Archive of Our Own

Tadashi hadn't slept a wink since the month began. Prior to taking up this mantle, his predecessor warned him about the oppressive summers, but he reassured Father Takeda that he could live through without so much as a scratch. After all, he grew up in this same town, in the same summer heat, with the same suffering people who dressed up their complaints of never having enough money themselves to overhaul their homes, and every year without fail, the temperature climbed higher and higher and higher. The season rolled in without warning, choked him, left him wetter than when he went to bed and worried that the sheer humidity would stick a foul stench to him, had he not spent every waking moment cleaning.

Worn-out metal of his bed frame creaked under each toss and turn, and the springs of his mattress followed in the same fashion. Sweating into his freshly washed sheets was not his ideal night, not with Sunday service starting in less than 5 hours. If he opened his windows, the endless song of cicadas and wind through the grass interrupted his sleep. His home had the unfortunate quality of trapping the worst parts of summer, dragging in humid heat that suffocated the house. Despite the church's most recent renovations to welcome in new members, his own house on the grounds remained untouched without a clear date to address the festering mold in each bathroom or the uneven floorboards. Ukai promised weeks ago to fix his air-conditioning, but with the recent funeral of his old man, he'd been left to attend to deal with the matters of the estate. Given his position, Tadashi could do nothing more than give a sympathetic smile and let the issue go.

Tadashi laid in his bed, eyes fixed to the wall and the ceiling fan blowing the heat back onto his skin. Tempting as it was to take a calming walk to the church or even jump straight into a cold shower, the responsibility of the morning weighed too heavily for him to try anything but try and squeeze in a few measly hours of sleep.

Just as his eyelids grew heavier, someone pounded at his door and shook sleep right off him. He groaned. Nevertheless, he pulled his clothes on as fast as he could as more and more knocks came in rapid succession. Tadashi ignored the way his pajamas clung to his body and bunched up in his thighs and the mounting discomfort of appearing so unkempt. The stiff floorboards groaned underneath his footstep.

Tadashi relaxed his shoulders and put his best face forth before he swung the door open, the creak of rusting metal louder than every preceding knock. Of the people he expected to see, he anticipated any single congregation member who sought refuge in his home, thinking it more comfortable in such unforgiving heat. No, instead, a very worried groundskeeper greeted him, with an elusive stranger standing a few steps behind her.

"Father Yamaguchi, pardon my intrusion at this time of night, but I couldn't help but intervene—"

"No, no, Hitoka, my door's always available," he reassured, suppressing a yawn. "But it's too late for you to be roaming the grounds, you been safe all by yourself?"

"Yes, well, thank you. I was doing, well, I was fine by myself, Father, but when I saw this man, uh, what's your name…?" She turned toward the person behind her.

This elusive stranger raised a hand, warm porch light cascading down the rest of his figure, and Tadashi's breath hitched in his throat. Whatever fabric draped around his body looked weightless, dry despite the thick humidity suspended in the air. He appeared otherworldly, a type of divine Tadashi only knew at liturgies and praying to a church altar. Soft curls fell across an angelic face, made more human by large-framed glasses. Gold eyes met his, and a trance locked out every noise, every bit of sense that wasn't the face of this person in front of him, even as he moved his lips.

"Does he always take this long?" he said, turning to Hitoka.

She shook her head and blinked at Tadashi, awaiting his answer. Their stares snapped him out of his daydreaming and right into embarrassment; how long had he stood there, not speaking? He cleared his throat, unable to stop the way his heartbeat lingered in his esophagus, and stepped aside to allow them inside. Hitoka walked in the way she had many times before, but Tadashi sensed a hesitation from the man who lingered just at his porch step. His gaze softened while he made more room at the threshold and beckoned him inside.

"Don't be shy now. I don't want some blood suckers to get you and do some nasty damage to my newest guest."

The man paused but for a moment before stepping side.

As the three settled around the dinner table, Hitoka explained at length about how she ended up there, long enough for Tadashi to scour his fridge for something suitable for them to snack on. Tadashi's attention phased in and out, and he garnered something about a car breaking down right outside of the church, and how he left without enough money for a decent towing company to haul their ass from New Orleans up to their tiny town. He sat right in Hitoka's path and gazed up at the summer constellations when Hitoka found him.

"Well, your attentiveness is much, much appreciated, Hitoka. Though you've been up since early morning, I can take care of this for now. Want me to walk you back?" Tadashi said as he cleared the table.

"Oh no, please, attend to Tsukishima! Kanoka has to be up wondering where I am, so I'll leave you two be. She's been worried since you know what started in the town, darn near held me back from walking outside for my nightly duties."

Tadashi nodded. "Lord help us all and keep us safe."

"Amen!" She turned to Tsukishima, already halfway out the door. "Will you be okay?"

The man, Tsukishima, stretched his body along his chair and hummed an affirmative. Tadashi paled as his eyes dragged down Tsukishima; embarrassment caught him as they locked into a stare and then again at the state of disarray of his home. Nervous as she looked, she still managed to leave with a smile and a quick wave. He wiped sweat off his upper lip and stood up, making his way over to the fridge to grab a cold juice box.

"I'll prepare some toiletries for you, and please, bother me if you need anything, Tsukishima," Tadashi said, feigning reassurance. He hesitated before he spoke again, "oh, I'll be up early for Sunday mass. You're more than welcome to attend, but you're under no obligation, of course, must've had a real long night to look at the stars."

He did his best to be gentle in delivering his invitation, cautious to invite a new member amongst his congregation without its current members swarming someone so gorgeous. No doubt, their curiosities would turn to questions, and their questions turn to gossip and wondering, despite his latest sermons about it.

Tsukishima hummed gently. "I like the stars, nothing quite like the ones you see out here." His fingernail scratched against the cardboard of the juice box, eyes focused on the folded edge held by the glue.

"Forgive me, I only have apple, but you know what the say—"

"Is Kanoka her girlfriend?"

Tadashi stared at Tsukishima with eyes wide and mouth agape.

"Her as in Hitoka?" He clipped his question short, stuffing away his surprise at being asked, and he searched for something in Tsukishima's face for some sort of cruel joke. Disgust ripped up his body to think of Hitoka in such a way, but he found nothing of the sort, only unhidden sincerity.

"No, no, she's not like that. They're just roommates is all, been that way for some time," he followed up.

Tsukishima paused with an unreadable expression and nodded. "Sure, makes sense. Thank you for your last minute hospitality… Father Yamaguchi."

Blush crept onto Tadashi's cheeks as he turned away. "Please, just Tadashi is fine. Save the formalities for when you're at my church."

Even from where he stood, he felt Tsukishima's breath turn shallow, and his body go rigid at such a mention. Tadashi cleared his throat and flashed a forced smile to Tsukishima before he scurried down the hallway.

His heart beat in a familiar pitter-patter as he prepared clean toiletries in his bathroom. The rhythm and weight in his chest reminded him of a more youthful days where his eyes would wander to his classmates only to deny imagining what type of future, what type of happiness lies for them. In the mirror, he stared at his sullen reflection while his mind wandered. Such a time in his life was but the past, his current version of reality offered much more than he could ever need for entire decades. His family attended mass every weekend, his community revered his kindness, and most importantly he was content to be doing a duty — God's duty — for the sake of all those around him.

A lump in his throat hitched up as he heard approaching footsteps, and he slipped back into his room with the door cracked just to hear Tsukishima wandering.

Something unearthed in Tadashi, rose out from the dirt and called his name, but to open his eyes and heed his call rendered his body unmoving. He should reject such invitation, heed the call to the Lord he answered many years ago for whom the entirety of his devotion lies, and would continue until it is his turn to go up to Heaven. The promise of his righteousness and to walk the path of the lord brought to him a comfort and had for years. Whatever temptation came, he knew it was but a test, a shameful one too, thinking a stranger in these unnatural urges.

He buried his face into his pillow in hopes his breathing would cease. When he came back up for air, all sound outside of his door vanished. As he fell into slumber, a faint smell of jasmine crept up his nose and wrapped itself around him.

When he awoke the next morning, the juice box sat on the table, untouched.

Every night since, his dreams took the same shape.

And every night, an angel emerged from the depths of shadows, just beyond what Tadashi could see. Blond hair shone through the darkness, a halo, emitting light so bright it wiped Tadashi clean of his plans to escape. As the angel drew closer with each featherlight step, Tadashi's heartbeat picked up in tempo, nearly leaping from his chest. He folded into himself with total disregard for his newly washed cassock dragging through the dirty puddles in the alley. Still, the angel refused to stop. Did the angel sense him, come to save him? Questions stormed in his mind, rushing until the scent of jasmine flooded his senses.

All noise around him ceased.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Tadashi uncovered his eyes and turned to source of light, gold-brimmed eyes staring straight into his soul. He jumped back, every hair on his body rose. The angel smiled down on him.

"Tadashi, why do you hide from me?"

After a month of sharing space with Tsukishima, Tadashi found himself back in an empty house. Admittedly, he missed the company and the commiseration over hot weather and the little quirks shared amongst the town folk, which Tsukishima found particularly frustrating. Ukai's estate dealings worsened over that time, having lost another family member, leaving the town without a proper handyman.

At least with the vacancy, he expected to get better sleep. Tsukishima's daily nighttime routine, while quiet, came like clockwork; at the darkest hour, Tadashi stared out at the moon and listened to the soft footsteps around the halls. In those few moments, he imagined all that Tsukishima got up to, though the stretch of his imagination never made it far. A few times a week, the creak of the front door startled Tadashi awake, even as it stopped half-way and closed with the gentlest of motions.

Loneliness left Tadashi to his racing thoughts, returning to Tsukishima, and always to the first time night met. Instead, the house settled with scratchy groans and the ceaseless drips of his faucet, and each night, he attempted slumber and met a head of golden locks belonging to an angel that soothed his daily worrying away. When he awoke with his body hotter, stickier than when he began, he wasted no time and stood under scalding water to rid himself of the feeling. He prayed under the shower, water pressure trickling down in fat beads, to wash his body clean, but every night was the same, doing his best to put a face to this nightly visitor, honey thick in their voice and affection in every lingering touch. It went on in the same fashion until purple bags began to appear under his eyes, much to the worry of Hitoka.

Night masses and their runtime saved him from being cooped up in the house in the worst hours of the day. When he pitched it to the congregants that he would move services to midday to prevent any more disappearances, they all proudly tutted they'd rather die in the cold than melt away into the heat. What could he do but listen? Secretly, he got his reprieve him from his clerical collar digging into his neck and the thick fabric of his cassock suffocating his body.

As he wrapped up service for the evening, he could see Hitoka standing a few feet from him, looking ready to take over his duties should he speak.

He tried to reassure her, told her that his schedule and his current workload posed no problems. Still, she didn't believe him, and at times he didn't believe himself as he poured hours into reading, studying and writing his sermons with his days too busy with his congregation's requests. Another, worse part of him kept his distance to observe her with Kanoka.

Their relationship remained as it always had, but Tsukishima's words rang in his head at every turn. He kept a watchful eye to their interactions, noted the way Hitoka's touch lingered on Kanoka's shoulders or the way the two gravitated toward each other no matter the occasion. When Hitoka met Tadashi's gaze, he looked away, occupying himself with speaking to another person. It went on like this even now, as a line of people formed to receive an extra blessing to keep them safe on the walk home.

He breathed a sigh of relief as each congregant shuffled out to the courtyard, chatter of dinner plans and upcoming funeral processions filling the open space. The latest volunteer-hire minister, Father Ennoshita, directed the flow of people outside while Tadashi stood at the door and ensured that no one walked home alone. A tap on his shoulder broke him out of his daydreaming.

"Oh! Tsukishima, you came again," he said.

Tsukishima gave him a funny look and nodded. "You say that every time, Father Yamaguchi. Almost as if you did not invite me in."

A blush crept on Tadashi's cheeks. He cleared his throat and let his eyes dart across the room to make sure everyone else filed out the exit. "And it's a surprise every time that you grace our presence."

"Meaning? It's as if you don't want me here," Tsukishima replied, tone playful.

As the last volunteers squeezed past the two, they all lowered their head to Tsukishima, afraid to meet his gaze. He'd have to talk to the kids about proper manners and etiquette to all goers, he noted. When he scanned the room, only a few congregants conversed in the corner, but Hitoka and Kanoka took their leave already.

"Hardly true. I'm just glad you can find comfort in our humble parish, and you're always welcome here. Are you in need of a blessing at this time?"

Tsukishima paused at Tadashi's shared sentiment, face unreadable still. Words of reassurance, of taking it back bubbled up in his throat; instead, he pressed his lips into a forced smile, the grueling years of lessons kicking his body in control.

"Save your energy for those who are in need of it, Father." Tsukishima took a bow and said his goodbyes, tossing a small token of appreciation around his welcoming attitude.

Despite the protest of Father Ennoshita, he walked through the gate without a companion. His gaze followed Tsukishima until he disappeared into the darkness of the rest of the town, past the church lights, long enough for Father Ennoshita to walk up to ask if he needed to do anything else for the night.

"I remember you mention your evening liturgy after mass, did you want some company before you lock the doors?" Father Ennoshita said.

"No, no. There's no need, thank you. I'll be safe for now. Go on and rest up, you've helped me out plenty," Tadashi reassured.

Alone at the church altar, Tadashi stared up into the cross, high enough to cast a shadow that reached the end of the room. The moon hung above the smallest window, aligned with Jesus' crown of thorns, but he could not see its beauty nor its light. All he had to do was do as he always had: get on his knees, clasp his hands, and supplicate, but words, well-practiced, fell short. Pooled saliva in his mouth grew thicker with lack of prayer.

No praises or even confession touched his lips, only shame festering through his lungs. Who was he when he could no longer meet those obligations of his faith nor conjure up a simple prayer the way he had a thousand times before, the way he was meant to a thousand times after? No, the only thing in his mind was that of Tsukishima, of whom he knew what they shared with one another in hushed tones over the month of living together. In Tsukishima's absence, he left Tadashi with a mess of feelings, delicately laced and created entirely through projections. He clutched at himself. Once steadied, he took slow steps from end to end of the long table.

He ran his fingers over each item, the consecrated oil, relics of the martyrs, votive candelabras, until he grazed his crucifix, and he held it up to his face, mahogany wood on his skin. Still, he felt nothing but his stomach lurching. No gratitude, no overwhelming release prayer provided his pious heart, just an acrid taste pushed up against throat. Worst of all, his heart burst into flames as soon as Tsukishima crossed his mind, with the even timbre of his voice and the faint smell of something that haunted Tadashi. He swallowed, nausea vanishing in an instant. When he looked up again to the moon, clouds obscured the light, leaving Tadashi to stare into the darkness of the night.

He fled the church without doing his prayer.

All through the night and even as he slid into bed, Tadashi replayed every interaction with Tsukishima, combed through each line and each expression once, twice, thrice until he fell asleep and his angel descended, the way he had for months.

If his angel took the face of Tsukishima, only he needed to know, and he kept the secret tucked away from even his most trusted Lord. Under the scorching daylight, he filled his life with righteous actions and sought to always walk in such a path. At night, the angel spoke into his ear and filled his thoughts with lust and reassurance. At first he begged to be left alone, to be left into the only home he knew and see only the devil of which he was familiar, but the sadness, the sadness! The angel's expression no longer spoke of lust, but of hurt and resignation, so beautiful with transparent lashes batting in the same slowness as his wings.

The promises of this holy creature grew and grew with each passing night, no matter how long the day stretched. He spoke of safety and belonging and of an inherent good that Tadashi embodied, yet still refused to believe. In such a state, he agreed, left without much of a choice to keep his angel happy. When he awoke, he ran circles in his head and punished himself for such a thought.

It was especially hard to disagree at the promise of affection and to be touched by this not-Tsukishima angel. Those lithe fingers pressed into his body where no one else dared and no one else would be given such opportunity, which only made sense. Who could love his flesh? Another lowly person like himself? The idea repulsed him, but the angel, whose featherlight caresses left burning trails down his skin could have done nothing of the sort. The resplendence wrapped his mind and remind him that he too could be deserving of this pleasure even if it came in form of slumber and dreams.

The difficulty came when he stood face to face with the real Tsukishima, real and breathing, whose hair shone under full moons and whose smile was rare. Each moment spent in proximity chiseled at Tadashi's sense until the temptation of self-pleasure pounded in his ears like a hammer.

Faith, lack thereof, or whatever existed in between mattered little when a closed casket laid between Tadashi, at the altar, and the congregation, in the pews. The hot summer dwindled into a cooler fall, but still the church relied on flowers in abundance to mask the smell of formaldehyde and a rotting corpse.

As he delivered his prayer, he surveyed the crowd with their sullen faces and their usual radiance dialed back into cold quietness. Tadashi spotted a single person standing at the door and dressed in plain white. Moonlight peeked through the windows and shone down onto Tsukishima, his brilliance unsuited to the far back corner of the room. When their eyes met, Tadashi looked down at his hands, at the bible under his fingertips, and at the picture of the very person for whom he recited prayer. Tadashi suppressed a smile. He focused his attention back to the funeral liturgy he needed to recite, had recited many times over the last few months. He promised himself he could sneak another glance after communion.

Prayer, once was a grounding activity, only disconnected him further from all his teachings. Each offer of wine and body to the lips of his congregants brought him no closer to the god he served, his action boiled down to a single, mechanical motion repeated over and over until every past person in the pew received the Eucharist. The last person, the deceased's child, approached, wiping fresh tears with the back of their hand even as it ripped down his adolescent face.

Memories flooded back into Tadashi. Takeru had yet to have his confirmation, but Tadashi remembered the excitement in the boy's eyes, the same as his parent in the coffin, to know he could participate in sacrament. Now, all Tadashi could do was give a blessing he did not feel; the boy accepted it nonetheless.

Members of the deceased's family took turns to share the life and the memory, all he had done for the church, and the devotion he held to this town. Tadashi braced for the swell of tears or sadness as everyone spoke, heaviness laden through their voice and their words. His jaw clenched when the last person, the deceased's child, came up and spoke in broken sentences, sobs cutting through ever word.

Nothing. Nothing bubbled up or burst through his mind or even bothered to escape him, no displays of grief, not even a twinge of pain, just nothing. His hands went numb. When he ushered everyone back into their seats, he realized how untethered his body became from his mind. All he could do now was gather the holy water and incense in his hand for a final commendation, but he choked. His breathing broke in uneven paces, shallow inhales and non-existent exhales that brought over a dizzy spell.

"Forgive me, I.. I'll be but a moment," he said, clutching his chest.

No congregation rushed over for his reprieve, not even Father Ennoshita, who stood a mere few feet away with an apprehensive expression.

Bitterness filled his mouth to see a hundred empty eyes staring blankly at him as screams tore apart his mind and body, their faces expectant for him to gather himself in an instant, as if this moment was a blip in their existence. Maybe it was. More important than his eroding faith was the person in front of him requiring his blessing simply to make it to the kingdom of Heaven, but how could he? The promise of eternal salvation for a lifetime of faith, drilled into him through every lesson, every conversation drifted further and further away from his reach.

What remained was his earthly desires, earthly feelings, earthly shame, all sitting in the pit of his stomach in a nauseating cocktail while everyone waited impatiently for him to get on with it. Pall bearers stood off to the side and fanned themselves, sweating in their suits even as the nightfall came and irritation increasing by the second.

He fumbled his way through the rest of service, until everyone shuffled past the entrance to the crematorium. In futility, Tadashi prayed to regain his old self as he followed the crowd, but when the crowd parted for him, he still felt nothing, less than nothing.

A sense of despair curled around every part of his body, every bitter word out of his mouth like a poison, desperate to be expelled. Only the rite of committal, he told himself. The taste lingered through every word. His despair never bled into sympathy for the weeping family members, only transformed into remorse that all his blessings handed out today held none of his well-worn gratitude.

The reception was to be held at the deceased's house, and he planned to go after gathering a few items from the altar. He could not bear to tear his sight from Jesus hanging on a cross, whose eyes carved deep into Tadashi's soul. Penance was not enough to rid his being of this weight.

Of all times for his faith to waver among the crowd of suffering people, this ranked the worst; vomit curled up his throat, pressing against his esophagus. He covered his mouth, swallowing and swallowing the acrid taste until it bubbled back down his stomach. He'd endure punishment ten times over if it meant returning back to the person he was before these unnatural desires interrupted every moment of peace, of responsibility.

"Are you going to the reception?"

Tadashi's heart leaped out of his chest at the question. Slowly, he craned his head over his shoulder to meet Tsukishima, expression softened. His heart squeezed. Tadashi pressed his mouth to a tight line and nodded, ignoring the tears pricking the back of his eyes.

"Need a ride there?"

"This doesn't look like their house."

Tadashi should have know. His mind, too scattered to really register their route, sounded no alarm bells when he didn't recognize the streets, didn't bother to question anything beyond the fact he occupied Tsukishima's passenger seat. As expected, its interior was spotless, not a single trace of trash or another person in the car.

Tsukishima shrugged and exited the car. He rounded around the front and swung open Tadashi's door, waiting.

"In your current state, you expected me… Never mind. I took some liberties," Tsukishima said, holding out his hand.

He slid out of his seat and tucked his hands in his pockets. Both of them were out of place in the late night diner, seated in worn-leather bar stools, light above flickering a few times before finally dying out. The only server on-shift looked as tired as the only person behind the grill. The server slapped down two menus in front of them without so much as saying a word or introducing herself, much to Tadashi's relief. The static of the old radio and the hum of the few working lights filled the air.

"Pardon me for what I'm about to say, Tsukishima, but you don't seem like the type of person to get along with our dearly departed," Tadashi said after a few long minutes.

Tsukishima's eyes flickered up at him. "Ever the observant one, aren't you?"

His brow furrowed as he replied, "then why…?"

"Priorities. Namely the person beside me."

Tadashi tapped at the linoleum counters and searched his mind for anything to say and only drew blanks. All that came out of him were tears, trailing in fat globs down his cheeks and landing on the menu. Heaviness pushed up his chest, lingering in his face as he wiped his face dry.

"Why?"

"Aren't you full of questions tonight?" Tsukishima had no answer beyond playful teasing, but his hand slipped into Tadashi's for a moment, so brief that Tadashi would lay in bed and wonder if that was even real or if his imagination leaked out.

What was real though was Tsukishima's breath dissipating across his skin as he leaned in and whispered, "you can fool all these people, but not me."

Shivers ran down his body. The admission, the monumental feeling of Tsukishima's words echoed through every part of his body, bouncing through every nerve until it landed in the pit of his stomach. He didn't know if he was meant to take it as a threat or an invitation or a simple fact that Tadashi's secrets laid bare despite burying them under every useless prayer for the last few months starting from their first encounter. He swallowed and faced to Tsukishima. In their proximity, that faint something that wafted off of Tsukishima, the smell that infiltrated Tadashi's thoughts behind locked doors, thoughts that he had yet to confess to his fellow priest.

"Y'all gonna order or what?" the server said, annoyance replacing her previous look of exhaustion.

Tsukishima motioned to the menu, "anything you want, it's on me. I'll take a coffee."

The server rolled her eyes. "And you, Father Yamaguchi?"

Of course he'd be recognized by people who didn't frequent his parish. His mind raced on what she saw, even with tired eyes and mind, anyone could see his ungodly feelings pouring into every look exchanged with Tsukishima. Every rumor spread like a virus, infected people's minds with some half-cooked version of the truth. He worried that this time, there would not be anything untrue about it.

Tadashi swallowed and forced a small smile. "I'll take a plate of fries. And some lemon-lime pop, if you have any."

Her eyes lingered for one second too long before she scribbled in their orders and sulked back to the corner, and Tadashi watched the entire time, until a small scratching against the menus became unbearable to ignore.

"Tsukishima, what'd you mean before?"

Tsukishima hummed as he brushed a stray piece of hair out of Tadashi's face. "That you exist beyond your role in the town. Sure, you're Father Yamaguchi but also, just Tadashi. Right?"

His name sounded so good in Tsukishima's mouth, each syllable sweet enough to savor; he committed to memory the shape of Tsukishima's lips as he spoke.

"There's plenty to know about me, but what about you?"

In the quiet night of the diner with little else around, Tsukishima murmured into Tadashi's ear about bits and pieces of his life, all the history he learned since traveling down to Mandeville, and his aversion to the church. The last part puzzled Tadashi. When he pried further, Tsukishima's gaze drifted from his eyes down to the rest of his body, rounding back up until they met eyes once more. In a mere few seconds, Tadashi's blood flushing through his face, and when opened his mouth, Tsukishima leaned in again.

"I realized, perhaps, I had a bit more to learn before I leave the faith entirely. Aren't I so lucky?"

Certainly, but Tadashi had been the luckiest of them all. The pitter-patter in Tadashi's chest sped up just a hair, its pace sustained all the way through eating soggy fries and clambering back into Tsukishima's car and sitting quiet on the drive home. When they arrived, disappointment prickled into Tadashi at the realization that Tsukishima's car was still running.

"Where are you staying nowadays? You know you were welcome to stay as long as you needed here," Tadashi said, desperate to squeeze out every last second.

Tsukishima paused for a moment. "Hitoka's back house. Her and Kanoka said they could use the cash for… something, I don't recall. Why, do you miss my company already?"

Tadashi knew a mere joke, routine teasing. Still, blush flooded under his cheeks as he playfully pushed at Tsukishima's shoulders. Maybe he did, at least in the dead of night when the house groaned under him and all his recent crises took space right on all the empty spaces of his wall. No amount of photographed memories or crosses could unburden Tadashi of the heaviness of occupying his once-dream home.

"It's only right for me to offer, part of my duties."

He hated feeling so transparent, but if Tsukishima knew, he said nothing. Only huffed a laugh under his breath and motioned to the dark shadow of a home looming over them both. Before he could move to exit the car, Tsukishima found his way outside to open the door for him, almost in the blink of an eye. Neither of them moved, Tsukishima blocking Tadashi from going back into his house. Tadashi didn't mind. They held each other's stare, and Tadashi took the time to commit to memory the color of Tsukishima's eyes under the moonlight.

"And you'll be okay? Being home?" Tsukishima said after a few moments.

Tadashi could say no, invite Tsukishima back inside his house so he could press his ears to the wall and try to catch the sound of Tsukishima's exhales. He could count the crosses in his room and think about how Tsukishima's body stretched across the bed, long limbs folded underneath his body, but he knew. The temptation alone would stir his mind awake until the sun peaked through, sleepless nights preceding every morning that Tsukishima stayed in his home.

"I'm sure of it," Tadashi said with a meek smile.

Whether or not Tsukishima believed him didn't matter, and the two went their separate ways. Every word rang in Tadashi's mind, well into fluttering eyes of sleep. He hoped to meet his golden-haired angel as soon as he crossed into the dream realm.

His world, as small as it already was, pinpointed to a singular moment as he locked eyes with Tsukishima, whose gaze trapped him in an silent ask. He tossed aside the duties laid out before him and excused himself mid-sentence to the confessional. He hadn't bothered to look back as he slipped into his side of the booth. He fixed his eyes on the privacy screen between himself and the confessor on the other side, wiping his brow before he opened his mouth.

"Sign of the cross—"

"Father Yamaguchi, when was the last time you've sinned?"

His breath hitched, palms sweating at the softness of Tsukishima's voice. He straightened his spine.

"This is your time, your space to let me unburden you," he replied, words rehearsed and recited enough times that its repetition felt automatic. It served as a reminder, even to himself.

"My time and mine alone, correct?"

Tadashi swallowed. "Yes, whatever you want."

The rhythm of their conversation halted after his response, the confines of this booth growing ever more constricting. Tadashi focused on the ticking of the clock, faint sounds reaching just past the crack in the sound-proof rooms like a comfort, a worry. He wondered if any of their exchange could be heard.

"Our Blessed Father, I have sinned beyond words can articulate. Is there not more you can help me with? Tell me of your transgressions as to ease my pain?"

"I—. Surely that'd be unhelpful."

Tadashi clung onto the words, each pause in between making his heart leap and his mind race to get to the end of the statement, but Tsukishima, ever elusive, provided no further detail. the novelty of the situation forced Tadashi into a corner, left pondering what to say, what to think about something so plainly stated.

"I should've known you were so pure. Surely, you have heard it all, yet committed none yourself. How shameful of me," Tsukishima said with a sullen tone.

Bile climbed up his throat at such assumption, and Tadashi hung his head, unsure what more to say. Was he to lie to someone seeking salvation, ruin an unsullied image created by Tsukishima for his duty to guide those into the light? He swallowed and swallowed, lump bobbing in his esophagus.

"We're all sinners, receiving forgiveness from the Lord for our transgressions. I've done a great number of things in my time on earth just like everyone in this town. Aren't I human?" he said, voice dying. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, in his head. Standing at the sanctuary and looking down to the congregation rendered him untouchable, so far out of reach even as he outstretched his hand to all those before him. Yet, every part of him felt within arm's reach in Tsukishima's presence, his shortcomings, his flaws, all of the things he's yet to learn, and his depravity, most of all. His body shook as Tsukishima hummed low and filled the silence, the sound invading his mind and left him to tend to his tremors.

Tadashi could conjure no words, no magical thinking or clarification to his licentiousness, but how could he, if it meant unraveling a carefully woven disguised donned the moment he stepped foot outside his home. A mere foot away, Tsukishima waited. Tadashi's breaths turned erratic, one starting before the last one ended until his lungs burned in his body. Still, Tsukishima said nothing. The lump in his throat grew bigger still, and spit thickening in every part of his mouth as seconds stretched into minutes. His heart and lungs worked in an frantic rhythm, tumbling quickly into dysfunction, turning the booth confining him hotter and hotter as if descending into hell, his body set ablaze.

Someone knocked on the door, booth rattling.

"Father, I apologize for the intrusion, but you've yet to finish preparing for tonight."

Without another word, he slammed closed the privacy window and fled the church without turning back. He ignored all the calls behind him, each sound blurring into an endless cacophony choking him, cutting off all oxygen. Deep in his body, the obligations and the routine of his nights fought against the mechanical motion of his body. He knew not what carried him all the way to his living quarters, door thrown open in haphazard fashion and left ajar. His hand reached for each and every photo sat atop his mantle. Faces, far as he could see, beamed from the memories that he could not recall, could not put a name to face even if he'd see them a thousand times before. Everything beyond this moment, the urgency in his body drifted further out into a salty sea, and he outstretched his arms for any sort of lifeboat.

A crack of shattering glass interrupted his ever-hastening thoughts. On instinct and with unsteady hands, he dove into the still waters of glass and pulled photos to examine each one. He frowned. Their faces, every one, had been covered by a tempestuous red smeared across their skin. His thumb swiped against each droplet, but the color only deepened with each pass, with each desperate desire to clear away. A dull pain thrummed through his hand as he clung onto these images, tearing his attention from unsuccessfully cleaning these people's faces. The smell of acrid metal reached into his senses, pulling up the bile in his stomach until it burned, burned, burned out of his mouth.

He recognized it. Blood drew out in long rivers and landed without pattern onto the floor beneath him. The lights above shone onto the flecks littering his skin, and he pressed a fingertip into a sparkle, until the pain knocked the wind out of him. When did all this glass embed further and further in the layers of muscle in his palms? The corded flesh in his hand throbbed as he pressed a finger along the open wound.

Sharp cracks of wind blew his windows wide open and carried to him the stinging smell of dew and grass, and just beyond it a faint smell of jasmine.

"Tadashi? Father Ennoshita asked me to check in on you."

Heat engulfed his body, his face, and he pulled off his vestments to hide the evidence. "My angel! You need not to worry about me, I—"

He dragged his body to the shadows, but it was too late. Golden eyes pierced through the midnight blue of the outside and gleamed bright enough to outshine the moon. His breath hitched. Every minute stretched impossibly long, dripping like molasses in harsh winter. The sweetness trickled into his mind and with it all the sins and ideas he'd fought so hard to stuff away. Though its imagery undeniable, he lay beneath his angel and take, take, take anything he could get, but such ideas only sullied an unwilling, unknowing soul. The sound of burning bubbled up his throat, escaping from inside of his filthy soul. A minute, an hour, an entire night could passed where they held each other's gaze, but his angel lingered at the window, waiting.

"I'm fine, really. Please, don't let my troubles worry you. There's still mass to attend, I'll be there!"

"How can I take care of you from beyond the entrance? Let me in, Tadashi."

Tadashi shuddered, the voice so soft, carried by the wind directly into his ears that he wondered if his angel were really next to him and whispering such a question.

"No, please, I'm unworthy," he cried.

"Let me in at once!"

He cowered at the booming noise, crawling deeper into the darkest part of him home while he trembled. Over and over, he replayed the question and clung onto the harshness of his angel's delivery, the way he articulated every word. He imagined his lips, the shape of his tongue forming through each syllable until his body responded, remembered and hardened with each replay.

When he finally slumbered, his angel descended upon him and caressed his body in languid strokes, each touch roaming further south than the last. Tadashi focused on his breath to keep his heart from leaping out his chest. His angel's long claws drew blushing lines down his skin, blood rushing to the surface in greeting. Sacrament, his angel called it, an offer of Tadashi's sullied self to be reborn under such a holy touch in hopes that through it, he could become pure.

"You acted so recklessly, not letting me in today. Why is it you deny me?"

His existence. He promised himself, mind and soul, to God, who took away the sins of the world, but even his faith wavered and continued to do so. He held himself to the very standard of being unsullied by such humanness despite his acceptance of how all men are, burdened by sin and to be cleansed only through God's grace. Without a word, his angel kissed Tadashi's eyelashes and batted his wings in what Tadashi only understood as utter delight. When they met eyes, his amber to his angel's gold, Tadashi stared deep, the familiarity of such beauty capturing his breath until a hand splayed against his chest to remind him.

"Breathe."

Hot tears shed from his eyes. Shame bubbled up and came out as a sob until his body was wracked with trembling and with it, endless apologies for every way he could not change.

"I will unburden you, make you whole again."

He nodded, and nodded, and nodded, unable to stop himself from giving permission.

"Tell me, Tadashi, to whom you truly belong."

Had he always belonged in this angel's grasp? When did his heart expect a thousand kisses to his face, or anywhere on his body? Is this the very figure from whom he sought comfort through every moment spent in misery, to every piece of desire that tainted his flesh and made him unholy? As if reading his mind, his angel stroked his face until a sharpness wrapped around his throat. In such caring hands, he let his mind slip away without answering, his breath following just the same.

He awoke in the confines of his bed, linen pajamas stuck to every inch of his skin and sheet stained with the memory of the dream before, his body thoroughly ravaged. Heat rose to his neck. He lingered in the discomfort of the damp fabric clinging to his groin, to his chest before he peeled every layer back. The shower washed away every trace of his slumber along with all the pleasure fed into him, leaving only guilt pooling in his gut. Light filtered through the stained glass window of his bathroom, reflecting on the back splash of the sink. He refused to look in the mirror as he finished his morning routine.

A week ago, or was it a month ago? Perhaps discomfort always existed right under Yamaguchi's awareness, festering beneath his skin until, slowly, it swallowed him whole. This house that he once dreamt of inheriting from the most beloved Father in his church, living in, making it all his own, warped before he reached understanding.

The sounds worsened in recent times. He once relished in the soft chirps of the cicadas right outside his open window. They grew louder, and louder and louder, until the buzzing in his ear stole his sleep. Each step beyond the comfort of his room creaked under him, sound clashing with his senses, escalated through every step inside. And the lights. They flickered in strange patterns no matter how many times he replaced the bulbs.

Then, came the stench. Old cypress wood flooring carried a faint scent, cared for diligently over the years from knowledge he too would learn, but such upkeep proved to be more and more difficult. Truly, none of that mattered as much as the humidity that refused to leave, the air wetter than every year before it. He burned candles, pulled all of his old, consecrated rosaries and surrounded his room in order to ease his passage into sleep. When he closed his eyes, he imaged himself on a bed of roses even if for just a moment. Then something sharp, metallic would flood his senses. It drove him madder to search for the smell and know nothing in return. Not a single journal entry left from the previous priests assuaged him or provided answers. Every prayer sent to the Lord went unheard, unseen.

Such state of his abode left him restless and more unwilling to accept visitors in his home, much to the chagrin of those who frequented to his part of the grounds. He wrought wickedness, and in turn, cursed him. Still, he uttered nary a complaint even when Hitoka or Father Ennoshita asked him when he came in.

For months as his home crumbled around him, Tsukishima's growing list of questions chipped away at his brain. Had he been so blind, so oblivious to Hitoka and Kanoka's relationship? The discomfort of the thought made it easier to avoid her entirely, because what could he do beside dissuade her for living in such a way? Her loyalty to the church had been nothing short of admirable. Her diligence afforded him joy in walking through the grounds and know that each member of the congregation could beam and delight in it themselves.

But what if? Would it be right for him to allow their relationship without his intervention? Was it not his job to save himself and others by delivering such truths? How could he do such an awful thing to someone, deny their nature and call them wicked when his mind was full of nothing but sin, sin, sin. But what if—

A soft knock at the front door pulled him out of spiraling. Sounds of thunder pressed him into urgency, and he scrambled to the front door. His eyes wandered to the pile of broken glass and bloodied vestment he'd yet to burn, but knocking came again, this time more insistent.

"Father Yamaguchi!"

His worst fears arrived at his front door with doe eyes, the same one he'd seen all through childhood, all through his journey of priesthood. The two had been so brave then, but now he cowered in the corner, unable to move.

"Open the door, I beg you."

Hitoka's earnest pleas, so clear even through thick doors, stirred Tadashi, but allowing her in? To bear witness to his messes out in the open? He slammed his back to the wall, breaths coming out in jagged motions up his throat. He shook his head no, no, no, words too great to leave him, too revealing in his state. His slovenly body could not be seen by another, certainly by someone whose spent countless hours in his judgment, when his mind wasn't being invaded by his angel. When Hitoka's fists pounded in a fury, Tadashi crumpled, hands clasps to his ears to block out her desperation, her connection.

"Why are you avoiding me? The church? Is it him?"

"No! Stop, stop, stop, please — just leave!"

"Tadashi, I can't. Not while you're this way," Hitoka cried. "Not when I have to, need to tell you something so important!"

She told no lies, but he could not bear to hear her honest heart any longer, not when she carried with her a piece of herself she could not trust him to hold and rightfully so. Cowering alone at the door and refusing to let someone precious in, shame singed every fiber of his being.

"Stop! Stop, leave, please," he said, voice dying as his pleas grew.

"If, if you don't come out, I have no choice but to lay it out here, but please! Heed my warning. I," she started.

Tadashi could hear her swallowing nervously.

"You must stay away from Tsukishima, from, from everything. Please, please, do not go to his farewell celebration, I beg of you. Scorn me, place ill will on me, but I refuse to let you go willingly into something so… so vile! So nefarious!"

Even if she spoke true, Tadashi scoffed. Staying away was akin to finally starving the very part of him that ached whenever Tsukishima was not near, the part that longed for every whisper of a touch that graced his skin. To deny himself was to follow in God's footsteps. He clutched at his rosary, holding his fist to his forehead.

"The right hand of the Lord is exalted, the right—"

"Tadashi, please."

"The right hand of the Lord does valiantly! I shall not die, but I shall live—"

"Tell me then of your plans. Tell me you'll stay away!"

Tadashi ripped open the door, its hinges screaming having not been opened in a week's time. "Leave me to my prayer, Hitoka. Kanoka needs you to run on home now, right?"

Hitoka slapped him. His ears rang from the impact, the sound echoing into the forest. Pain pricked the back of his eyes, but when finally looked down at Hitoka, thick tears stained her face. His heart sank into his feet; he delivered such cruelty to someone so dear, but when he reached out to apologized, she stormed off without another word.

Tadashi stared into the threshold of his home.

An unlocked door stood between him and the outside world, but still, he remained imprisoned in his body. It felt familiar, the same white paint, the same stained glass door light that featured the same magnolia branches, with the same crucifix passed down from priest to priest. He memorized this view, saw it every time he walked out the door to prepare for his mass or even to attend to his prayer outside his house. Dull pain crept between layers of his skin, rendering him immovable, even as his eyes darted across the door frame. His heartbeat doubled in tempo. He walked the length of the living to alleviate his pain, careful to step over the bloodied glass sinking into the hardwood. He clasped his rosary tight in his hand, attempting once again to extract every bit of comfort he once received it. Regardless of its lack of ease, he pressed it to his bandaged hands, the chain pulling tighter and tighter.

He finally let go, blood rushing under the imprint of the cross. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. His shoulders slouched forward. His vestments grew heavy, so burdensome in such few steps, his collar tight against the lump in his throat.

At the hour, the grandfather clock rang to him, the way it had a thousand hours before. Service, and subsequently Tsukishima's farewell, was to start in less than hour, and he needed to attend, he must. Despite Hitoka's warnings, denying himself the last goodbye weighed heavier; a single thought of Tsukishima sent tremors through his body as if struck by lightning and drowned by an endless sea.

Tsukishima was to leave without so much as thinking of the impact it would have on him, but why should anyone? In his time, Tadashi acted ungratefully to him despite his diligence in attending each service without fail. He denied entry into his home despite having given an open invitation to come in as he pleased. Members of the congregation delighted in his presence, in his handsome face despite the growing unease, and such quiet demeanor obstructed no one, did no soul dirty. Heat stirred in Tadashi's heart, in his gut when he dared to venture down the deepest part of his memory. It was that same call from the dark which enticed him and disgusted him the same. He must go to Tsukishima. He must leave Tsukishima alone.

Tadashi ran out the door before he could stop himself another time.

His lungs burned as he stepped into the church. No congregation members crowded the outside or even hung around in the pews, not even the choir boys or Sunday school staff who made it a point to prepare for service hours in advance. In their place, he found a single person in front of the confession booth, entranced.

"Father Ennoshita, please take my confession," Tadashi said.

Wordlessly, they both took their place in the confessional booth with Tadashi on the confessor's side. His hands trembled as he slid open the connecting window, and the obscured viewing area provided just enough reassurance to know that his sins would be received. When he tried to speak, a whimper escaped him.

He unburdened himself countless times, made himself ready for sacrament, and unsoiled himself to received God's glory and forgiveness. As a child, he rid himself of all unnatural feelings that festered when all those school yard boys crossed entire fields just to push him down until his clothes stained with dirt, only for the stirring in his body to return when he reached high school and all his classmates circled him like sharks and ripped his spirit to shreds with threats and violence. Again and again, he released himself of all the pain, desire, and confusion in the very booth he occupied, made it clear to God that his feelings were nothing but abnormal urges meant to be rectified through God's hand. And rectify him, He did. Each cleansing process paved the way for such clarity of his pious future, but still he could not speak.

To untangle himself from his dreams, from his angel, from the man who deserved not to be seen in such a way meant only to continue his righteous path, but when he tried, and tried he did, his heart cracked. Tears burned the back of his eyes as they spilled down his face in thick streaks. His sobs ripped out of his body until he could do nothing but clasp his mouth. Even that could not dampen the sounds, the pain rippling through every part of his being. When he spoke, words scattered into barely comprehensible sounds repeated until he could finally, finally utter something complete.

"Father, my sins, my sins are too much to carry. My faith—it has left me completely, so utterly gone though I thought it entrenched deep inside me. My second nature that I wore looks at me as if, as if! As if I am a stranger and I no longer know how I am in these vestments. Father, Father! Please, Lord above, save me from my anguish, I beg of you. Who can save a soul like mine?"

Silence.

Again, he pushed past the rumbling in his body to speak, his voice hoarse. "My soul, Father! Cast me down, unburden me with the weight of shame, of my existence. Who am I but a wretched sinner with nowhere to belong? Who am I without the church? Without God? Without every familiar face this town had blessed me? Who?"

The voice that followed his own stole the heartbeat right out of his chest and every following breath from his lungs. His angel, sent from Heaven, uttered so softly, so sweetly, "but have you always belonged here, Tadashi?"

"I don't, cant! How can I dirty everyone with my selfishness, with my greed? I-I've committed sins far too great for my position, my very existence, sullied the image of someone so dear with my evil intentions. I devoted myself to God, yet I sleep every night and wish for—"

Bile crept up his throat, swallowed his words until he sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

The only window to his salvation slammed shut and shook the booth. He clawed at screen between himself and the deacon, the angel, his savior on the other side. He sought refuge in any form, from anyone willing to give it to someone like him, and he scratched and scratched until his fingers bled and he could no longer smell the wood polish but that same, acrid smell that turned his stomach.

The door to the booth swung wide open, ripped from its hinges to reveal him.

Those golden eyes that found him through dreams, through the crowd at every sermon, through every waking moment bore holes into his body. Red stained the same golden hair shining in the moon light, wet at the tips and down to this beautiful face and his body, covered with a ill-fitting cassock. Tadashi hid his face into the corner, unable to be seen.

"Please, my angel, avert your eyes!"

Thunderous laughter cut through every nerve, all the way to his spine, unnerving every fiber of his being as it stretched into every second.

"Angel? Your angel?"

Tadashi winced at each mocking repetition of his affection, shrinking deeper into the corner with his eyes screwed shut. Would the creature, belonging only to him, think of his fondness so awful? Waves and waves of shame plunged him deeper into his body, and he wished to drown right there and then. Sharp claws snatched him from the corner, another hand yanked his clergy collar free.

"Look at me, Tadashi."

Even as he could not move his face, held in place with Tsukishima's unrelenting grip, Tadashi's gaze wandered south, past all of Tsukishima's stained skin to the vestments wet with blood and viscera. He flinched at the sight. Evidently, he made the wrong choice, and Tsukishima punished him by dragging him into the light of the church, even as he clutched to the entrance of the confession booth with all the strength his drained body could manage. Tsukishima's lips curled into a wicked smile as Tadashi squirmed in his grasp. Every hair raised along Tadashi's skin, blood rushing out of his head to pull in the most shameful parts of his body. He jerked his head away.

In the same instant, Tadashi snapped his head back to Tsukishima's face, order ringing through his head, growing louder and louder. Tsukishima drew closer to him, such reward only ever imagined in the deepest of slumbers and under cotton covers pulled over his head, even in the middle of summer. As Tsukishima's breath fanned across his lips, faint smells of jasmine and metal breached his senses, and made his heart beat out of chest. From his peripheral, Tsukishima bit his lips, fangs peeking out. Tadashi closed his eyes and waited for the rest of his reward.

Reprieve disappeared in a blink of an eye as Tsukishima pulled away and hauled Tadashi's body to the church's altar. Vomit bubbled up his esophagus the closer they drew, and he screamed and thrashed in Tsukishima's hold.

"This is—! I am… wretched, I don't belong here," he cried, his words expelling out his body in cut-off sobs.

Tsukishima's expression remained unmoved at his weeping. His claws traced down a single line from his face, down to his thrumming pulse that hastened under Tsukishima's touch. Every sensation pulled his mind in every which direction, flying too fast to do anything but leave his cheeks wet with tears and his body trembling under such affliction. And still, Tsukishima pressed his finger deeper into Tadashi's vein.

"And yet you belong to me, and this is my will."

No words poured out of him the way he trained himself for years against such offers, obsessed over every night. All he could do was shake his head no, no, no. Surely, his angel understood the evasion of acceptance not as a betrayal but in the reality that Tadashi did nothing to earn this. Flashes of his family and his congregation grounded him into this very idea that only the church, the one he knew and lived and breathed, served as his only place of belonging.

Something deeper in him shattered, and as they met eyes, his angel recognized the true nature of his soul. Tsukishima did not speak, but drew his face closer and closer until their simultaneous exhales intertwined in the minuscule space between them, Tsukishima's cool breath betraying the suffocating outside air. The impossible half inch between their mouths still existed. His heartbeat leapt out of his chest, as if to lurch his body forward into finally, finally taking what he desired, but he could not move. He lingered just on the outskirts of his wishes, projected futures of them to send it off in another time. More tears cascaded down his cheeks. He contained his sobs until they escaped in tiny whispers. Tsukishima gathered every tear along his fingers, his eyes never leaving Tadashi's.

His world closed in until the only thing left were them, eyes refusing to break contact, never mind the sharp pain digging into his side or the sharp coldness sliding down his face. Nothing else mattered than being saved from his own wickedness.

Blood red swallowed gold irises, and the true nature of his angel unraveled above him. In a single motion, his face met the linen covering the altar, the smell of once-burned resin sticking through the weaves. Wine spilled down the white, drawing near where his rosary pressed into his face, trapped between his marred skin and the altar until it cascaded down onto the floor. All the flames burning each surrounding candles rose impossibly higher until the smell of the burning wicks invaded Tadashi's senses, his head spinning out of control.

"Don't worry, Tadashi, you'll be born anew," Tsukishima said directly into his ear.

His voice traveled down, down, down until all the heat in Tadashi's belly spread under his skin. Sweat beads broke along his hairline, and Tsukishima pressed his tongue flat against the skin and licked up every drop. Tadashi turned away, but it was no use under Tsukishima's grip. Fear and something deeper, more shameful pooled in his groin. Tears tracked down his face at the sensation, the unfamiliarity too much as the silver undoubtedly made imprints onto his face.

"Tsukishima, please, I don't…"

"Why do you run from it? Are you ashamed of me?"

Panic rushed through his mind at the mere suggestion. "No, but, I-I-I cannot accept your offer," he said, voice broken. "Would you have me, a broken soul, when God has abandoned me? He, who loves all, could not love someone as disgusting as me!"

"All this nonsense, you've always know what you wanted, and I'm merely giving it to you."

Saint or sinner, he could no longer deny it. Fat tears spilled from his eyes ceaselessly, his sobs following the same. His angel, wait no, his demon, or was Tsukishima truly just his savior? No matter if he was larger than life, he saw through Tadashi and unraveled his soul until only his truth remained, stated in the eyes of the lord he served for so long.

"Lord who art in heaven, hallowed be—!"

The weight pushing his head to the altar grew heavier until Tadashi heard the sound of crackling wood beneath him. His angel was dissatisfied with this? He searched and searched in his heart for what else to declare his love. Deep down he understood his transgressions. Tadashi took a deep breath as his head went lower still. His body burned as his lips parted.

When he could finally stand up and face Tsukishima, a hand made harsh contact with his face, leaving behind a sting. Even more embarrassing, his pants tightened. He refuses to make eye contact, but Tsukishima drew his face closer yet, the smell of blood and guts and jasmine fluttered up his senses. His stomach churned, and his head spun in every which direction, arousal and swirling through his nervous system.

"Try again."

Thump, thump, thump, Tadashi's heart beat his throat the more and more he lingered right in this space and time. The culmination of his lessons, his teachings hung like a blade above his head and threatened the very foundation of which he stood on. Could he return to the only life he knew, a guarantee of the crowd of people who all repeated the same prayers after him? He searched Tsukishima's eyes, over and over, reaching the same conclusion each time. His lips trembled, but he knew. Tsukishima did too, his long fangs bared to Tadashi; on instinct, fear swirled in his body, but something deeper inside him awoke. Perhaps, it lived as long as Tadashi had been breathing, lurking in the shadows of his mind until he was left with no choice but to obey.

Tadashi pressed a chaste kiss to Tsukishima's lips, expecting nothing in return, but Tsukishima's hands found the back of his head and tightened, extending their kiss one, two, three more seconds until it bled into minutes, the confines of time lost chasing his desires, his destiny. He could kiss Tsukishima until his last breath, and he intended to, had Tsukishima not pulled away.

Without instruction, Tadashi bared his neck, eyes fluttering close to languish in the feeling.

Fangs grazed the skin, drawing small circles that only made him harder. Sharp pain shot through every one of his nerves, head spinning and legs becoming weaker. Sharper still, was the smell of blood, his own, flooding his brain, the scent of life, of death mingling in his mind and weakening his resolve. He wanted it to be over as much as he wanted to live in this moment forever. He felt like a lit end of a candle, burning further and further down and dripping as the fire spread all throughout his body. Haziness clouded his thoughts, his piety. Everything cracked the second Tsukishima's warm tongue laved at the broken skin, breathy moans dissipating on his skin through each lick. Tadashi's hands grasped Tsukishima's hair and pulled, grip tightening as the fire took over part of him.

"Tsuki—"

"To whom are you devoted, truly?"

His guts knotted at the question, something so abhorrent before, but he could hide from himself no longer. The truth ate away whatever narrative that once held control of his his mind, his soul, until he was left with nothing.

"You! Tsukishima, Kei, Tsukki, Kei," he pleaded, pressing his erection to Tsukishima. He wanted, needed friction against him or else he might die under the heat, burning incessantly.

"Your angel's got you," Tsukishima said, something beneath the teasing that Tadashi couldn't make out.

On the altar, Tsukishima cleared a place just for Tadashi to baptized, cross high on wall and staring down at them. Tadashi's expression twisted, but Tsukishima held his face still with one hand and tore his cassock and slacks to shreds with an inhuman ease. Fear and arousal licked at his spine as the humid air hit his sweating skin, evidence of his most vulnerably state, witnessed by the eyes of the Lord. All of his inexperience, all of his repressed thought knocked into his brain with full force, body shaking with all the unknown pleasures held at Tsukishima's disposal. He wanted to be ready, he did, but more than anything he wanted to be enough. They shared another kiss, softer this time, that wiped his mind clean of such thoughts. Tsukishima dug his fingers into his thighs, sharp nails to tender skin. Being touched like this for the first time made Tadashi's head spin, the sensation being too much and not enough all at once, all of it a cocktail of confusion poured on him.

Softer still, Tsukishima trailed kisses down his chest, sharp teeth grazing to leave thin trails of blood, enough to Tsukishima to lick it all it up all at once. Tadashi trembled at cold tongue pressing against his skin, unable to separate his mind from the overwhelm. Tsukishima traveled further and further south and stopped just inches above his blood-fat cock, his fangs shone in the climbing light of the moon, and a moan escaped Tadashi, unabashed at the sight. Angel, devil, something far beyond Tadashi's comprehension, he knew that Tsukishima stood alone at the pinnacle of his desire, such truth stealing any future he once planned. Perhaps he was merely a thief, but Tadashi would allow his heart to be kidnapped a thousand times over.

His moans drew out between sharp breaths, loud enough to travel through the church as Tsukishima pressed a hard cock onto his. He could cum like this with little more than weight and whispers of friction, knowing that Tsukishima arousal roared as his did with his blood pumping through Kei's cock. At the very idea he could feel more of Kei, Tadashi's body trembled.

"What does my precious devotee need from me?"

Blush colored his cheeks, undoubtedly blood red as answered rushed to the forefront of his mind. Tsukishima smirked down at him, saying nothing.

"How much can I take from you?" His inexperience embarrassed him, but he could learn at the altar of his devotion, all the ways he could make his angel, his Kei, reach higher heights.

Kei hummed, brushing his lis lips against the column of Tadashi's throat, and Tadashi waited, baring more skin as an offering.

"Everything. You'll take everything and do so happily, Tadashi."

Once again, the side of his face met the linen, eyes fixed to the open bible at the end of the long table. Not that it mattered, not when Kei stood above him and dragged the sharp nails into his back, the sting of fresh wounds sending electric shocks through his nerves. The sticky air clung to him, its presence only making him more and more away of how blood pooled at his exposed flesh.

"Beautiful, without flaw," Tsukishima whispered into his gashes.

He hoped he looked as beautiful for his Kei, who lavished and lapped up every bit of blood emerging from his cuts, even hotter cock right up against the curve of his ass. Tadashi's hands clutched at the linen as he gasped once, twice, his cock getting harder still. The smell of jasmine and blood choked his mind and mixed with nauseating delight running through his veins.

He hadn't noticed Tsukishima pulling away or all the weight suddenly off of him until warm consecration oil poured down his lower back, dripping down to his hole. His toes curled at the strange sensation. So much of his body felt pliable, soft enough that Through Tsukishima's gentle guiding, Tadashi's fingers brushed his own entrance. His heart beat up his throat as he pressed inside on Kei's volition, pushing further and further and further. Memories of a buried past surged out from the depths of his mind, of lonely nights where he fingered himself open behind several locked doors and prayed the God the next morning to wash him clean, promising himself that it would be the last time, every time. Inexperience be damned, he wanted so thoroughly to feel Kei in his depths, reaching a part of him he barred entry from so long as he would live. He worked one finger in, then another, until he bounced back on his hand, just barely passing that special spot that left him shaking.

Nothing prepared him for the stark emptiness as Kei pulled his fingers out for him. Instead, Tsukishima stole his breath and inched his thick cock into Tadashi's greedy entrance. His tongue swiped the beading sweat on his upper lips, the saltiness a welcome distraction to Kei's insistence, so insistent to fill Tadashi, who trembled ceaselessly against the altar. Is this what Heaven was meant to be? An unrelenting swelter of a heavy body against his, the thrusting of an cock inside him lighting his nerves up like a bomb fuse, so close to detonation, his viscera would end up on each wall. Had he gone so long in the devotion to a false god that he could not, would not look to the truth path of his devotion? Affection exploded through every part of him as Tsukishima's cock twitched inside him, mind fizzled into nothing more than litanies to his newest, most loving deity.

"Gracious and loving Kei, thank you, thank you, thank you," he chanted, prayers broken by erupting moans. "Be gracious to me and teach me your love. I have chosen the way of faithfulness; I have set my heart on you, you, you!" Tadashi focused Kei's panting, silent tuts of laughter.

To be so close, to be one with the very being he wished to worship, pushed him just a hair's breath away from climax.

"Liturgy of the hour, already?"

The first thrust in stole his breath; the second, his soul.

"Kei, Kei, my angel, in whatever I endure in this life, Kei, let my heart always rejoice in your love for me!"

What once was serenity twisted into radiating pain down his back, his moans turning into whimpers, even as arousal still came in explosive waves. Tsukishima's nails, sharp as knives, embedded into the flesh of his waist; that acrid smell of his own blood attacked his senses again, dizziness overtaking him. How could it feel wrong with each pass of Kei's cock deep inside him, pre-cum making the each slide easier than the last? Kei stole his breath with his unrelenting grip and pace, and Tadashi would have it no other way, even as pain turned into pleasure turned into pain. He hurdled toward climax, to a great big death in a single path, without resistance.

"Tadashi, can I—"

"Yes! Yes, yes, whatever you want, yes, take it from me."

With a single allowance of permission, pain shot from his neck, dulling in an instant. He stood no chance when finally, finally Kei sunk his fangs into his neck. What was this? His eyes fluttered as his body shook, his remaining life force flowing from his body into Tsukishima's mouth. His breathing labored the closer and closer to the death he became. What he assumed would be a painful death drowned at the force of pleasure lighting up every nerve until it crested, uncontrollable moans pouring from his mouth as soon as he tumbled into a body-shaking orgasm. To die here, he thinks, would be enough of his life.

"Drink from me."

Cold skin smelling of Kei met his lips. A rush of metal flooded his mouth, and louder still, was the crescendo of drums, drawing nearer and nearer until his body rushed at its sound. A instinctual voice guided him with strength unknown to him, to drink, drink, drink from this offering.

He obeyed.

Warmth filled his body with each swallow of Tsukishima's blood, yet each gulp satiated not the boundless hunger so unknown to him, that its very presence struck fear all over his body. He wanted to cower at its existence, understand where he should release Tsukishima and run. His body moved outside of his understanding and his control the more and more he drank. A tremor rocked down his spine all the way to his cock, another climax into the next as the taste of metal transformed into something so, so sweet, saccharine enough to bring a dull ache to his teeth and a rush to his head. As his orgasm and hunger came to head, his body collapsed against the table, world going black as the sound of voices and footsteps faded.

Tadashi pulled the hood closer over his eyes, hissing at the still-dying light of sunset. Kei shielded his eyes and brought him deeper into the shadows.

"Careful," Kei said.

Tadashi huffed at the chiding, but nonetheless pressed his face into the soft fabric of Kei's silk shirt. Every sensation, every feeling since that night increased tenfold, and his angel would allow nothing short of pleasure to be in his vicinity. This, he thought, deserved his utter devotion. Kei pressed kisses into his hairline and motioned to look out from the alley.

"It's your turn to pick tonight."

His tongue curled over his fangs, gaze scanning the crowd of people. The town's funeral procession for him took a month of planning, but it came together nicely. Townsfolk paraded down the town's main street, a sea of somber faces and quiet sobbing. At the end of the crown, Hitoka and Kanoka clung to each other, tears heavy and hands intertwined in comfort, in secrecy. Tadashi's heart hurt, and his fingers reached out into the cold air.

"Can I tell her?"

"One day, perhaps."

Tadashi nodded. He could accept a future where neither of them hid in the shadows, in the outskirts of a town whose ignorance swallowed every person. For now, he pointed to a faceless figure, smiling brightly at Kei.