the priest

Stained glass draws patterns onto the floor that dapples the wood and directs the eye to where the pews sit battered, old and scratched, cushions faded by decades of kneeling. Book pages are yellowed and most of them stick together. The age of the church hangs in the air, in the particles of dust, in the sunlight that tentatively makes its way through the large windows.

It’s a very old church, the kind that generations have gone to. Most of it is unchanged save the roof, which has grown larger and larger over the years, gently tapering to a point so high that people have to crane their necks back to gaze at it.

The priest is the only new thing there. Even his robes are wrinkled. But his young and tanned face, his bright eyes, his curly golden-brown hair, makes him look lush and eager as someone who has never sinned. And he’s exactly as innocent as he appears, in all honesty. He can smile gently, with enough wisdom. But his eyes hold the truth: that he’s yet to experience anything truly holy that could rock him to his core.

…

The young man comes yawning to confession. The priest waits on the other side for him to speak. He can’t see anything of his face, can’t hear anything but his slow breaths and the way the wood creaks as he scuffs his shoes impatiently over the floor.

“You seem antsy,” he says.

“I’m thinking,” says the young man, his voice faintly muffled by the barrier but with an unmistakable childish lilt to it. “I can’t sit still when I’m thinking.”

The priest considers for a moment. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Young enough then, thinks the priest. A year older than himself. “That’s a respectable age.”

“Thank you,” said the young man. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

The young man laughs. The sound is surprisingly bright. “‘That’s a respectable age,’” he mimics, then chuckles again. It permeates the wood easily, bouncing around the chamber, and brings a flush to the priest’s face. “So I’m supposed to take advice from a baby like you?”

The priest wants to huff, but he chooses not to rise to the bait. “I tell you how to atone. I don’t give advice on how to live your life.”

“Don’t you?” says the young man. The priest swears he can hear a smile in his voice. “Isn’t confession a kind of advice? A ‘do this and you’ll be happier’ suggestion, like all therapy?”

“If you want to see it that way,” says the priest, settling into more comfortable footing in their conversation. “I’m here to help you however you need. To lessen the weight on your soul.”

“That’s poetic of you,” chuckles the young man. A pause. “What do you look like?”

“What?”

“You sound short.”

The priest finds himself a bit indignant. “I’m not sure how someone can ‘sound’ tall or short.”

“There’s a certain acoustic,” says the young man.

He sounds tall and broad, thinks the priest, and then he’s annoyed with himself for bothering to follow the young man’s point. “What do you want to talk about?”

“This.”

“This? We’re supposed to talk about you, or what’s weighing you down. We’re talking about me.”

“Yeah,” says the young man, sounding unconcerned.

The priest struggles a bit with what to say. He’s feeling caught off-guard. He hasn’t been dealing in confessions long, but none of them have been like this. None of them have been so conversational. He thinks to remind the young man that there may be others waiting for their chance at confession, but dismisses the idea as vaguely unholy. A priest isn’t meant to reduce something as powerful and personal as confession to something so human and impatient.

“Why do you want to talk about me?”

“Actually, I don’t,” decides the young man. A pause. “What’s your name?”

“I’d rather learn what’s on your mind than discuss things like my name,” says the priest gently. The young man is here for a reason. Light probing should open him up.

“Is it a silly name?”

In theory.

“No,” says the priest.

“Tell me, then.”

“You can call me Father,” says the priest.

The floor creaks again as the young man stretches his legs. “No, I can’t call you that. You’re younger than me.”

“It’s my title,” says the priest in annoyance.

“Fine,” says the young man. “Father.” He pauses, as if taking in the weight of the word.

“Perhaps you can tell me your name.”

“No,” says the young man. “I’m good.”

The priest is tempted to stick his head out and see if others are waiting to confess, but again the thought feels unclean. He’s new to this game, hasn’t quite surrendered to the ‘job’ portion of it. He still feels as though he deals only in hearts and angels rather than earthly things like monotony and money.

“I’ve been thinking about death,” says the young man, and the priest jolts back to reality.

“What about it?”

“I’m afraid of it.”

The priest waits.

“I’m afraid of it,” repeats the young man. “I’m not sure what to do with that fear anymore. It’s too heavy on my chest. It aches right here.” Fabric rustles on the other side. “It doesn’t hurt exactly, just presses down on me. Sometimes it makes my hands tremble or it makes breathing take a little more effort.”

“How long have you been feeling like this?”

A dark chuckle trickles into the priest’s ears like honey. “Not nearly long enough to make a fuss out of it.”

“Saying something like that doesn’t give weight to what you’re feeling,” the priest says gently. “Don’t ignore your responsibility to your body, and more importantly, to your soul. The two are connected in spots like the heart. The place where you feel things.”

Even through the barrier he can feel the young man’s frown. “What do you mean, connected in spots? Body and soul are connected everywhere. The soul lives in the body.”

“The soul resides in the body,” the priest says. “There’s a difference.”

“No, there sure as hell isn’t.” The young man’s boots scuff harder against the wood, the bench creaking as he stands. “Thanks for your time, Father.”

“Wait--” begins the priest.

The young man is gone.

…

The windows are draped with snow. It muffles the effect of the stained glass, muddles the rare sunlight that might come peeking in. A daily routine is disrupted; no dust fills the air, no ray of light strikes the spot it always has, a spot so well-worn that it’s more white than brown. Often a family with a little boy stands in that pew, and the little boy spends his time scowling at the front to avoid discomfort.

Outside the church the town has moved on with winter. People admire the snow-heaped spires of their church, the crowded streets that frost over in swirling patterns, the chills that bring red noses and cheerful hearts and a general appreciation for God and life itself.

The priest is cold in his confession box. Gloves wrap themselves over his hands. Black leggings that make him feel foolish and ill-proportioned hide underneath his robes. All day he’s had to stop himself from sneezing.

The priest is made out of springtime, green-eyed and rose-cheeked, soft tints of acorn-brown curling through the hair on his scalp and above his lip, sun-colored hands flickering with veins like the creeks that begin flowing once the snow has melted, face soft and expressive as a newborn doe’s.

In the winter he’s ill-equipped to feel anything but discomfort. But he forces himself to enjoy life anyway, to carry himself through the weeks with the warm smile of someone who has the church’s sunlight waiting inside of him for when the winter has ended.

“What’s on your mind?” asks the priest.

The young man’s winter boots are clunky things. The priest can smell the melted snow on them.

“Death,” confessed the young man.

“Why?”

The young man doesn’t answer for a moment. “I like winter,” he says.

The priest stifles his sigh. “Why?”

“It’s comforting,” laughs the young man. “Everything is dying rather than the usual bit by bit of life. Dying or being preserved for a brief time. But speaking of time, you know what I don’t like? You know what I hate? Humanity. How eternal it is.”

The priest is puzzled, briefly. “Eternal? We die like everything else.”

“No we don’t,” says the young man. “Or at least our civilizations don’t. That scares me. Animals die at some point, forests catch fire at some point, oceans shift their currents at some point and fields of grass die and die and grow again in different patterns. But human roads are set in stone. Asphalt is inky and hard to remove. God could send another flood to strike us down but our concrete wouldn’t be affected in the slightest. Hell, the yellow lines of the road probably wouldn’t even fade.”

The priest considers the idea for a moment, in silence.

“I don’t like it,” concludes the young man. “If we’re as mortal as the rest of nature, our creations should be too.”

“I can understand why that unnerves you,” says the priest, leaning closer to the holes of the box so he can catch the young man, cloaked in shadows, shifting around uncomfortably. “Would it help if I reminded you that we’re not really a part of nature anymore? We stopped being a part of nature the day someone dreamt up the wheel. We don’t belong to the same category as deer or rabbits. We have different rules.”

“Different rules but the same mortality,” presses the young man, sounding desperate.

“Why have you been thinking about death?” asks the priest.

The young man shuffles, exhales, grumbles to himself. “I thought you were supposed to comfort me, not badger me.”

“This is me comforting you.”

“This is badgering.”

“Fine,” says the priest, feeling his annoyance start to creep up again. “Don’t say anything.”

There’s a pause, then the young man laughs. “You sound huffy. Are you impatient with me?”

“No!”

“That’s kind of cute,” muses the young man, more to himself than the priest. The priest blushes fire-red and is relieved by the barrier between them. He doesn’t answer.

“Well, thank you,” says the young man, and the swish of the curtain closing announces that they’re done.

…

The priest goes to the grocery store. Many people would assume that he doesn’t. Priests belong to the same category as school teachers, in that they only seem to exist in one place without anyone giving them a second thought.

It can feel like a ghostly existence sometimes, especially for someone like this priest, who never had many friends to begin with.

“Hello Father,” says the cashier, all smiles as she rings up his purchases. “Having a good day?”

“Yes,” the priest says, smiling himself. “You?”

“I always have a good day, Father,” the cashier comments and she leaves him to bag his items.

He’s outside, lugging his things along, when three bags rip and cans spill all over the ground. The priest hovers, staring down at the mess in silent frustration. He doesn’t swear but gives the heavens a look indicating how much he’d like to as he begins cleaning up.

Pale hands rove over the pile. The priest looks up and catches a face smiling back at him. Cropped blond hair, broad and muscled shoulders, narrow pink lips and eyes the blue-gray of rain.

“You have a lot of cans,” the young man says, and the priest recognizes his voice immediately. He shrugs neutrally, fighting the mess of feelings that try to rise up inside of him.

“There’s a food drive coming up.”

The young man gives his groceries a look of disdain. “I thought the food donated is supposed to be the leftovers in your pantry or something.”

“I don’t have leftovers,” says the priest. “Sue me.”

He barks a laugh, surprised. “I knew you got annoyed with me the other day. I could hear it, even if I couldn’t see your face. But now…” He smiles wider.

So the young man recognizes him. The priest isn’t sure what to make of that. He just huffs a little and begins shoving cans into the pockets of his coat. The priest gets cold easily, so it’s a massive jacket. He notices the young man eyeing it and is expecting some sort of compliment before he blurts, “You look like the back of my Grandma’s closet when she throws her clothes into a pile.”

The priest feels his mouth drop open. “That’s not a very nice thing to say!”

The young man is laughing. “Chill, chill. It’s very cute.” He gives him a wink and the priest is wishing he was a little bit less attractive. He supposes he can blame his blush on the cold, though. The cold and the embarrassment of spilling his groceries to begin with.

The young man is admiring him. “I knew you were short.”

“I’m average,” mumbles the priest, knowing the young man is very above-average.

“Do I get to know your name yet?”

“Like I said, you may call me ‘Father’” the priest says with as much dignity as he can muster, tipping his chin back fussily to look more dutiful.

“Daddy?”

For the second time in five minutes, his jaw drops open in slack embarrassment.

The young man is delighted, laughing, long arms swinging back and forth in front of himself. “Ohhhh, man. Ohhhh, your face.”

“How are you older than me?” sputters the priest.

“Do you want to know my name?”

“I--”

“I’ll tell you mine when you tell me yours,” interrupts the young man, onto the next subject quick as anything, still dancing around the priest and grinning into his face. “You’re not allowed to ask around, either. It’s like a game.”

“I won’t be playing!”

The young man’s smile slips a little bit. “Are you still doing confession tomorrow?”

“I--” the priest hesitates. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He wonders if the young man has something on his mind. Something difficult to divulge.

“Great!” The young man’s smile rears back in full force. “I’ll get your name out of you then.” He claps a hand to the back of the priest’s shoulder, piles the cans into the priest’s other bags, and walks away with his head tipped back and his hands in his pockets. The priest scowls after him before he reminds himself to treat all living things with respect.

…

The words are dutiful, part of a routine now. “What’s on your mind?”

The young man answers casually. “Death.”

“Why?”

The young man thinks about it and answers with sincerity for once. “I’m scared I won’t live long enough to want to die.”

The priest stays silent at that. The young man backtracks. “I mean… I’m scared I’m going to die before I’m ready.”

“What do you define as ‘ready?’” asks the priest.

“I don’t know.” The young man thinks. “On my own terms.”

“Isn’t that a bit hard to guarantee?” the priest asks. “Accidents happen and people die everyday.”

“Yeah, I realize that!”

Oops. The priest backtracks. “What do you do to… prepare yourself for accidents?”

“I don’t.” The young man sounds bitter. “That’s why I’m here.”

The priest frowns. “For free therapy? I can’t promise--”

“To find God.”

Oh. The priest smiles into his lap at that. “That makes more sense.”

“Yeah, whatever,” grumbles the young man. “What do I do, Father?”

“I feel like this is a good time to let you know that confession is a place to express your sins rather than ask for advice and evaluation.” The priest hesitates. “I-- I mean, you’re free to, but perhaps therapy or counseling might help you more?”

“So you want me to talk about my sins instead?”

“Well not necessarily, but that’s my purpose. You know, I listen and, well, tell you how to take your sins off your shoulders.”

“I’ve been thinking about death,” says the young man. “Tell me how to pray that off my shoulders.”

“Thinking about death isn’t a sin.”

“What if I told you my sins then?” challenges the young man.

The priest laughs, more to himself than the young man. “You’re impertinent.”

“I don’t know what that means,” says the young man, aggrieved, but there’s a smile in his voice. “Do you want to hear my sins or not?”

“Oh, I do,” promises the priest and he folds his hands in his lap to listen as the young man rattles off small guilts, menaces, disobedience and lies, of the past few weeks yes, but also longer; the priest listens to him recount things he’s never told anyone before and, he promises, never will again.

Shadows grow underneath the doors of the confession box. After the stories taper off the priest finds himself laughing at jokes the young man tells, conversation he engages him in. The priest tells his own stories, recounts the follies of priesthood, tells the young man details of his own life and childhood that he rarely shares with others.

“You tell stories well,” says the young man. “Tell me another.”

He takes a breath, then lets it out slowly. “My name is Bradley.”

“Bradley,” the young man says, testing it out. For some reason it makes the priest's stomach tingle. “Do you go by Brad? Like a frat boy?”

“But of course,” says the priest, eliciting another laugh. “No. My father named me. He died when I was little so I never chose a nickname. Respect to his memory or something.”

“Oh.” The young man’s tone is quieter.

“It’s okay,” the priest promises, dizzy with the intimacy of his admission. “Don’t worry about it.”

“My father died too,” says the young man, even more quietly. “About a year ago.”

The silence stretches on between them, comfortable and understanding.

“I’m sorry,” says the priest.

“Yeah,” sighs the young man. A pause. “Can I tell you something, Father?”

“No,” says the priest, and they laugh together.

The young man whispers his secret. “I think that all I want right now is to join him. I miss him. It hurts a lot.”

The priest doesn’t say anything to that. They sit in silence for several minutes, the only sound their breathing and the occasional scuff of the young man’s shoes.

“I hope you don’t join him,” says the priest.

“I won’t,” the young man says immediately, as if reassuring him. “I just… I think that’s why I’m thinking about dying so much lately. I’m fascinated. I’m looking for proof that he’s-- somewhere and that he’s happy.”

“He’s with God and all the angels,” says the priest. “He’s happy. But I’m sure you miss him.”

“I do.” The confession comes quiet, and silences them again for several minutes.

“You can call me Daddy if you want,” offers the priest, barely able to get the sentence out before the young man is laughing so hard it shakes the booth.

…

Days bleed into weeks. Snow melts and sunlight makes its return, burnished and golden as the priest’s skin, bringing grass that’s the color of his eyes. He grins and doesn’t have to force it. He organizes food drives, cleanups, donation boxes, and the people around him smile too at seeing him, bright and beautiful and in his element.

The young man attends many of his events, carrying boxes and talking animatedly to other members attending. His hair has lightened, less the color of snow melted into mud and more like straw, like the dark yellow of sunset, like… The priest’s mind spirals when the young man spots him, shooting a wide smile his way. The priest smiles back, all hesitance.

Confessions run rampant in his mind.

He asks the young man what he does one day.

“I’m a pilot,” he answers. His voice is directed into the dirt, where he’s digging out weeds so that they can plant a new line of carrots. “Fighter pilot.”

The priest thinks of the nearby military base. He supposes that makes sense; there’s a lot of military types around actually, people who got stationed here long-term or people who fell in love with the town and moved back to the area.

“Sounds dangerous,” the priest says.

The young man grins up at him, all smugness. “It is.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s dangerous,” the young man repeats, as though that’s supposed to be an answer. In a way the priest supposes that it is. The young man doesn’t seem to like anything soft or given or easy. He’s been slow, teasing the priest with secrets about himself, reluctant to let anything real leak out that can’t be covered with a joke. Weeks of conversation have allowed the priest only faint glimpses into what is really on his mind. He’s expecting it will be weeks more before he’s allowed to view anything else of depth.

Which is a reminder.

The priest shifts above him. “What’s your name?”

He sees a smile twitching at the corner of the young man’s mouth. He doesn’t raise his head. “Jake.”

“Jake,” the priest agrees. The word tastes odd on his tongue. He has to leave before he says something foolish.

…

Church slips by every Sunday, a cool trickle of water. Pews fill and empty with people: old women with big hats and red lips, young girls fidgeting in floofy gowns, men in threadbare suits and sweaters, boys in collared shirts with pouty moods, babies and strollers and people that sing too loud, ladies with fans and men with sunlight shining off their bald pates.

And, constantly now, Jake.

The priest’s eyes find him every Sunday, and he has a hard time not directing his prayers towards him. Knowing his name has made everything worse, like a confession, a secret. Jake, Jake, Jake. Sweetly shaped, rolling around in his head like birdsong.

Jake doesn't talk much to his family, he’s told him. But still, people show up with him every once in a while: a man with warm brown skin and a dazzling smile, a woman with shiny black hair pulled back to match her rigid posture. He hopes they’re his friends. He hopes they’re keeping him happy. He hopes a bit too much when it comes to Jake these days.

He’s trying not to dwell on it.

“What’s on your mind?” the priest says, like he always does.

Jake yawns. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course,” the priest says, curiosity piqued. “I cannot and will not repeat anything that you say here. I’m not allowed.”

“Really?” The surprise is evident in Jake’s voice. “You couldn’t tell anyone anything? Even if I confessed to murder? Why not?”

It’s the rules, he thinks, but there’s more to it than that. The priest thinks of a girl down the street with long white scars down her arm, who promises him that she’ll inflict more. He thinks of the man two blocks over sobbing into his hands, confessing that he had left a candle burning by mistake and set the fire. He thinks of a little boy on White street asking if he can join his sister in Heaven.

“Respect.”

“You’re a good person,” Jake murmurs, the fondness clear in his voice.

The compliment feels too personal. The priest isn’t sure what to do. He’s not sure if it’s God that he prays to anymore.

“Tell me your secret,” the priest says.

“No,” Jake decides. “I don’t feel like confessing today. I just thought I’d tell you… I realized something. I don’t think about death as much.”

“Why’s that?”

“It’s been easier to live, lately.”

“I’m proud of you,” the priest says and means it. He doesn’t notice the slight hitch in Jake’s breath with those words. “What changed?”

Jake is silent for a full minute. “Springtime,” he answers, so softly that the priest strains to hear it. “Spring was beautiful this year.”

…

The next time they see each other the priest is at a bar, dressed in his regular clothes: a dark gray button-down, dark blue jeans, a belt slung low on his hips, hair and mustache neatly groomed. He holds a beer but it feels more like a question than a beverage: will you have fun tonight?

He supposes he will, the priest has fun most nights, but it’s not the type of fun that his friends have. His friends are all wildness, alcohol and laughing and the danger of new people, sparks flying into one-night stands. He stands amongst them a bit awkwardly, noting the way their smiles drop when they turn back towards him, as though they’re about to be scolded. Going out lately feels like babysitting; the adult ruining the vibe for the teenagers. He supposes that his career has had that effect. People his age tend to freeze up when he explains it to them, guiltily putting their drinks down on the counter.

The priest is sick of explaining that he’s not just a priest, not really, and that he doesn’t mind drinking at all-- look, look, he drinks too! He can party as well as the next person, he just doesn’t wake up in someone’s bed the next morning.

He’s also tired of all the judgment that comes with the position. The priest became a priest in his early twenties when he was sad and sick inside and needed someone to save him-- hardly his fault that no real person had stepped up, that God had been the only one willing. For that, he’s willing to dedicate his life to helping others find God, too, if they can’t find anything else.

Believing in something takes a shit-ton of hope, of deciding that he wants to believe. That the idea of a universe not completely lonely with a figurehead that preaches things like ‘be kind to each other’ is worth being comforted by. He’s given ten years of his life to that idea.

He wishes he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of it.

Jake sidles up to him where he’s standing at the bar, lost in his musings and watching his friends flirt with strangers at various spots around the room. Rather unattractive strangers, if he’s completely honest.

“And how are you, Father?” Jake asks, grinning at him as though the formality is a secret between the two of them.

The priest sips from his beer. “It’s hot in here.”

“Blame the dancing,” Jake says, eyes wandering to the impromptu dance floor that was erected a little while ago. Couples spin around on it while the woman behind the bar laughs and tosses them drinks when they get tired. “Do you dance, Father?”

The priest isn’t sure he’ll ever get tired of the word ‘Father’ out of Jake’s mouth. “I play the piano, but that’s it as far as my talents go.”

“Oh, I rather doubt that.”

“Fine.” The priest considers. “I make really good banana bread.”

Jake laughs, delighted and surprised. The priest finds himself grinning for the first time that night. It feels good to make someone laugh again. He’s not sure he has for a while.

He remembers, as though distantly, that his favorite types of people were the ones that always made him feel funny.

“Here,” Jake says, and the priest watches his hand extend forwards, “dance with me. You look so lonely over here, and I’m so lonely watching.”

The priest stares down at his hand, almost blankly, and he knows what it would be like. They would dance, bodies close together, fingers and legs tangling with every step. Jake’s head would be thrown back into another laugh when the priest, invariably, steps on his toes, and the priest would find himself grinning, skin flushed with embarrassment and exercise. The priest would--

No, he thinks as he takes his hand, not the priest right now. Bradley.

Jake and Bradley dance.

Then Bradley tugs away from him, ignoring his complaints, and makes his way to the piano. The woman at the bar smirks as she watches. She moves away from the counter to unplug the jukebox, and any groans are quickly drowned by the sound of the piano and the priest’s voice, rich and perfect. It’s not long before they’re all singing along.

A man with cropped blond hair and a face sharp as ice is leaning over the piano, shaking his head as though he’s torn between amusement and affection. The priest at the piano grins back, untamed and messy in a moment of pure joy, and she watches the way the other man’s smile fades as his expression focuses, fingers twitching as though he longs to reach for him.

Oh, she thinks.

The two of them spend the rest of the night at the piano.

…

Seasons change. Spring melts into summer and it’s not long after that the first signs of fall come, trees slowly blushing red and orange, air crispy and crackling with cold. The priest is often found with a scarf wrapped around his neck and a pair of glasses with the panes faintly frosted (because the cold weather always makes his eyesight worse) on his face, bundled up in his usual dark coat and a green knit hat popped onto his head. It was a present from Jake. He rarely takes it off.

Friendship was easy for them to fall into. Jake attends mass with his friends on Sunday and stands in the front row, so he can shoot small, mocking smiles at the priest during various intervals, smiles that make him fight a blush.

He gets to know Jake’s friends through trips to the bar that’s become theirs: Javy, who can dance like a maniac and who’s always swooping girls onto the floor with him, leaving the rest of them in stitches as he twirls them around. Natasha, with her dry wit and long arguments with Jake, who she calls an idiot. And eventually Bob, a man whose timid nature the priest is perfectly fine with.

Other nights are spent with Jake, taking walks around the park, the priest waxing poetic about the shine of the moon and the gentle rustle of the leaves. The priest can talk for so long about the perfect beauty of everything, the only proof he needs that the work of God exists in the world, that he never notices the way Jake grins at him, enjoying his rambling far more than the priest could’ve imagined.

Their time spent together in the confession box dwindles. They trace patterns into grass and asphalt instead with the wandering steps they take, the sandy restaurants they have breakfast in. Jake sits all casual and handsome in a t-shirt and sunglasses, the priest feeling foolish and diminished next to him in a Hawaiian shirt, left thinking that his own smile could never be so beautiful. Jake tells him stories about where he grew up, face darkening if the priest asked about his family so he doesn’t, carefully. The priest confesses to his own scars, how he came to be on his own in a town where everyone else has a family. He clears his throat to hide any wetness to his eyes, and Jake gives him a moment while he pretends as though he doesn’t notice.

It’s easy to fall in love like this, secret, so out in the open that no one would expect either of them of intimacy. How could they, when he laughs too loudly at Jake tripping over a garden hose and Jake sprays him with that hose until the priest is sputtering, curses turning to dust in his mouth? How could they, when the two of them don’t seem to do anything but argue for hours about books or movies or music artists? (The priest is partial to mysteries, horror, and rap, while Jake, though he’d never admit it to anyone else, just loves rom-coms and country music).

Intimacy is supposed to be about touch and kisses and the slide of skin against skin. It doesn’t look like Jake closing the door to the priest’s car gently because he knows the priest will give him a wounded look otherwise, and it doesn’t look like the priest tipping him a smirk when Jake comes up to receive communion. And worst of all, it certainly doesn’t look like something that ought to ever take place between two people of the same sex.

The priest has heard enough from other priests to suffice as evidence.

Jake’s heard enough from his family to suffice as reasoning.

Friendship seems like the easiest word for it. Friendship with a couple of lingering glances every once in a while. Friendship that started with confessions so deep the priest isn’t sure either of them will ever get over it.

Which was why it’s a surprise when Jake shows up to confession one day, months after the last time he’s been there.

It’s a gray day, blue shadows lengthening under the rows of seats, tinting the confession box with soft gray rather than the usual gold. The priest murmurs a goodbye to Mrs. Lockwood, who leaves with a tissue clutched to her mouth, and waits for the creak of wood announcing the next person slipping through the curtain.

“Hi,” the priest says, as the person settles in. “What brings you here today?”

There’s a quick exhale, a shifting of fabric. The priest waits, letting the silence drag. He’s used to having this sort of patience; he has to be. Secrets aren’t things that are easily won, even to someone as glittering and blessed as the priest, who speaks with the promise of God behind him.

“I’ve got a confession,” Jake says.

The priest is surprised, but he doesn’t want to let it show. Jake’s voice is low, heavy with something the priest can’t place. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t want to talk,” Jake says. “I want to confess.”

He’s never come into the booth before with such purpose, the priest notes. Their conversations, even the heaviest ones, hadn’t been about any particularly heavy sins that filled Jake’s head. They’d been treatises on death and afterlife and beyond, sure, but never something that was deeply personal to Jake.

He feels slightly guilty for how his curiosity overwhelms him.

Jake lets out a sigh, and he shifts again. “Do you believe in sins? In general, I mean?”

“Of course I do,” the priest says, heart beating slightly faster the way it usually does around Jake. “I wouldn’t be a good priest otherwise.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Jake says. “The idea that sinning too much can get you sent to hell. For all we know, sinning just once will damn you, and the idea of confession was made up by some desperate old men with masses to calm. Eternal damnation for having a mistress? For eating until your body’s made out of pudding? Terrifying thought.”

“Perhaps you’ve been giving it too much thought,” the priest says, as gently as he knows how. Jake doesn’t seem to hear.

“And what is death, anyway? People act like they know. Heaven or something. But what if Heaven’s not all that great after all? It could just be organ music and floating around with other spirits until the universe crumples and burns into dust. It could just be a white room with no one around except-- except nothing, actually. But then we have all those ghost stories?” Jake’s getting into a rant now and the priest is powerless to stop it. He folds his hands into his lap.

“There are so many stories about paranormal shit out there. Fingernails on the ceiling and dolls moving around and weird things people can’t explain. Do we just wander around earth then, and fuck around with the living until the living destroy the planet and join us? Are we all going to end up on a frozen rock or burnt up a few billion years from now? That’s fucking terrifying. I’ve got people I want to be with. I’ve got-- I don’t know, I wanna live after death in the ways that I can’t live now. There’s so many possibilities for what death looks like. For what eternity could be.” Jake’s breath comes too fast. “It’s insane to me that our only feeble fucking comfort, our only protection from all of these intrusive thoughts, is a book written a few thousand years ago with rules that people barely follow these days and rules that seem a bit outdated anyway. And a God. Merciless then kind. Punishing then sacrificing.” He chuckles, weakly. “Maybe the only reason we believe in Him is because our brains can’t comprehend a world where there’s not someone looking out for us.”

There’s a silence in the confession box except for the sound of their breathing-- Jake fast, the priest slow and careful.

He lets Jake sink into his own words, lets what he said swirl around. He’s not sure how this connects to Jake’s sins, but he has a feeling that whatever Jake wants to confess comes with a question attached to it.

“If I’m honest,” the priest says, “I’ve had the exact same thoughts.”

“You have?” The surprise in his tone is unmistakable.

“Oh, easily. So much of the Bible has been mistranslated or rewritten. It certainly doesn’t have the same stories in there as thousands of years ago. Politics and agendas have always been the worst enemies of humanity, and it shows when someone tries to change the narrative.”

Jake sighs. “So what do you do, then?”

“I pray to Jesus. And God. And Mary.”

“Even--”

“Yes, even with everything else that makes religion easy to doubt. I don’t always agree with the Bible, but I believe in a deity that sacrificed itself for humanity and told people to be kind to each other. I believe in a God that created our world carefully. And I believe in a woman whose heart was so pure, God gave her His son.”

“The rest of it could be bullshit, as far as I’m concerned,” the priest says, a bit rashly, and Jake chokes out a laugh. “But I believe in love and kindness and yes, someone who looks out for us. He looked out for me when I needed it. I found faith at the exact moment that I lost hope.”

Jake lets out a weak sort of chuckle, and they lapse back into silence. He can still hear Jake’s breathing, louder than usual. Those infernal shoes scuff the wood in a way that no one else’s do when they come in here. He wonders if Jake’s nervous about something.

“So you don’t think about life after death?” Jake asks. “Or death in general?”

“Whatever happens to us happens,” the priest says and Jake kind of laughs at that, shaky. “We’re not going to figure it out by thinking about it all the time, and we’re probably not going to change anything either. Just live now and be a good human and help others believe in what they need to believe in.”

“Huh.” Jake laughs louder, definitely pleased now. “Yeah, I guess I… yeah, I guess I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“Do you think thinking about death makes you feel closer to your dad?” the priest asks. It’s almost a stab in the dark, but not quiet. Jake harrumphs under his breath.

“I knew it was a mistake befriending someone more emotionally intelligent than me.”

“Your loss.”

“Heh.” Jake chuckles. They sit in silence, comfortable and affectionate with each other. The priest’s mouth is doing that dopey delighted smile he finds himself smiling around Jake, his heart still throbbing a steady few beats faster than normal every time Jake exhales, every time he shifts on the other side.

“What did you want to confess?” the priest asks.

“I…” Jake’s voice trails away. He starts again. “So, sins--”

“No, don’t give me that,” the priest interrupts, trying not to laugh when Jake groans. “You’re not chickening out. If you’ve got something to say, getting it out in the open is the best thing that you can do.” He’s starting to build steam, ignoring the way Jake’s laughing. “Free your mind to free your soul--”

“I’m in love.”

He stops mid-sentence, mouth still open and puckered around the next word. Jake’s laugh has died down. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Jake repeats.

“I…” His brain has short-circuited. He can’t think of anything to say. A dull feeling starts to pulse behind his ribs, heavy and dark as lead. “I-- congratulations.”

“Congratulations?”

“You’re in love.” The priest forces a smile onto his face, lets it flutter onto his cheeks. “Love is wonderful.”

“Wonderful?”

He laughs and hopes it doesn’t sound forced. “What’s so difficult about it? Have you not told her yet?”

“Her?” Jake’s just parroting everything he says and it’s getting annoying.

“Yeah. Love’s great. It’s, you know, it makes things easier, it gives you a partner, it gives you someone to spill all your Game of Thrones trivia to besides me--”

“Jesus,” Jake groans, as though he’s realized something. The priest hears him turning towards the checked panel between them. “Why do you think I came here today?”

“To-- I don’t know?”

“I--” He sounds frustrated and the priest pictures a hand running through his hair. “Hold on.” The wood creaks as he stands, curtain fluttering behind him, and the priest is at a loss. His mind is slow to replay Jake’s words even if his heart, beating faster, seems to have realized something.

The metal rings screech against the curtain rod as it’s yanked open. Jake’s there, glaring down at him. The priest doesn’t have time to move before Jake does, coming towards him and bending down, hands going to either side of his face, mouth pressing onto his in a way that doesn’t feel very holy or--

Bradley’s brain short-circuits, eyes fluttering shut at the warmth, at the soft slide of skin on skin that he’s been dreaming of, mouth opening faintly under the pressure--

Just as quickly it’s gone, the air cold on his lips as Jake pulls away. They stare at each other, breaths heaving. Jake’s eyes are very blue.

“That’s why,” Jake says, voice strangled, and he’s gone, the curtain fluttering gently in his wake.

Bradley presses a shaky hand to his lips.

The sunlight is gray as ash.

…

They sit next to each other with a wall between them and a collar around one of their necks. They haven’t said anything for thirty minutes. They haven’t seen each other for two weeks.

It was texting afterwards, tentative and shy, till that fizzled out on both ends into something that tasted like guilt. The priest didn’t bother to ask if Jake was coming to confession and Jake didn’t bother to ask if the priest would stay longer than the confession hours lasted.

Evening has started to grow underneath the doorways and through the windows. The priest’s hands are cold in his lap despite the heavy air in the confession box. Jake hasn’t so much as scuffed his shoe once the entire time.

“I don’t believe in…” The priest hesitates. “I’m not one of the priests who…” He pauses and tries again. “Love is not and cannot be a sin.”

Jake snorts. “I know that, Bradley.”

There’s his name again, all soft rounded syllables. It sends fire into the pit of his belly.

They sit in silence again, shuffling their feet and trying not to voice everything they feel first.

Jake gives in. “I love you.”

The priest’s breath hitches.

“Unfortunately,” he adds, a little bit dryly, and the priest gives a weak laugh. “But, yeah.”

A confession box, the priest thinks, looking around at it. The perfect place for something like this.

Priests aren’t supposed to confess.

It comes out anyway, a whisper. “I love you too.”

“I figured,” Jake mutters, and the priest can picture his smirk on the other side. “I wouldn’t have kissed you otherwise.”

His cheeks heat with the memory of that kiss.

“And here you were thinking I’d never confess anything,” Jake jokes, teasing glint in his voice.

The priest doesn’t tease back. “Loving is not and never will be a sin.” He repeats the words as though hoping God will hear and offer him up a sign.

He won’t though, and he doesn’t.

“Let me repent anyway,” Jake says.

The priest thinks about it, even as he can feel tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes. He makes sure his voice doesn’t wobble when he says, “Five Hail Marys and a donation to the charity of your choosing.” Then he instructs Jake in the Act of Contrition and speaks the Prayer of Absolution himself. He sounds dull even to his own ears, but Jake doesn’t say anything. He’s unusually quiet, and the priest tries not to think about the meaning behind that.

“Give thanks to the Lord for He is good,” the priest says.

“His mercy endures forever,” Jake says.

“Your sins are dissolved. Go in peace.”

“Thanks be to God,” Jake says, the words soft and perfect in his mouth. The priest can picture a small smile on his face. “Thank you, Bradley.”

The creak of the wood signals him standing, and the priest tips his head back against the wall as he feels the tears start. God, he thinks, God and Jesus and Mary and the Bible and the priesthood and everything he swore to. He has a job and a purpose. One person can’t change what he does for everyone else.

He repeats that to himself for the rest of the afternoon as he watches darkness grow in the church. In the following weeks, he remembers his vows and smiles on the outside and does everything he’s supposed to do and acts nothing but cavalier and friendly when Jake raises a hand to greet him in the street. He tries not to notice the softness to Jake’s eyes when he looks his way. Tries not to let that softness echo on his own face.

His heart beats too fast in his chest, and he’s trying to find God everywhere all the time and he’s convinced somehow that religion is standing in front of him and he won’t take it. He pictures spires instead of white picket fences. He thinks of communion and a cross dangling behind him instead of a smile, instead of what it would be like to be kissed. He builds walls and walls and walls.

Impermanent, sticky solutions.

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen,” the priest says.

“Amen,” Jake echoes from the front row, grinning as if nothing had happened at all.

Amen, Bradley thinks, and he downs communion wine that tastes like Jake’s mouth. He wonders if Jake will wait for him. He wonders if God would forgive him. He wonders if he can have faith in two things.

Sunlight glitters through stained glass, and the old church crumples from the inside as Bradley stands with his hands lifted to God at the front.