

Anacleto lifted the cat off his thighs and stood, the light in his eyes dimmed. "What happened?"

"As if you needed me to tell you that!" Father Keogh walked up close to him, flushed and with his hands balled into fists at his side. He hissed, too quietly for anyone downstairs to hear. "I trusted you to keep your side of the bargain as I've kept mine. I even thought..." He took a deep breath.

"What did you think?" Anacleto asked urgently.

"What does it matter?" the priest said, turning away. He found it hard to look into those too expressive, lying eyes. "I was wrong about everything, after all. You are as insincere as you are untrustworthy."

Anacleto took his elbow and turned the priest to face him. "What happened?" he repeated, slowly. "Tell me."

Father Keogh narrowed his eyes. "A man was murdered this morning, as you well know."

"I know nothing about it."

"Do you think because his name began with C, because Father Gomez was still here then, and this game of yours only began with H, that you--"

"Listen to me," Anacleto interrupted. He looked deep into the priest's eyes, his own a storm of concern and distress. "I did not, nor would I ever, break our agreement. Not for anything in the world, and you should know that by now. I did not kill this man, whoever he was, nor did I send anyone else to kill him. You must believe me." He loosened his grip. "Please."

Father Keogh was torn. The entreaty appeared sincere, and he wanted to believe Anacleto, wanted to believe that he had not been deceived into sin for naught. He needed to believe him, if only to assuage his own guilt and know that his judgement was not blinded by his... his connection he felt with Anacleto.

"Please," Anacleto said again, letting go of the priest's arm entirely. "Believe me." Anacleto's cat was butting its face against the priest's leg, purring mournfully as if to add its own petition.

He looked down at it, then met Anacleto's eyes. "If you are lying to me, our pact is no more," he said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice.

Anacleto nodded. "I would expect nothing less."

The priest again searched the dark eyes for any sign of deception and, finding nothing but distress, left, with confusion clouding his mind. He made his way through the gauntlet of Anacleto's band, ignoring their jibes and barely hearing Anacleto's sharp reprimands to them.

It took three hours before he heard from the police chief. Ernesto Chavez had been murdered by his wife's lover - a man who had only recently moved to Quantana and was now in custody for the crime. He had confessed, and there was no connection between him and Anacleto at all.

Seeking the solitude and peace of the church, but unable to face anyone who might come to him for advice, Father Keogh made his way up to the top of the clock tower that night. The moon was not yet full, but it glowed brightly enough to silhouette Quantana, reflect off the rooftops, and give an unearthly sparkle to the fine sand covering the ground. He was growing fond of the town, and it hurt to think that, for one reason or another, he may yet have to leave it.

Without conscious decision, his eyes sought out the imposing outline of the Hotel Martinez. He wondered what Anacleto was doing, and as if conjured there by mere thought, the bandit's voice came from just behind his right. "May I join you?"

Father Keogh nodded, not trusting his voice and not knowing what to say. Anacleto's warm presence at his back was at once disconcerting and comforting. He had been unsure whether he had put the town at risk again with his earlier reaction and was strangely relieved that the bandit had sought him out after all.

"It's said that looking at the moon for too long brings about madness."

Father Keogh snorted softly. "Then I must have looked at it too long already."

"Oh, I don't think so." Anacleto placed a hand on his left shoulder and squeezed. "You reacted quite rationally. You have no reason to trust me."

"What kind of priest am I, that I cannot trust unconditionally?"

"One who, unlike the rest of his brethren, thinks independently," Anacleto said.

Father Keogh sighed. His penchant for questioning where he was meant to have blind faith had caused him trouble all his life. "I'm sorry," he murmured.

Anacleto's right hand cupped Father Keogh's shoulder as well, and he moved right up against his back and pressed his cheek to the priest's. "You needn't be."

Father Keogh closed his eyes, for once letting himself enjoy this intimacy to which he had no right. "How did you know I was here? It's not possible to see this part of the tower from the street."

"I don't know," Anacleto said thoughtfully. "I simply came here."

Very nearly, Father Keogh told him that he was glad of it, but the warmth of Anacleto's breath across his cheek flustered him too much to speak.

"I'm glad I found you. I desperately wanted to be close to you tonight."

Father Keogh smiled, his heart lighter than it had been all day. He wondered whether he was not going mad after all; too much moonlight indeed.

"You're a very kind-hearted man," Anacleto said unexpectedly. "The others, like Father Gomez, were merely pretending to be, from some sense of duty. But you... you feel everything, you claim responsibility for everything, you want to save everyone. Even me."

"Especially you." Father Keogh could not have explained what made him say that, and he knew as well as any priest that no single person should be special to him in any way, but it was the truth.

Anacleto's hands loosened on his shoulders, but only to slide forwards across his chest and meet there; it was a strangely intimate, yet comfortable, embrace. "I was terribly afraid this morning," he admitted softly. "That, even once you found out I had nothing to do with that man's death, you'd reconsider, and I would never be allowed to touch you again."

Father Keogh closed his eyes, not daring to speak for fear of what he might say. When Anacleto's fingers slipped open a few buttons at the top of his cassock, he held his breath. Cool fingertips stole inside the parted linen, and he gasped at the first touch to his bare skin.

Anacleto, too, held his breath. His palm flattened against the gently thrumming chest, and he moved his cheek against the priest's. "You're so warm," he murmured. "I wish I could live inside you."

Father Keogh drew in gulps of cool night air. Anacleto's voice was like honey pouring over his skin, and his hand lay right over his heart which, undeniably, beat like a hammer.

Anacleto's touch lingered there for a long time, as if to make sure the frantic beat was subject to his touch. When he finally moved his hand, his fingers gently nudged a hardened nub before his palm came to rest over it.

It was hard to tell which of them was breathing faster. The pressure of Anacleto's hand held him close, and then it began to circle slowly, the teasing touches to his raised flesh intentional now, growing more purposeful the more the skin hardened. He became more and more aware of Anacleto's scent, of the strong beat of Anacleto's heart at his back, and it took all his willpower not to press back to feel it more intensely.

When Anacleto's right hand was joined inside the parted cassock by his left, the night air stirred the exposed flesh into even more heightened awareness. Anacleto looked over the priest's shoulder, watching his hands trace pale flesh with the faintest sprinkling of hair in the centre. While he watched, he drew the cassock as wide open as he could, smiling when this snapped open the priest's collar.

"Are you willing to let me give you two letters tonight, Michael?" he asked huskily.

"Yes," Father Keogh replied, shocked by the urgency in his own voice.

Anacleto spun him around in his arms and pressed him back against the tower wall, his mouth taking the priest's hungrily while his fingers caressed the half bared chest. When he at last released the open mouth, he parted the cassock and bent his head to kiss the warm flesh reverently. He kept his eyes closed while exploring the area thoroughly, and then he quickly undid two more buttons, hungry to taste more skin, feel more of the priest's heartbeat against his tongue.

Father Keogh's head was tipped back against the stone, his eyes squeezed shut, and he fought the urge to cry out. He had never even imagined forbidden sensations like these, was wholly unprepared for them, and he was afraid that if he allowed himself to cry out, he would be lost forever.

Anacleto's lips at last ceased their torment, and he looked up as if sensing the priest's struggle. Letting his fingers tenderly follow the outline of his exposed collarbones, he smiled, then feathered kisses all the way up the arched throat. When he reached an ear, he parted his lips to whisper something, but changed his mind at the last moment and kissed the lobe instead.

The priest opened his eyes, and Anacleto gasped. The cold moonlight mercilessly bared their helpless wonder to him and, for the first time, he felt a twinge of guilt. But he knew nothing could stop him now. "P and Q," he said softly.

Father Keogh merely nodded. When Anacleto reached for his left hand and placed something there, he looked down: it was his priest's collar - torn from his neck without him even noticing its loss.

"Goodnight, Angel," Anacleto murmured.

The priest met his eyes and breathed, "Goodnight, Anacleto."

Why he was drawn back to the clock tower the next night, Father Keogh could not have said. Maybe it was a good place to think, maybe he even wanted to go there to remember. Whatever drew him there, his way up the stairs was barred.

"This seems a strange place for us to meet two nights in a row," Anacleto said by way of greeting. He looked strangely lost, sitting on the third step of the spiral staircase, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. Nevertheless, he was smiling.

Father Keogh returned the smile cautiouosly. "A much stranger place for you than for me."

"Perhaps." Anacleto leaned back on his elbows and assessed the priest carefully. "Though while I don't know much about these things, two o'clock at night seems an unlikely time to ring the church bell."

Father Keogh blushed, hoping it was not too obvious in the nearly dark space.

"You couldn't sleep," Anacleto stated as if there was no question about it, then continued, "Neither could I. But you know that."

"Do I?" Father Keogh asked hesitantly.

Anacleto rose and slowly sauntered towards him. "You should know." He took the priest's hands and raised them, kissing one after the other. "You haunt me the moment I close my eyes." He opened the priest's right hand. "Then you follow me into my dreams." With a soft sigh, he pressed his mouth into the hollow of the palm. "And when I wake up, my first thought is of you again." He whispered the accusation against the sensitive flesh. "And I wonder..."

Father Keogh shifted, his left hand having tightened in Anacleto's, his right trembling under kisses placed ever more urgently in his palm, the mounds at the bases of his fingers, on the insides of his knuckle joints.

"I wonder..." Anacleto's voice was low and heavy with need. "Do you wake up at dawn, as I do, with the half light playing tricks on you? Making you think, just for a moment, that I'm there with you?"

Yes, he did. Father Keogh bit his lip to keep from saying it.

"Do you sometimes, even in bright sunlight, think you see me in the corner of your eye?" Anacleto looked up at him from under his lashes, his fingers skilfully separating the priest's within their grasp.

"Yes." This, he was willing to admit, and with a smile. After all, Anacleto usually wasn't far away.

Anacleto smirked, knowing he was being humoured. "And when you go to bed..." He sensed the tension returning and tipped his head to playfully kiss a fingertip. "Do you wish I was there?" With this, he sucked the finger into his mouth, to the middle joint.

Gasping, Father Keogh took a step back, but Anacleto merely followed, not releasing his prize. His eyes were sparkling with heat and mischief, and he moaned softly when he drew the finger all the way inside the wet warmth of his mouth. And held it there.

Father Keogh bit his lip to keep silent, his left hand gripping Anacleto's so hard, he wasn't sure whether it was to keep himself from running or to keep the bandit close.

Anacleto had no intention of going anywhere. Not taking his eyes off the blue ones staring back at him in silent wonder, he pretended to release the finger until only the tip remained between his lips, then sucked it back inside all the way, his expression one of supreme pleasure.

The priest was so distracted by the low moans, and by the wet suction causing every nerve in his body to tingle, that he wasn't aware he had been walked to the centre of the circular room until he felt the bell rope against his back. When Anacleto let his finger slip from his mouth, grasped both of his wrists and pushed his hands behind his back to twist the rope around them, it was too late. He was trapped.

"Anacleto!"

"Hush. And keep very still, unless you really do want to ring the bell and bring all of Quantana here to investigate." The bandit smirked at the shocked expression greeting this warning.

"You wouldn't dare."

Anacleto laughed huskily. "Oh, Angel, you should know by now, there's very little I wouldn't dare. It's entirely up to you whether we remain undisturbed."

Father Keogh gasped. It was not entirely in outrage; there was a low thrum of excitement underlying his shock.

"If you could see yourself now." Anacleto took a step back, his heated gaze sliding up and down his captive. "You've been very good, doing honour to your wings, up until now. Pretending as best you could that I don't excite you, that my kisses don't steal your breath. That you don't need my touch as much as I need yours." He smiled broadly. "Now you can prove it."

"Prove it?" Father Keogh asked worriedly.

"Hmm. Let's see just how still you can hold while I..." Anacleto smirked. "Well, whatever I decide to do." He stepped closer again, unperturbed by the dark look given to him. "I should have tied you up sooner. Your eyes are like a thunder sky when you're angry."

Father Keogh tried to relax and averted his face.

"Oh no, don't do that." Anacleto turned his face by his chin. "You're not really angry, are you?" When this question was greeted with stony silence, he laughed softly. "I'll just have to show you that a little bit of annoyance can be well worth your while." Walking around his captive, Anacleto checked that the soft rope was tightly secured around the wrists behind the priest's back.

"Now that I have you at my mercy, what shall I do with you? What would you find hard to ignore?" The bandit raised his riding crop and tapped the silver head playfully against his lips. Then he traced his hand up a stretched arm and to the shoulder, cupped the nape of a rigid neck, then stroked a flushed cheek. "Relax, Angel." Father Keogh raised a brow, not realizing this might be taken as a challenge until Anacleto teased, with a triumphant look on his face, "Shall I help you relax?"

Not willing to offer further encouragement, Father Keogh remained silent.

Anacleto, still smiling, held his riding crop in both hands and examined it, seemed to discard several possible uses with a smirk and a shake of the head, and then traced the sturdy leather length down the outside of Father Keogh's left thigh, then up the right, before starting to pace in a circle around him again, slowly. Behind him, he stopped, and stood there silently for a long while before, with a snap and a light sting, the crop descended on the priest's buttocks.

Father Keogh huffed in outrage, only a great effort of will keeping him still in his position.

Anacleto laughed. "I'm sorry, I couldn't resist." He hooked his chin over the priest's shoulder from behind and murmured darkly, "Count yourself lucky I'm willing to suppress my overactive imagination."

Father Keogh's eyes widened impossibly, and his breath stuck in his throat.

"Perhaps... one day," Anacleto mused out loud.

"Unlikely," Father Keogh managed.

Anacleto laughed. "Unlikely, but not impossible." He completed the circle around his captive and placed the riding crop on the floor, then leaned in to kiss him lightly on the cheek. His arms wound around the priest's waist without disturbing the knotted rope. The kiss moved to the corner of a tightly closed mouth, tongue tip teasing there while his hands slid up the stiff back as high as they could go without affecting the bindings. When his tongue was still not granted access, Anacleto tightened his arms and shifted one leg forward a little.

Father Keogh let out a tiny gasp, offering a momentary opportunity for Anacleto's tongue to slip between his lips and seek out his own. He refused to play, but when Anacleto curled his tongue up against the roof of his mouth, he bit down on it just hard enough to shock.

Shock, however, was not the reaction. Anacleto's groan reverberated through the priest's very bones, and the hands around his back tightened even further, the leg against his groin pressed harder, and Anacleto's knee slipped between his own.

The priest couldn't stop his escaping whimper, or the way his body arched.

"Yes, that's it," Anacleto encouraged huskily between kisses. "You're not a stone angel after all, are you? You're a living, breathing one." His hands shifted skilfully around the side of the knot, resting on a hip to draw the priest's lower body close while pressing his leg forward harder. The reaction was undeniable, and he smiled, nudging his thigh forward in little movements, nipping and licking at a mouth gone slack with stunned arousal.

Father Keogh was shaking with the effort of keeping his body still while his very blood was in an uproar. Husky encouragements whispered into his open mouth and breathed against his skin made him want to obey them and give Anacleto what he wanted - surrender.

"Don't fight me," Anacleto coaxed. "You crave me too, I know it. Show me. Let me feel it." He used one hand to keep the slender hips still, the other to slide behind a thigh, raising it as far as the restrictive cassock would allow, giving his leg more room to tease the priest's reluctant arousal into full hardness. "Yes," he gasped. "Let me feel you."

The priest shuddered, tried to mentally amplify any pain in his stretched back arms, tried to worry about being found here like this, tried to move back and away from Anacleto - the slightest tinkling of a bell on the verge of ringing froze him in place.

Anacleto laughed huskily against his neck. "Keep still, Angel."

"I... can't," Father Keogh bit out. There was a purr of contentment, and the teasing leg was removed from between his, the hands lifted off his hips and, for a moment, he thought he was being released.

"For admitting that, I'm giving you more than just the letter R." Anacleto wrapped his left arm tightly around the priest's waist and held him close. "I'm going to help you keep still while you come for me."

The priest inhaled sharply, stood as straight as he could manage, but he felt Anacleto hard against his hip, and when the bandit moved his hand between them to cup his hardness through his cassock, he staggered against him.

"Rest your head on my shoulder." Anacleto's voice was low and pleading. He kept the priest close with his hand in the small of his back. "I'll hold you. Just give in to me for once."

With a sigh, Father Keogh buried his face in the crook of Anacleto's neck and allowed him to squeeze and stroke him with a slow, but forceful, hand. It took very little further stimulation of cool linen against hard flesh, breathy murmurs of encouragement, and long, slender fingers tracing and teasing, before he climaxed with a soft whimper, his entire body shuddering.

The hand on him tightened, pressing harder as if to be sure to feel every twitch and every trace of liquid warmth through the cassock, and then Anacleto moaned softly. "One day, Angel, one day soon, I will hear you cry out my name in ecstasy."

Father Keogh breathed unevenly against the warm, musky skin of Anacleto's neck. He felt the hand at the small of his back untie the knot and then stroke soothingly up and down as if to calm him, and when he found he had no immediate desire to move away, he wondered whether Anacleto's words might not come true.

The next few days were unseasonably hot, even for Quantana. Most people remained indoors with their ceiling fans on and the shutters half closed to let in what little breeze there was while keeping out the sun. The only relief could be found after sundown, when the desert winds picked up and darkness snuffed out the sun.

Envying those less modest than himself, Father Keogh pushed his blanket aside and undid another button on his pyjama top. He stared across the room to the narrow gap of his shutters, willing more of a breeze to drift in. The mosquito candle was still burning close to the bed, but the book he had been reading lay forgotten beside it. He snorted softly; the book he had been trying to read. Concentration was as elusive to him these days as sleep. The only thing his mind could focus on for any length of time was Anacleto.

Several times a day, he wondered whether leaving Quantana would not have been the better option, if only for his own peace of mind. But he had a responsibility to these people to provide God's word and encourage their faith. And yet... how hypocritical was it to preach the word which condemned the very preacher? To apply sacraments and hear confession while his mind and body were consumed by sin? And he was consumed by it.

Oh, he should have seen it, from the very beginning. Before he had even laid eyes on Anacleto, something inside him had placed the bandit at the zenith of his list of reasons for coming to Quantana. He had volunteered, after all, when the bishop had shown him Father Gomez' letter pleading to be released from his duties. His penchant for taking on more than was sensible had seen this man - this sinister shadow figure threatening the very existence of the church in Quantana - as a personal challenge. He had come here because of Anacleto. For Anacleto. He knew this without doubt.

He turned on his side with a sigh, his hand squeezing his unpleasantly hot pillow in a futile attempt to force some air through it.

His usual course of action in times of indecision was all but barred to him. Even kneeling down for prayer filled him with guilt, and God had never left him to his own devices to this extent. Sin was, perhaps, only forgivable in those who had not taken the cloth. Priests were meant to be above the temptations of the flesh. If God could not depend on his own servants, how could they ask his advice if they fell victim - either to their own lust or someone else's?

Tired out at last from fretting and heat exhaustion, Father Keogh drifted into sleep. And though his sleep was restless, he was not disturbed by the widening of the gap between the window shutters and the increased airflow over his overheated, and overdressed, body. Nor was he woken by the footfalls crossing his wooden floor, by the soft sigh of the figure sitting in the chair closest to his bed, or by the heat of the dark eyes watching him as he dreamed things he was meant to condemn.

He slept, more peacefully at last, after a cool cloth had been swiped tenderly over his brow and down his neck, and tender fingers had unbuttoned his pyjama top all the way, allowing his skin to breathe.

When woken by wren song at sunrise, Father Keogh's eyes fell on a small sheet of paper lying on the bed beside his pillow. He blinked the sleep from his eyes to make out the single letter it bore: S.

Caring for a small selection of flowers in his tiny back garden had a soothing effect on Father Keogh. The flowers took a great deal of care and attention in the hot, dry climate, and they forced his focus to remain on them as he clipped off dried buds.

"Good morning."

Hissing in pain, Father Keogh dropped the rose he had just snipped off entirely rather than merely pruned.

Anacleto was at his side immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, it's all right. This variety simply has especially vicious thorns." The priest avoided Anacleto's eyes, inspecting the thick drop of blood welling from his thumb.

"It should be tamed," Anacleto stated, taking Father Keogh's hand in both his own. He closed his lips over the thumb tip and drew the blood from it, his eyes meeting Father Keogh's as he did so. They held each other's gaze while Anacleto suckled at the small wound, his thumb rubbing the surrounding skin as if to force more blood to the surface.

"You didn't wake me up," the priest at last managed hoarsely. "Why not?"

Anacleto, after one last lick to ensure there was no more blood welling up, released his hand. "I didn't come to your room to disturb you."

"Then why did you come?"

Anacleto smiled mysteriously. "You're very inquisitive today."

"And you very secretive."

Laughing, Anacleto stooped down to pick up the dropped rose. "I have many secrets to protect."

"I may uncover them yet," Father Keogh said, surprising himself.

Apparently, he had surprised Anacleto as well, for he looked up from his crouch with his brow raised. "Some may scare you."

"I don't scare easily."

Anacleto rose. "Yes, so I've noticed." He was smirking while he drew out a pocket knife. He flicked it open and carefully scraped off the sparse but long thorns from the rose stem until it had been rendered harmless. "I wonder what you would do with my secrets, if you knew them," he mused.

Father Keogh watched Anacleto raise the flower to his nose and inhale deeply. A moment later, his own cheek was caressed with the lush red bloom, and he blushed. When Anacleto passed the rose to him, the priest took it hesitantly, their fingers brushing as the gift was exchanged.

"T," Anacleto whispered. "Only six letters left, and you will be mine."

Father Keogh swallowed hard.

It was nearly eleven, but Father Keogh had not yet eaten. Chela had left to visit her sister in a nearby town for the rest of the week, and he was relieved to not have to feign an appetite for a few days. After pacing his study for several long minutes, he sank into his favourite chair with a sigh. A half-finished sermon, two letters requesting his visit in outlying haciendas, and notes for Locha's wedding ceremony were lying, discarded, on his desk.

Only six letters left, and you will be mine.

I belong to no one but God.

Look at me, and tell me that your God makes you feel the way I do.

Twisting his hands nervously, Father Keogh jolted when the front door clicked softly into its lock. He closed his eyes, pretending to be able to shut out the inevitability of Anacleto entering the room and slowly walking across it. When the foot steps did not stop beside his chair as expected, he opened his eyes and found the bandit standing behind his desk, looking down at the papers with a smile.

"I had no idea priests had such busy lives," he mocked.

"They do, if they perform their duties badly."

Anacleto laughed. His face transformed when he laughed, making him look oddly innocent, and as he looked across the room at Father Keogh, the priest's heart clenched in his chest. As if sensing the change, the laughter stopped, and Anacleto walked around the desk and settled his hip on the edge of it.

"You're alone," he said in a low voice.

"Yes." Father Keogh's throat had gone dry. "Chela has gone to visit family."

Anacleto nodded. "No one to cook for you then? Not even your adoring assistant?" Father Keogh's expression must have shown his bafflement, for Anacleto explained, "Locha. I would have thought she'd relish the opportunity to cook for you just once, before settling for so much less."

"Locha is in Florida, with her fiancé. What are you talking about?"

Anacleto gave a lop-sided smile. "Perhaps your innocence and modesty are a blessing. It's not important." He stood up and indicated something on the table in the centre of the room. "I brought you something."

Only then did the priest notice the covered plate on the dining table. "What is it?" he asked, not really caring.

"Enchiladas. They're very good." Anacleto walked across the room and lifted the lid off the plate. The fragrant steam rising from the corn tortillas and chilli sauce filled the room temptingly.

"That was... thoughtful of you," Father Keogh said, puzzled. He was about to rise to his feet and join Anacleto at the table, when the bandit raised a hand.

"Don't move. You look comfortable. I'll bring them over." He carried the plate across the room and, finding no chair right next to Father Keogh's, simply sat on the edge of the low table in front of him.

Father Keogh, who was no more comfortable than he felt like eating, politely lied, "I suppose I am hungry after all."

"Good. And I know I am." Anacleto's voice had dropped, and his eyes were burning.

Shifting nervously forwards in his chair, Father Keogh reached for the fork on the edge of the plate, then drew back his hand in confusion that there was only one.

Anacleto smiled. "Let me." He picked up the fork, separated a piece of sauce-covered enchilada, and held it in front of the priest.

"I'm quite capable of eating on my own."

"Of course. But that wouldn't be half as enjoyable for me." Anacleto raised the fork temptingly close to the priest's mouth. "Try it?"

Father Keogh opened his mouth, feeling rather foolish to be fed like a child, but when he swallowed the food - which really was delicious - he was almost mollified by the look of delight on Anacleto's face.

"Do you like it?"

"Yes. It's very good." He frowned. "Aren't you having any?"

Anacleto sighed. "You don't still think I'm trying to kill you, do you?"

"I have wondered."

Anacleto laughed, but he raised a bite of food to his own mouth and ate it. Then he offered more to Father Keogh, who allowed him to feed it to him, with Anacleto having alternating bites himself until the plate was empty.

"Thank you," the priest said.

"My pleasure." Anacleto put the plate down on the table behind himself, his eyes not leaving the priest's.

Father Keogh, growing ever more tense under the intent focus of the dark eyes, couldn't stand it any longer. "What now?" he finally asked.

"Now, it's time for dessert."

Father Keogh looked across to the table to see what else Anacleto had smuggled into the house, but soft laughter turned his gaze back to his visitor.

"Oh, I'm afraid I was talking about myself. I assumed you'd pass, though if you're ravenous, I would be the last person to deny you." Anacleto's smirk was positively salacious.

Frowning, Father Keogh tried to decipher that statement, but then he sat bolt upright, clutching the armrests of his leather chair, because Anacleto was sliding gracefully from the table's edge to his knees in front of him.

"No!" he said, tensing all over.

Anacleto looked up at him from under long lashes. "No?" He smirked. "So you're not too angelic to know what I'm about to do."

"I..." Father Keogh cleared his throat. He was shaking, his throat had gone dry, and even after everything else that had come before, this seemed too much somehow.

Anacleto's hands covered his on the armrests and squeezed gently. He didn't speak, merely rubbed the backs of the priest's hands with slow, steady back-and-forth motions until he had calmed somewhat. Then, and only then, he shifted his hands to Father Keogh's knees, continuing his soothing strokes there.

Father Keogh was breathing rapidly, watching Anacleto like doomed prey might eye an eagle homing in on it, but he did not protest when the bandit moved his hands from his knees down the front of his calves until he reached the hem of his cassock.

Keeping eye contact, Anacleto fumbled for the lowest button and undid it. Then he worked his way up, his agile fingers making quick work of every button up to the cincture encasing the priest's waist. There, he stopped, his hands once again coming to rest on the knees, which he slowly parted while crawling further forwards between them.

Taking a deep breath, Father Keogh straightened even further on his chair, and he knew Anacleto must feel the tension in his legs when his hands ran from his knees up his thighs. Back and forth, slowly as if to calm, but the touches shifted further down from the tops of his thighs to their insides with each motion.

The linen of his black trousers grew warm where Anacleto's hands stroked, creating a tingling of pleasure which made his eyes drift half closed. He opened them again fully when he heard Anacleto's sigh, a moment before the bandit laid his head down on his left thigh. Now the heat was substantially more than a mere tingle of pleasure, and when Anacleto began to nuzzle the dark fabric at his groin, he began, despite his apprehension, to stir.

Anacleto moaned softly, nudging the swell of arousal into being with his cheek and the bridge of his nose, and then his mouth fluttered lightly over the rising outline.

Father Keogh bit his lip, watching, mortified, how quickly he became aroused under the tender, non-verbal encouragement. When Anacleto's hand moved from his thigh to cover the swell, stroking gently, he whimpered.

At this, Anacleto looked up at him again, his cheeks flushed and his breathing uneven and quick. He held the blue eyes while he fumbled with the buttons keeping him from bare skin, and he continued holding them while his hand slipped between folds of black cloth to encounter more fabric - warm and sticking slightly to the skin underneath. He squeezed gently, the priest's gasp mirrored by his own and, with trembling fingers, he worked his way under that last barrier until smooth skin and rough hair teased his palm. There, he appeared to run out of patience and, lifting his head, he drew the combined mass of fabric down just far enough to allow the now full arousal to spring free.

Father Keogh wanted to close his eyes, panting and embarrassed beyond words, but he couldn't stop watching Anacleto.

Breathing heavily, the bandit closed his palm around the rising shaft, and when this elicited a stifled cry, he squeezed and stroked down once. He reached out with his tongue, teased lightly at the tip, moaned at the taste and feel of the soft, spongy skin and the scent of arousal filling his senses.

Father Keogh's hands were crushing the armrests, his thighs trembling with the effort of staying open wide enough to accommodate Anacleto, but all thought of protest... of anything at all... had fled his mind.

He watched Anacleto's tongue tease him, felt it in every nerve ending. The hand stroking him was almost cool in comparison to his own flesh, and Anacleto's tongue mercilessly played with the tip, which was red and swollen with blood. He was ashamed and aroused to an equal degree, one emotion urging him to put an end to this, the other demanding that he surrender.

Anacleto gazed up at him from heavy-lidded eyes, watching his every reaction when he let him slip from his mouth and began a series of slow, languorous licks up and around the hot shaft, not ceasing the strokes of his right hand for a moment. Whatever it was he saw in his face, it must have pleased him, for a slight smile turned up the corners of his busy mouth and sparked to life in his eyes. A genuine smile of delight, with no edge of malice, subterfuge or mockery.

Feeling an overwhelming urge to acknowledge this, Father Keogh took his left hand off the armrest and gently touched Anacleto's cheek.

The joy in the dark eyes brightened further and, pressing into the hand to turn the light touch into a caress, Anacleto opened his mouth and drew him deep into the wet heat.

The priest shivered with pleasure. He could scarcely believe that the human body could feel such delight without incinerating, and the extremes of emotion he felt for Anacleto - both for showing this to him and for destroying his blissful ignorance of it - frightened him in their intensity.

Anacleto stroked faster, licked and sucked harder, drew him deeper into his throat than it seemed humanly possible. When he reached the precipice, his tight control on his reactions crumbled around a heartfelt sob, and he filled Anacleto's eagerly sucking mouth.

The bandit showed no sign of distress, swallowing rapidly until the flow had nearly ebbed. Then, he drew back, and the last few spurts hit his chin and cheek before he directed them with a tender hand to land on the narrow strip of bare abdomen.

The priest found, for the first time in his life, that there was a point where reason and dignity could not follow, and he was left panting for breath, his body still shuddering from the force of his climax. It was a slow, gentle stroking of the juncture between his hip and thigh which eventually drew him back into the present. Instantly, his sense of shame reasserted itself, and he flushed, biting his lip.

Anacleto watched him closely, then looked down at the mess he had created. There was undeniable satisfaction in his expression as he drew his fingertip through the thin white trail crossing the priest's belly and traced the letter 'U' around his navel.

"A work of art," he said, "created and signed by the artist." His voice was rough from the exertion of his throat, but his eyes sparkled when he met the priest's. "I shall call it 'Falling Angel'."

Father Keogh gulped, and Anacleto rose up on his knees and leaned forward. One hand was on the priest's forearm. With the other, he caressed a flushed cheek, smiling at the shimmer of moisture gleaming there. Then he tilted his head and pressed his lips to the slack mouth.

For a moment, the priest resisted the taste, but then he gave in and allowed Anacleto to deepen the kiss, and it lasted for a long time.

Something had woken up inside him. Something which had been there all along, but it had been dormant - should have, and would have, continued to lie dormant - were it not for Anacleto, who had coaxed it surely and terrifyingly into being. Father Keogh could not put a name to it yet, but it both frightened and exhilarated him as it spread into every part of him, slowly pushing out everything else as being of secondary importance.

He was kneeling in front of the altar, his hands folded in a prayer which did not make it to his lips, while silent tears streamed down his face.

It had been two days since Anacleto had left him panting and confused in that chair. Two days during which he had felt as if his faith was draining from him as from an open wound. His faith in God, at least.

He didn't hear the church doors slowly open and close, nor did he hear the gust of wind they admitted. Unbeknownst to him, it extinguished two candles, then drifted across the empty pews and shook a few neglected blossoms from the flowers alongside the altar.

And while he did not hear the footfalls, every fibre of his being was tuned into the presence slowly approaching him. The gasp of distress, when Anacleto appeared at his side, made him look up.

"Angel..." the bandit whispered. He bent down and cupped the priest's face in his hands, using his thumbs to swipe away tears even as he leaned in to kiss them away with tender lips. He slowly sank to his knees in front of him, and when the tears simply kept falling, he abandoned his mission to pull him into his arms instead.

Father Keogh wrapped his arms around Anacleto's middle, closing his eyes even as tears continued to stream from them and soak the black cotton under his cheek.

"I want to be sorry," Anacleto whispered, stroking the silky, sun kissed hair. "I really do."

The priest clung to the source of his distress, allowing the soothing strokes over his hair and back. The warmth and now so familiar scent surrounding him were heavenly, even while they tore soft sobs from him.

"Oh, Angel." Anacleto's voice cracked, his arms tightening further. His own eyes were burning, and he blinked to clear his vision. "You must believe me, I didn't know it would hurt so much."

Deep down, Father Keogh knew that Anacleto was not only referring to him. He could not have said how he knew, but he did know, as well as he knew that there was nothing either of them could do about it. They had gone too far to turn back.

They were so wrapped up in each other, neither of them noticed that the church doors opened and closed again a moment later, this time having admitted no one.

Father Keogh sat, still fully dressed, on his bed, growing more restless by the minute.

Anacleto had insisted on seeing him home, never letting go of him entirely even as they walked down the main street of Quantana. He had discreetly kept a hand at his elbow, or on his back, at all times, and a new kind of peace - different from the kind he had always derived from prayer - had settled over him.

At the dispensary door, Anacleto had whispered that all they had left now were four letters, and then he had kissed him tenderly and left. The strange wording kept running through his mind in a loop, but it was persistently blotted out by some unnamed worry he could not shake.

Finally, he stood and went to the balcony, hoping the wind might clear his mind. The moment he parted the shutters, his eyes were drawn to the street below, and to the lone figure dragging himself towards the house, leaning heavily against walls and posts every few steps.

He turned and rushed from the room and down the stairs, taking no care to be quiet, as Chela had not yet returned. He ran through his study, down the steps to the dispensary, and tore open the door just in time for the injured man to fall into his arms.

"Anacleto!" he gasped, settling the bandit more firmly against his chest as he nudged the door shut.

Anacleto was breathing heavily, clutching his side. Blood was leaking out between his spread fingers, and he groaned in pain when the priest settled him on the low bench alongside the herb cabinet.

Father Keogh gently pushed Anacleto's hand out of the way, then pulled the shirt from his leather trousers and ripped a long tear in it to inspect the gunshot wound.

"Who did this?" he asked, pressing the torn strip of shirt against the wound with the bandit's own hand to halt the blood flow. Anacleto held it there while the priest prepared wound dressings and iodine and sterilized the few suitable tools at his disposal.

Anacleto was struggling to remain conscious, or at least the priest assumed so because he did not answer the question. "I should call the doctor."

"No," Anacleto gasped. "Please, don't. I--" He flinched when the blood-soaked cloth was drawn from his side.

Father Keogh nodded but did not press him for an explanation. He picked up a wooden spoon from his tray. "Open your mouth," he said, and when the bandit obeyed, he pushed the handle between his teeth. Then he chose one of the sterilized tools and took a deep breath.

Anacleto met his eyes and bit down with a groan of pain, but his healer was efficient, and the bullet was gone within seconds. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, panting heavily.

Father Keogh drew the spoon from between the slack lips and quickly cleaned the wound. He began to dress it, and now that the immediate urgency to deal with the wound was over, his worry for Anacleto finally asserted itself with a violent shaking in his hands. Realizing he could not wind the bandage all the way around Anacleto's torso while he was lying down, he raised him up a little.

Anacleto's head lay on his shoulder, and he did his best to help support himself on the bench with one hand while the priest wound the bandage around his middle.

"Thankfully, it's a flesh wound. Anything worse would have been beyond my ability."

Anacleto sighed when the priest drew him up a little straighter and held him close, carefully avoiding the bandaged area. "You might wish you hadn't fixed me."

Father Keogh grew cold. He tilted his head to meet Anacleto's eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I need to confess to you." Anacleto was silent for nearly a minute, then said, "I had to kill a man tonight."

The priest felt the body against him tensing up with that pronoucement, just as he did, and for a long moment, he did not know what to do. And yet, to push Anacleto away did not even occur to him. "Had to?" he asked tonelessly. "Why?"

"He threatened to kill you." Father Keogh looked down at him searchingly while Anacleto went on. "Vito had been with me longer than anyone, but I had no idea he... well, it doesn't matter."

"Tell me."

Anacleto coughed dryly and was pulled up straighter. He leaned heavily against the priest. "I merely thought he had a grudge against you, for making him look a fool the day you arrived, but it seems he was... jealous."

Father Keogh flushed. "I see."

Anacleto looked up at him, his eyes a little unfocused. "He followed me to the church earlier. He saw us together. And when I returned to the hotel, I was told he had ridden out of town in a rage. I followed him - it didn't take long to catch up with him - and tried to reason with him, but he was mad with fury. When he shot me, he told me you were next, and the only reason he hadn't shot me in the heart was because he wanted to see it--" He stopped, averting his eyes. "He wanted me to stay alive long enough to watch you die."

Father Keogh's arms had tightened unconsciously around the man. He thought feverishly about what to do next. "Does anyone know?"

"Only you."

"What about your friends?"

Anacleto sighed. "I no longer have any friends. After Vito told them what he saw, they made that quite clear." Father Keogh tilted his head with a sympathetic look, but Anacleto merely smiled wistfully. "It doesn't matter. You told me I should change the company I keep."

The priest deliberated for a moment, then said, "You confessed to me."

Anacleto looked up, his brow creasing. "Yes," he said hesitantly.

"Do you..." Father Keogh cleared his throat. "Do you repent?"

"Are you disappointed that I could see no way but to kill him?" When the priest nodded sadly, Anacleto drew himself up by his arm to look deep into his eyes. "Then I repent. For disappointing you, in this and everything else I've done. But I don't repent for protecting you."

Father Keogh sighed. When Anacleto looked at him pleadingly, he raised his hand to make the sign of the cross before him, but Anacleto stilled his hand and shook his head, and the priest laid the hand on his head instead. His voice shook when he said, "I absolve you."

With a sigh of relief, Anacleto sagged against him.

Father Keogh rested his cheek on the bandit's head. "Thank you," he said softly. "For protecting me." He was sure he could feel Anacleto's smile against the base of his throat.

Several silent minutes passed, with no sounds but their breathing and the clock ticking softly in the study upstairs.

"May I stay here tonight?" Anacleto asked.

"Yes. You shouldn't walk too much, or your wound might re-open. You've lost a lot of blood."

"May I sleep in your bed?"

Father Keogh blushed, but a slight smile tugged at his lips. "There's a guest room. But either way, you should not walk upstairs."

"Oh." Anacleto sighed. "I see."

"I'll get you blankets and a pillow." The priest gently shifted Anacleto to lie on his side, then left the room to retrieve the items.

When he returned, Anacleto was asleep, and he carefully lifted the dark head to slide a pillow under it. Then he spread one of the blankets over the sleeping form. After a brief excursion outside with a torch, to make sure no blood trail was leading to the door, he settled down on the nearest chair. He sighed, letting his head fall back and closing his eyes. He did not intend to sleep, but exhaustion and nerves got the better of him, and within ten minutes, he too had fallen asleep.

During the night, Anacleto grew restless, thrashing hard enough to slide the blanket to the floor and endanger the wound.

Father Keogh woke, immediately rushed over and sat on the bench to pull him close and rest Anacleto's head on his thigh. Then he drew the blanket back into place over him.

Anacleto immediately calmed, sleeping peacefully while a gentle hand stroked over his sweat-damp hair. Looking down at the strangely vulnerable, slight form of a man who had killed his own friend to save his life, the priest felt a surge of protectiveness. And more. Much more. "Why must you stir my heart so?" he mused softly.

As if in response, Anacleto sighed in his sleep and snuggled into the warmth cradling him. And he continued to sleep peacefully until morning, when he was jolted awake by someone calling out in the study upstairs.

"Stay here, and don't make a sound," Father Keogh urged.

Anacleto nodded and let himself be shifted back to the bench, then watched the priest hurry up the stairs and pull the door closed behind him.

There was a brief conversation Anacleto could only hear in murmurs, and then the front door closed. Moments later, the priest returned, looking unusually pale. Anacleto now also noticed he looked as if he hadn't slept, and he knew there was a possibility he had watched over him most of the night.

"That was the police chief," Father Keogh said, sitting down beside Anacleto. "They've found the body. Someone heard shots last night, and the police went to investigate."

"I imagine he will arrest me."

"No, he won't." When Anacleto looked surprised, Father Keogh said, "I told him you were here yesterday evening, and that you were never out of my sight until midnight. He knows the shots were fired well before then."

Anacleto winced as he straightened himself up. He looked at the priest in astonishment. "You did that for me?"

"You did more than that for me."

Anacleto reached out his hand and Father Keogh took it, and Anacleto said, "There's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe."

Father Keogh stroked his cheek and smiled sadly. It seemed he felt the same way.

Later that day, Father Keogh walked Anacleto up the stairs and to the guest room. He drew back the blanket on the narrow bed and helped him to lie down. "I'm going to change the wound dressing now," he said.

Anacleto nodded, lying very still while Father Keogh unbuttoned his shirt and laid it wide open from shoulders to waist. There was little blood on the bandage, and the priest breathed a sigh of relief. He cut open the bandage, lifted Anacleto's upper body off the bed, drew the wound dressing out from under his back, and laid him down again. Then he dipped a fresh cloth into the solution he had prepared and gently cleaned the wound.

Anacleto was watching his face closely and saw how he struggled not to let his eyes linger anywhere but on the wound he was treating. When the new dressing was pressed to it, he asked, "Do you want me to hold it in place?"

Father Keogh nodded, lifting Anacleto up again a little to wrap the bandage around his waist. He held him close, his arm under the open shirt and his hand on the warm, bare skin of his back. He tried to keep his breathing even, not letting his fingers brush over bronze flesh more than he could avoid, but Anacleto's scent was so close, his body so warm even through the thick sleeve of his cassock. After gently laying him down again, he tied up the bandage and fixed it in place, then breathed a sigh of relief that the task was done.

But his wrist was grasped and his hand placed on the flat stomach, and Anacleto looked up at him from half-lidded eyes and said huskily, "I want you to touch me, Michael, and you don't really want to stop, do you?"

He did not deny it, looking intently down at the contrast between their skin tones - his hand was browned by the sun, nearly as dark as Anacleto's stomach, which rose and fell a little too quickly under his palm. "You're not well," he said. "Your breathing it too fast."

"Yes, it is, but I feel wonderful." Anacleto met his eyes, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Your hand on me feels wonderful."

"Anacleto..." he murmured, watching helplessly as his hand was moved slowly up towards Anacleto's chest, where he felt the heart beat racing his own; he could not have guessed which was faster.

He allowed his hand to be moved again, gasping when his fingertips brushed a nipple rising only slightly darker than the surrounding skin. Anacleto's soft moan shivered through him, and he could only watched and tremble as Anacleto used his hand to caress the dark flesh, which puckered under his fingertips as the narrow chest heaved.

"There are three letters left now," Anacleto gasped. "Make it two?"

"I... I don't know..." The priest lifted his free hand to swipe at his brow.

"No, don't be scared." Anacleto moved the hand lower, over his ribcage and to his navel. "You don't need to do anything. Just let me feel your hand. Please."

Father Keogh met the pleading eyes and nodded, and his hand was shifted lower again, over and past the bandage, his fingertips trailing the thin line of black hair to where it disappeared behind the silver belt buckle.

Both hands stilled there, and two pairs of eyes looked down on them - one feverish with undisguised arousal, the other shining with a mix of fear and anticipation.

Anacleto took the initiative, moving the hand further down over the metal and leather until it rested over the curve of his arousal. He was panting for breath, his eyes fixed on the priest's hand and his tongue flicking out to lick his dry lips.

Father Keogh allowed his hand to be moulded around the pulsing swell, the leather warm and smooth as skin, yet not quite right. Not quite... enough.

Anacleto pressed the unresisting hand down harder, thrusting his hip up as hard as he dared to intensify the contact.

"Your wound!" Father Keogh warned, pressing Anacleto's hip down with his free hand. "Lie still."

"No, please," Anacleto whispered. "I need the pressure of your hand."

Father Keogh bit his lip. Seeing the desperation in Anacleto's eyes, he pulled his hand from his grasp. Then he undid the buckle, slipped the belt through it, and unbuttoned the leather trousers, his hands trembling all the time.

Anacleto was breathing hard, watching from heavy-lidded eyes, and the moment his trousers were open, he took the priest's hand again and slid it inside.

Father Keogh felt the touch as if it was being applied to his own body, and his first thought was to wonder whether touching him felt the same to Anacleto. A soft groan was followed by another when he tightened his hand.

Wincing with the stretch to his wound, Anacleto pushed his trousers down just past his hipbones. He watched with a heavy gaze as the hand - left to its own devices - faltered, and smiled at the blush on the priest's cheeks.

"Help me," Father Keogh pleaded so softly, it was all but inaudible.

Anacleto immediately covered his hand again and closed the trembling fingers tightly, his own in the spaces between them. "Anything you do will be perfect," he reassured huskily.

Father Keogh's blue eyes pinned Anacleto - breathless and half disbelieving - to the bed, and their hands moved together over hot flesh. Anacleto kept the shaking hand under his own tightened, his hips rocking upwards into the touch just a little even while safely held down by a gentle hand on his hipbone. Every so often, the priest's gaze dropped to watch their combined effort, but was immediately raised again in shame, only to be held by fiery dark eyes.

"Watch what you do to me," Anacleto urged huskily. He licked his lips, groaning softly when his fingers trapped the priest's thumb against the ridge of his cock and it slid across the seeping tip. "Watch," he gasped, "how you take me apart."

Father Keogh felt himself come undone much the same, by the feel of the malleable flesh and the ever steadier supply of slick fluid easing the strokes of his hand, but most of all by the naked longing in Anacleto's eyes; he wondered if it was mirrored, as undeniably, in his own.

"Archangel Michael, slaying the devil," Anacleto murmured, causing the priest to start and lose his grip. "No! Slay me," Anacleto panted, forcing the hand tightly around his shaft and stroking it up and down fast and forcefully. "Slay me..." he repeated in a whispered plea. He squeezed his eyes shut and moaned through parted lips wet with saliva as he came, spurt after spurt of fluid streaking his stomach, his thighs, the crisp black hair surrounding his erupting cock.

Father Keogh watched Anacleto's eyes re-open and meeting his in a look that was more than gratitude, and he was astounded to find that to give such pleasure should even outweigh receiving it.

"Thank you, Angel," Anacleto murmured, entangling their sticky fingers on his rapidly rising and falling stomach.

Father Keogh's heart clenched at being thanked for an act of... He frowned, chewed on his lip.

Anacleto watched him closely, then looked down at himself and grunted in amusement. He ran the priest's fingers through the streaks decorating his flesh, just as had done to him some days earlier, and used the index finger to mark an X across his navel.

"Two," Father Keogh mused out loud.

Anacleto looked up at him in surprise. He nodded. "Two."

The police chief returned later that day, puzzled by the fact that Anacleto was not to be found anywhere, and Father Keogh told him that the bandit was staying with him, having fallen ill with a contagious fever. It was, if not the truth, at least a half-truth, he thought wistfully.

Not curious enough to confirm Father Keogh's words for himself - after all, why risk his own health to make a fuss over the death of a villain - the man left, though not without letting the priest know what he thought of his misplaced charity.

Father Keogh cared for Anacleto for two days - during which his cat managed to track him down and scrounge milk, food and a comfortable basket off his host, much to Anacleto's amusement - before pronouncing him fit to move about freely. Chela was due to return late the following day, and when he told Anacleto this, he keenly felt the disappointment he could read in his eyes.

"You want me to leave," Anacleto said, leaning against the headboard of his narrow bed.

"You should leave." It was much harder to say than it should have been, and against his better judgement, he added, "But not today. Tomorrow."

Anacleto's eyes lit up, and Father Keogh tried to suppress the anticipation that reaction ignited in him. He excused himself to get on with his paperwork, but to his surprise and amusement, Anacleto joined him in the study to sit quietly in his leather armchair, with his cat on his lap, and pretended to read the bible of all things. Every once in a while, they both glanced up at the same time and exchanged a heated look or a smile. And after dinner and a short, companionable evening on the sofa - Anacleto lying with his head on the priest's lap, tender hands stroking over his hair - they both went upstairs to their separate rooms.

Still, it took nearly an hour for Father Keogh to fall asleep, nervous expectation still holding him in its grasp. He knew why when he was woken from a brief slumber by the racing of his own heart - he was being kissed, passionately.

It was so dark, he could not see Anacleto and knew the same was true in reverse; he could not be seen. It was strangely liberating, and he allowed his mouth to be plundered by a searching tongue. The darkness intensified the heat of the kiss, amplified the sound of their laboured breathing and soft, wet flesh connecting and disconnecting. Anacleto's scent was all around him; musky, yet strangely sweet - sunshine and skin hot with want. It soaked into him until he felt he had absorbed the man's very essence, his own need growing stronger by the moment.

"You're kissing me back." It was purred softly and with great satisfaction into the dark space between their mouths before they reconnected, and the low murmur woke the priest up fully at last.

Anacleto must have been kneeling on the edge of the bed, leaning over him, because the bed dipped and he suddenly felt the now so familiar form over his middle, the long legs on either side of him, hands cradling his head.

"What are you doing?" the priest asked breathlessly.

"Kissing you," came the gravelly answer. The hands moved down to his, entwined their fingers, and raised his arms on either side of his head. He was effectively pinned to the bed, and it shocked him how that aroused him.

"You like that." Anacleto's growl was positively indecent. "You like it when I restrain you."

His wrists were shifted into the grip of just one hand, and there was a snapping of thin leather strips, and then his wrists were being tied to the bedposts above him. He felt he should at least pretend to resist, but it was not in his power anymore.

"Isn't it nice to be helpless? Not responsible for what I might do to you?" Anacleto asked, leaving his hostage breathless. "How do you feel about being at my mercy in this darkness?"

"I..."

"Do you think you could... trust me? Completely?"

The question was urgent, and the priest knew he was being tested, that Anacleto was really asking something different, something even more. But before he could decide what to respond, his lips were covered again, and he felt that perhaps Anacleto was too unsure of the answer to risk it.

So he kissed back instead, and soft moans were spilled into his mouth as the slim body covered him, hands on his sides where he was stretched up towards the headboard, wandering up the undersides of his arms until the narrow chest was hard against his, the seeking mouth travelling down his throat and to his collarbones, nipping there gently.

"Why..." Father Keogh swallowed, tried again, "Why didn't you light a candle?"

Anacleto paused. "Because I want you to let go. We can pretend that I won't know you're kissing me back, because I can't see you."

"I don't want to pre--" The priest was silenced by the mouth descending on his for a moment.

"Shh." Anacleto kissed his cheek. "Don't talk. Kiss me." His mouth returned with tender pressure, taking time to taste the inexperienced lips, suckling lightly at the full bottom lip until the priest gasped, then coaxing his mouth open with tongue flicks against the dip in his top lip. He licked at both lips, keeping them apart to let in his breath and allow his tongue to take little tastes of its counterpart.

Father Keogh felt he might go mad. Not being able to see made him feel Anacleto's skin, hear his laboured breathing, and smell his excitement, that much more keenly. Their hearts were beating against each other, his pyjama top riding up along with Anacleto's thin T-Shirt, exposing bare skin above his waistband, making him even more keenly aware that all Anacleto was wearing aside from the cotton top was a pair of shorts. And the slender legs were holding him trapped as surely as the string fixing his hands in place.

The kisses stopped at last, leaving them both panting, and long fingers went to work on the buttons of his pyjamas. Once they parted the open shirt folds, Anacleto shifted backwards, and there was a soft rustling of cloth before he lay down on top of his captive again, his chest as bare as the priest's.

Father Keogh moaned softly, the smooth skin moving against him with every shift in Anacleto's position, hands stroking tenderly over his ribs and drawing lazy circles around his nipples as Anacleto slid upwards to kiss his throat. A thumb trailed down the centre of his chest to his navel while Anacleto rose to his knees and kissed his chin. He dipped his head and caught the lips with his own, and they kissed while Anacleto shifted back into place over his hips.

Both of them gasped out loud, and Anacleto rocked against him, slowly, until he thought he could take no more, and then Anacleto moved lower, pressing hot kisses over his stomach, his tongue drawing circles around his navel, dipping inside it.

Father Keogh arched up, then realized he was all but begging Anacleto to pay attention to his arousal.

There was a chuckle, followed by another shift in position, until Anacleto aligned himself on his groin, moaning softly at the contact while stretching to run his hands up his arms until they reached the bound hands.

Anacleto's mouth was close enough for their breaths to mingle when he began to rock against him in earnest.

Father Keogh sucked in a desperate breath, straight from Anacleto's lips, and Anacleto rocked up again, his groan vibrating against the priest's parted lips. The exchange of breath, more intimate even than a kiss, heightened every other sensation between them. Their hips, where soft cotton grew warm and clung to hard flesh, met ever more fiercely.

"Angel, Angel!" Anacleto gasped, rocking up again. "I want to make you come so hard, you'll find a whole new heaven."

Father Keogh whimpered. He countered the pressure, arching up against Anacleto, who added a twist of his hips and caught the priest's soft cry in his open mouth.
 
Reaching back, Anacleto tugged down the priest's pyjama pants as far as he could, then writhed against him, cursing himself for not having come to his bed naked.

Father Keogh was panting, Anacleto's hard shaft caressing him through nothing but a thin layer of clammy fabric which he very devoutly wished gone. He shifted his hips in an attempt to push the cloth further down, but it would not work.

Anacleto halted all movement when he realized what the priest was trying to do, and immediately helped. He straightened out his legs to push down his shorts and the priest's pyjamas. Then, instead of kneeling over him again, he kept his legs together and slid between the priest's thighs, and both of them stopped still.

Gulping, Father Keogh waited to see whether Anacleto would take advantage of the position, but when the bandit shifted upwards, aligning their cocks again, he dared to breathe more easily.

"Not yet," Anacleto murmured in verbal reassurance, and their earlier rhythm resumed; though with nothing between them, the hot slide of flesh against flesh became too intense very quickly. They frequently paused, breathing hard, forehead to forehead, to make it last. And then they started over again.

Father Keogh didn't know how much longer he could hold out, and he knew the same was true of Anacleto, the bandit's breath against his cheek coming more quickly all the time. And then Anacleto rocked against him again, and again, and he automatically tightened the grip of his thighs on the slim hips, and their cocks shuddered against each other - sticky and pulsing. Anacleto's hands moved under him, lifting his hips while he writhed against him, then pinning him down while he pressed down hard. At last, with a broken cry, Anacleto spilled himself between them, the wet pulses pushing him over the edge as well, and he groaned softly with one last push upwards.

They were kissing again, deep and hard, before they had even stopped coming. Anacleto's arms were tight around him, his hips still rocking back and forth gently, and he returned the kiss with abandon.

A little later, after Anacleto had untied his hands and drawn him into his arms, Father Keogh was lying with his head on the bandit's chest, shaking all over. Long fingers ran through his hair soothingly, but something inside him refused to be soothed.

He was out of time, and out of letters. Oh, he knew deep down that he was lost already, but his tenuous grasp on his faith and his old life slipped further from him with every kiss, and every touch, from Anacleto. Just as Anacleto had predicted in the beginning. And he knew, without doubt, that once he allowed the man to possess him utterly - in body as he already did in spirit - he would cease to be, as a priest. He was not a man who could be half one thing and half another indefinitely.

Anacleto had not questioned him when he had tasted tears in their kiss or when, after untying his hands, the priest had turned on his side and sighed. He had merely pulled him into his arms and was gently stroking his sweat-damp hair and kissing his temple. Now he was calmer, or had at least stopped shaking, but he was still lost.

"I'm not playing with you, Michael," Anacleto said suddenly. "This is not a gamble, or a contest of wills I want to win."

The priest listened carefully, as much to the desperate tone as to the words, but did not speak. He suddenly wished for enough light to see Anacleto's eyes.

"I've wanted to--" The bandit began to explain, but faltered. "No, that's a lie. I've tried to release you from our agreement many times, to simply give you the remaining letters and... run." The priest drew in a sharp breath. "But I knew that by doing so, I'd give up any chance of ever touching you again. Of ever blotting out that God of yours long enough to make you see me - not as some lost soul to save for your church, but as someone to keep for yourself."

"Keep?" The word slipped from Father Keogh's mouth, his heart beating fast.

Anacleto sighed. "Isn't it foolish? A devil aspiring to have... to be..." His voice broke.

"To be what?" Father Keogh lifted his head off Anacleto's chest, though of course, he couldn't see his face.

Anacleto didn't speak for the longest time. When he did at last, after taking a deep breath, his voice had changed entirely. "I release you. There are no more letters left; I give you the last one, and I expect nothing in return."

Father Keogh sat up, shivering. "Why?"

"Perhaps I have a conscience after all," Anacleto offered.

"That's not the only reason."

A humourless laugh, sounding too far away in the darkness. "No, it's not."

"Tell me," Father Keogh prompted.

"Isn't it enough that you're free of me?" Anacleto's voice shook.

That, as much as the cold spreading through his own heart at the thought of Anacleto slipping away from him like this, in the dark like a thief, never to be held, never to be kissed, again, prompted Father Keogh to ask urgently, "What if I don't want to be free of you?"

There was a wounded gasp. "Don't play with me."

"This is no game, you told me so yourself." Father Keogh found Anacleto's hand on the bed between them, and he gripped it tightly in his own.

Anacleto returned the pressure, and his breathing sounded ragged. "If you... if..." He cleared his throat. "If you choose to be with me, if you want me as I want you, have wanted you since... oh, Angel, since the moment I first saw you!" He rubbed the back of the priest's hand with his thumb. "There's a hut, once used to store hay by one of the abandoned haciendas, up on the hill just outside Quantana." His voice was ragged.

"I know it," Father Keogh said hastily.

"Come there tomorrow night, at midnight." Anacleto raised his hand, finding the priest's mouth and laying a finger across it. "Don't say yes now, Angel. Think hard about this. Be sure it's what you want." When the lips under his fingers moved as if to speak, Anacleto pressed harder.

"No, wait. You must know this - if you come to my arms tomorrow, I will never let you go again. I will make love to you as you've never dared to imagine it." His fingertips left the quivering lips to trace a flushed cheek. "And I will keep loving you forever, as I love you now."

Father Keogh sobbed. He was trembling, covering Anacleto's hand and pressing his cheek against it. And then Anacleto's lips were on his, and he offered his surrender right there and then in his kiss, but the kiss ended suddenly, with Anacleto's broken cry, and then the bed shifted and Anacleto's warmth was gone. There was a rustle of clothes hastily pulled on and, a moment later, the door opened and closed behind him.

Father Keogh spent the morning in prayer. After lunch, he wrote a few letters and left them on his desk; Chela was not due to return until late, and she would assume him already in bed and would not find the letters until returning to her duties the following day.

For the rest of the afternoon, he ensured the dispensary was well stocked and, with Locha's help, prepared a sensible stock of potions. Locha asked him if it was true that Anacleto had been staying with him, and when he confirmed it, she looked at him long and searchingly, until he averted his eyes. Then she began to talk about her upcoming wedding, almost frantically, and he interrupted her at last to tell her that he was sorry, but he would not be able to perform the ceremony. Her face fell, and she asked him if he was leaving; when he confirmed it, she hugged him quickly, wished him happiness and ran, sobbing, from the house. Only then did he understand what Anacleto had hinted at, and the fact that he had not even seen it before confirmed what he knew already - that Anacleto had become more important to him than anything or anyone else. He had ceased to be a priest long before this day.

After a light dinner, he packed his few personal belongings and carefully folded his vestments to leave them in an open suitcase on his bed, to be sent away. Then he dressed, in a way he had not dressed in a very long time: a simple white shirt and black trousers. He picked up his small bag of personal things and, after one last look around, left the house. It was just after eleven, and he slowly walked up back streets to the church.

There, he hesitantly crossed the threshold, dipped his fingers in the bowl of holy water by the door and crossed himself, and then stood in silent contemplation by the row of pews furthest from the altar for a long while. Eventually, he sighed and left his church for the last time.

By the time he reached the hut Anacleto had described, it was just before midnight. The moon had begun to wax again, and it provided just enough light to see his way. And to see that the hut looked utterly abandoned. His heart clenched when he saw the building dipped in blackness. For a dreadful moment, he wondered whether he had walked into a trap; whether Anacleto, whether anyone, could possibly be as heartless as that. But he regretted the very thought when the door creaked open, revealing a single figure silhouetted by a warm glow from inside the hut. Breathing a sigh of relief, he took a few steps forwards.

Anacleto waited in the doorway, his fingers clutching the frame as if he was using it to hold himself upright. He looked different, unsure, and he wasn't dressed in leather for once, but in soft, deep blue velvet, a short bolero jacket covering a white shirt. His eyes were unnaturally bright and, when he saw the cassock and collar gone, he stared in open-mouthed wonder.

Michael walked right up to him. He smiled hesitantly, and glanced past Anacleto into the tightly shuttered hut which, despite looking like a black monster in the dark night, was alight on the inside with a dozen candles and oil lamps - the hay piled up inside looked like spun gold in the warm glow. He blushed when he noticed several colourful Zarape blankets spread out over a bed of hay.

Anacleto followed his line of sight, then looked at him again and said huskily, "I've been preparing for an hour, telling myself the whole time that I was a romantic fool, a dreamer, that I couldn't possibly expect you to give up your God, your church, your entire life, your heaven, for the likes of--" He would have continued to babble, had Michael not stepped forwards and stopped the flow of words with his fingertips over his mouth.

"Anacleto," he said softly. "Listen to me. I've come to you because I want you, and I'm going to stay with you because I love you. You are my heaven."

Anacleto stared at him with wide, glittering eyes, then let out a laugh of pure joy and drew him into his arms.

The small bag and coat dropped to the floor just inside the hut as Michael wrapped his arms around Anacleto's waist and held on tight. The door was kicked shut behind him, and they were in a world apart.

Anacleto took his face in his hands and smiled at him. "You love me!" His voice was full of wonder, and when Michael nodded, he frantically started raining kisses on his cheeks and smiling lips. And when he at last stopped to press their foreheads together with a little sob, Michael stroked his hands up and down the narrow back, murmuring soothing words of reassurance.

And then Anacleto was kissing him in earnest, mouth pressing against his in short, hard bursts, before finding the perfect angle to deepen the kiss. Their mouths opened and their tongues met in a frantic collision of need. And Michael was backed against the closed door, his mouth plundered, his breath stolen from his very lungs, and Anacleto's hands were everywhere - cupping his face, running through his hair, gripping his waist, tightening on his hips and drawing their lower bodies together, and the kiss never paused for a moment.

Michael realized that everything that had come before must have been an exercise in self-restraint for Anacleto. And it had been entirely for his benefit, to not frighten him away, and such tenderness rose in him that it seemed impossible to contain in a single human heart.

"You belong to me now," Anacleto gasped into his open mouth, his fingers spread and tipping up his face.

"Yes, only to you," Michael agreed whole-heartedly.

Anacleto moaned softly. He was still kissing him while tearing the white shirt from his trousers, ripping off the two lowest buttons before reining himself in long enough to unbutton the rest, and then he threw it open and wrapped his arms around the bare waist, his hands hot on Michael's shoulder blades and his mouth abandoning the bruised lips in favour of his throat and smooth chest.

Michael let his head fall back against the wooden door and moaned, his back arching as Anacleto's lips latched onto his nipples one by one, his tongue matting the sparse hairs surrounding them as it explored frantically. He calmed him a little by cupping his head and stroking his fingers through the dark hair, holding him close while he kissed and licked to his heart's content. Eventually, Michael lifted Anacleto's head to press a kiss to his brow, and Anacleto gave him a breathtaking smile.

"I keep expecting to wake up," Anacleto admitted. When Michael laughed at this, he tilted his head. "You never used to laugh enough. I'm going to make sure you do from now on."

"I laugh when I'm happy," Michael told him.

"Then I'll just have to keep you happy." Anacleto ran a hand through his hair, twisting a sun-brightened curl around his finger to press a kiss to it.

Michael ran his fingers along the lapels of Anacleto's bolero jacket, tracing the smooth velvet before pushing it back and off his shoulders. Then his fingers navigated the ruffled line of buttons, before he started to undo them one by one.

Anacleto watched Michael's face, watched the reverence with which the smooth fingertips trailed over his flesh. He gasped softly when they brushed his hardened nipples, and returned Michael's smile when the caress was repeated. He cupped his face and tipped it up, then kissed him deeply while pressing him against the door, his hips pushing forward and rotating slightly until they were both hard and gasping for breath.

Michael pushed him back just far enough to whisper, "Make love to me, Anacleto, like I've never dared imagine it."

Recognizing his own words from the previous night, Anacleto laughed huskily and began to back across the hut and towards the prepared bed in the hay, drawing Michael along by his hands. When he reached the edge of the blankets, he tucked his fingertips behind the waistband of Michael's trousers, drawing him closer even while sliding down the zip and undoing the button. He followed the fabric as it dropped to the floor, kneeling in front of Michael while he peeled down his underwear and stripped off his shoes and socks. He smiled up, avoiding the erection so close to his mouth, and rose again while undoing his own trousers.

Michael pushed his hands away, wanting to do it himself but struggling with the tight velvet. Anacleto allowed his efforts with a smirk, finally stepping out of his trousers and hastily removing the rest of his clothes.

Once they stood in front of each other naked, for the first time in the light, there was no embarrassment as their eyes drank in every candlelit patch of skin, every rise and dip in smooth flesh. They were breathing raggedly by the time their eyes met again, and when Michael licked his lips, Anacleto pounced. He wrapped an arm around the slim waist and, catching their fall with his free arm, tumbled Michael to the blankets. There, he stretched out over him and pinned him down - his hands pressing down his palms, and his feet hooked behind Michael's ankles to spread his legs.

Michael moaned when Anacleto rocked up against him, his erection trapped against his belly while Anacleto's slid between his thighs, the tip nudging his perineum. Then one of his hands was released, and Anacleto's hand was suddenly between them, grasping him and squeezing their erections together, and he used his freed hand to cup the back of Anacleto's head and draw him down until he could press their mouths together.

Anacleto's hand tightened, and he worked their shafts into throbbing hardness within moments, the seed seeping from them both easing his grip. Their mouths opened, the kiss wet and desperate as Anacleto sucked Michael's tongue into his mouth, then released it to find his own captured the same way. It went on like this until both were left gasping, open-mouthed and desperate for release.

A softly moaned, "Anacleto," finished it, the strong, slender fingers tightening and stroking hard and fast a few times until, one right after the other, they came, semen spilling over Anacleto's fist and coating both their stomachs.

Still twitching with his release, Michael whimpered when Anacleto slithered down his body and caught the last few drops in his open mouth, carefully stroking the slowly softening cock while he licked him clean.

Michael's hips continued to rise and fall while Anacleto kept licking and sucking. He jolted when Anacleto's hand moved underneath him, the palm pressed flat against his perineum while his middle finger nudged, ever so carefully, against his hole. The strange sensation felt less strange for the boneless lassitude taking over his body, and he knew it was what Anacleto was counting on when he continued to press there, his smooth, long finger wriggling very slowly a little way inside.

Anacleto's mouth had released him at last, now kissing away flecks of their mingled seed from his sharp hipbones, sucking at a spot here, a spot there, on his inner thighs, spreading his legs further and pushing his thighs higher and closer to his body. The finger stopped pressing, and Michael realized with some shock that Anacleto was sucking it into his mouth to wet it. And then it was back, tracing his rim damply before pushing back inside very gently.

Michael's neck arched, the blood was rushing in his ears, and he moaned helplessly. And then he felt himself spread open by Anacleto's thumbs, and the wet length of what could only be Anacleto's tongue pierced his flesh. His toes curled in the blanket's fringe, and his arms stretched out at his sides until strands of hay were between his fingers, and every muscle in his legs tightened nearly to the point of pain. There was a trace of embarrassment somewhere in the emotions swirling through his racing blood, but the tender wriggling inside his body, the sucking and soft moans accompanying them, more than neutralized it. It went on and on. Anacleto was relentless, and when he began to slip his finger into the slowly widening hole, alternating with his tongue, Michael realized he was being stretched as well as aroused.

Finally, Anacleto moved up between his thighs, his fingers - two of them now - continuing to stretch and prepare while he smiled down at the glazed expression on Michael's face. "I'm not hurting you?" he asked.

Michael, unable to form even the simplest word, turned his head from side to side once.

"Good," Anacleto purred. Changing the angle of his fingers slightly, and eliciting a sharp inhalation of breath by doing so, he leaned forward, supporting himself on his left arm. "I can't wait another minute to slide inside you, Angel." He mimicked the words with three fingers, sighing at the way the blue eyes fluttered closed with pleasure.

"Anacleto... don't wait."

It was breathed softly, pleadingly, like the invocation his name meant, and Anacleto withdrew his fingers to fumble hurriedly for a small tin he had tucked away under the blankets.

Michael moaned when the fingers returned - slippery with something warm and smooth - for a few more thrusts. When they were withdrawn again, he watched Anacleto's frown of concentration as he lined himself up to enter him. Holding his breath, more in anticipation than fear of pain, he waited for the empty space to be filled again, and when Anacleto began to slide into him, his sigh of pleasure was echoed immediately.

Anacleto pushed up his thighs with his own, sliding forwards very, very slowly, not breaking eye contact with the smouldering blue eyes looking up at him.

There was a little pain, but it was outweighed by the pleasure of becoming one with Anacleto. Then the slow glide turned into careful, short thrusts to deepen the connection, and a slight change of angle when Michael's thighs shifted against Anacleto's hips shot a bolt of pleasure through him; it was so strong, he cried out.

"Pain?" Anacleto asked worriedly, stopping immediately.

"No," Michael managed to sigh, and when Anacleto experimentally moved again, he groaned in obvious pleasure.

"Oh, Angel," Anacleto growled, thrusting forwards again, deeper this time. He felt Michael stir against his stomach as he moved inside him, and he supported himself on his thighs, lifting Michael's hips up higher, and began to fuck him in earnest, deeper and harder with each thrust.

Michael's entire body stretched and arched, his eyes closing and his mouth falling open as his hands tried to find purchase in the blanket and the rustling hay, before finally settling on Anacleto's forearms, which were straining with effort.

"Soar, Angel," Anacleto urged, a bright smile on his face and sparkling in his eyes. "Soar!"

And Michael soared, his thighs clamping around Anacleto's hips as his climax was coaxed out of him with each thrust inside his body and each stroke of the hard stomach against his twitching cock. He came harder than ever before, and this time, there was no shame, no guilt, only bone-deep, heart-shattering love for the man possessing him so utterly, and the cry of ecstasy which had been promised to him was torn from his throat at last.

"Anacleto!"

Groaning, Anacleto thrust hard and deep one more time, every muscle in his body straining and trembling as he was rocked by a tide of pleasure so intense, it pitched him forward into Michael's arms the moment he started coming, and they clung to each other - half on the jumbled blankets, half in the hay.

Michael gasped when Anacleto withdrew from him, still hard and coming, and then he was turned on his stomach, and Anacleto knelt over his thighs and parted his cheeks, then pushed back into the stretched, wet space. The new angle made their connection so tight, it stopped the flow for a moment until, with a groan, Anacleto began to thrust into him again, just a few more times, filling him up entirely before collapsing over him.

They lay like that, panting. Anacleto's heart was pounding in his chest, and Michael felt it against his back. And Anacleto's head rested on the nape of his neck, arms over his, his fingers intertwined with Michael's above their heads in the hay.

"Oh, Angel, I love you so much," Anacleto sighed.

"You must do, to still think me an angel." Michael laughed softly, but it was more of a gasp for breath.

Anacleto shifted to lie by his side and drew him close, and Michael's head rested on his chest. "You'll always be my angel, no matter how far you might have fallen in the eyes of your church." When Michael smiled at him, caressing Anacleto's flushed cheek, Anacleto looked at him tenderly. "You had to fall a long way to come and get me, after all," he said softly.

"Well, wherever we are between heaven and hell..." Michael began, then got distracted by the tenderness in Anacleto's eyes and kissed him for a long, long time. When he gazed down at him at last, he finished, "... everything I need, want, and love is right here, in my arms."

Anacleto smiled, his eyes shining. "Paradise. That's where we are."