Archive of Our Own ^beta

It starts the way that most of the mistakes in Hyunjin’s life do: with a church door swinging open.

—

More accurately, it starts with his mother on the other end of their Sunday morning phone call, clicking her tongue at him, fretting. “I just worry, Jinnie. You used to be so devout when you were younger, don’t you think it might be nice?”

He takes another bite of his overcooked eggs and breathes out of his nose, long and tired. “Eomma, I’m just busy, and I’ve been having a hard time finding a new congregation in this city.” It’s a lie. He can’t spit without hitting a Catholic, and they both know that, aside from his restaurant job, his social life is dead in the water. But it is easier than explaining exactly where his hesitance actually comes from, easier than divulging every poorly lit sin he’s ever committed.

“There is always time for your soul, son.” Her tone is firm, but in the way where Hyunjin knows she will burst into weepy tears if he pushes her too far in any direction. It annoys him, but he is not as stubborn as he used to be. And he worries for her, too.

So he hangs up the phone with a promise on his lips, and then promptly Googles catholic church near me. Jisung is gonna give him so much shit when he finds out about this.

—

So now it’s Sunday and he’s here in his wrinkled slacks and his careful ponytail, squinting up at the building in the holy morning sun. He found one with a small congregation on purpose, one named after a saint even his mother hasn’t heard of. One where he will know no one, where he can slip in and out, no questions asked.

It is humble, missionary in its design, built from stucco and whatever meager offerings the faithful had been able to scrounge up a hundred years ago. As he walks up the stairs and through the front door, Hyunjin notes that it has none of the glamor of the big box church he was raised in, none of the gleaming gold or polished marble, just a few stained glass windows, some tableaus showing the Passion of Christ, and a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary against the front wall – the most decorative thing in the place the massive crucifix suspended behind the wooden altar.

Still, a church is a church, and Hyunjin can feel a familiar feeling trickling down his spine as he crosses the threshold, dips his fingers in the holy water, crosses himself while genuflecting, the rafters arching above him.

He sidles into a pew towards the back, and the shape his body takes is familiar, twelve years of Catholic school etched into his bones, deeper than he can ever hope to scrub out. He reads over the program he took from the usher, noting the day’s liturgies, grazing his eyes over the responsorials and the list of announcements, the births and deaths and Confirmations that all took place over the last month. They are not names he knows, but he can envision them still, their bodies in this hall, bereft and searching.

He thinks of the last time he was in church, at his high school graduation, Jisung strung against his side. Giggling into his ear. We’re gonna be free so soon, Jinnie. It’s gonna be so good.

That was seven years and two cities ago now.

The sound of a bell ringing brings him back, and he stands with the rest of the sparse congregation. Another familiar ritual, another creak of his bones against everything he was taught to believe. The door to the vestry opens to the side of the altar, a deacon filing out with the Gospel clasped tightly in his hands. Just that side of a second later the priest follows, and Hyunjin feels the blood drain from his face, his breath hitch in his throat, a spark of something wicked catching deep in his stomach, because oh. Oh, he is fucking gorgeous.

The priest’s face is placid, a hint of a smile playing across it, welcoming and warm. His eyes are deep set and large, glittering under the sunlight spewing in from the tall church windows. His hair is a light brown, longer than a priest’s maybe should be, his bangs just starting to pass his eyebrows in a way that must tickle, in a way that must bother him, makes Hyunjin wants to card his hands through it and push it out of the way for him. It’s all enough to make Hyunjin’s chest tighten, and that’s before the Father bends down on one knee, presses his mouth to the altar, reverent and oblivious, and shit . It shouldn’t stoke a spark in Hyunjin, but it does, to see that mouth and those knees, the gentle press. Just like that, he knows he’s done for.

—

“Go in peace,” the priest says, hands raised, and Hyunjin finds himself lingering in his pew, restless but unwilling to put his legs to work leaving just yet. He watches as the Father dismounts from the pulpit and approaches a couple of parishioners in the front row, shaking hands and smiling, exchanging words, probably pleasantries, maybe a how are the kids?, for a few moments before he makes his way to the people behind them, and that’s when Hyunjin realizes. The priest is going to approach everyone. He’s going to approach Hyunjin. The curse of a small church, he somehow forgot, is the closeness of the priest with his congregation. Of course he will want to greet the new face. Of course.

And Hyunjin could save himself, could duck out the door and run, and find another church to appease his mother with and never return, but he knows he won’t. He can already taste the challenge of it all, already knows he won’t be able to resist what has been presented to him. He knows that he isn’t moving, standing patiently in his pew, waiting. Just waiting.

After an eternity that is probably closer to five or so minutes, the priest comes up to Hyunjin, that stupid, polite, practiced smile still fixed across his face. This close, the mole on his nose becomes visible, just slightly off center and painfully adorable. He extends a hand, and Hyunjin can’t help but notice how small it looks when he engulfs it in his own, shaking it firmly and politely, and not at all feeling a warmth spreading from where their palms connect. Not at all.

“Hi there,” and his voice is even more honeyed and dripping this close, without the filter of the microphone of the pulpit, “I wanted to come and introduce myself since I haven’t seen you in here before. I’m Father Lee.”

Hyunjin smiles back then, measured, close lipped. Contained. “Hyunjin. Nice to meet you.” Their hands disconnect, and Hyunjin’s arm falls limply to his side again.

“I hope you enjoyed it,” Father Lee continues, waving his now free hand towards the altar, “I’m new to this parish so I feel like I’m still getting my legs under me.”

Hyunjin hums in what he hopes is an affirmative tone. “It was great,” and it’s a half truth, because while Hyunjin had enjoyed himself, it probably wasn’t for the reasons Father Lee hopes. “I gotta admit, I’m probably not the right person to ask since I haven’t been to Mass in about seven years.”

Father Lee’s eyebrow quirks at that, shooting up towards his hairline. “What brought you back to Church then? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

Hyunjin considers for a moment, cocks his head to one side. It would be an easy enough question to dodge, but he finds he doesn’t want to. So he’s honest. “I got worried for my mother, thought her heart might give out at some point if I didn’t get my ass back in a holy house at least a couple of times.”

It earns him a chuckle, a fuller smile, a flash of those just slightly crooked teeth. “Mothers are like that, I’ve found.” And now Father Lee’s hand is coming up to rest lightly on Hyunjin’s bicep, in what is probably meant to be nothing more than a welcoming gesture and one that Hyunjin has entirely normal emotions about, thank you very much. “Well, I hope you keep coming, and if you ever need anything or want to talk about your journey back to faith, my door is always open.”

There’s a pause, a beat where they simply stand, and Hyunjin tries to think of how to respond. Before he can, the moment is split by Minho laughing again, strange and reedy and utterly endearing this time, rolling his eyes. “God, I sound like such a stuffy old man. Sorry, still getting used to the whole ‘welcoming the flock’ part of this whole thing.” And Hyunjin can’t help but laugh a little bit too. “Either way, the open door stands and I hope I’ll see you next Sunday.”

“Thank you, Father,” Hyunjin’s voice is slightly breathier than normal because Father Lee’s hand is still there and he is simply a human. “No promises, though.”

“Better to not make one than make one and break it.” Father Lee’s hand finally drops, and then there’s a voice calling, Father Lee! I need to talk to you about the raffle at bingo tomorrow night!

“I’m coming, Seungmin,” and he’s giving a slightly apologetic look to Hyunjin, “Sorry, but duty calls.”

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to keep you.” Father Lee steps back then, making space for Hyunjin to finally step out of the pew and into the aisle. “And I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” It gets him another smile, pure, unbridled, and Hyunjin can’t stop his mind from tacking on waiting to be ruined. As he turns and leaves the church, walking down the steps and back to his car, the only thought in his head is, holy shit, I’m so fucked.

–

“Dude, a priest? Really?” Jisung’s head is resting on Hyunjin’s bare chest, the two of them still sitting in their post orgasm haze, naked and loose in Jisung’s bed.

Hyunjin’s hand moves from where it was carding through Jisung’s hair to wipe across his face, an exasperated groan crawling its way out of his chest. “Yeah. A Catholic one too. It’s pathetic, I know.”

And maybe Hyunjin’s second mistake, the one that came after walking into that church in the first place, was to ever think he could avoid it. After that first Mass, he went back to his apartment, took a cold shower, jerked off anyway, and resolved to leave with this whole situation until later. So what if he wanted to fuck a priest? If God didn’t want him to have these desires He shouldn’t have led such a hot piece of ass to the pulpit.

He tried to keep his mouth shut about it, he really did, hoped if he didn’t vocalize it he could just move on, quash this stupid fucking crush without having to actually deal with it. Not dealing with things was something of a specialty, but keeping secrets from Jisung was decidedly not. Not with the way Jisung could read Hyunjin like his own personal holy text. All it took was Hyunjin having one slightly-too-far-away look while Jisung was blowing him for the question, so who’s the new guy you wish I was? to be lobbed at him. For him to moan out his confession, describe Father Lee’s stupid cupid’s bow between panting breaths.

Jisung found the whole thing far too hot, because of course he did. He always loved when Hyunjin described his other conquests in bed, especially when they had an element of intrigue to them, and this was so obviously ticking all of his boxes. “I mean, it’s only pathetic if you don’t shoot your shot and just pine over him instead.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Hyunjin can’t help the laugh that gets punched out of him, the shock at Jisung’s boldness (which should really stop shocking him at some point). “Did you miss the Catholic priest part of this whole shit? Did you forget about the whole abstinent, married to Jesus thing or what the fuck ever? Or maybe the homosexuality is a sin bit?”

“Well, the being married to Jesus bit does make the whole thing sound at least a little gay.” Jisung looks up towards Hyunjin then, that stupid shit eating grin plastered on his face, but Hyunjin can hear the hint of sincerity sitting in his voice. “Listen, dude, all I’m saying is it would be so fucking legendary if you managed to bag a man of the Lord.”

“I don’t even know if I can go back to that church again, Sungie.” A sigh, head tossed back against a pillow. As he says it, Hyunjin knows he’s lying. Knows that Jisung must know it too. He’s never been able to resist the thrill of a chase, even if it will end in disaster.

“You and I both know your mom will kill you if you back out on saving your soul now.” Jisung turns his head to place a light kiss against Hyunjin’s chest. “You’re going to go back, and you’re going to see the hot priest, and you are going to try to fuck him. I’m a lot of things Hyunjin, but I’m not stupid.”

And Hyunjin knows this, even as his ears burn, especially as visions of Father Lee flash across his mind. Those eyes, his hands, the way they held the Book, the way his tongue poked against his cheek when he was trying to find his next word mid-sermon. He sighs again, wistful and resigned, accepting his fate. “You’re actually a total dumbass, Sung.”

It gets him an offended yelp, a slap to the chest, arms caging his head, laughter pealing from his own chest as Jisung yells, “This is what I get for suffering through your stupid yearning! Insults? What kind of best friend are you, huh?”

They fall back into each other, the ease of friendship and the pursuit of pleasure shooting between their bodies again. And Hyunjin is able to forget about it again, at least for now.

–

At least until the next Sunday, when Hyunjin finds himself settling into the same pew again, watching Father Lee give Mass again. He wants to pretend like he’s less affected this time, knows what’s coming, but his breath still comes to him slightly shakily as he watches the movement of Father Lee’s hands over the chalice, the Eucharist. He doesn’t join the procession for communion because he hasn’t in years, not since he snapped himself free of all of it, but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about the Father’s fingertips pressing into the flesh of his tongue, reverent placing of the host.

But the service isn’t really what he’s there for anyway. What he’s there for is waiting till the end, till the Father is doing his rounds, the genial, polite smile settled on his face. Hyunjin doesn’t know if he’s being saved for last on purpose, or if its just because he’s seated the furthest back in the church, but that’s how it happens: Father Lee shaking the final auntie’s hand before turning to him, something fresh flashing across his face, so quick Hyunjin thinks he must have simply imagined it.

“Hyunjin,” and his voice does hold a sincerity, like he is actually happy to see Hyunjin, and not just obligated to. “I’m so glad to see you again, good to know we didn’t scare you off last week.”

“No offense, Father, but I went to Catholic school for twelve years. I don’t think you are capable of scaring me.” Hyunjin laughs as he says it, the small, tinkling one he pulls out when he’s trying to make a good impression (or when he’s trying to flirt).

“I can see why you’re lapsed then.” Father Lee runs a hand through his hair, his mouth quirking in amusement as he speaks. “I’ve always said the best way to make sure your kids leave the faith is to send them to Catholic school. Nothing quite like years of mean nuns at the most formative time of your life to make the Church seem unappealing as shit.”

Hyunjin’s eyebrows raise at that. There’s a crack there, a glimpse of something more, something deeper than just a priest with a face like a deathwish. Something twists in his chest, something that shouldn’t be twisting after one and a half conversations. And yet. “Isn’t swearing a sin, Father?”

A hum, a glint across the eye. “Some people definitely read the Commandments that way, but I’m a little looser in my interpretations. I believe that as long as I’m not speaking against God, then He’s probably too busy to care what my exact word choice is. He’s the forgiving type anyway, you know.”

“I guess that’s fair enough.” Hyunjin’s smile is less reserved now, a little more genuine, and he wonders if Father Lee can tell the difference. “Definitely don’t think Sister Catherine would agree with you, though.”

“Like I said, mean nuns make everything less fun.” Father Lee is glancing over his shoulder now, and Hyunjin can see another man coming up the aisle, waving frantically at the priest, clasping a stack of papers in his hands. The Father sighs, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I better go see what Seungmin needs, probably something about the carnival that’s happening at the end of the month. If you wanted, we’re still looking for volunteers.” He says it distractedly, tacked on, but Hyunjin still pauses on it. Sees an opportunity.

“I’ll think about it, Father.” It’s more of a commitment than he probably should be making, and for a moment he’s worried about the forwardness of it, but if Father Lee is surprised he doesn’t show it, just tosses another smile Hyunjin’s way.

“Amazing, all the info is in the parish newsletter, which I know you have because Seungmin has absolutely drilled it into the ushers that everyone gets one in hand, or the Lord Himself will be disappointed. He is truly a terrifying man when he needs to be.” He is looking back towards who Hyunjin at this point knows can only be Seungmin. “Alright, I’m coming! Don’t have a conniption. Revelations won’t start just because we haven’t decided where to set up the cupcake stand!”

A small wave, a I hope to see you again next week, and that open door still stands by the way, I’m always here anyway , and Father Lee is sweeping away up the aisle, vestments trailing behind him as Seungmin grasps his arm and tugs him towards the door to the sacristy. Hyunjin left standing in the now empty church hall. He looks up, eyes landing on the stained glass angel sitting in the window behind the altar. He wonders what rooms of heaven will take him when this is over. How many Hail Marys he might need to absolve his cock, slightly tenting his pants for absolutely no good reason.

–

It’s silly, Hyunjin thinks, the way his palm sweats around the plastic container filled with cupcakes. It’s silly that he had dragged Jisung to his apartment to help bake them, had FaceTimed Felix at God-knows-what-time in Australia for recipe advice, had painstakingly piped rosettes onto each one only for them to drip and slouch because he hadn’t waited long enough for the cupcakes to cool (which was the exact sort of thing Felix had sleepily warned him against). It’s silly, the way his heart hammers as he approaches the table Seungmin had brusquely directed him to, already laden with so many other, prettier treats.

It shouldn’t make him nervous, he knows this. It’s a bake sale at a church. It’s just a table and some cupcakes and a small cash box, and he is a grown man who can handle that much. But still. He remembers Father Lee’s eyes. His smile. His small, strong hands raising the chalice. His breathing is unsteady, his hands wiping against his pants once he sets the tupperware down on the one empty spot on the table, trying to relieve them of their dampness. As he moves around behind the table, takes a seat, starts to glance over the meticulously organized price list that Seungmin left for him, his pocket vibrates.

sungie (derogatory)

hows it going w priest boy heathen

An eye roll, a huffed sigh, a quirk of his mouth that he’ll never admit is halfway to a smile. Maybe he should ignore it entirely just to avoid rewarding Jisung for being annoying, but he supposes he owes him for the way the other didn’t comment when maybe, just maybe Hyunjin started crying a little over his melted flowers.

jinnie (affectionate)

he hasnt been spotted yet,,,,


will keep you updated


also i am alone at this table???? other guy is sick ig

Hyunjin tucks his phone back into his pocket and leans back into his chair. It is early and people are just starting to filter into the field, making beelines for the shabby rides that had been set up overnight and the game stands scattered around. The sight is familiar enough to Hyunjin, having spent so many childhood seasons going to similar functions at his and neighboring Catholic schools, sucking down cotton candy and dizzying himself on neon lights in the name of fundraising for the Lord.

Even as he says hello to the first few mothers who come up to him gushing about how beautiful all the treats are, even as he counts back change, even as he smiles pleasantries, the backdrop of his brain is a spindle of memory, a film stuck on replay. How he was once as small as the kids with sticky fingers making grabby hands towards whatever sweet thing is nearest to them. How he also once wore carefully pressed slacks and button down shirts as a uniform, his absolute Sunday best. How he grew up, out of that small shell. How he is back, now, his eyes cutting across the crowd, searching for Father Lee, the man they all probably admire so deeply, with nothing but unholy intention.

Hyunjin spends the first hour of the fair like that, and he must start running on autopilot at some point, his mind entirely lost, because he manages to miss the man until he’s right in front of him. Until someone is saying his name. Until he is recognizing the voice. Until cold water is shot right into his veins.

“Chan?”

And there he is, in the flesh, in front of Hyunjin, so different but exactly the same. His hair is slightly longer, and he’s left it in its natural curls instead of straightening it. His button down shirt is looser fitting, more reasonable than the muscle tees he was so fond of those years ago. And his pants. His pants are these khakis, cuffed at the ankle, trimmed in with a simple belt. He looks downright sensible.

“Hyunjin, its good to see you again.” There is a smile on his mouth, not touching his eyes, practiced. Polite.

Hyunjin stays frozen for a second, brain stuttering, slotting together pieces and timelines. Three years. That’s how long it's been, he thinks. Three years. A swallow, a quick inhale.

“You look good, Chan.” He means it and he doesn’t. Chan looks exactly how he always wanted to. Straight buttoned and put together. The silver of a wedding band flashing towards Hyunjin, unignorable. Three years. “You’re married now?”

“You do too, Jin.” The diminutive rolls off his tongue too easily for comfort. The moment is strained, palpable, the air thickened around them, the sounds of children and stressed mothers fading into the background. “And yeah, her name is Joy. We met in college, I think you might have met her once or twice too.”

And Hyunjin can remember her, because he remembers everything to do with Chan. Can see her conservative blouses, hear her tinkling laugh, can remember the way she would toy with the cross chained around her neck while she talked. She had always looked at Chan like he was God’s gift to earth. He supposes they are a good match.

“Oh yeah, I remember her. Congrats.” And Hyunjin’s never been a good actor, but he tries his best to lilt his voice, to communicate some form of genuine happiness at the news. The way that Chan’s forehead creases tells him it doesn’t work. “Is she here today?”

“Yeah, she just ran to the bathroom to change Jacob’s diaper.” Hyunjin’s breath catches in his throat. A kid. Three years. “Can’t say I’m not surprised to see you here, though. Doesn’t really seem to be your kind of scene.”

Hyunjin tilts his head to the side, small, insincere smile of his own trickling across his own face. “I don’t think I know what you mean. You know I like to do whatever I can to help my community.” He knows that Chan knows he’s bullshitting. But he knows that Chan is doing the same. Hyunjin knows that Chan won’t push him on it, not with everyone he’s trying so hard to impress milling around the two of them. He’s the one with the most to lose here.

There’s another second of tension, uncertainty, Hyunjin breaking eye contact and letting his eyes flit across the field. He is saved from at least one faction of himself when he spots the only familiar face he was expecting to see today. A grin breaks across Father Lee’s face as he walks up to the stand.

“Hyunjin!” And his voice is polite too, like Chan’s, but there’s something different underneath it. Excitement, affection, something else Hyunjin can’t quite parse. “I’m so happy you made it, I’m sorry you have to staff this booth by yourself, we just couldn’t find a replacement for Jaehyun in time, thank you for being so understanding, rolling with the punches, all that…” He trails off with his rambling as he takes in the scene he’s stumbled into, eyes flicking between the two men, their careful expressions.

“Oh, Chris!” And of course. Of course he’s using his baptismal name now. Three years. Just three years. “Do you two know each other?”

Hyunjin’s eyes cut back towards Chan - Chris - to see the small light of panic breaking through his eyes, the way his mouth pops open into a small shape of oh, fuck. Deer caught in the headlights. And Hyunjin could be nice, could let it all go for a moment, could lie, but its been three years. Only three years. A blink. An eternity.

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s my ex.”

They speak at the same time, syllables overlapping, intertwining. Father Lee’s eyebrows crick upwards and the way his eyes widen slightly lets Hyunjin know that he didn’t miss a single thing. Hyunjin certainly doesn’t miss the crack of betrayal splitting on Chan’s face, his jaw clicking shut, a flash of sadness before stoniness settles in. Doesn’t miss the space where guilt should be settling into his stomach and, decidedly, isn’t.

Chan splutters for a moment, runs a hand through his hair, stares at the ground, at the sky, but what he eventually settles on is, “I should probably go find my wife, she must have her hands full with the baby.” He nods politely to Father Lee, throws a complicated, withering glare at Hyunjin whose veneer of a polite smile hasn’t slipped this whole time, before turning on his foot and walking off at a slightly above average speed. Hyunjin watches him go. A calmness in his bones. A fresh set of sorrows between his molars.

After a moment, Hyunjin turns to the priest again to find him already staring at him. Puzzling over him. Turning over some new calculus in his head. “Sorry about that,” is all Hyunjin offers. He knows he lives in a glass closet, but it isn’t lost on him that Father Lee hadn’t known before this. At least not so plainly.

The father’s expression doesn’t shift. “I wasn’t always a priest, you know.” There’s a wistfulness in the way his mouth twists over the words. “I promise I won’t judge you, Hyunjin. Not for that, anyway.”

Hyunjin feels his pulse in his ear, a river opening in his chest. He knows what Father Lee is saying. He knows what he can’t say. “Thank you, Father. I appreciate that.” He means it.

Finally, Father Lee allows the tension on his face to dissipate, replaces it with that warm smile he had been wearing when he approached in the first place. He casts his gaze towards the table for the first time, snatches up a cupcake, one of the ones Hyunjin made. “This spread is incredible, by the way. I don’t understand how you haven’t eaten it all already.” He peels the wrapper back, takes a bite, and his eyes roll back as he groans in pleasure.

And Hyunjin doesn’t know what he’s done wrong in his life that God is making him keep his composure against that, but he does. He keeps his polite smile, he says, “Thank you, Father. I made that one myself.” He lets his hand twitch against his leg, lets an image flash through his mind of Father Lee on his knees, eyes rolling back for an entirely different reason. Overall, he considers it a victory.

“Father!” A voice rings towards them, and they both turn to see Seungmin, frantic and stone-faced as always, coming straight towards them. “Father, there was an incident at the merry-go-round. A child fell off a horse and is demanding the Anointing of the Sick because of his cut knee.”

“Ah, I see.” There is a fond exasperation in the priest’s tone, like he has heard this story before but can’t find it in him to get sick of it. “I’ll be over in just a moment, can’t let the poor kid suffer for too long without some good old fashioned faith healing.” He side eyes Hyunjin almost conspiratorially, mischief in his expression.

“Good luck with that, Father.” Genuine amusement bleeds into Hyunjin’s voice as he shakes his head slightly. “Sounds utterly thrilling.”

Father Lee laughs as he starts to walk away, following behind a briskly paced Seungmin. “I’m sure it will be,” he calls over his shoulder before turning fully away.

Hyunjin watches him go. Feels something that tastes like promise pooling underneath his tongue. Jisung is gonna throw something when he hears about this.

–

It is hours later, and someone has finally come to relieve Hyunjin of his duties, cutting the tie between him and the godforsaken bake sale. He doesn’t consider sticking around, so drained from the day that all he can think of is getting home and moaning the whole story into Jisung’s eager mouth.

He is already rounding the corner, out of the field and towards the church, when he hears a scrabble of feet over gravel behind him, a call of his name. Embarrassingly, he knows who it is before he turns around.

“Hyunjin, I’m so glad I caught you.” Father Lee is wearing that signature smile of his again, crooked top teeth poking out. Hyunjin’s heart is skipping several beats. “I wanted to give you something.” And he is reaching into some pocket hidden in the inside of his coat, and pulling out a book, wrapped in a familiar binding.

“Oh, don’t give me that look.” Father Lee’s laugh falls from his mouth as Hyunjin tries to wrestle his facial features back into peaceful submission, unknit his eyebrows from his hairline where they migrated upon seeing the words HOLY BIBLE emblazoned in faux gold leaf on the black cover. “I just marked some passages for you that I thought might be of interest.”

Hyunjin can’t help laughing back, high and short, disbelief widening his pupils. “I don’t mean to offend, Father, but I think I know how this story ends.” He means it. And he doesn’t. He hopes he doesn’t.

“Please, just humor me.” A small smile on his face. Sincere. Reserved. Maybe hesitant. A glimmer in his eyes, mischief and hope together. “I’d love to hear what you think.”

And how can Hyunjin hope to say no in the face of all that. So it's a nod, a smile back, with a hint of teeth showing under his top lip. A hand reaching out, grabbing the spine of the book. “Thank you, Father. I’ll see you next Sunday?”

Minho’s hand drops down to his side as he lets go of the Bible, twitches into his pocket in a nervous gesture that Hyunjin barely catches. “Of course, Hyunjin. See you then.”

–

It’s the same night when Hyunjin gets the text, reaching across Jisung’s sleeping chest to grab his phone off the nightstand.

bang chan

i meant it when i said you looked good today.

All this time, and he kept his number. The ocean roars into Hyunjin’s ears. A choice. He barely has time to consider it before his fingers are moving, tapping out a response.

hwang hyunjin

and i meant it when i said you do too.

Hyunjin’s mouth is dry. He knows what he is doing. There is no plausible deniability finding a home under his knuckles as his thumbs hover over the screen. He thinks of Joy’s face, of the baby whose carriage he glimpsed across the field. He thinks of his own tear streaks, of Jisung collecting him off a dorm room floor at the end of everything. He thinks of the way Chan looked at him earlier. Disgusted. Wanting. So, so sad. He thinks of Chan laying on his side, cradling his phone so the light can’t be seen from the other side of his bed. Of the way the other man is laying this trap for himself. All Hyunjin has to do is let him walk in.

lets get a drink somewhere.

–

It’s not hard for Hyunjin to remember why he let himself be Chan’s dirty little secret for so long. Why it hurt so bad when he left. Why his chest still feels full of shrapnel sometimes, three years later. It was easy to remember earlier, at the bar when Chan laughed openly over his hazy IPA at some dumb story Hyunjin was retelling. It’s even easier now, back at his apartment with Chan’s perfect, perfect cock buried in his ass.

Chan isn’t the best Hyunjin’s had anymore, but he was once, and even now Hyunjin doesn’t have too much pride to admit he’s still good . Can still grind his hips just as filthily, can still spread his hand between Hyunjin’s shoulderblades and push him down into the mattress just the way they both love so much. Can still split him apart in a way that borders on heavenly. Only difference now is the condom, separating them. A reminder of what they’re doing. Of the risk, inherent. They weren’t as careful as they should have been back then. They still aren’t, just in different ways now.

“Chan, fuck, so good.” Hyunjin’s face is smashed into his pillow, drool slipping from the corner of his mouth, and he’s eloquent as always. Chris , he had greeted him at the bar.

Don’t call me that, Jinnie. Doesn’t sound right coming from you.

Chan grunts from behind him, low and growling, punctuated by a particularly sharp thrust. “Fuck, Jin, you feel just as good as I remember. Still so fucking tight.” The hand on Hyunjin’s back trails down to grab at his hip, pulling him back on Chan’s cock with more force, driving Chan deeper into him. Driving Hyunjin further into the bed.

So, a kid, huh?

Let’s not talk about that, Hyunjin. Please.

“You missed it didn’t you?” Hyunjin is breathless, voice tinged in sour laughter. Hands fisting the sheets on either side of his head. Chan’s cock hits his prostate and a gasp wriggles its way out. “Missed getting to fuck me?” He knows he’s being a little cruel, digging in between Chan’s ribs. He doesn’t particularly care. He’s earned this much.

“Fuck, yeah, I did.” The words sound like they’re punched right out of Chan’s chest. A confession, in the dim light of the bedroom. Hyunjin turns his head to the other side and he can see the full moon through his window. “No one else feels as good as you, lets me use them as good as you.”

There is a hot bubble growing in Hyunjin’s chest. Pride. Anger. Something else entirely. Something that could burn him from the inside out if he lets it. He arches his back, screws his eyes shut, moans right on cue as Chan moves his hips forward. It feels good. It always felt good with him.

What are you doing, being on a first name basis with a priest anyway?

Let’s not go there, Chan. Thanks.

Chan’s rhythm falters slightly, and Hyunjin knows he must be getting close. That kind of familiarity still sits safely in his bones. Ever the giver, Chan reaches around and grasps Hyunjin’s cock, jerking it as close to in time with his own thrusts as he can manage, the slide loosened by the precum Hyunjin’s been steadily leaking down his length. “She doesn’t let you fuck her like this?” The wire they’re standing on grows thinner.

“No.” Hyunjin’s eyes break open again. The moon is still glowing through the pane. “Never.” Chan’s voice is wet, rough, hiccuped. He wraps his broad hand around the back of Hyunjin’s neck, squeezes, not enough to threaten, just enough to maybe redden his skin. To leave a mark. To feel like claiming.

I think about you sometimes. A lot, actually.

Same.

Chan’s hip stutters forward and a long moan falls from his mouth. A dying sound. He buries himself in Hyunjin and spills into the condom. Warm, wet, and so good. Hyunjin’s own jaw unlatches as he cries out, coming in streaks over Chan’s fist. His eyes water, overfill, tears slipping free as his body undoes itself.

I’m sorry for the way I ended things, by the way.

That’s just the way it happens, sometimes.

–

Chan had collected himself in near silence, slipped out of the apartment as soon as his very sensible trousers were zipped and buttoned. Hyunjin is left curled on his side, still looking out that window. Eventually, Jisung texts him asking where he went. Eventually, the guilt settles into his stomach. Eventually, he turns over and flicks the television on, some documentary about dolphins and their migration patterns.

One more notification comes through before Hyunjin falls asleep in the blue light of the TV.

bang chan

i’m sorry. please don’t tell anyone.

He closes his eyes. Composes himself.

hwang hyunjin

why won’t you let yourself have what you want for once?

The tears well up again when he hits enter.

Message failed to send.

–

Hyunjin is still closing the apartment door behind him when he speaks. He’s had a key since Jisung moved in. “I’m sorry for dipping while you were sleeping last night, Sung. I forgot something back at my place and I was tired, so I decided to just stay there.”

Jisung looks up from his coffee that he’s drinking, leaning against his counter. It’s a small apartment, so the entry is the living room is the kitchen. He smiles, fond and tired. “You’re a bad fucking liar, Hwang.” There’s no venom in his tone.

Jisung doesn’t push the topic, doesn’t ask questions. Just says, “When you want to talk about whatever it is, I’m here.” Pours Hyunjin his own mug, gestures to the stool next to him. Adds two fingers of cream and one spoon of sugar.

Hyunjin sits down, settles himself into the quietness of the moment. If his lip quivers while Jisung stirs his coffee, if a tear or two slips down his cheek, if his shoulders bunch forward. Neither of them mentions it. Jisung nudges the mug towards Hyunjin. Hyunjin takes it.

“I was watching this thing about dolphins last night.”

“Oh shit, did you hear about that guy who died trying to fuck one of those thing’s blow hole?”

And just like that, they’re past it.

–

It's Sunday again, and Hyunjin is right back where he keeps finding himself. He doesn’t burst into flames as he walks in, which he definitively decides is a victory. He also decides that it’s a victory that he makes it through the whole service without popping even a semi. It is certainly an uphill battle this week, given how good Father Lee looks in his purple robes. They just go very well with his skin tone, Hyunjin reasons, trying to keep himself at least halfway sane.

He moves through the motions of the Mass, standing and kneeling on cue, responding exactly how he’s meant to to every one of the priest’s calls. This is what he knows how to do, the easy part of all this. The hard part is when his gaze catches on the Father’s knuckles, red and shining where they clutch at the lecturn’s edges, or his eyes glittering under stained glass fractured sunlight.

But then the processional is played and here they are again. Hyunjin standing in the back pew. Anticipating. Thrumming with it. Watching as Father Lee makes his way through the rest of them, gets flagged down by waving families and grandmothers still teary eyed over today’s homily. Pretending not to notice how his eyes keep cutting towards Hyunjin. Pretending to check something on his phone, give an excuse for all this idling.

Finally. “Hyunjin, so nice to see you again.” And Hyunjin needs to start getting used to it eventually, the way he sears under Father Lee’s devoted attention, but he hasn’t yet. Feels his cheeks start to warm against his will already, his breath jump up the back of his lungs. “What did you think of that book?”

“Oh, it was absolutely riveting, Father.” His tone is playfully sarcastic, but the truth is Hyunjin did actually read it, curled into Jisung’s side on the couch while anime played in the background and a hand rubbed against his shoulder blades. Jisung had even managed to keep his teasing remarks to a minimum about the whole thing. “No spoilers, please, I didn’t finish yet. I’m really rooting for that Jesus guy though, I hope he makes it out okay.”

Father Lee’s eyes crinkle into crescents as he laughs, short and abrupt. “Oh, you’re funny, aren’t you? Okay, well, I won’t give you any spoilers. Cross my heart and everything. But can you tell me what you think about the God character so far?”

“He seems like a temperamental asshole, honestly.” Hyunjin bites his tongue as he smile back at the priest, chest ballooning with an airy glee. “The whole flooding the earth thing? Very dramatic, very middle school. I feel like He could probably do with smoking a bowl, listening to some lofi beats, maybe a nice cup of tea. Anything to unwind a bit.”

Father Lee’s hand comes up to his own chest as he laughs again, tips of his fingers brushing against his collar. “I can’t say you’re wrong, Old Testament God was definitely a bit tightly wound. I don’t think I’d do much better if I had as many problem children as He does, though.”

“You’re being hard on yourself, Father.” Hyunjin brings his hand up to rub at the back of his neck as he speaks, a purposeful display of bashfulness. He still knows what he’s doing. “I think you’d make a perfectly fine God.” As he speaks, a particularly strong gust of wind blows open the church door, and Hyunjin startles slightly at the noise of it banging against the wall, looking quickly between the offending door and Father Lee with widened eyes.

“I think that’s Him disagreeing with you.” There is sly mirth in Father Lee’s voice as his eyes flick from being fixed on the door to gazing straight at the ceiling. “I just love when He talks back.”

Hyunjin steadies himself, pulls his smile back up, rolls his eyes up. “Of course, couldn’t have just been the wind advisory that’s been in effect all day. It has to be a sign.”

“Would you rather I join you in a meaningless existence?” There is a bite to Father Lee’s tone, but no anger. Head tilted slightly to the side, like he is genuinely curious.

Hyunjin pokes his tongue into his cheek, curls into a smirk. “Don’t knock it till you try it, Father. There’s something freeing about living without all that -” He gestures vaguely at the father’s robes and the building around them. Father Lee’s eyes follow his hand. "- added pressure."

“The pressure is what holds me together, Hyunjin.” Then Father Lee leans in, conspiratorially, lowering his voice. “The secret is that without this place, I would crumble. You didn’t see what I was like before I was a servant of the Lord, believe me when I say I’m far better off this way.”

And maybe it’s the pure proximity of the moment, or the implications laid out behind Father Lee’s words. Maybe it’s just the way the sun through the window is warming the back of Hyunjin’s neck. Whatever it is, Hyunjin can feel the heat flare in his cheeks, and he knows it must show. If Father Lee notices, he says nothing. Just leans back again, blinks a few times. Cocks his head slightly, smiles his crooked teeth.

“But that’s what God’s good for. Giving you direction. A little pep in your step, you know? Or whatever the kids say these days, I’m not sure.”

“The kids certainly might be saying that, Father. I don’t think I’m the arbiter of the kids and what they say anymore.” And Hyunjin is smiling his actual smile now, no conscious intent, no careful poise behind it. The back of his neck is still warm. His chest feels strange, but nice, filled with something he is refusing to properly name.

“Ah, don’t say that.” Father Lee’s nose scrunches in mock disgust, visibly balking. “You’re young. Or you have to be. If you’re not, what does that make me? A dirty old priest?”

“If it looks like a duck, Father,” Hyunjin replies, shrugging lightly.

“Oh, fuck off,” and Father Lee is a bit too loud with that one, an old lady standing nearby whipping her head around and giving the priest her best scandalized look. He doesn’t notice. “Just because you don’t believe in God doesn’t mean you have to forget about respecting your elders.”

“So you admit it then? That you’re an elder?” It earns Hyunjin a playful smack on the shoulder as he laughs at the distress clearly painted across Father Lee’s face.

“Okay, fine, you caught me, I’m an old man. I am turning to dust before your eyes. Is that what you want me to say?”

Hyunjin is lining up his next witty retort, his tongue curling around the edge of it, when a woman comes up to Father Lee, grasping at his elbow. “Father, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I need to talk to you about Paul’s enrollment in Communion classes.”

Father Lee’s posture restraightens, his face settling back into careful professionalism as he lays his hand on top of the woman’s. “Of course, Diane, give me one moment and I’ll be right over.” Diane nods back, worried eyes melting slightly as she looks up at the priest before stepping back slightly, just enough to be polite.

“I’m sorry our discussions keep getting cut short like this, Hyunjin,” and Father Lee sounds genuine, letting out a dejected puff of air as he speaks, turning back to look at him. “I really do mean it, that you are welcome to come visit me anytime. I promise this is always the busiest moment of my week.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” and Hyunjin feels his smile twist a little tighter, a little sweeter. Can feel something sugar spun spiderwebbing across his chest, and its all too much, the way that Father Lee is looking at him with those eyes. How it looks like he means it , that Hyunjin could simply waltz in any time and be welcome. It’s too much, it’s too soon, and suddenly Hyunjin can feel the ghosts of Chan’s palms wrapping around his waist, can see the full moon hung above them all.

Father Lee is turning away again as he replies, “Good. Door’s always open, all that broken record stuff. I’ll see you next week at the very least.” And he sounds sure. Like this has been a time honored tradition, something stretching back years. Not just something Hyunjin wandered into a month ago, an attempt at atonement gone wrong. Or right. Or something.

Something sharp digs itself into Hyunjin’s side, the same shape as the crescent of Chan’s blunt nails. He brings a hand to his chest to ghost over where a bruise is fading under his shirt. Father Lee isn’t looking, but it feels like a shining red beacon. Unmissable.

“Of course, Father. I’ll see you then.”

–

Hyunjin copes with it all the same way he always copes. By simply trying to forget it. Tries to distract himself by fucking Jisung, by fucking a random hookup from Grindr whose name he can’t remember anymore. Seokjin? Hoseok? There was definitely a -seok in there somewhere. It doesn’t matter anyway, because all it does is get him to come with a vision of Father Lee swimming behind his eyelids, gets him teased by Jisung for being whipped or whatever, gets a blush creeping down his chest when he almost blurts out Chan when the stranger’s cock brushes against his prostate just right. So it’s safe to say he doesn’t forget.

He thinks that, at the very least, he gets a week of reprieve, or a week to plan his next move, or a week to fortify his defenses and steel himself for his next post-Mass audience. All he wants is to be able to act normal, to wiggle his way through an interaction without misplaced guilt wrapping through his chest, threatening to crack through his ribs. He rehearses it in his head, a calm smile, an overdue acceptance of Father Lee’s invitation into the rectory, then, laughing cordially over a cup of tea. Hyunjin resolutely not thinking about any unholy things. It’s all half baked, barely fleshed fantasy, and Hyunjin knows it, but the point is that he has time to think, to unwrap himself into something presentable. Or at least he thinks he does, until the world decides otherwise for him.

It’s been a hard day, one of those where it seems like every customer has some reason to send their plate back, to complain, yelling at him about something that is never actually his fault, and stiffing his tip at the end of it all. It doesn’t make him angry anymore, but it does still grate against his skin a bit in a way where he leaves the shift feeling just a little extra raw. So it’s only natural that he would walk into the dive bar that sits at the midpoint on the walk from his restaurant to his apartment. He does this at least once every other week, sometimes more (much more) during the busy season. He knows the bartender’s name, has a regular drink, a bit of rapport with the door man who appears on particularly busy evenings. It’s all very familiar, very routine.

But what isn’t familiar is when Hyunjin walks up to the bar, leaning over it to ask Yunho for his usual vodka soda, and feels eyes on him. What isn’t routine is when he turns and his own eyes alight on Father Lee, collarless and relaxed, holding an old fashioned, a mildly surprised look on his face, like he’s been caught with his hand inside the cookie jar. “Hyunjin.” His voice is looser now, less practiced than when he’s homilizing or fraternizing with his congregation. More natural. “Didn’t expect to run into you here.”

Yunho is passing Hyunjin his drink before he has a chance to properly respond, so Hyunjin breaks eye contact for a minute to turn and pass his card to the bartender, with a quick keep it open. Turning back towards Father Lee and raising the glass to his lips, Hyunjin smiles slightly. The shock isn’t wearing off, but it is settling in. Something he can certainly work around. “And I didn’t expect you, Father Lee. Are priests even allowed to drink?”

There’s a roll of the eyes, an amused scoff. “Do you really think there’d be so many Irish Catholics if we couldn’t?” A raised eyebrow, a half wicked smirk, a heat shooting directly up Hyunjin’s spine. “And you can call me Minho if you want, it always feels weird to hear Father when I’m not wearing the collar.”

And oh, this wasn’t something Hyunjin planned for. He knew Father Lee – Minho – was funny, disarming. But there’s some other, more charged energy to him here, in a bar so much darker than the sun filled church, eyes hooded, stance so relaxed. He can do nothing but match it. “And it feels weird to me to not refer to such a holy man by anything other than his rightfully earned title, Father.” He hopes his grin is obvious enough to make his intent clear.

“Don’t pull that shit with me. We both know you don’t respect me that much.” Minho’s voice is undergirded with a laugh, leaning against the bar on the stool he’s perched on. “You’re just trying to annoy me.”

There is that emotion stirring in the pit of Hyunjin’s stomach again but he swallows it down with another sip of his drink, wincing at the overpour of well vodka. He can always trust Yunho to get him fucked up. “Well, is it working?”

Minho swirls his glass, hums low in his throat. “I grew up with an older brother and a Catholic mother. You’ll have to try a bit harder than that to get under my skin.”

“And we both know I’d just love to be under your skin.” Hyunjin feels his body shrink against his bones as the words come out of his mouth. He can’t blame the alcohol for his lack of filter, but he can certainly blame the shock of the whole situation, the way that the ground has been made so much less sure under his feet. He jams his tongue into the pocket of his cheek, can feel his eyes widen slightly, breath catching. Waits. Doesn’t blink away from Minho’s face.

Minho rolls his eyes, shakes his head, expression mostly unreadable but tinged with something Hyunjin recognizes but won’t name. “You’re not exactly subtle about it, Hyunjin.” He takes a long sip from his glass, drops his gaze to the counter for a moment. Seems to steady himself. Looks back up. “But tell me, did you get any farther in that book I lent you?”

And just like that, Hyunjin has something new to wrap his words around, to play his charm towards. Just like that, they’re past it.

–

It’s three more drinks, Hyunjin feeling his chest unwind itself through the grace of liquid confidence and the way Minho’s eyes feel like they’re burning right through him, even when there is a smile cracked across his face or some dumb fucking story spilling from his mouth. It’s three more drinks, and Minho is tipping off his stool and onto his feet, shrugging his jacket on, something about, “God, I need a fucking smoke.” Hyunjin can’t help but follow, trailing behind as they make their way to the alley behind the bar.

And as a rule, Hyunjin doesn’t smoke anymore. Jisung made him give it up after college because dude, you’re no fun to kiss when you taste like shit or when you’re dying of lung cancer. But he’s drunk and rules seem to becoming more and more vague suggestions these days, so as Minho pulls a pack of Parliaments out of his coat pocket, Hyunjin says, “Mind if I bum one?”

“I wouldn’t exactly be a man of charity if I denied you, would I?” His voice is laced with faux annoyance, but like always, the corners of his eyes give him away as they crinkle in amusement. He passes one of the smokes to Hyunjin as he brings his own to his lips. He ducks his head slightly as he flicks at the lighter until the flame catches the end of the cigarette, going cherry red as he sucks down the first drag.

Hyunjin waits expectantly, cigarette dangling from the corner of his own mouth, extends a hand, expecting Minho to pass him the Bic. Instead Minho just huffs lightly and mutters, “Come here,” before moving to cup his hand around the back of Hyunjin’s neck. Static shoots through Hyunjin, from the tips of his eyelashes to the hollows of his ankles, the point of contact between his neck and Minho’s hand burning like a fire brand. He barely keeps in a whimper as Minho pulls him forward, forward, forward, until he’s leaned in close enough that the ends of their cigarettes touch and Hyunjin understands what is expected of him.

Hyunjin inhales sharply, sucking in until the tip of his smoke catches, glows in the night, until smoke is snaking its way down his throat and into his lungs. Minho drops his hand and leans back, but keeps his gaze steady on Hyunjin, and its all Hyunjin can do in the face of all that to reach his own hand up, pull the cigarette from his mouth, and shakily exhale his plume. He thinks of laughing, of asking Minho why he didn’t just give him the lighter, of cracking some joke about him being weird. But he doesn’t. For a moment, he just lets the tension settle thick around them, syrupy and thorny, an itch he can tell they both want to scratch.

What he says instead is worse. So much worse. But it forces its way from deep in his chest, a confession festering for the past week. “I fucked Chan, by the way. After the fair.” His words plop onto the wet cement of the alley, ugly and glaring.

Minho sighs out a trail of smoke, shakes his head, shifts his gaze up towards the sky as he leans back against the brick wall behind them. “I know. Or at least, I suspected.” A pause, an unreadable expression, the cloud cover above them shifting just enough to let a few stars blink through. “Do you regret it?”

And it’s a question that Hyunjin should know the answer to, but. But the guilt that’s made a home inside of him doesn’t taste the same as regret. Doesn’t feel like he would have made any choice differently. He would have answered that text message, again and again, in almost any universe.

“I don’t think so. Maybe I regret ever meeting him, but I don’t regret giving him what he wanted.”

Minho hums, neutral and low, as he looks back towards Hyunjin. “Then you can’t be forgiven. If you’re not sorry about it, there’s nothing there to absolve.”

“I’m not asking to be forgiven, Father.” And Hyunjin is cut off from whatever he was going to say next by Minho letting out a bark of a laugh, sudden and razor sharp.

“Oh, fuck you, calling me Father like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it.” And Minho is smiling, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, while Hyunjin chokes on his own spit, on the smoke curling in his throat. “Okay, listen, Hyunjin. I know what you think you want from me. I’m not stupid and, like I said, you’re not subtle.”

“What gave me away?” Hyunjin means for it to come out light, a half joke, but his voice is ragged from the cigarette and the vodka, and it sounds like a desperate prayer instead.

“You mean besides the bedroom eyes you give me every time I talk to you?” Minho isn’t mean when he says it, is even and level and above it all. Just passing out the facts of the situation. “We’re not going to have sex, Hyunjin. I know the kind of man I can be, and I don’t want that anymore. But I would like to be your friend. This life gets lonely, and I think you’re good company.”

Hyunjin looks at the ground. His feet, in his work shoes. Remembers his whole life. Feels how it is shrinking around him, to the pinpoint of this moment. To Minho’s hands, his red knuckles around the filter of a cigarette. The dampness of the wall biting into his side.

“Yeah, of course, Minho. I’d like to be your friend, too.”

We’ll last a week, Hyunjin thinks as Minho shoots a real smile, a knobble toothed one, at him for the first time since they came outside.

–

Hyunjin tells Jisung the whole thing (Chan details omitted), because of course he does. He can only keep so many secrets at once.

“You’ll last a week,” is all Jisung says, face serious, nod definitive.

Hyunjin groans, throwing a pillow at Jisung’s stupid, all-knowing head. “You don’t know that, asshole. I’ll have you know, I can actually have incredible self restraint when I need to.”

And just like that, a wicked smile curls across Jisung as he reaches out to grasp the base of Hyunjin’s half hard cock. “Okay then, in that case why don’t you prove it by seeing how long you can restrain yourself from coming, hmm?”

And Hyunjin is groaning again, throwing his head against a different pillow, letting himself sink back into a comfortable haze as Jisung sets himself to work.

–

Days later, and it is Sunday again. Sometimes Hyunjin can’t help but realize that the way he looks forward to this day now is borderline worship, something close to religious. He imagines that the way his pulse picks up as he walks up the front steps isn’t all that different from how a true believer might feel. He decides not to think too much about the implications of it all.

Instead, he follows his routine. Back pew, folded hands, brushing his bangs to the side of his face. Standing with the rest of the congregation as the organ rattles through the hall. Right on cue. Carefully rehearsed. But he knows his plan for today. Knows how he will shatter what he is carefully building. Knows Jisung is right as always.

The Liturgy of the Word passes as it always does, with the readers delivering the Gospel in stuttered breaths, with Minho homilizing as smoothly as he always does, with every brave voice ringing out the hymnals. And then the altar servers are bringing forward the gifts, and Minho is raising the host above his head to the sky with his mouth falling open around the familiar words.

“May the Lord be with you…”

And Hyunjin is steeling himself, resting his hand on his trembling kneecap. Deep breath in, shallow exhale.

“This is my body, which will be given up for you…”

Hyunjin lets his eyes slip closed. Envisions what the gates of Heaven must look like. Thinks of every stir in his guts. Exhales again.

“This is the cup of my blood…”

Inhales. Opens his eyes. Fixes them on Minho, where he is standing behind the altar. Stained glass light streaming down on him, hands around the chalice as he raises it to his lips. Looking every bit like an angel, like a curse. Like the last blessing that will ever befall Hyunjin.

And suddenly the words are ending and the processional is starting, the faithful rising from their seats to join the line. And, for the first time in seven years, Hyunjin follows them. He doesn’t know if Minho sees him. He tries his best to focus on the head of the person in front of him, not allowing his attention to wander far enough to fray his nerves.

He carefully dresses his face in a quiet smile, lets it just touch his eyes, as the line in front of him gets shorter. If his hands tremble, that is none of his business. Finally, he is in front of the altar but he doesn’t look at Minho yet. He takes one more moment of distraction, turns towards the tabernacle, dips down on one knee, genuflecting. Ever the devout.

When he rises again, he finally turns to Minho. Really sees him for the first time today. And it's all white noise in his ears, a roaring in his stomach. Minho’s expression is careful, guarded. Like he knows what Hyunjin is up to. Like he’s not going to let him get away with it. Except he will. Hyunjin knows he will.

Minho raises the wafer, small circle of sacred, in front of Hyunjin’s face.

“The Body of Christ.”

And Hyunjin does not extend his hands to accept the offering. Instead he lets his jaw pop open, tongue extending slightly. An offering of his own. A look takes hold of Minho’s face and for once, Hyunjin will name it. Lust. Desire. Pure and unbridled and frightened. A flush spreads across his cheeks and to his ears. Obvious and undeniable. The moment stretches, Minho unmoving for what can only be two or three seconds, but what feels like eons to Hyunjin.

Finally, Minho moves his hand, places the host in his mouth, gentle, light, obviously trying to be barely there. But that doesn’t stop the tip of his index finger from making contact with Hyunjin, dampening it in the slightest sheen of spit, a personal chrism. Hyunjin hopes it sears Minho in the same way it does him. When he hears the slight hitch in Minho’s breath, he knows he’s right.

If it all lights him through with hellfire, that is between him and whatever God will still have him. What he lets Minho see is him looking at him, eyes hooded, filled with hunger, lashes fluttering in a way that they both know simply has to be on purpose. The way his smile curls into a smirk, knowing and purposeful, how his jaw latches shut, his tongue flicking back in with a practiced precision.

“Amen.”

And just like that, he is turning back around, following the processional back. Except he doesn’t sit back down in his pew. He knows what he has done, what risks he has taken today. He knows when to back off, when to be predator and when to transform back into prey. So he keeps moving. Slips out the front door, hoping the clang of the wood opening and closing won’t draw attention except from the one person he craves it from.

He goes back out, into the light, and hopes it all doesn’t burn him alive.

–

It’s three days later when Hyunjin finds himself on the doorstep to the rectory with the nicest bottle of whiskey he could reasonably afford (he had even swallowed his pride for just long enough to call Changbin for advice – he might be an ex, but he does know his way around liquor). It’s dark out, probably around ten-ish, but Hyunjin reasons it's probably fine. Minho did say any time. This was certainly a time, good as any. So he takes a breath, collects himself, and knocks.

Hyunjin startles a little when he hears a crashing from behind the door, followed by what sounds like Minho swearing loudly. “Coming!” And yeah, that’s definitely Minho. Hyunjin feels something that is alarmingly close to fondness bloom in his chest.

The door swings open to reveal Minho, in a loose, tee shirt, hair sleep mussed. It seems to take a moment for him to properly process what he’s seeing, and he blinks hard a few times before saying, “Hyunjin?” His voice cracks on the second syllable, and he clears his throat slightly. Hyunjin realizes that maybe priests keep a different sleep schedule than he does. “What are you doing here?”

“Um.” And Hyunjin feels out of his depth suddenly, but he still gives his best bashful smile, raises the bottle of whiskey enough to make the gift obvious while continuing. “Being a friend?”

A cloud of confusion clearing over Minho’s face, an affectionate huff, an eye roll, and Hyunjin is being ushered inside. “Okay, come in, but you have to be quiet, Seungmin can be a bit of a bitch about noise past nine-thirty.”

And just like that. Another threshold crossed.

–

It is an hour later and they are huddled on a bench in the garden. The seasons have just started to turn over, the night just cold enough to warrant the blankets they stole from Minho’s couch and have draped around them. The alcohol has plied their chests a little looser, made Hyunjin untangle enough that he is bent over, snorting back laughter.

“You cannot really be serious that Seungmin actually ripped ass in the middle of service.” His voice is high pitched, reeded, and he can’t find it in himself to care about how unattractive it might sound.

“On All Saints Day too!” Minho tosses his head back as he speaks, hiccupping on his words slightly. “How he managed to keep a completely straight face during that is beyond me. He even gave me shit later for cracking a smile about it.”

“God,” Hyunjin sighs out, shaking his head as he regains his composure and rights himself where he sits. “You priests really have to restrain yourself. I don’t think I could ever do it.”

Minho turns to look at Hyunjin sidelong, head still arched back towards the sky. “No offense, Hyunjin, but I can think of about twenty other reasons why you wouldn’t be allowed to step a single foot in a seminary.”

Hyunjin huffs in offense, but he sees an opening. He can’t help but take it. “I’m serious, Father. I don’t know how you manage it.” He pauses. Looks across the grass to the statue of St. Francis standing near a patch of hydrangeas in desperate need of weeding. Hands extended, palms turned upwards, every bit a holy man, even cast in stone. “Especially the celibacy bit.”

Minho lets out a breath through his nose, so loud in the quiet night, as he wipes a hand across his face. “That’s really the bit you’re getting hung up on? Not the whole committing my whole life and being to some mysterious entity that may or may not exist?”

Hyunjin shrugs, makes a loose noise of noncommitment. “I can understand belief, Father. I’ve been around enough believers in my life. I guess I just can’t understand denial.”

Minho sits up, turns his body towards Hyunjin. His large, large eyes catch the moonlight in the way that makes Hyunjin feel like his chest is gonna collapse around him. “It’s not about denial, Hyunjin. It’s about simplicity. Celibacy makes more sense to me than romance does.”

Hyunjin bites the inside of his cheek. He knows what he’s going to ask before he asks it, but that doesn’t mean he can stop himself. “But what do you do if you meet someone you like?”

Minho’s mouth quirks, but doesn’t hitch into a smile. Doesn’t brush his eyes. “Well, I don’t know. I don’t meet people I like very often.” The hum of the yard light and the sound of an owl crying out in the distance is all Hyunjin hears, all he can stomach as the air thickens to a point around him. “But I guess I would do something stupid, like talk to them and drink with them and laugh with them and give them Bibles and do my absolute best to not fall in love with them.”

And there. Hyunjin’s pulse rushes through him, a tidal wave crashing against his sternum. “And what would you do if you did fall in love with them?”

“Hyunjin,” and Minho is sighing around his words, looking away, looking anywhere other than the man across from him, “Please. I told you this already. It can’t happen. For so many more reasons than just my soul.”

It’s the only thing he could have expected, but Hyunjin still can’t stop the way his breath shakes. “Okay. Okay. We don’t have to talk about it.” And the silence stretches between them again. Hyunjin looks down at the grass. He can feel when Minho is looking at him again. He doesn’t look up.

“So you and Chris, huh?”

And Hyunjin can’t help the crack of a laugh that ruptures from him. The absurdity of it all. “I don’t really think that topic is much better, Minho.”

Hyunjin can hear the rustle of Minho adjusting himself in his seat. “You can’t blame me for being a little bit curious. I didn’t even know he was…”

The word is close enough for them to touch, so Hyunjin reaches out. “That he was what? Gay? I’m sure that’s exactly what he wants. For no one to know.” He looks up, meets Minho’s eyes. “It’s kind of the whole point of this God-fearing-man act he has going on right now.”

“Do you think it’s an act then? Him fearing God?” Minho tilts his head, eyes searching, expression serious and open.

Hyunjin sits up fully and shakes his head. “I don’t know, honestly. I couldn’t understand him doing the things he’s done if not from fear, but…” He breathes through his nose, deep. “The Chan I knew wasn’t afraid. Not like that.”

“People change, Hyunjin.” Minho sounds tired, like he’s done this before. Like he already knows everything that Hyunjin isn’t going to tell him. “Fears grow. And fear makes us do stupid things. Like give up and run.”

“Is that what you did, Minho?” A lone breeze comes through, making Hyunjin shiver, curl into the blanket still draped across his shoulders. “Did you give up and run?”

Minho hums, quiet enough to miss but Hyunjin hears it. Of course he does. “I guess you could say that.” He arches his back, stretching his arms above his head, before settling back onto the bench. Wraps his own blanket a little tighter around himself. The two of them, their own, cold islands. Close enough to touch.

“I guess I’m probably still running.”

–

And Hyunjin does his best. He goes to Jisung’s apartment instead of his own that night, and curls around the line of Jisung’s back to warm himself. The two of them wake up the next morning and Jisung attempts to make them pancakes and manages to only burn half of them. Jisung asks about his night. Hyunjin tells him. Jisung laughs at the right points and looks contemplative at others. Hyunjin finishes eating and then sucks him off against the counter.

He does his best in the way that he doesn’t text Minho. In the way that he doesn’t think of Minho the next time he jerks off. In the way that he is good and sits in his seat at the next Sunday Mass, doesn’t rise for Communion, patiently waits for his turn with Minho, lets their conversation wind through its usual routes until he’s politely nodding a goodbye and Minho is scurrying to his next duty. Does his best in the way that he pointedly ignores the way Minho’s gaze seems to hold extra weight that day.

Hyunjin does his best to keep everything bubbling inside of him sealed and locked and so, so carefully tucked away. He does his best, he swears this.

But sometimes his best doesn’t matter. Sometimes nothing he can do matters. Sometimes the whole thing simply is never actually his choice.

–

It is a night alone at his own apartment for once when Hyunjin’s phone lights up, like a promise. Like an omen.

father lee ⛪

i know i shouldn’t, but i wish you were here right now.

–

And Hyunjin knows. He knows he shouldn’t have come. He knows it is a mistake for him to be sitting like this, in a straight backed pew, in a house of the Lord. He knows that Minho is probably drunk or out of his mind or God only knows. He knows there is only one way that this will end. But he is here.

Because he might try his best, but there is only so much one man can be expected to take before he breaks. Only so much anyone can be expected to refuse and deny. And he knows. He knows that this is exactly what they’ve been barrelling towards for weeks now. He would answer Chan’s text again. He would be a fool to let this slip through his needy, needy fingers.

He sits for what feels like an eternity but is probably only about 10 minutes before he hears the creak of decades old hinges and the quiet click of footsteps walking up the wooden floor of the center aisle, pausing next to where he is sitting. Hyunjin keeps his gaze carefully fixed forward, trained on the large crucifix hung behind the altar. His eyes trace over where the blood is dripping from Christ’s stigmata wounds as a heat starts to pool in the pit of his stomach.

“Father.” It’s all he can think to say.

There’s a sigh, tinged with exasperation. “Really? Is there a point to me asking you again to just call me Minho?”

Hyunjin hums in the back of his throat, still not looking over. “I told you, it just doesn’t feel appropriate.”

A hand comes to the back of Hyunjin’s neck, toying with the short hair at the nape, sending a shiver running down his spine. “Oh yes, because this is perfectly appropriate. A priest and his favorite parishioner, alone in the church during the middle of the night.”

“Didn’t know I was your favorite.” Finally, Hyunjin turns his head to look at Minho as a small smirk breaks across his own face, which only widens when he catches the older’s gaze. Hyunjin knows that look well, the hunger, the want, the outright need of it. It sets a fire alight in him, the promise of what it holds settling in his bones. He's never seeing the kingdom of Heaven anyways. He might as well have a little fun on the way there.

There’s a slight eye roll, another sigh, hand twitching on Hyunjin’s neck. “Oh fuck you, you snarky cunt. You know exactly what you do to me.” And Hyunjin does. He has to.

“Such foul language from such a holy mouth.” Hyunjin moves to stand, getting up from the pew and reclaiming his height over Minho. He carefully studies the priest’s features, and the first thing Hyunjin notices is that he looks so tired. The bags under Minho’s eyes are set deep and heavy.

Hyunjin knows he must bear at least a little bit of the blame for that, but also knows that they do nothing to tame Minho’s beauty. He still has those little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, those cheekbones, that goddamn mouth. Hyunjin really can’t be held responsible for everything he’s doing, not when it was always going to be a lost cause.

“I don’t know how holy I can keep it with you around.” Hyunjin’s movement had dislodged Minho’s grip from his neck, but now the priest’s hand came up to cup the younger’s cheek, so tender, like Hyunjin might shatter at any moment. And Hyunjin feels like he just might.

Hyunjin can’t help it, he leans into the hand offered to him. And maybe it's the late night, maybe it's the way Minho looks like he’s about to devour him, but Hyunjin has a moment of boldness and turns his head to the side to place a light kiss on Minho’s palm. “You know I’d never want to lead you astray.”

Minho laughs, but there’s no humor behind it, just bitterness and resignation. The pad of his thumb strokes along Hyunjin’s upper jaw while his tongue darts out to lick his lips. Hyunjin knows him well enough to know it’s a tell that he’s nervous. “You say that, but here you are. Looking like this in my pew.” He pauses then, and looks away from Hyunjin, up towards the pulpit, the crucifix, the tabernacle; his whole world in most of the ways that matter. The silence of the moment hangs heavily between them, but Hyunjin knows better than to break it when he sees Minho’s lips moving silently in what he can only assume is prayer.

“I am not a good or strong man, Hyunjin. Especially not when it comes to you, it seems.” Minho’s voice is quiet enough that Hyunjin isn’t sure he even meant to say it out loud. When the priest turns back to him, Hyunjin’s breath gets caught in his throat, his mouth going dry. There is something new in Minho’s eyes. There is still hunger, yes, but there is also something … else. Something teetering on that thin line between surrender and acceptance. Or maybe it’s determination.

The hand still resting on Hyunjin’s cheek suddenly tightens its grip and, instinctually, without a thought, Hyunjin breathes out, “Father.”

The sound Minho makes is animalistic. Desperate. Dying. “If you’re going to keep calling me a Father, you may as well treat me like one.” It sounds like a threat to Hyunjin’s ears, and he hears himself gasp like he’s choking on air. “Confess.”

Hyunjin closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, steadying himself, willing himself to stay as coherent as he can hope to be in this moment. “I don’t know what you mean.”

And Minho is dropping his hand, pulling away entirely and walking towards the confessional booth built against the front left corner of the hall. As he reaches it, he pulls the door of one side open and moves to sit on the stool inside of it. He gestures to the other side and repeats, “Confess.”

And Hyunjin can’t play dumb, Minho knows just how many times he’s found himself sitting in a booth just like this one. Minho knows Hyunjin understands exactly what he’s expected to do here.

So Hyunjin obeys. Plays right into the Father’s game, if only for the promise of what might sit on the other end of it. He wills his legs to move, lets them carry him to where Minho is already sitting and climb into the penitent’s side of the confessional, perch on his own stool, and close the door behind himself. Inside, it’s nearly pitch black, the only sound is Minho’s breathing alongside his own, the two of them separated by only a thin wicker screen.

“Go ahead.” Minho’s voice is measured, but Hyunjin can hear the strain behind it. Lets himself relish for a moment, knowing exactly where it’s coming from. But then that moment is closing and the next one is opening, and he knows that the silence they’re sitting in now is one for him to fill.

Hyunjin inhales slowly, steadying himself. “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

Minho doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe as far as Hyunjin can hear. Just waits. So Hyunjin continues.

“It has been seven years since my last confession, Father, and I have sinned so, so much since then.”

“Tell me your sins.” His tone is no longer measured. Minho’s voice is breathless, quiet, sounding like he’s a second away from breaking into tears. From happiness or grief or anger or something else, Hyunjin can’t even begin to guess. “Tell me your sins, so you can be absolved.”

Hyunjin takes a moment to consider. He knows what the Father wants to hear, or maybe more accurately, exactly what he’s afraid he’ll hear. Hyunjin also knows that his own heart is hammering in his chest, the noise of it filling his ears in the otherwise silent booth. The fear of God still hasn’t left him entirely, even after all this time and that means he’s at least a little bit terrified of what's happening right now. Even if that same fear feels like electricity flying through his veins.

“Well, for starters, I’ve drank. A lot. Some would argue too much. And then there’s the sloth, weeks of trash TV and take out, and not much else. I also curse like a fucking sailor. Oh, and I’m a faggot, so I guess there’s that.” Hyunjin’s reward is Minho’s small giggle, so obviously involuntary and so glaringly natural that it gives him the confidence to push forward.

“But I guess the worst part of it is the lust. I’ve lusted so much Father, and it’s always for the wrong people. First, it was my freshman year writing professor. He was just a grad student, so it wasn’t that bad but still. At the very least, it was good when he bent me over his desk,” and Hyunjin knows he’s being a little mean when he hears Minho gasp, but, hey. Something about Hell and handbaskets. “And then it was my mother’s boyfriend. And my best friend’s boyfriend. And a married man. Actually, that one has been a bit of a theme, now that I’m saying it out loud. I just crave unavailable men.”

Minho lets out a hum of acknowledgement at that, so Hyunjin dares to continue. “Now, it’s this new man. I only met him about two months ago, but it feels like he is all I can think about. He consumes so much of my waking thoughts, and it’s always sinful. He has this mouth that I can’t help but picture doing the most unholy of things. I’ve traced the outline of his cock through his pants in my mind so many times, I couldn’t even tell you. And the worst part of it is that he’s taken in the most serious of ways.”

“More seriously than being your mother’s boyfriend?” Minho is still audibly on edge, but there is at least the ghost of amusement in his voice when he asks the question.

“Yes, Father.” Against his will, Hyunjin feels his face heat and he knows he must be visibly blushing. “Father, he’s - he’s a priest.” A beat. There is still deniability. He could still get them out of this. He doesn’t want to.

“It’s you, Father.” And now that it’s out in the open, not something the two of them are dancing around, Hyunjin simply keeps going.

“I’ve thought about you so much. Me, on my knees. You, on yours. What your spit must taste like, how it would feel dripping down my face. What you would feel like in my mouth. In my ass. Fucking me with that stupid fucking collar on. And you have the most beautiful hands, Father. How am I supposed to not think about how beautifully it would sting if you slapped me? God, Father, I just want so much. I don’t know how to tell you.”

And Hyunjin must have been entirely too absorbed in his own fantasies, the replay of everything he’s ever thought to himself while fisting his leaking cock alone in his bedroom or said to Jisung in between his sheets, because he doesn’t notice that Minho is moving. At least not until the door of the confessional is opening and Hyunjin is blinking up at him, illuminated by the moonlight leaking in through the high church windows.

“Kneel.” Minho’s voice is rough, strained, bordering on breaking. It’s painfully clear that this is not a request but an order, and Hyunjin is powerless to do anything but give himself up to it. So he does. He kneels in front of the priest, knees meeting the hard wood of the confessional’s floor. He at least has the shame to hang his head, unable to meet the gaze he’s afraid will set him on fire.

The shame isn’t as strong as Minho’s fingers, though, not when the priest crouches in front of Hyunjin and uses them to angle his head back up so their eyes are forced to meet. God, Hyunjin is so fucked. He knew that already, but here he is, being faced with the full force of Father Lee Minho and he knows that this will destroy him.

Or, more precisely, what will destroy him is Minho’s lips, the way they are slightly parted as he stares at Hyunjin, the flick of his tongue along the bottom one. Or the way his eyes are half lidded and dark, wanting, so clearly a man on the brink of some great precipice who has lost the will to cling on. So ready to free fall into something he knows he’ll regret.

Hyunjin can’t help the way his own mouth falls open, or the way that his eyes slip closed when Minho’s hand shifts slightly so that his chin is being held tightly in the priest’s grasp. He can’t help what happens next. Neither of them can.

When Minho’s lips meet Hyunjin’s, crashing straight into him, they gasp together, like they are breaching the surface of some dark water they were both drowning in. There is no gentleness in the kiss, no slow moving, no tender love. There is only Minho biting Hyunin’s bottom lip harshly, the moans of the younger emptying into the priest’s mouth, only desperation and urgency. The knowledge that this might be their only chance at this.

After a moment of initial shock, Hyunjin comes back to his own body just enough to command his hands to move up and tangle in Minho’s hair, pulling the priest impossibly closer to him. His mouth drops open easily at the swipe of Minho’s tongue, not willing to keep up the facade of resistance now that everything he’s wanted is here for the taking. He whimpers as Minho licks into him, tasting faintly of alcohol and shitty cigarettes. So he was drinking before this. It shouldn’t be hot, but it is. It really is.

Minho breaks away, but only so that he can pull both himself and Hyunjin to their feet, and crowd Hyunjin into the corner of the confessional booth, kicking the stool out of way so it crashes onto the floor outside of the small room. There is barely a moment to adjust before Minho is diving onto Hyunjin’s neck, making quick work of sinking his mouth down in the way where it will definitely show in the morning. The thought of sitting in Sunday service, so clearly branded with his sins, is enough to make Hyunin gasp out, “Father.” It’s high and needy, and it echoes through the rafters of the church.

“You are a fucking demon, Hyunjin,” Minho whispers against Hyunjin’s neck, “If you weren’t so beautiful I’d swear you were the Devil himself.” His hands are gripping the front of the younger’s shirt like a lifeline, like it’s the only tether he has left to this plane of existence. Until he lets go. Until he snakes those hands down Hyunjin’s sides, around the younger one to grab his ass, drag him closer. Hyunjin whimpers when his cock, which has been embarrassingly hard since he got to the church, is granted the sweetest, smallest bit of friction against Minho’s thigh. He can’t be blamed when he grinds his hips down, searching for more.

He certainly can’t be held responsible for the yelp he lets out when Minho tenses his thigh, pushing it more deliberately against Hyunjin’s cock. “Please.” It’s just one word, but it falls from his lips like a prayer, his head falling backwards, knocking into the wall of the confessional. “Please, please, please.” It becomes a litany, a hymnal. Giving praise, or whatever it takes to get Minho to touch him, to actually touch him like he’s been dreaming of for months now.

Minho pulls his head back from Hyunjin’s neck so that he can see the younger’s face. “What do you want?” Minho’s cheeks are flushed pink, his lips spit slicked, all of his features painted with lust, his voice rough with it. He looks like an angel, Hyunjin thinks. “Just tell me what you want and you can have it.”

“All of it.” And oh, Hyunjin really does have the priest wrapped around his finger at this point if the stuttering breath he gets in response is anything to go by. It’s not a surprise. The fact that they’re here at all is proof enough that Minho is completely gone for him. Still, he can’t deny the way his cock twitches in his pants from the confirmation. “I want everything you can give me. Please, Father, just touch me.”

Another stuttering breath and Minho’s small hands are tugging at the zipper on the front of Hyunin’s jeans. “Shit, okay, okay, but why did you wear such tight fucking pants?”

Hyunjin lets out a breathless laugh as he shimmies, pushes down at the waist of his jeans, trying to help Minho out. “It’s pretty much the only kind of pants I own.”

“Well, it sure makes shit inconvenient.” As he says it, Minho pulls down Hyunjin’s pants and boxers at the same time, getting them down just far enough that Hyunjin’s cock springs out, hard and already leaking precum at its tip.

“Fuck. It’s as pretty as the rest of you.” And Minho is dripping with reverence as he says it, as he wraps his hand around the base of Hyunjin’s cock, as Hyunjin lets out a broken moan, hands scrabbling for purchase against the back of Minho’s shoulders. Fingernails crescenting at the flesh still hidden under all that cursed fabric.

When Minho starts to move his hand, Hyunjin stops thinking, becomes static and blooming, nothing but the string of whimpers and curses that leak from him. His whole life, his whole being, is right there at the corner of Minho’s wrist. At the grain of the wood, biting the back of his elbows. At the too low ceiling of the confessional that his hazy eyes try to focus on.

He can feel the coil of pleasure unfurling itself in his gut, far quicker than it should, but he’s been on a knife’s edge for weeks now and it feels like the tension might snap him in half at any moment. “Father, Minho,” he stutters around his words, his tongue heavy lead in his mouth, “I’m close, I’m close.”

“That quickly?” It’s teasing, but not mean. Just Minho. Just him. “I thought you were supposed to be the experienced one here.”

Hyunjin rolls his eyes even as he shudders under another exacting movement of Minho’s hand. “Fuck off, its almost like every wet dream I’ve had for the past two months is coming to life right now.” And he means to tease back, but his voice cracks and he is left only with his own desire, spilling out and across them both. Minho doesn’t pause.

“Well,” and he sounds like he is picking every word precisely, creating the perfect frame to capture Hyunjin inside of, “You can come now if you want. But I’m not done with you. Not even close. Not now that I have you.”

And all it takes is one more careful flick of Minho’s wrist, his thumb digging into the sensitive spot under the head of Hyunjin’s cock, and Hyunjin is collapsing forward, desperate sound moving from his chest to his mouth, emptying himself across Minho's fist. Some of it lands on the floor between them. A bright, white spot of sin in all that holy.

–

By the grace of Hyunjin’s car and a need for just a little bit of decorum, they end up back at Hyunjin’s apartment. In Hyunjin’s bed. Collapsing on it so that Minho is caged between Hyunjin’s arms as he sets about devouring the priest. Leaving his string of marks on every inch he can reach. And if he thinks of the congregation, of the look on their bright faces when they see their Father’s neck, branded in searing red. Well, it certainly doesn’t hurt the strain rebuilding itself in his pants.

At some point Minho flips them over. At some point Hyunjin’s pants are gone again, and Minho’s shirt is on the floor, and then Minho is naked, and Hyunjin is gaping at his cock, long and gleaming and so, so beautiful, and Hyunjin is grappling in his nightstand drawer for lube, brushing his fingers over the foil packet of a condom. He hesitates. He might be hopeful, but he knows. He knows this might be his one chance. The words come from him, unbidden.

“I got tested last week. Everything came back negative.”

Minho’s eyebrow hitches up towards his hairline in the way Hyunjin always finds incorrigibly attractive. “I can promise I definitely don’t have anything, but what are you saying, Hyunjin?”

Hyunjin inhales sharply. “I want to feel you, Minho. I want to really feel it.”

And Minho is ducking down, hair fanning across Hyunjin’s face as he places a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Of course, Hyunjin.” Another to his forehead. “Of course.” Two more, one on each cheek. “I said you could have it all.”

And so Minho is slicking his fingers, and Hyunjin is throwing his head against a pillow as he is opened up. Gently. Devoutly. Like he is meant to be filled with worship and love and praise. Like Minho loves him. When his fingers crook and the pads of them brush against Hyunjin’s prostate, his moan sounds like liturgy. It’s enough to spring tears from him. He hopes that they can be chalked up to pleasure and nothing else.

And then, before Hyunjin really knows it, the blunt head of Minho’s cock is catching against his rim, teasing at the most sensitive part of him. “Please,” and there it is again, the holy plea rising from him. “Father, please. Fuck me.”

“God,” Minho moans, low and rough, as he pushes into Hyunjin, into the tight, slicked heat of him. “You sound so fucked out already and I’ve hardly gotten into you.” And Hyunjin doesn’t point out that he doesn’t sound much better, because his eyes are rolling to the back of his head, his mouth open around a silent scream.

Minho, Minho, Minho, Father, Father, Father … He doesn’t know what’s out loud and what is his own internal monologue at this point, not with the way Minho is snapping his hips to meet his, precise in each of his movements. Suddenly, Hyunjin believes him, the talk of his life before, because there’s no other explanation for the way he moves. For the way he fucks. Perfect and devastating and something Hyunjin knows, even in his clouded mind, he will never, ever get over.

He wrestles his eyes open, forces them back into focus because he can’t. He can’t miss this. Not the way Minho’s mouth hangs open. Not the way his eyes scrunch shut on a particularly deep thrust. Not the way his bangs string themselves together, sticky with sweat. He’s beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful thing Hyunjin has ever seen. Or ever will. He tries not to think about it. Can’t think about it, not with the way he feels like he’s coming apart at the very seams, the galaxies of him threatening to supernova their way through his pores.

“Do you know how much I’ve thought about this.” Minho speaks like he doesn’t have a choice, like he is being possessed to tell Hyunjin this, like he is burning through what remains of his shame even as he resheaths himself inside of Hyunjin. “How much I’ve thought about what you’d look like spread out under me like this. Had to jerk off for the first time in years after that fucking Communion stunt. Do you know what you do to me? Do you know how far you’ve broken me?”

Hyunjin can only gurgle in response, swallowing back the saliva pooling in his open mouth, drips of it already having leaked out down both his cheeks. He does know. He does. Minho didn’t stand a chance. Neither of them did. Minho nails his spot head on and he’s arching off the mattress, yelping into the empty air strung between them. His hard, angry cock slaps against his stomach as it jostles with his movements.

The pleasure continues to ebb and crest, and he sinks back down, back into the haze, back to where all he can hear is the ocean in his ears and the slap of skin on skin. To where all he can see is Minho, his perfect face, every crease etched with everything he shouldn’t want. To where all he can feel is how full he is, how fluid each movement is, every drag against his walls sending sparks shooting out his molars. To where all he can be is a creature built from desire and exposed wiring.

This time, his orgasm isn’t a car crash, but a slow, gentle animal burrowing out of his abdomen. He can feel it building languidly with each of Minho’s harsh thrusts, with Minho ducking down to kiss him open mouthed and ferocious. With his own useless hand moving to wrap around his cock, stroking himself with aborted, sloppy movements, barely under his command. His body is not his own anymore. He thinks maybe it never was.

When he comes this time, it’s with his nails dragging twin tracks against Minho’s back. It’s with a broken, high moan that he muffles into his pillow. It’s with his cock drooling come, as slow as the rest of him. It’s like nothing else. His body is filled with stardust and frayed electricity and he is alive, alive, alive. All under Minho’s careful movements. All under his shine.

When Minho comes, just a minute later, he buries himself hilt deep in Hyunjin and shudders out himself, his mouth dropping open, jaw unlatching around a ragged gasp that sounds like an exorcism. Like a homecoming. He spills himself in Hyunjin, warmth seeping out at the spot where they are so tenderly connected. His elbows, so sturdily locked till now, give out from under him, and he is collapsing down onto Hyunjin, burying his face in the soft crook of the other’s neck.

In a minute, Minho will gently pull himself out. He will travel his way down Hyunjin’s body, will find himself dripping from his most delicate parts. He will latch himself onto Hyunjin, will lick away every drop of filth he has left on the other. He will nurse out Hyunjin’s third, most impossible, orgasm of the night. Will spill his second onto the bedspread as he humps the sheets. And then he will wipe them both so gently, so tenderly, that Hyunjin will swear that it means the world. That it has to. That there could be no other reason for it all. And they will fall asleep side by side, like there is a morning at the start of a whole new future waiting for them when the sun rises.

But before all of that, for right now, Minho stays right where he is, and Hyunjin lets himself have it. Every inch of him. Clenches his walls around Minho’s softening cock and pretends. Like that’s enough to keep him there. Like there was ever a chance of it to begin with.

–

The next morning, Hyunjin cracks his eyes open after the sun has already risen, flooding its way through his windows. The first thing he notices is how sore he is, the ache radiating from his inner thighs through every tender piece of him. The second thing he notices is that the other side of his bed is empty.

For a moment, ice surges through his chest as realization moves through him. But then. Then he hears running water. The kitchen sink. A small flicker of hope.

Hyunjin gets out of bed, his long night shirt falling to just below his knees as his bare feet steady him on the cold wood floor. He walks through his bedroom door, down the short hallway to the kitchen and there. There Minho is, broad back covered with the same shirt he was wearing yesterday, standing over the sink, washing Hyunjin’s dirty mugs.

There is a spark of bravery in Hyunjin, so he pads over to stand next to Minho, to lean into his side, to whisper, “Good morning.” And when Hyunjin feels Minho stiffen next to him, he knows. He knows what’s about to happen before it does. He has no choice but to let it.

“Hyunjin,” and Minho’s voice is wet, ragged. Like he’s spent whatever time he’s already had this morning crying. Hyunjin thinks Minho probably almost left before he woke up and decided that would too cruel. He’s not sure which cruelty is actually worse. “Hyunjin, I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” He asks because he knows he’s supposed to. He can play his role.

“I can’t -” Minho’s voice fissures, shatters as he moves to turn off the water, rests both hands against the side of the sink, gripping against the stainless steel of it, knuckles turning white. He does not look at Hyunjin. His head hangs down between his sagging shoulders. Everything about him looks heavy. “I shouldn’t have texted you last night. None of this should have happened. I can’t - it can’t happen again.”

“Minho.” Hyunjin’s hand comes to Minho’s cheek and moves his head so that they are facing each other. If they are going to do this, they are going to have to look each other in the eye. He has to be seen. “Maybe you shouldn’t have, but you did. It happened once, it can happen again.” It’s his job, after all, to put up whatever fight he can.

“And that’s the problem, Hyunjin.” There is genuine frustration in Minho’s tone as he turns his body to lean his side against the sink, to face Hyunjin head on instead of just over his own shoulder. “I have spent so long building this whole life for myself and I can’t keep it with you around. It happened once, it can happen again. It will happen again.”

There is a pause, a pomegranate of a moment, bursting ripe and bloody across them. Minho continues. “I can’t go back. I can’t be who I used to be again.”

Hyunjin can feel it, a sear of rage burning a singe down his spine as he watches everything crumble in front of him, but he also feels the cold yolk of acceptance trickling down the back of his neck. He’s not a fool. He will still act like one though.

“But don’t you want me?”

Minho shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, like the question lodges itself in his ear in an unpleasant way and he is trying to shake it back out. “Of course I want you, Hyunjin. That’s the whole problem. I want you all the time.”

Hyunjin cracks first, a tear slipping out the corner of his eye and down his cheek. He holds Minho’s gaze anyway. “I want you all the time, too. I think -” And here, he takes a moment to ground himself. To shoot a silent prayer to whatever entity might care enough to listen. “Minho, I think I love you.”

And there is the sad smile. The one that doesn’t touch Minho’s eyes. The one that keeps his teeth hidden. And it cleaves Hyunjin open.

“It’ll pass.”

And Hyunjin isn’t going to do anything stupid like break down sobbing. He grits his teeth and clenches his jaw as Minho continues. “Everything passes, Hyunjin. And I can’t risk the rest of my everything for something like this. No matter how much I want you. No matter how much I -”

Minho stops himself. They both know what word is hanging between them, delicate and gossamer and so, so dangerous. Minho looks away, looks out the window over the sink at the little yard next to Hyunjin’s building. Hyunjin looks too. There is a dove sitting on the edge of the bird fountain that hasn’t been cleaned in God only knows how long.

“Aish, I don’t need to say it, you know anyways.” And Hyunjin does. He still wishes Minho was braver. He wishes they both were. “You shouldn’t come to service anymore. You can lie to your mother, tell her I started preaching about how Jesus was a heretic or something.”

The attempt of a joke falls short, splashing flatly between them, but Hyunjin still offers a muted chuckle. It’s all he can give.

“You should go, I think.” Hyunjin’s tone is deadened, and he hopes Minho will fight him on it. Will insist on staying just a little bit longer, in this moment, in this kitchen, where they might still have a shot at having something.

But Minho doesn’t do that, because of course he doesn’t. Instead he nods, slowly and robotically, not looking at Hyunjin. He turns towards the other and now, Hyunjin can see the way his eyes shine with his own unshed tears. Evidence that he isn’t the only one with an ache in his chest.

When Minho walks past Hyunjin, because he has to, because it’s the only way he can leave, he doesn’t brush against him despite how small the space is. Hyunjin is grateful for it. He knows that even the smallest touch, and he would splinter into who knows how many bits, and he is still trying to save whatever face he can.

And when Minho makes it to the door, his shoes already on from before Hyunjin had entered the kitchen, Hyunjin almost doesn’t turn around to watch. But he does. He is not a strong man. And he knows something or other about last chances. And he feels his breath choke itself in the back of his windpipe when he meets Minho’s gaze, the priest already looking right back at him.

“Thank you, Hyunjin.” Minho’s voice is weak, like he is having his doubts but doing his best to simply push past them. To push the two of them towards this inevitable end. “I’m so, so sorry.” And then he’s turning around, palming the doorknob open, and leaving. Hyunjin watches his back as the door swings closed behind him.

And then he crumples.

–

Hyunjin isn’t sure how long he is on his kitchen floor for, the sobs racking their way through him. It’s long enough that the tile under his cheek isn’t cool anymore. That there is new stiffness settling into his muscles. That his eyes feel puffed, that his cheeks ache, that his throat is raw and scratched, feeling like he swallowed a handful of glass.

But everything passes. And eventually the sobs quiet into hiccups, quiet into skipping breaths. Eventually, Hyunjin regains enough of himself to sit up off the floor. Regains enough to do the one thing he always knows how to do, dragging himself back to the bedroom.

He calls Jisung.

–

Jisung and Hyunjin have been sitting on the roof of Jisung’s apartment building for hours now. Jisung dragged him there as soon as he saw the state of Hyunjin. Something about a change of scenery. They haven’t said much since. The air is cold, dry, the noise of the city around them a steady, sure hum. Hyunjin is curled around Jisung’s shoulders, face buried into the crook of Jisung’s neck. The tears on his face have dried into sticky tracks, his breathing settled into quiet huffs. The sun is setting, everything going pink and orange, devastating along the cloudline.

“He loved you, you know.” Jisung’s voice is small, comforting, his hand running gently along the column of Hyunjin’s spine as he talks, covering the same familiar ground again and again.

Hyunjin laughs, weak, pathetic, and wet. “It wasn’t enough, though.” He pulls himself tighter around Jisung’s warm body. Curls himself around his own knees.

Jisung hums, considering. “I know. I’m sorry.” He presses a kiss against Hyunjin’s temple, his lips tacky and sticking to the other’s skin slightly as he pulls away.

Something unlatches in Hyunjin’s chest as he rattles around another, aborted sob. Everything is settling into his bones, all at once. He is so heavy with it. Jisung’s hand keeps moving against his back, tethering and solid. Repeated patterns, waves against the unsteady sand. The only sure thing.

“Thank you. For staying.”

“Of course. Where else would I go.”

And that’s all there is to it. What is there left to say. They watch the sun rest, wait until the moon is out, just starting to wax itself back to full glory. Then they go back inside. Jisung washes Hyunjin’s hair in the shower and Hyunjin lets him. They go to sleep. They wake up.

Hyunjin keeps moving. Jisung moves right along with him.