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Little as he understands the how or why of what he sees, Paul has always been able to tell the difference between his normal dreams and the ones that reek of a real but malleable future. There is something more solid—though no less disorienting—in the visions. They squirm beneath his skin and take up residence inside him, leaving him wary and alert when he finally slips back into wakefulness.
Some visions come to pass quickly; others he has yet to understand or witness play out. Some are dangerous, troubling, terrifying; others totally mundane. Some are awful and leave him wondering if there is some way to avoid ugly outcomes and bitter fates; others are so good he almost cries when he returns to reality.
Paul is nineteen the first time he dreams about Gurney Halleck in any role other than protector and teacher.
He wakes dizzy with unfamiliar longing, and spares all of a second trying to tell himself this was not prescience. There's no point lying to himself, though. He can't hope to guard his heart by burying his head in the sand. There is no walking himself back from understanding that the devoted admiration Paul feels for the old warmaster of House Atreides has transformed into something else entirely.
Even more distracting is the sudden and undeniable fact that Gurney must share some portion of Paul's feelings—or will one day. The vision lingers in his mind, vivid and intimate. Gurney's hands on him, an exploration of reverent heat. Gurney's mouth pressing rough kisses into his skin, beard scraping the vulnerable line of Paul's throat. Gurney's body heavy and possessive on top of him, grounding and arousing by turns.
It takes a solid week for Paul to look Gurney in the eye, and he can tell his strange behavior makes Gurney worry. The man has been his closest friend for Paul's entire strange and solitary life. He knows Paul's moods, his secrets, his fears and hopes and wistful daydreams. Even worse, Gurney is smart, cautious, and alarmingly observant. There is no point trying to conceal this new discomfort, when a quick glance is all it takes for Gurney to recognize that something is wrong.
Paul doesn't give himself the luxury of avoiding Gurney outright. He makes himself stick to the usual routine, and never mind the way he keeps catching himself staring at Gurney's hands. He takes the knowledge that he wants Gurney to touch him—in ways that have nothing at all to do with combat training or the baliset—and tucks it in a box somewhere beneath his heart.
This protective measure can only last so long before emotion gets the better of him and makes him do something damnably foolish.
God, he needs to be so careful. He does not know when the possible events take place. For all he knows, Gurney is as utterly in denial right now, as Paul was before the dream. Which means it would be easy to send Gurney into startled retreat, too mortified by the entire notion to remain at Castle Caladan.
When Paul dreams of Gurney again, the minute details are the same—Gurney's panting breaths matching his own, Gurney's grip holding him steady, Gurney's bulk fitted hard and perfect between Paul's thighs—but there is something different too. They are beneath an open sky, a dusky gray like Paul has never seen. Uneven ground stretches beneath Paul's back. Impossible to imagine indulging such intimacies outdoors, and yet these are the undeniable facts provided by his senses.
The third time is different too. Vivid in every particular, Gurney spooned along his back, naked heat and soft affection. They're both breathing hard, but lying still, as though in the wake of a coupling that is already complete. Paul recognizes the furniture of his own chambers, the soft sheets of his bed. His entire chest burns with greedy satisfaction at the way Gurney holds him, the feather-light kisses Gurney presses to his nape.
"Are you all right, lad?" Gurney asks during weapons training, the day Paul wakes up with that particular image in his head.
"Yes," Paul lies. He knows he is not fighting well today—knows distraction is no excuse for such a poor performance—that an enemy will not go easy on him just because he's caught up in his own head. But recognizing this fact does not help him focus. And it doesn't give him the necessary fortitude to confess the yearning chaos making a muddle of his brain. "I think I tweaked a muscle in my back."
"We're not making much progress today anyhow," Gurney says, and though there is no outward rebuke in the words, Paul still feels the sting of disappointment in them. "Let's try again tomorrow."
"Gurney," Paul blurts, thoughtless and gruff, when his mentor turns for the table with its ready lineup of weapons.
Gurney blinks at him, eyebrows rising in an eloquent mix of curiosity and worry. "M'lord?"
Paul's jaw snaps shut again, and he shakes his head hard enough to bounce his sweat-soaked curls. "Nothing. Never mind. I'll make sure I'm better prepared tomorrow."
But Gurney just watches him, far too many seconds stacking one on top of another. At last he takes a step closer to Paul—peering intently as though trying to read every truth in Paul's very soul—and asks in a softer voice, "You sure you're okay?"
It would be so easy to sway forward into Gurney's space. To wrap his arms around Gurney's big, sturdy shoulders. To bury his face in the crook of Gurney's neck and breathe in the old soldier's warm, clean scent.
Paul makes himself straighten his posture and forces a wry smile to his mouth. "Stop worrying so much, old man."
That night Paul dreams of Gurney again. And the night after that. These are not the occasional glimmers he is accustomed to, and he's losing his ability to be certain whether they are fantasies or possible futures. He dreams of Gurney crowding and kissing him against a door in the guest wing of the castle, after the departure of a cadre of diplomatic guests. He dreams of Gurney tugging Paul down astride powerful thighs. He dreams of laughter lines crinkling the corners of Gurney's eyes at close range, of flushed skin and muscular arms, of soft praises murmured against his temple. He dreams of sneaking into Gurney's bed, of nuzzling against Gurney's beard, of letting his hands wander across scars he has never seen.
He dreams of Gurney mounting him in the middle of the night, their bodies moving together in a dance that is both desperate and obscene.
When Paul wakes from this particular vision—certain, for once, that he has seen an imminent future—he has no chance at all of going back to sleep.
He is far too alert for restfulness. Even remaining within the confines of his own rooms, sizable though they are, makes him feel trapped and claustrophobic. He needs to get out. He needs to be anywhere at all that isn't here.
He needs to see Gurney.
It's a selfish impulse, but Paul does not try to resist. He gets dressed—just enough to avoid being stopped by anyone who might think he's sleepwalking—and makes his way out of the vast royal wing of Castle Caladan, heading down to the barracks at the far end of the keep. Gurney might be on duty tonight, sleeping in his bunk among the troops. But if he is not—if he's alone—he will be in his own private quarters, so this is the door to which Paul hurries. Hopeful. Terrified.
He knocks with a steady fist, remaining calm only until the door swings inward, at which point his knees nearly buckle with relief.
Gurney stands illuminated by the faint aura of a glow globe on its lowest setting, the light emanating from the corner of the narrow desk. He is dressed for sleep, soft pants and no shirt. Paul spares a moment to feel guilty for startling him awake—Gurney probably assumed there was some crisis, to bring someone knocking on his door at this hour—but can't entirely prevent his gaze from roaming the soft, scarred strength of Gurney's chest and arms.
"I'm sorry." Paul pitches his voice low, not wanting to wake anyone else who might be sleeping behind the other walls along the corridor. "I know it's late. Can I come in?"
"Of course." Gurney steps aside, holding the door open, and Paul hurries over the threshold.
Paul is trembling, and he can't decide if it's from fear or anticipation setting his senses alight. Reality itself does not feel quite right around him in this moment, what with the tangled rush of arousal and adrenaline coiling in his blood. If he did not know better, he would wonder if he's still dreaming. But even the solidity of a vision can't compare with the tangible certainty surrounding him now.
Gurney closes and locks the door, watching Paul with a wary unease that makes Paul's heart twinge.
"I'm not hurt," Paul says, heading Gurney's first inevitable questions off at the pass. "Nothing is wrong. Not… not like whatever you're worrying. I just needed to see you. I needed to ask… I shouldn't have waited this long, but I didn't know what to do."
Gurney's brow furrows and he takes his hand off the door. "Do about what?"
There are words Paul should say here. Hasn't he spent his whole life training to make himself understood under fraught and difficult circumstances? To communicate clearly and effectively in spite of whatever complications or crises might be swirling around in his awareness? Hasn't he studied a dozen languages in order to learn just how best to make himself understood?
But in this moment, all of Paul's words fail him. They evaporate away to nothing, leaving him standing helpless and silent at the center of Gurney's quarters.
If he doesn't explain himself soon, Gurney will start to worry all over again—not that he's actually stopped. Paul makes himself draw a steadying breath, and then moves himself forward with cautious footsteps. He forgot shoes, and his bare feet make no sound on the stone tiles of the floor. He does not stop until he's standing directly in Gurney's space, too close to allow for any pretense at an innocent explanation.
Paul resists the urge to simply lean in and make his point with a kiss. He does not dare presume.
"Gurney," he whispers, because they are the only syllables he can manage. He sets his right hand to Gurney's chest, directly over the man's racing heart. He doesn't mean to stare at Gurney's mouth, but by the time he tears his gaze up and away—to meet widened eyes—alarmed comprehension has begun to flash in Gurney's expression.
He is somehow not surprised when Gurney doesn't speak, though his heart gives a helpless little flutter when a big hand covers Paul's, holding it there over Gurney's heart.
For all the times Paul has teased Gurney about their respective heights since Paul outpaced him—by less than an inch but the point still stands—he still startles at the fact that he stands taller than Gurney now. Something bright and vulnerable flashes in Gurney's eyes, and Paul's own pulse is pounding urgent and fast beneath his skin. Gurney hasn't pushed him away. Gurney hasn't retreated. And even though Paul knows how dangerous hope can be, he holds his breath and wills the old soldier to stay with him.
Words are still a physical impossibility, so Paul raises his other hand to curl at Gurney's jaw. Instead of the usual closely-trimmed beard, Paul savors the scrape of silvery stubble as he leans in just a little closer. Suggestive without entirely closing the distance.
He thrills when Gurney breathes a soft exhale and leans toward Paul in answer, bumping their foreheads together in a touch so soft and tentative it can only feel like a question.
It is also unmistakably encouraging, and Paul closes his eyes and nuzzles the rest of the way in, covering Gurney's mouth with a kiss that sets off bursts of lightning across his senses. A light kiss at first, but it quickly turns frantic, and Paul doesn't know which of them is clinging harder. Violent need has him in thrall, and he parts his lips for Gurney's tongue, wraps his arms around broad shoulders when his legs threaten to give out. Paul whimpers against Gurney's mouth when he feels the first gentle but insistent twist of fingers in his hair, gasps at the hand that sneaks under his shirt and presses palm-flat at the small of his back.
"What do you need?" Gurney rasps when at last they break apart, the words thick with gravel and desire.
"I need you to take me to bed." Paul kisses the corner of Gurney's mouth. "We can figure out the rest from there."