Chapter Text
It was two weeks after their district had been officially shut down that Elder Thomas found Elder McKinley crying on his bed.
“Connor?” his companion asked, concern evident in his voice. “What’s wrong?”
It was too much to say out loud. Connor didn’t lift his head from his pillow, but he did half-heartedly wave the letter from home toward his roommate.
Pop Tarts took the paper and skimmed it. “Oh, Connor,” he said gently. “I’m sorry.”
It wasn’t entirely unexpected. A variety of letters had made their way to the ex-missionaries’ remote hut from the United States. Their parents ran the gamut from Elder Cunningham’s mom – who just seemed thrilled her son had found a girlfriend and was more or less indifferent to the religious heresies committed – to Elder Price’s dad – who didn’t seem to mind if his ex-Mormon son never came home again.
The letter from Connor’s parents wasn’t quite that harsh, but his father wanted him to return as soon as he could so he could “make sure he was living true Mormon values” and his mother had found a well-behaved Mormon girl she wanted him to marry practically as soon as he stepped foot on American soil again.
A picture-perfect Mormon temple wedding was the last thing he wanted at this point. It had only been a fortnight, but the elders had agreed to stop bottling up their feelings, and he was finding it difficult to even think about turning it off again.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Connor hiccupped. “It’s about what I expected.”
He felt the warmth of Pop Tarts’ hand on his shoulder. “Just because you expected it, doesn’t mean it’s not still a shock to see it on paper.”
Thomas’ parents had split the difference and seemed reluctant to take the mission president’s word for what had happened. Pop Tarts had ended up writing them a short, highly edited summary of the last month and had just mailed it the previous day. Connor knew his mission companion was banking on his parents loving him more than the Church.
“I just wish it hadn’t happened like this, is all,” Connor explained, tired of the increasingly despairing mood of the hut as each new letter arrived, tired of trying to be district leader when there wasn’t a district, tired of trying to keep everyone together without resorting to turning off his feelings with a bright, missionary grin.
“I know.” At least he still had his companion. At least he still had the other nine boys in the hut. At least he still had the village. “I know.”
--
The next morning, Connor’s alarm clock woke him up at 6:00 sharp. He turned it off by muscle memory, then squinted at the glowing red numbers. They’d been relaxing various rules since leaving the Church, including the 6:30 wake-up-call. He’d always set his alarm earlier to make sure he had plenty of time to get ready and mentally prepare before the rest of the hut was awake. (It was technically against two different rules, but he’d considered it a requirement of being a district leader in northern Uganda.) Nowadays, however, that meant more like 7:30 than 6:00. He must have been really out of it yesterday after his parents’ letter to have set his old alarm time.
Nevertheless, he was awake now, so he might as well get a head start on the day. He stretched, relieved to find there weren’t any aftereffects from his breakdown the night before. It had been about as bad as he had expected, but it could have been so much worse. (The memory of Price’s breakdown after his letter was still fresh.) That didn’t mean Connor was in a hurry to reread his parents’ letter either, though, and he quickly went to gather his clothes before he could dwell on it any longer.
He moved quietly to avoid waking his companion. Elder Thomas slept like the dead, but that wasn’t an excuse for waking Pop Tarts up by accident, especially two hours before he needed to be awake.
There was clothing laid out for him. He frowned. Generally, Connor did set out his clothes the night before to ensure everything was in place and he would be able to dress quickly and quietly in the dark. But he hadn’t had a chance to the previous night. Maybe Pop Tarts had done it for him, he concluded, shooting an affectionate glance at his friend. He’d have to remember to thank him later.
Most definitely thank him, Connor determined a minute later. His shirt had been ironed – something none of them had bothered with for at least a week – and even his shoes had been half-polished – something they had given up on long before that. His favorite tie was laid out on top too.
The elders had collectively been sliding away from the picture-perfect missionary look for days. Elder Price had been the first to stop wearing ties altogether. Elder Church had left his off two days after the mission president’s visit, arriving at breakfast with the top button of his shirt open and a half-defiant, half-terrified look on his face. The rest had been slowly following in dribs and drabs. Connor himself wore his loose more days than not.
Even without the emotional hangover, though, he was feeling a little unsteady that morning. Maybe Pop Tarts was right; maybe dressing more like Elder McKinley today would help Connor feel more confident in handling his own internal crisis.
He quickly donned his pressed shirt and snugged his tie into place, the familiar motions comforting in the way something can only be after you’ve done it daily for months. A week or so of backsliding wasn’t enough to erase the muscle memory ingrained since the missionary training center.
The kitchen was quiet, the common room neat and tidy. Michaels and Church must have remembered to clean up the board games that had been strewn across the floor when he’d taken his mail and gone to his room. Connor made a mental note to thank them for it later.
He set about making himself some toast to nibble on while watching the sunrise. Elder Price was out of coffee beans again, he noticed, adding it to the running shopping list in his head.
The sun had just begun to peak over the horizon when a shuffling noise signaled the arrival of another one of the missionaries. Connor looked over to greet him and froze.
It was Elder Michaels, Elder Church trailing behind him, stifling a yawn. Elders Neeley and Davis were behind them, followed by Schrader and Zelder with Pop Tarts in the back. Almost the whole district was present an hour and a half early – nearly unheard of – and was dressed to the nines. White shirts with crisp collars, tidy ties snug to the neck, neatly parted hair at regulation length, even dully polished shoes on every foot.
What was going on?
Connor politely greeted each of the elders in turn as they started preparing their own breakfasts, wracking his brain to try and remember what special occasion he had missed. Was there a wedding in the village that they were invited to? Some sort of scheme concocted by Elder Cunningham that required a small army of picture-perfect Mormon missionaries?
He leaned against the counter and surveyed the group. Nothing out of the ordinary, except all of the things that were. Church was still leaning against Michaels, trying to grab another five minutes of sleep. Davis was painstakingly eating his cereal one flake at a time. Neeley was glaring at an orange as if it owed him money and wasn’t a necessary source of vitamin C. Zelder was half-heartedly poking at his toast with a fork while Schrader steadily cleared his plate with a determination born of being the eldest of nine. Pop Tarts was snacking on his namesake. The only thing missing was—
“Where are Elder Price and Elder Cunningham?” Connor asked, wondering if they had been excluded from this…whatever was going on…on purpose.
Pop Tarts groaned. “I know you’re counting on Elder Price to turn this district around, but even he can’t teleport from Kampala. They should be here this afternoon.”
Connor frowned. There was no reason Price or Cunningham should have been in Kampala. The city was a sixteen-hour bus ride away. Even their more exotic shopping could be done in Gulu. They had also both been in the hut when he had gone to bed the previous night.
Something wasn’t right.
He swept his gaze over everyone again, looking for anything that would signal what was going on. Was this some sort of prank? A mis-aimed attempt to cheer him up? He could ask, but if everyone was committing to the bit enough to iron their shirts, he wasn’t sure what kind of answer he would get.
Then he spotted the chalkboard.
Its original purpose had been to list the baptism counts for each district member. He could remember his own enthusiasm as he wrote down each name with a flourish, expecting to watch the numbers steadily climb. Instead, it had sat at a goose egg for three months until Price and Cunningham appeared and everything fell apart in the space of a week.
Nowadays, it was used for doodles. Neeley had taken to drawing charmingly cartoonish depictions of the events of Elder Cunningham’s sermons. Connor’s favorite to-date was the comic of Joseph Smith – looking remarkably like the mission president – being abducted by aliens for failing to give the Mormon workers Saturdays off.
Yesterday’s caricature of a Wookie dressed up to go knocking on doors like a good missionary had been erased and the board had been cleaned to remove any hint that it had ever been there. Instead, the names of eight missionaries were listed in Connor’s own handwriting, with “District 9 Baptisms” written across the top with a flourish and an even set of zeros all the way down the right side of the chalkboard.
Connor knew for a fact that even if he had accidentally set the wrong time on his alarm clock and even if Pop Tarts had gone the extra mile to set out his clothes and even if the whole district was playing a prank on him by dressing up like the last three weeks hadn’t happened, even if all of that were true— Connor knew for a fact that there was no way he had reset the chalkboard like that. None of them would have. The days of futilely counting baptisms were behind them.
Now, Connor McKinley was a good Mormon boy, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t snuck a book or two from the school library, just to see what all the fuss was about. He had an eerie feeling that somehow he had either had an extremely vivid, lengthy hallucination about heresy and the mission president or he had travelled back in time three weeks to the day Elders Price and Cunningham had first arrived in District 9, no time turner necessary.
“Are you feeling alright, Elder McKinley?”
Connor startled. “Of—of course, Elder Michaels,” he stuttered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You just got really pale is all,” Michaels explained, concern lining his brow.
Elder Church lifted his head from Michaels’ shoulder and peered at Connor. “Yeah, you do look a little pale. Are you sure you’re alright, Elder McKinley?”
Connor smoothed his tie and plastered on his most chipper missionary grin. “Thank you for the concern, Elders, but I’m quite alright. Now—” he continued, clasping his hands and frantically trying to remember the chore rota from the previous weeks “—let’s go over today’s schedule.”
--
Connor was almost vibrating with anticipation by the time the afternoon rolled around. This was it; this would be the final confirmation of whether he actually had somehow traveled through time or whether the rest of the elders had decided to pull the most elaborate prank of all time on him.
He had done his best to go with the flow, operating under the presupposition that if this was a prank, everyone was already in on it. And if it was actually three weeks ago, it was best not to give the elders any reason to doubt him right before the most stressful week of their lives. Aside from forgetting a couple of things and Pop Tarts pulling him aside to ask if he’d gotten enough sleep, it had gone fairly smoothly.
This would be the nail in the coffin, though. Elder Cunningham was disheveled on his best day, but the Elder Price who had arrived in Uganda and the Kevin Price who had lived down the hall yesterday were two very different people. The poster boy for what a Mormon missionary could be had crumbled into a messy, caffeine-addicted teenager trying to piece his identity back together without the Church that had given him structure. Connor would swear on the Book of Arnold that Price would rather die than shove himself back into the façade of a missionary.
Finally, the door opened and a pair of fresh-faced missionaries entered. Connor almost didn’t recognize them.
“Hello,” Elder Price said, holding out a hand for Connor to shake, his wide, white smile seemingly fixed in place.
“Hello,” Connor greeted him in a daze. This couldn’t really be happening. Keep it together. “Elders,” he called loudly. “The new recruits are here!”
The room was suddenly full of chattering missionaries, each introducing himself in turn. Schrader and Zelder were out attempting to proselytize, but even five other missionaries could make a lot of noise. Connor realized he was still holding Price’s hand and quickly pulled back, maneuvering behind the rest of the group to allow the news to sink in.
Elder Price was wearing a crisp white shirt, buttoned all the way up, hair neatly styled. There was no prank big enough to get the ex-Mormon into a starched shirt and tight tie. Even Elder Cunningham was mostly put together, as if he’d just arrived in Uganda. This wasn’t a prank. The elders weren’t having him on. He really was going to have to live through the worst week of his life again. Connor took a deep breath, then another, clasping his hands to keep them from shaking.
He realized the room had fallen quiet and looked up. Thomas was eyeing him with concern. Price just looked expectant. Connor clapped his hands together. “Come, sit, please, and we’ll get you caught up on what we’ve been doing here so far!” He forced his previous chipperness into his voice.
Price was disappointed with the baptism numbers he shared, that much was obvious. But there was something else to it, too. A deeper frustration of some kind that Connor couldn’t put his finger on. Cunningham asked if he was okay and Price lashed out. “I’m just a little confused right now, okay?”
The other elders exclaimed their understanding and more than a few eyes turned toward Connor expectantly. The group had been on the same page for months, reminding each other to turn it off whenever one of them would falter. Would turning it off actually help the pair? Would it help any of them? He doubted it. But it’s what the other elders and even Price and Cunningham counted on from their district leader.
He cleared his throat. “Well, Elder, there certainly are a lot of things here in Uganda that can be disturbing,” Connor said, trying to sound more empathetic than he had the previous time.
He opened his mouth to ask if they wanted to talk about it and stopped. He hadn’t noticed the last time, too caught up in the hopes that Elder Price would be able to help dig them out of the hole they’d ended up in, but there was a small crack in the perfect Price façade. Something in his eyes that told Connor that Elder Price wasn’t quite as stable as he’d thought upon first meeting. Uganda had picked up a chisel and already put a hairline crack in Price’s faith. He didn’t look prepared to deal with that, though.
He was the district leader. It was his job to look after the missionaries (and ex-missionaries) of District 9.
Connor bared his teeth in a salesman’s smile. “I’ve got a feeling you could be feeling a whole lot better than you feel today,” he told them.
Elder Church told them about his abusive father. Pop Tarts told them about his sister’s death. Connor shoved down his feelings and relived fifth grade. All the while, the elders chorused around them, entreating Elder Price and Elder Cunningham to just turn off whatever was bothering them.
“I don’t think it’s a problem that you’re having gay thoughts,” Elder Price rationalized. “Just as long as you don’t act on them.”
In retrospect, Connor wondered how he hadn’t noticed how quickly Elder Price had had an answer for that. As if it had been top of mind for some time.
“No,” he forced out. “Being gay is—” bad sat on the tip of his tongue. “Being gay is a sin, but lying is worse,” he said instead, choosing the more truthful option. Once he’d stopped turning it off, it had all come flooding back: every thought he’d ever had about being gay, every time he’d thought a boy was cute, every moment he’d wondered why Heavenly Father would have made him this fundamentally flawed. Every single thing he’d pushed down and ignored had surfaced all at once.
Eight days ago, Connor McKinley had admitted to himself that he was gay. The earthly Church might consider that a sin, but that didn’t mean Heavenly Father thought it was bad. In fact, if Connor didn’t believe in a God that was omnipotent and omnibenevolent, who had made him gay because there wasn’t anything wrong with that, then Connor didn’t think he’d believe in God at all. Which was too much for Connor to grapple with when he was already trying to decide whether or not he was leaving the Church for good when he returned home. So, an all-powerful, all-loving God who made rainbows and the people who marched under them it was.
“Look,” he said when it didn’t seem like Price was getting it. “Imagine that your brain is made of tiny boxes. Then find the box that’s gay and lock it.”
Elder Price was startled. “No, no, I’m not having gay thoughts,” he reassured Connor, a little too quickly to be believable. There was a momentary flicker of panic in his eyes, quickly repressed and buried under the avalanche of mantras Connor knew well (don’t show it, don’t feel it, you’re not gay, don’t feel that way).
Hmm, Connor thought. So that’s what he looks like when he’s lying.
After the mission president left them alone and unsanctioned by the Church, they had resolved to let all their feelings out. Eight days ago, Connor McKinley had admitted to himself that he was gay. He wondered how long ago Kevin Price had admitted the same thing to himself. Or maybe he hadn’t admitted it yet at all. He wondered how long it would take him.
The last time Connor had lived through this, just three weeks earlier, he had spent his time worrying about the mission president and their baptism numbers. He suspected that would end exactly the same way this time around too. After hearing the sideways version of the Book of Mormon from the Kitguli villagers, he doubted anything but Elder Cunningham’s specific brand of insanity/brilliance would work to both give them hope and address their concerns.
He would deal with President Smith in a week, come what may. In the meantime, Connor decided, giving the newest pair of residents a once over, his energy could be much better spent worrying about Elder Price and Elder Cunningham themselves.