Chapter Text
The alarm sounds. Simon’s already awake. He swipes at the phone resting atop his nightstand, silencing it, and returns his gaze to the ceiling. The sun’s just beginning to rise and leak into his bedroom, and it splashes light against his empty walls.
Birdsong, muffled behind his old window panes, filters in - light and pretty. He listens to their little melody. It’s the only sign of life in his drab little home. He drags a hand over his chest, fingers brushing the cotton fabric of his shirt as he searches out a heartbeat. It’s an odd habit of his, checking himself for a pulse.
He knows he’s alive. He knows he’s breathing, pulse still beating. But at 43 years old, Simon Riley has yet to live .
He gets out of bed. It’s Sunday.
Father Simon Riley is the resident priest for the local church. A small town in Manchester, the dodgy end, with an equally small parish. There are no outsiders here. He knows the faces that begin trickling inside around 8:50 in the morning.
He knows each one of them by name. He knows their children, he knows their children’s children, their occupation, their drink of choice, and their holiday traditions. He knows their sins. He knows what tempts them and haunts them at night.
About fifty of them crowd inside, sitting pretty in the pews wearing their dress shirts and summer dresses. Mothers fan their young children, kissing at their rosy cheeks, reminding them to sit still and behave as they sweat and fidget about, looking for some relief from the insufferable heat. Another reminder that Simon’s yet to have the air conditioning fixed. Another thing to add to his to do list.
He greets the latecomers at the door, shaking hands, warm squeezes to their shoulders. “Peace of Christ be yous,” and “good morning, happy sundays,” falling from his lips. All are welcomed here, each and every one of God’s beautiful children. Late or early. Neat or unclean. It doesn’t matter to him. They came, and that’s all that matters.
The short hand on his watch strikes nine, and he makes his way to the pulpit. He wipes the lingering holy water on his fingers off on his suit jacket and fixes the collar around his neck. He’s already drenched in an impressive layer of sweat. This damned heat is going to be the death of him.
“May the Lord be in my mind, on my lips, and in my heart.” And he presses his fingers to his brow, his mouth, and over his chest before he flips through the worn pages of his bible.
Revelation is the chapter for today, and he listens to the hisses and moans that sound from his congregation as he says as much. A difficult chapter to stomach, certainly. But there’s something in the air this June. Something besides the humidity and the heat. Something that’s been keeping Simon up at night, unable to sleep or eat. Something’s eating him from the inside, has been for a while now. An empty space, a hole in his existence.
He’s missing something. And what better way is there to fill the empty pit in his chest than with the word of God. That’s all he needs - nothing more. He begins the sermon.
After ten years of priesthood, he still hasn’t worked out all the kinks in his performance up on the pulpit. Sometimes he goes too long without looking out at his congregation. Sometimes he stares at one person for too long and watches them writhe in their seat a little, feeling uncomfortable under his intense gaze. And he still smiles a little when he catches children falling asleep, and he frowns when someone’s phone rings.
So he’s still working on his professionalism, he admits it. He’s in the middle of a sentence when the doors quietly open and someone slips inside, taking a seat in the back. He pays it no mind. But when his eyes are caught by a pair of blue ones, he finds that the words have seemingly disappeared from his mouth.
He locks eyes with the latecomer. In his peripherals, he can see a few heads look up from their Bibles at the pause, waiting for him to continue, wondering what’s got him so distracted. Someone coughs, and he’s thrown back into the present.
“Excuse me.” And he’s back to reading off the same verse. He adjusts the collar around his neck. And his eyes keep searching that back row, seeking out those blue eyes.
Not a newcomer. He’s seen him before. He’s been here before. And it’s driving him a little mad that he’s too far away for Simon to remember just who he is.
The hour he’s allotted for Sunday Mass ends rather quickly. He won’t keep them much longer. He knows them, knows they need to do their shopping, do their cooking, and get their children ready for school tomorrow. He asks them to bow their heads and pray with him before he releases them.
As his parish quietly prays, he looks over them. He scans the tops of their heads, and he chances a look at that last row - casually. They should have their heads bowed in prayer, and yet, the two of them have managed to lock eyes once more. Simon doesn’t look away this time. He searches the boy’s face. Shaggy, dark hair falls over his features, obstructing most of him. But there’s a scar on that face that’s hard to forget. And those blue eyes… Well, Simon’s never seen a pair quite like them.
John MacTavish. Little Johnny MacTavish. That little troublemaker, that wild boy with a penchant for getting up to no good. Often covered in bandages and bruises, a personification of his attraction to danger. His recklessness. His neglect. All grown up now.
Simon finds himself smiling a little as he wraps up his prayer with an “Amen.”
He steps down from the pulpit and goes to them, shaking their hands and grasping their shoulders once more. This is what they come for. They ask him for private meetings, for confessionals and phone calls. They remind him that he’s yet to respond to their voice messages and emails, and that their mothers and fathers are in the hospital, or that they’ve got surgeries and birthdays soon. Baptisms and blessings. He’s been asked to ordain a wedding once. And even an exorcism.
Simon holds their hands and assures them, “’ll be right on it. I haven’t forgotten you.” And they smile relieved and call, “Have a nice day, Father,” over their shoulders as they leave. It’s tiresome work. But it’s good, honest work. He’s making a difference. He’s helping people.
And yet he’s still losing sleep at night and losing weight now too. His suit’s begun to hang off his frame. Food hasn’t tasted the same as of late. His bed is too big - his walls so glaringly empty.
A few families are still lingering outside the doorway, catching up, exchanging hugs and kisses. Simon starts to clean up.
He’s stripped himself of his jacket, too fed up with the heat to suffer and sweat in it any longer. There’s no one around to gaze upon the scars carved and the ink scrawled into the skin of his forearms, so he rolls up his sleeves and sets about collecting the trash and cups from their communion. Someone clears their throat behind him, and Simon turns to find John MacTavish standing beside him - smiling like the sun.
“Johnny.” He regrets it the moment the nickname leaves his lips. The boy probably doesn’t wish to be called that. Much too old for it now. “Erm, John.” He corrects, and he holds a hand out to shake.
The smile playing on Johnny's mouth grows a little wider, amused at the slip. “Johnny’s awright, Father.” He takes Simon’s outstretched hand, and their palms fit together, warm and slick with sweat. A firm grasp.
Johnny’s hand is rough and calloused, and Simon wonders from what. His hands have aged, but his face remains the same. The same pattern of scars, less defined and more faded with time. And his bright blue eyes are the same as he remembers. The exact same, and Simon feels an indescribable relief at the sight. He’s grown his hair out, and those dark locks fall over his eyes and curl behind his ears in long waves, a little mussed and messy with the humidity. Simon reckons he must be about nineteen now.
“And how have you been, lad?” He looks well. Healthy and taken care of.
“I’m well, Father.” He answers. “I’ve just graduated from school, actually. A technical school.” His smile turns a little shy as he says it, like it’s not the accomplishment he says it is. Always one to downplay his achievements.
“That’s brilliant, Johnny.” And Simon doesn't have to put on his enthusiasm. He’s truly glad to hear it. “Excellent. Did you have a ceremony?”
“Aye, a small one. I didn’t have anyone to invite though.”
“Well, you could’ve invited me. I would’ve gone, you know that.” He knows that.
“Aye. Didn’t want to bother ye.” And there’s that timid smile again.
“Nonsense, mate. You’ve never bothered me.” And there Simon goes, losing professionalism again. But he’s never felt obligated to be professional with Johnny. The whole priest title never connected with the boy. Never got through to him.
Simon’s known him since he was only nine years old - ten years to be exact, when Simon first moved to the little town and took his position as their priest on the behalf of an old friend and mentor.
He remembers the first time he saw Johnny, standing knee high, hiding behind his father as the man begged Simon to talk some sense into the lad and set him right. It wasn’t uncommon for parents to come to him about their children, but Johnny’s case was special.
Where those other children were certainly misbehaved and in need of correction, Johnny was just a boy with an immense sadness hanging over him like a looming storm cloud, ready to burst and flood over at any moment. A boy who lost his mother at a young age and was never given the chance to properly grieve the weight of that loss. A father who was entirely too hard on him when he should’ve been loving and understanding. A kid the world had seemingly forgotten about. Another boy from a broken home who would soon disappear.
A mirror image of himself.
Maybe that was where he first went wrong with John MacTavish. Simon simply saw too much of himself in the boy. So when he was asked on his father’s behalf to steer him right, he didn’t approach the situation as Father Simon, the pious priest, like he should’ve.
“Hello there. And what’s your name, mate?”
“John.” The boy's bottom lip quivers slightly.
He already thinks he’s in trouble, but Simon has no intention of punishing the kid. He can see it in his little face. All he needs is a friend.
“Nice to meet ya, John. I’m Simon.” He seemingly forgets the “Father” that should go before his name. Simon holds his hand out for the boy to shake. He’s hesitant. Scared. Simon gives his hand a wiggle, gives his best, friendly smile. “It’s alright, lad.”
Johnny takes his forefinger in his little palm and gives it a shake. Simon bites his tongue as he ponders to himself just what the hell his father has done to this poor boy to make him so afraid of kindness.
“You like football, John?” The tattered jersey on his small frame was his first clue. But those blue eyes perk up, and a small smile spreads on the boy’s face.
“Aye.” He whispers.
“My favorite player’s Denis Law, who's yours?” Simon reads the name off the jersey. And the boy smiles a real smile now. Bright and happy like he should be.
“He’s my favorite too!” He exclaims.
“No kiddin’.” He feigns surprise. And this is the most lively the poor lad has looked since his father dragged him into Simon’s office an hour ago.
Simon had listened to the man rave about his bad behavior, his poor grades, his lack of interest in other kids. And he watched Johnny hide behind him before isolating himself in the corner when it got to be too much. His little crestfallen face. So young and already so sad. Blue eyes so dull and empty.
It was inevitable, really, that he got attached to him before he ever spoke to him. And he took the boy under his wing. Made him his responsibility. No one asked him to do this, to drive him to school when it rained, to go to his footie games, take him out for ice cream when he did well on his exams, or give him his number to call whenever he needed it. No one asked him to be his friend, his councilor, his teacher, his father. And yet Simon took one look at the kid and decided it himself in just five minutes. He wasn’t going to let the boy disappear.
And as he stands before him, all grown up, Simon’s quite literally bursting with pride. He knows he’s not his father. He’s nothing more to the lad than an old friend. A kind old man. But look at him. He looks well. He looks happy. And the sight of him finally happy and enjoying life the way a young man should, the way Simon never got to… It makes something hopeful and joyous bloom in Simon’s heart.
Well done, Johnny. Good on you.
“Simon?”
He’s pulled back to the present moment after letting himself get so distracted about the past.
“Yeah?”
“I asked what you've been up to. How are ye?”
“I’m good. I’m well. I’m- everything’s the same. Nothin’ to write home about. Nothin’ new.”
“Aye.” There’s a playful look on his young face. “Do ye still wake up at six and drink yer tea with four sugars and milk?”
Simon rolls his eyes. It’s been a while since anyone’s given him grief about his stringent routines. It’s been a while since anyone’s joked around with him. Two years exactly. “I do. And there’s nothing wrong with routine.” He defends.
“Still the same Simon. So neat an’ composed.”
“And you’re still the same annoying little git.”
Johnny smiles at that, proud to hold the title as the single pain in Simon Riley’s side. Twat.
“I’m here for good, ye know.”
“That so?” Johnny nods his head. Something warm spreads in Simon's chest at the realization that he’s back. Back for good, here to stay. He came back. Simon reckons he actually missed the kid. Missed his obnoxious attitude, and his bothersome little smirk. “You gonna keep comin’ to Mass?”
“I s’ppose.” He answers, not fully committing to anything.
Simon hopes he does though. It’d be a nice change, a new face in the crowd to look at. Something to look forward to. “Well,” he starts, “let’s try to come on time next Sunday. Yeah?”
“Aye, Father.” Johnny's already backing away. Leaving just as soon as he returned. “See ye 'round, Simon.” He mock salutes and turns on his heel to leave. Leaving Simon standing there, a little uncoordinated and turned around in his absence. Like a hurricane.
That night, Simon lies awake in his bed. There’s a spot on the ceiling, a bit of water damage, that he's been trying to commit to memory for two years now. An owl coos outside his open window. It’s long past midnight. And in his sleep deprived state, Simon thinks he sees Johnny’s face in the stain on the ceiling. He hears his voice in the wind as a breeze brushes in through the open window and settles against his skin, making the hairs on his arms stand on end as a chill runs through his spine.
Simon dreams about those blue eyes every night that week. They’re his first thought when he wakes in the morning.
—
Johnny comes back next Sunday. Early too, before anyone else from Simon’s tiny parish. He struts in, dressed nicer than before. A white dress shirt and slacks. Clean shoes instead of dirty trainers. He’s combed and parted his hair, and he plays with it, dragging hand through it as Simon catches him lingering at the open doors at 8:00 in the morning.
“Johnny.”
He startles at little when Simon calls his name. A smile spreads on his mouth anyway, and he walks, meeting Simon halfway in the middle of the aisle.
“I told you to come on time. Not before breakfast.” He jokes.
“Didnae wanna be late again.” John compulsively drags a hand through his hair. “Mornin’.” He rasps.
Simon can see it on his face that the kid’s still waking up. His eyes crease at the sight of him, sleep furled in drowsy. Boyishly cute, really. Hmm…
“Mornin’.” He settles a hand on his shoulder. Squeezes once. And Johnny’s blue eyes follow the movement, never looking away from Simon’s hand. “Try to wake up.” He pulls away, and goes back to sweeping, leaving Johnny standing there, face slightly flushed.
The heat is unforgiving this summer.
The light catches on the dust floating in the air as Simon sweeps up. The church is small, and he doesn’t make enough money to hire any help. So he strips his jacket off, rolls up his sleeves, and does most of the work himself.
He’d be concerned about people seeing the scars, the evidence of wars fought on his skin. And his congregation might just riot if they knew about the black sleeve on his left arm. He knows his parish well, but they don’t know all that much about him - his past, violent and bloody. But it’s only Johnny. It’s nothing the kid hasn’t seen before.
Without the tools or the money to fix the AC, Simon drags the ladder out of the storage closet and climbs up to oil and clean the ceiling fans. It’ll have to do.
He disturbs more dust, and he gets it in his hair and on his face. A slight irritation compared to the sweat slicked down his back and dripping from his temples. He has half a mind to go home and shower before he starts this morning. But then he’d have to leave Johnny here alone.
Simon looks at him now. He was dozing off in the first pew last Simon glanced at him, but they lock eyes now. Johnny’s blue eyed gaze is fixed on his waist where his shirt has become untucked as he stretched to reach the ceiling fan. A stripe of skin revealed, and Johnny is gazing upon it freely. Simon might describe the look in those blue eyes as hungry before the boy realizes he’d been caught.
Simon turns away. He ignores what he saw, ignores the heat in that gaze as he feels those blue eyes raking up his back where his sweat soaked shirt clings to him. He ignores the way he can feel his pulse pick up at the feeling, beating wildly behind his chest.
He climbs down. And when he’s in the storage room returning the ladder, he puts his hand over his heart like he so frequently does. And he feels something foreign and new. A strong pulse, a wild heart. Signs of life.
Simon’s distracted today.
Not noticeably, but he feels it in the back of his mind, the way his thoughts keep drifting as he stands at the pulpit and recites the Bible from memory. He looks out at his congregation as he speaks over them. His eyes track each of their faces, speaking directly to them. I see you. I see your pain. This blessing is for you. These words are for you. His eyes inevitably fall on John MacTavish.
It’s not that Simon had been avoiding looking at him. Hard not to, what with him sitting right in front of him, blue eyes never leaving his face, listening so dutifully, fully raptured by Simon’s sermon. It’s intense - too intense. And Simon finds himself faltering each time their eyes meet.
Thoughts wandering, eyes falling from Johnny’s blue ones to the sheen of sweat in the dip of his collarbone, exposed in the open top button of his dress shirt. And they’re all hot, but this close, Simon can see how he’s sweat right through the material. Transparent on his skin, sticking right to him. Showing off every piece of skin. His nipples, his navel. The faint outline of the muscles under his flushed skin. And he’s proper flushed in this sweltering heat. Cheeks a tender shade of red.
Simon’s mind wanders some more, and he can’t help but think it’s a pretty color on Johnny, that pink blush. Perfectly suited to the ocean blue of his eyes that are boring into him like he can hear the grievous thoughts he’s having.
Simon adjusts his collar. He’s so uncomfortably hot. The suit jacket gets folded up and left on the podium again as he pulls his shirt from sticking to his skin and lets some air pass through, cooling the sweat he can feel dripping down his chest. He pauses to take a sip of water before continuing.
“Christ…” He mutters under his breath. A quiet prayer for relief.
He stands at the doors and gives his goodbyes to his parish as they filter out. Johnny’s standing nearby, under the shade of a tall tree. Back against the bark, feet crossed at the ankles. Waiting for him. Simon finds himself rushing his goodbyes, hurrying his members along.
A few of the kids pester him about taking them out for ice cream and to play football sometime soon. He promises he’ll make time for them as long they behave and keep getting good marks, and he gives them the fist bumps and high fives they’ve grown accustomed to. He doesn’t mind that they take up his time, wild little things.
Simon treads over to him. Long strides, relaxed and easy like he isn’t in a rush to meet him. He steps under the shade of the oak tree with him. Johnny looks up to meet his eyes, has to with their height difference. He’s a head shorter, and so much smaller. Frail thing. Simon wonders if he has enough funds to feed himself properly.
“Lovely sermon, Simon.” He beams up at him, his smile brighter than the sun pelting against Simon’s back.
“Thank you.”
“Ye should really get the air conditioning fixed though, mate. It’s pure torture in there.”
“Sorry. Haven’t found anyone who can do it for cheap.” Simon rubs at the back of his neck.
“I could do it.” Johnny offers.
“Nah-”
“I could.” He cuts him off. “I’m trained in this stuff. Let me take a look at it for ye.”
“I haven’t got money to pay you, kid.” Simon admits, and he wipes at the back of his neck and adjusts his collar again. They’re standing close, and Simon gets a whiff of his sweat and cologne every time the wind blows. He’s starting to feel faint. Intoxicated.
“Don’t worry about the money. Just let me take a look at it.” There’s something swimming in the oceans of Johnny’s blue eyes that he just can’t seem to say no to. Can’t seem to resist.
“Alright. When are you free next?” Simon relents.
Johnny brushes hair out his face as he pulls his phone out to check his calendar. It’s damp and heavy with the weight of his sweat. It falls right back over his eyes, sticking to his face. He drags a hand through it again. And again. Simon watches him. And his fingers twitch at his sides.
“Next Sunday. I’ll come early again and take a look at it for ye.” His blue eyes widen when Simon’s resolve snaps, and his hand creeps towards his face, tangling in the mess of dark locks on his pretty little head, smoothing the strands back and tucking them neatly behind his ear.
Johnny stands there, frozen, mouth hanging open slightly at what he’s just done. Simon doesn’t even realize he’s done it until his fingers are still playing with the dark locks, curling around his finger tip before releasing them. He pulls his hand away like he’s been burned. And Johnny continues to look at him, wide-eyed and a little mortified. Pretty pink blush spreading down to his chest.
Simon clears his throat. He folds his arms behind his back to avert the urge to reach out and tangle his hand back in that pretty mess of hair.
“So… Next Sunday, Father?”
“Erm- what? Sorry?” Christ, the heat must be getting to him.
“Next Sunday. I’ll come early again and look at the AC for you.” Johnny repeats.
“Yeah. Yes. Next Sunday is… good.”
“Awright.” Johnny nods, bouncing on his feet a little. “Well, I’ve sort of got a job interview to go to. So, I’ll see ye around.”
Simon catches his arm before he can leave. His hand closes around his small wrist, and he doesn’t even know what he stopped him for. Besides the absurd fact that he simply doesn’t want him to leave.
“Erm…” He lets Johnny go and goes rifling through his pockets instead. “Here, Johnny. Take this.” He pulls 20 pound from his wallet and holds it out for him.
“Ye don’t have to pay me, Simon. Really.”
“You’re an unemployed graduate. You need money.” Simon shakes his wrist, pleading with the boy to just take it. “C’mon.”
“Simon, I can’t take yer money. Yer nearly as broke as I am.”
“Just take the bloody money, mate.” He curses. And then he sheepishly looks around to make sure no one from his parish heard it.
“Awright, awright. Don’t get yer knickers in twist, Father. I’ll take yer damned money.” Johnny smiles.
Their fingers brush in the exchange. Simon doesn’t comment on his profanity. He’s still trying to forget his own.
“I’ll be goin’ then.” Johny starts to leave.
“Good luck on your interview.” Simon waves and watches him leave.
They’re all gone now. And Simon’s left alone, standing out under the shade of the oak tree, digging his heels into the dirt. His fingers are wet. With Johnny’s sweat he realizes belatedly. And he gets the indescribable urge lick it off his finger tips. The thought is so shocking. So unbelievably appalling, and it offends something deep inside himself.
He must be dehydrated. Heat sick. His licks over his cracked lips. His mouth is watering.
It’s just the heat. It’s just the heat…
He crosses his thumb over his forefinger, making the sign of the cross with his fingers. He brings his hand to his mouth and kisses the cross he makes, and he feels the perspiration transfer to his waiting mouth. When he licks over his thirsty lips, he gets the salty taste of Johnny on his tongue.
“God, help me.” And he sucks his fingers into his mouth fully, only just stopping himself from moaning around his mouthful as his brows draw up in pleasure. He laps at the taste of the boy on his fingers. When there’s nothing left of him, Simon wipes his hand on his trousers and goes back inside.
It’s just the heat…
—
Simon dreams of him again that night. It’s not an innocent little dream, though. Not like before. They’re at the beach. Southport Beach where Simon used to take him and the other kids in the summers.
Only for a day. They’d arrive in the early afternoon. Simon would tell them to keep to the shores. “Don’t go too far out,” he’d holler, and he’d inevitably have to go in and retrieve a few of them when the big waves rolled in.
Their parents appreciated it. Just one day in the summer they could have to themselves. The church chipped in and helped pay for petrol and food, and the kids loved it of course.
Simon would stand in the sand supervising. Johnny always stayed near him. Too scared of the water. He preferred to bury Simon in the sand and collect seashells instead. He’d give the best looking ones to Simon, an apology for his attempts to bury him alive, and pass out the others to his friends.
The kids tired themselves out well before dinner time and slept soundly in the back of the SUV on the ride home, content bellies full of ice cream and crisps, swiftly lulled to sleep. Johnny always sat up front with him, playing with the radio, teasing Simon’s singing before inevitably joining in in a horrendous duet to Craig David’s greatest hits.
He dreams about the beach now. Only there aren’t any children. It’s just him and Johnny, and he’s all grown up. A foot taller, but that same shine to his blue eyes. They’re alone on the shore, watching the tide roll in and lazily draw back. A parasol hides the blinding light of the sun. The wind blows Johnny’s hair in his face, and he smiles when Simon tucks it behind his ear.
Simon tries to pull away, apologize for the unprovoked touch and keep his hands to himself. Johnny catches his wrist, hand not quite big enough to connect around Simon’s arm. He cups Simon's palm over his flushed cheek, and Simon’s hand nearly covers his face entirely. Simon watches as he presses a kiss to his open palm. Over and over. He watches Johnny part his lips and suck his thumb into his warm mouth, tongue lapping at his finger the way the waves lap at the shore, sucking and tasting - teasing at the sensitive pad of his finger.
He should tell Johnny to stop.
He should push him away.
This is sin. Unabashed, inglorious sin.
Simon gets an arm around his thin waist and pulls him into his lap. He fits perfectly, seemingly made to fill the empty space there. Made for him. Johnny kisses him. He seals their mouths together in the perfect slide of lips on lips, and Simon moans into it. Like a teenage boy, kissed for the first time. And it feels like something holy, something perfectly fucking God like, the taste of Johnny’s mouth.
Johnny grinds his hips in a circle on Simon’s open lap, rubbing their cocks together. It feels so good. It feels too damn good, and Simon bites right through Johnny’s lip.
“M’sorry. Sorry, Johnny.” He breathes against his mouth.
Johnny only smiles, and he pecks at Simon’s face, leaving trails of his blood staining his cheek, under his eyes, the bridge of his nose. “That’s awright, Simon.” He kisses him again. Simon tastes his blood on his tongue. “That’s awright.” He takes his mouth again, swapping the blood from his split lip between their mouths.
Simon chases the iron flavor of him, letting their teeth click together as he dives in with his tongue.
It’s too good.
It’s too fucking good.
“Johnny.” Simon wakes with Johnny’s name on his lips. The salty taste of him on his tongue. He’s hard and leaking in his briefs. Harder than he’s ever been in his life. Aching for it.
But he can’t do this. He can’t touch himself thinking about the kid like this. That’s not right. That’s not what a God fearing man is supposed to do. Christ, he can’t be thinking about him like this. That dream… God, what’s wrong with him?
“Mmmn.” He whines. His hips buck up into nothing, begging for friction. He sucks in air through his open mouth, fists balling up in the sheets.
He can’t do this. He can’t do this.
“Oh, God.” He begs. “Please.” Please help me. Please make it go away. Please stop me. Please.
He’s still got the image of Johnny’s lips wrapped around his thumb. Sucking.
“I-I can’t. I can’t-” I can’t resist. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t stop it…
He moans obscenely at the first touch of his palm against his hard length, underwear tacky as a wet spot grows along the fabric.
“Mmh…mmh-” His hand slips under his briefs seemingly of its own accord, mind and body at a total disconnect as he prays to God to stop him but whimpers when he finally gets a hand around himself. “Haughh…fu- mmh.”
God, it’s too good. Why is it so good…
And Simon replays the images of that dream behind his eyes, picturing Johnny’s face, swallowed up by his much bigger hand, pretty mouth sealed around his fingers, curling his tongue around the digits, fucking Simon’s hand with his mouth.
“Ahh- ah…mmmn-” He has to bite down on his lip to keep from saying Johnny’s name as he strips his cock, fist flying over his length. Caution to the wind, Simon loses himself in pleasure, mindless, unadulterated pleasure. Like God isn’t watching. And the fact that Simon doesn’t say the boy's name does nothing to ease the weight of the sin he’s committing. But that’s easy to forget when Simon thinks he can still taste him on his mouth, feel his lips, his tongue, colliding with his own, making new memories on the sacred shores of that beach. Tasting new skin.
“Fuck!” And he just can’t hold it back anymore. He’s been at the forefront of his mind for days, weeks. All the empty years…The hole in his existence. The absent meaning from his life. The sunshine that fills the spaces in Simon’s heart that God simply can’t touch.
Johnny Johnny Johnny
And he bites down on his fist and chews right through the skin to avoid saying Johnny’s name as he comes, unbridled and violent, waves crashing. The gaps in his existence, fusing back together, sewn shut with the desertion of God and the acceptance of sin.
He lays in bed, heaving for air, struggling to draw a single completed breath. The air that fills his lungs feels heavier in his chest, tastes different. The room feels different. The wind blowing in through his open window is different .
The absence of God. The presence of the devil and the lingering sensation of glorious sin, all evident in the four walls of his bedroom, hanging in the air like the musk of sex and the echoes of broken moans and desperate, war-torn cries.
The sweat cooling on his skin turns cold. The blood in Simon’s veins turns cold. And he scrambles out of bed naked except for his soiled underwear, the evidence of his sin still drying between his legs.
He runs out of the room, runs through his house and out the front door, bare feet meeting the scratchy blades of hot summer grass as he sprints across his lawn and a hundred paces more to the church doors. His frantic footsteps echo along the church walls as the doors slowly creak shut. The moon animates his shadow, and it dances along the walls, devilish in form, exaggerated and unwieldy - the image of sin.
Simon falls at the altar, throwing himself to his knees before the Cross of Jesus that hangs on the wall. He’s out of breath, and his mind races, flickering between thoughts of blue eyes and hellish fire, licking up his much larger hands and licking up his legs as the blaze grows and catches along his skin. And he cries, broken sobs. Desperate, ugly sobs from a sinful, fractured man living a hellish existence.
He loves God, and he loves John MacTavish.
“M’ sorry… M’ sorry… I’m so sorry… Please, God-” And he doesn’t even know what he’s praying for anymore, relief from the sin that’s got its hooks in him like an albotross around his neck… or to be allowed to have the boy he loves.
The last thought is enough to have him heaving for air again until he makes himself sick and vomits onto the cool floor, heaving over and over when his stomach empties itself and the only thing he has left to give is the burn of bile like acid in his throat. He kneels in a puddle of his own ruin, his own undoing, his mortal sin.
Simon wipes at his mouth, and he stares weary eyed at the Cross hanging from the wall. Jesus’s open mouth, the agony written on his face as he’s skewered and strung up. There lies his answer, his penance, God’s will. He rises on unsteady feet, bruises already forming on his knees as he takes careful steps to his office. There’s a discipline in his desk drawer buried beneath old files and documents and a tattered bible or two. He pulls the scourge from the drawer and holds it in his fist as he pads on his bare feet back out the altar.
Simon peels his underwear off and kneels before the Cross once more, naked and exposed. He takes the scourge in his right hand as he chances one last look at God’s son hanging off the wall before diverting his eyes. Too wicked to look his Father in the face. Simon snaps his hand back and whips the scourge across his back. The initial crack of the whip echoes off the walls, louder than the wince that escapes his lips before he speaks.
“Forgive me of my trespasses.” He lowers his hand and cracks the whip again over his back, leaving angry red skin in its wake, hives forming around the first strike.
“Cleanse my sins, God.” He speaks through clenched teeth. He cracks the whip over his back. Harder.
He’s still thinking of ocean blue eyes.
“Mmnf…” He hangs his head as he lowers his fist and prepares for another. “Bring me light.” Another strike. Breaking the skin and the image of Johnny’s face looking up at him, webs of his hair obstructing his eyes-
“Ahh- ” Tears well in his eyes, and Simon struggles to remember how to breathe. His empty hand claws along the floor in desperate search for something to hold onto. He lets out a frustrated growl, upset with his own mortality, his own weakness. And he is a weak, weak man. Wicked and broken. He whips himself again, three sharp strikes in quick succession over the same patch of raw, battered skin. Blood trails down his spine and splatters against the floor. And Simon cries as the pain and the sin bleed from him, purged from his body one in the same.
“Purify my wicked heart” - strike - “A pure and contrite heart, O God” - strike - “Thou will not despise” - strike, strike, strike…
He doesn’t stop until he’s shaking with the effort not to collapse before the altar. Until his unclean blood desecrates the space around him, a thick sheen of sweat covering his naked body. The scourge falls from his bloodied hand with a wet splat to the floor. Simon bends down until his forehead meets the ground. He kisses the floor at the altar, and he presses the crucifix dangling around his neck to his lips. And he prays. For forgiveness and for relief from John MacTavish.