Chapter Text
Not a murmur nor movement stirred in the empty congregation. Even so, a sign hangs on a velvet rope: Confessions in Progress. Ornate, fuzzy windows decorate the private booths on either side, while the center closet is hidden and integrated into the design. From the outside, it wouldn't occur to most that there’s a space slotted in between the booths until they’ve walked in to confess.
A circle clock ticks on the wall. It’s almost the next day. Below it, a rigid young man sits, waiting. Hands folded on his lap, right white glove over the left. He’s nearly unmoving save for his hovering halo, occasionally bobbing up and down, and brief blinks.
Slow night.
But a follower in need can appear any time.
Sunday knows it’s only two-system-minutes before the new day. He doesn’t have to check. He knows this schedule to its marrow.
The door to his right clicks open. Sunday automatically shifts toward the right window. He waits for the familiar sound of shuffling feet then knee or knees hitting the ground. Thump. Sunday slides open the covering, golden light and lattice shadow casting on his face.
“Good evening, father. I understand it’s late, but – I have some frustrations,” a husky, low voice greets.
“No moment is too late. Come to me. I have sought THEIR presence with us.”
Silence persists from the man, but Sunday can strain subtle rustling of hair. Like an awkward hand running through strands of hair. He waits.
“I’ve been thinking about someone. A lot. I feel consumed by the thought of having this person in bed.”
Typical late-night confession.
“I often ask this. Are you solely driven by lust?”
The confessor snickers, but he quickly adds, “Good question. I don’t think so. You see, this person...I let them go too easily before, but I -- I have a new chance.”
Sunday nods.
“I understand. This is an old lover. Then, do you sincerely repent for your momentary lust and vow to change your ways?”
“Yes.”
“Very well. As long as you remain dedicated and do not let your physical desires determine your feelings, the three-faced-God shall bless your romantic pursuit. Now, please leave in peace,” Sunday pardons the confessor.
The confessor doesn’t move.
Sunday can feel a heavy gaze on him. He doesn’t look.
Both rooms are unmoving until finally, the confessor surrenders.
Sunday closes the window and listens to the departing footsteps. Their echo gradually disappears, prompting Sunday to exit. In the corner of his eye, he notices the confessor had left the lights on. Upon opening the booth, he hesitates.
A white business card sits in the middle of the floor. It’s flipped on the blank side. Sunday’s ear-wings twitch. Seriously, people can’t be bothered to not litter.
Sunday picks up the litter, turning it over mindlessly. Confusion riddles his face upon reading his own name. This can’t be his?
Suddenly, a hazy vision of his own hand sliding this card to an obscured figure occurs in his mind. A memory? He looks at the card again.
This is his old business card.
Late night, early morning. The usual itinerary for Sunday. He enters the same chapel from the night before. This time it’s alive with conversation from a mass of security Bloodhounds and other help speckled throughout the pews. They all turn and stand at Sunday’s arrival, halting their talks.
Sunday stands before the altar, golden eyes surveying his new hires.
“Good morning. I trust you all had a good night’s rest.” Sunday sets down the black book that’s been under his arm on the pedestal. “As you all know, you’re here to guard or assist the growing monastery. There would be two separate tours, but before that, a brief sermon.”
A standard short sermon the old staff are used to every morning. The new hires look somewhat antsy until Sunday roll calls for the tour. In less than an hour, the congregation is empty once more; aside for a singular nun running up to Sunday with a message. Sunday assures her. He waits until she’s gone before allowing himself to scowl.
Stern, furrowed brows marred Sunday’s previously calm expression. He strides down the aisle and stops with a squeak of his heel at the second to last row.
Sunday loudly clears his throat at the slumped, sleeping individual. A large, brown-haired man.
No response.
Sunday heaves a sigh. Clearly a Bloodhound bodyguard with that...slovenly uniform, but Sunday already called up everyone. Who is this?
Sunday taps the stranger on the shoulder. Nothing. He pushes a bit. Still nothing. Sunday shakes him.
A feint groan escapes the man’s lips, followed by drowsy red eyes blinking open. His hazy vision focuses on a slim waist then trails up to a glowering Halovian.
Maybe Sunday is too sensitive, but he can sense when people scrutinize him. He’s been in countless leadership positions -and election candidate for The Family head, - so he knows when he’s being examined.
This man is definitely examining.
“May I have a name?” Sunday demands. Obviously, impatient.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry...” The man stands, fishing out an ID. “Gallagher. My previous boss Siobhan, from the Iris Family, recommended me.”
That rings a bell.
This voice ...the confessor from last night! Wrong bell.
Sunday must have been standing and staring for too long. A hazy, faraway, “Siobhan called in for me,” darts into his peripheral, returning him to the present.
“Yes, she called.” Sunday finally says, alleviating the other man. He swipes on his tablet. Sunday indeed has Gallagher’s resume, and there was a brief call with Siobhan last week. Kind of a last-minute hire, but his fault regardless for forgetting.
“I apologize for forgetting.” How is it that Sunday’s the one apologizing when this man fell asleep in his sermon? Sunday cools his nerves.
“It’s fine. What next?”
“I’ll take you to your tour group.” Sunday steps aside to let Gallagher through. He watches the man pick up a duffel bag he hadn’t noticed before.
“You’re staying in the monastery dorms?”
“Yeah. My place was in the crumbling edge of the dream, so it disappeared.”
Oh.
Sunday’s wings slightly droop. “I’m so sorry.” That must be why he’s so tired. Guilt twists a knife in Sunday’s gut.
“It was a crap place anyways. I’m sure here is better.”
Sunday would’ve hoped he enjoys the premises, but -
“The others have been shown their dorms,” his gaze flicks back down to the duffel bag. “Has no one shown you your room, Mr. Gallagher?” Sunday feels that this is another mistake on his end. Most likely in relation to him forgetting about the recommendation.
“Oh this? No, this isn’t your fault,” Gallagher assures. “I arrived three days ago when my place disappeared. I was couch hopping for the time being.”
Resourceful man. But not punctual. Sunday would have chided him, if not for what he’s been through. It must have been a difficult three days....
This also confirms he’s the confessor from last night.
Unrelated. Stop thinking about it.
Sunday clears his head. “Since Mr. Gallagher hasn’t been shown his room, I’ll call someone to take you there.” Sunday takes out his phone.
“What about the tour?”
Sunday wraps up his brief phone call. “Mr. Gallagher, you may relax until breakfast in two-system-hours.”
“Oh? Thanks. Am I missing anything important though?”
“No. The tour isn’t mandatory and most come for the free breakfast. I just feel that today’s mishaps and your own circumstances, you deserve some rest.” Sunday bows. “Again. I’m truly sorry about my own shortcomings. I also want to extend a special offer. If you want, you may have extra compensation.”
“No, thank you.”
Gallagher’s expression is unreadable, so Sunday’s unsure if he’s struck a nerve. Maybe Gallagher doesn’t want pity, but this truly isn’t one.
“I insist, for the failure on my part. If not monetary, could a favor satisfy instead?”
“A favor? Any favor?” Gallagher steps closer.
“If the favor is reasonable....” Sunday drawls, looking up at the man. Gallagher inches forward again, bated for Sunday’s next words. “...then yes, anything.”
That might have been the wrong thing to say because Gallagher leans forward; as if Sunday wouldn't be able to hear him otherwise.
“What is considered reasonable?” Gallagher whispers.
“A meal, I suppose.”
“Alright. Let’s have breakfast together.”
“I'm sorry. My schedule is filled out for the week. How about something else?” Sunday sounded like a customer service representative.
“When’s your next free day?”
Really?
Sunday checks his schedule. “A week from now.”
“The date is set.”
Sunday squints at Gallagher. The man flashes him a cheeky smile.
“Yes. Next week then.” Sunday thrusts a hand forward, backing up to do so. Finally, a reason to create space between them.
Gallagher takes his hand. Sunday initiates the shake and release, but he staggers.
Gallagher won’t let go.
Sunday shoots him a look, prompting the man to squeeze his much smaller hand once. Then, he lets go with a caress of Sunday’s fingers like a yearning touch....
The chapel doors open. A nun has come to fetch Gallagher.
Thank Xipe.
Three days have gone by without trouble from the new hires. Hardly any opportunity to mess up security work or menial tasks.
The confession sign is up. Morning sunray reflecting on the sleek, plastic signage. Shadows pass over the signpost. One person exits and another enters the booth.
“...Next, please step forward.” That lovely, soothing voice commands. It puts a faint smile on the confessor’s face.
He shuffles around, considering if he should kneel like before. It wasn’t pleasant to his knee. There’s concern if that’s because of age, or he’s just kicked too many people in the face and pulled something. The confessor hopes it’s the second.
He opts to lean beside the window. Darkness shrouds most of the other person’s face aside from their chin and sliver of their neck cast in warm light and lattice.
“Good morning, father.”
“Good morning. Come to me. I have sought THEIR presence with us.”
A common line, but just like last time, he’s focused too much on each inflection. On Sunday’s lips...on “Come to me.”
The confessor hangs his head, brown locks falling over tired eyes. He exhales in disbelief at himself. “I... I did it again. I pleasured myself thinking of that person. But you have to understand...well, no --” He struggles to choose his next words.
“Please, go on. I will understand.”
Misplaced encouragement.
A small smirk tugs on the confessor’s lips. He clasps a white gloved hand over his mouth. Thick fingers rubbing his stubbled chin in contemplation.
“I got excited. We have a breakfast date...” He pauses for a moment, catching those soft lips fall open for a second. Good.
“...so, I ask for forgiveness again. I promise to stop my fantasies, and to not be indecent in person if I may have this date.”
“Your honesty and willingness to improve is appreciated and encouraged by THEM. I have belief your...date will go well. Do not worry.”
“Thank you for the blessings, Mr. Sunday.” The direct address caused Sunday’s lips to part once more. Even briefer than last time, but the confessor’s gaze was already on his lips. There was no way he would miss it.
“ THEIR blessings are for all, have a good day.”
Throughout the day, Sunday’s mind has been in a jumble. It’s barely noon and he’s already finished multiple paperwork, having buried himself in both bible scriptures and campaign matters. He often doesn’t mix work like this. Sunday has a regimented planner, organized in the most ideal course of labor. That confession threw it all away! The moment he stops thinking about work...that confession replays itself.
That deep, languid voice.
Gallagher’s voice....
Sunday shakes his head. He’s focused on the wrong confession. The first confession: Gallagher said it was about a past lover. That’s all this is. A weird coincidence.
Unfortunately...Sunday doesn’t subscribe to the concept of coincidences. Everything has an order. To preface, he’s not so conceited to believe this is about him. It’s just been ingrained in him that coincidences and chances aren’t that likely. Sunday just needs more confirmation. That's all. Really.
Sunday also needs more work to do. That’s why he’s at the library. Which was his second, grave mistake today. The first was letting that man eat up his mind.
Anyhow, the library. Of course, he’s here. The nuns needed muscle to move some books around. Sunday does recall they were doing this. Good start though: Gallagher hasn’t said anything or looked his way at all. Sunday should get his stuff and go!
“I wanted to borrow a couple of books and documents from the archive.”
“Of course. Mr. Gallagher can take you up there and carry your stuff,” the nun directs. Prompting Gallagher to stop stacking books and come over.
“Shouldn't Mr. Gallagher return to his security post?” Sunday objected too quickly.
“No worries, pastor. He’s scheduled to work here today.”
Gallagher smiles at him.
Sunday’s wings twitch. “Fine.” He turns on his heel and tries to go ahead first, but Gallagher runs up beside him.
“Let me take the lead. I know the way.” And Gallagher does just that. Sunday scrutinizes his broad back, still peeved, but he follows along regardless.
The archive is located on the second floor; in some deep corner of the library. Gallagher definitely knew the way.
“You’re already so familiar with the place,” Sunday notes.
“I moved books all morning. I guess I remember easily.”
“You get along with the librarian. That’s very good.” Emphasis on good.
Gallagher waves a dismissive hand. “I was a bartender. Socializing is part of the game.”
Sunday nods. “Siobhan told me you were a natural.”
“Not just her word. You’ve seen me work with her before. More than once, actually.”
Sunday looks lost. He slowly shakes his head. “I don’t drink much.”
“Yeah, I know . You ordered a cocktail once. But usually, you get sweet mocktails,” the ex-bartender lists his preferences.
He’s spot on. A touch of shame settles on Sunday. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
Gallagher shrugs. “It was always a council party or something mandatory. You were working hard as usual, huh birdie?”
Birdie? What!? Sunday opens his mouth to protest the weird nickname when suddenly, Gallagher leans closer. Even much closer than before.
“But we work together now. That should be plenty of time to familiarize ourselves with each other.” His voice, deeper and lower, and whispering once more. His breath also ghosted the side of Sunday’s face, eliciting an annoying warmth to spread across his visage and dust his cheeks pink.
“Back-” Sunday falters at the sound of a door clicking open. Gallagher reached past him to turn the knob.... That's why he was so close.
The warmth on Sunday’s face intensifies. He quickly turns inside. In this cramped room, all the walls are packed with bookshelves. A line of bookshelves splits the already small room, creating two narrower spaces.
“I-I only need a couple of files.” Fluster still lingers, causing Sunday to stammer.
“I’ll hold them.”
Sunday picks off folders, knowing precisely what he needs. Gallagher follows him. Too close normally, but significantly invasive in this tiny space. The light overhead casts Gallagher’s large shadow over Sunday’s form. Constantly reminding Sunday with how much the older man dwarfs him. The silence doesn’t help their proximity either. It feels too intimate.
“When did you first met me?” Sunday asks to break the silence. He’s curious too. If he follows this thread, he’ll know for sure. Maybe.
Gallagher splutters; an unintelligible noise slips out of surprise. Shamefully, Sunday enjoyed that reaction.
“It was a... movie premiere after-party?”
“My sister’s movie?” The most recent film premiere Sunday can remember.
“Yeah. You even ordered the cherry drink your sister had in the movie.”
“Interesting. You’re unsure about the event, but you remember the exact drink I ordered?” Sunday smacks a folder atop the accumulating stack Gallagher held.
Sunday peers at Gallagher, who’s grinning awkwardly and looking aside. Caught him red-handed! Sunday turns to grab more files, lips tugging in a triumphant smile. His wings flap. It’s very satisfying to see Mr. Gallagher shy.
“You don’t have to force yourself to remember anything. I’m just old and reminiscence too much.”
Satisfaction died. There’s a conceding aura in what Gallagher just said. His wings flutter again; quick and short to display annoyance.
Maybe he’s overthinking. Sunday does that a lot, but— But this man has been invading his personal space, delivered double-meaning lines, and made concerning confessions about his love life. To be clear, Sunday isn’t assuming any of that is related to him. Hardly , but suddenly, he’s giving up?
It irks him.
“You’re not that old Mr. Gallagher, don’t be so...sad.” Sunday didn’t know how to put it any nicer, but Gallagher chuckles. “What made me significant enough to you? That’s all I ask.”
“You think that’s an innocent question, huh birdie?”
That nickname again. And his voice is gruff and low again, face hovering over Sunday’s shoulder and brushing against his wing. The small contact rippling a soothing twinge in Sunday’s chest. He wants to immediately replace it...with annoyance .
“Isn’t it?” Sunday goads.
Gallagher just chuckles again and picks off the folder Sunday held. Well, tried to. Sunday tugs the folder back. His glowering, purple irises say, “Answer the question!”
Gallagher drops the stack of folders he’s been holding.
“What are you -”
The slam of two large hands on either side of Sunday’s head silences him. Below, a muscular thigh slots between his legs, and Gallagher’s head falls against his small shoulders. A mess of brown locks tangling with white hair.
Sunday sucks in a breath, heartbeat picking up pace. He presses against the bookshelf, attempting to move away from that knee between him.
“Remember my confessions?”
“I’m not allowed to discuss confessions outside of the booth.”
Gallagher draws out a sigh, further burying his head in the crook of Sunday’s neck. His knee also rubs upward. Sunday squirms. His hands don’t move to push away though. They remain stiff on his sides. This is precarious, but his curiosity is too high....
“This one other event,” Gallagher starts. Sunday watches him clutch the shelf edge. “You said and did something that was...significant to me, do you remember?”
Sunday closes his eyes. Ruminating. He slowly shakes his head. Gallagher drums his fingers on the bookshelf edge, like he’s counting lost patience.
“I figured,” Gallagher backs up. Sunday releases a held breath. He may be freed externally, but the forlorn, faraway gaze in Gallagher’s eyes stifles him internally. He’s like an abandoned puppy. Sunday heart feels bruised.
“Maybe I’m too insignificant to even be remembered, huh birdie?”
Suddenly, the regret is entirely sapped out of Sunday’s face and replaced with a deepening scowl. It’s his turn now to drop a folder: paper spilling out.
“I’m trying to understand, Mr. Gallagher. You could give me some grace if you would just stop being... vague!”
“That’s too easy. I can’t give you all the answers, birdie.”
Sunday wants to rip his feathers out. One moment this man is sad that he can’t remember, and the next he wants it like a game?!
Fine.
“A hint would suffice.” The last thing Sunday wants to be is dismissive. Irreverent.
“On which one? What you did or what you said?”
Say is not enough context. “What did I do?” Sunday provokes.
Mismatched gloves cup the sides of Sunday’s face and carefully crane his neck upwards to properly connect their gaze. For a split second, Sunday could glean doubt and hesitation within those red eyes. But before Sunday could ask, maybe even reassure, his lips are mashed against Gallagher’s.
The previous gentleness and soft touch ceased to exist; replaced with a needy, impatient shove of Sunday’s tinier frame against the bookshelf. Large hands tangle in his silken, white hair and shield his cranium from the bookshelf edge. Sunday shuts his eyes, trusting that would calm him down. He feels his face and lips only grow hotter and hotter at each open-mouthed kiss. A closed-lipped whimper escapes Sunday that gradually became mellow, tight-lipped sighs.
Gallagher tastes sweet and tangy like lemon candy and surprisingly soft lips.
Sunday wants to taste and feel more. He opens his mouth, letting a sigh through but only momentarily as his voice is stifled by a slippery, heated muscle prodding his own. Below, his thighs are spread apart again; Sunday feels himself somewhat lift up and naturally he latches onto Gallagher’s shoulders. The constant friction and nudges on his groin turned Sunday into a murmuring mess. He’s not sure where to focus; the assault on his mouth or below.
What Sunday does understand is this exchange is too wet and too hot. Two sensations Sunday isn’t fond of...until now. It’s grossly indecent how he’s fine with this. It should make him shudder with disgust that their thick, viscous saliva is constantly swapped and mixed. Yet it’s like a chemical reaction on Sunday’s tastebuds, coaxing him to want more . Sunday returns, and even chases after, each suck and swirl. They could barely part for three seconds without one pulling the other back in.
It feels too right. As ravenous as Gallagher is, he’s also very tender and soft. Sunday’s heart is in a constant flutter. He’s intoxicated bodily and emotionally.
Eventually, they break apart. Both out of breath; heart and lungs hammering. The right-hand cupping Sunday’s face shifts to holding his chin; thumb pressed carefully over his puffy and red bottom-lip. Gallagher pecks the abused lips, eliciting a pleased hum. He plants another kiss on the corner, on the cupid’s bow, then rapid, gentle kisses towards Sunday's cheekbone and lingering right under his ear to mark the spot.
Sunday blinks at his surroundings, gaze half-lidded and hazy. The pleasure high is dissipating, but the thumping of his heart hasn’t slowed one bit. It’s simply found a pace. Though his thoughts have cleared enough to realize that Gallagher’s hands have moved. The left holds his waist, pinning him against the bookshelf. The right pets and scratches his wing; at the junction where the feathery wing attaches to his cranium. The sweet spot. Sunday struggles to suppress moans between bruised lips.
His hands have moved too. Sunday isn’t sure when, but his hands are hanging around Gallagher’s neck. His fingers twirling brown locks; encouraging the man’s nipping and sucking of his neck and jawline.
Sunday pushes up on the bookshelf. Distancing himself again from the knee between his thighs. The heat from earlier is fierier, and Sunday feels a stickiness clinging his boxers to his skin. He’s not going to look. Sunday wouldn't be able to function.
“I don’t believe you,” Sunday wanted to say with resolution; not pleasured breathlessness. He felt Gallagher smirk on his neck.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know how to kiss like that.”
Sunday’s logic is infallible.
“You just did?”
“No. That was all you.”
Sunday pins his gaze at the ceiling.
Gallagher breaks into an unreserved laugh. “We’ll just have to keep doing other things to remind you then.”
Sunday’s eyes widen. He short-circuits for a moment. “That wouldn't help. It’s not relevant to what happened.”
“How do you know?”
Sunday frowns or tries too. He’s still blushing at embarrassment? At defeat? Whichever. This man is bluffing!
Sunday opens his mouth to retort, deny. But it doesn’t come to pass. Instead, a knock on the door draws both their attention. The noise scared them to untangle from each other.
“Mr. Sunday, Mr. Gallagher, are you still in there?” It’s the nun from earlier.
Now , Sunday must look down and check himself....
All good. Sunday rushes to open the door before the older man can grab him.
Sunday smiles at the nun. She smiles back, but it fades upon seeing the paper mess on the floor.
“I have a meeting to attend, can you help Mr. Gallagher clean up?” She looks rightfully confused. Although, she must listen to her superior, so she just nods.
Sunday barely catches the awkward excuse Gallagher attempts on the way out. Not his problem, because the ramifications of what just happened are finally hitting Sunday all-at-once. His steps quickening at the replay of it all.
Sunday watches...an apparition of himself sitting on a couch inside a lounge: a sitting room he can’t remember where, but it feels familiar. The room sort of looks like a Reverie hotel room, but without a bed and not as furnished. Regardless, cozy.
The more Sunday looks around, the dream-like scene clears up and his own mind recalls this moment. This scene. He was worried about something . Sunday winces; a sudden headache assaults him. He decides to focus on a different detail, or rather, missing and incorrect ones. Sunday remembers only wearing his turtleneck; thus, he’s wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with hot chocolate in hand.
Also: A familiar gloved hand with scars trailing up the arm will pet his head.
The scene catches up to his thoughts, playing out as Sunday predicted. Wait. More importantly, why is Gallagher in this...memory?
The dream/memory shifts, fast-forwarding to much later. Sunday can tell by the abandoned cup on the coffee table. He and Gallagher are sitting side by side, talking at length. Whatever they talked about is jumbled and unheard of. Sunday leans his head on the taller man’s shoulder. Gallagher brushes aside the bangs obscuring Sunday’s eyes. They stare at each other for a moment until Sunday closes his eyes, prompting Gallagher to initiate the kiss.
Sunday parts his mouth, welcoming Gallagher to slip in his tongue and deepen the exchange. A string of wanton mewls slip out from Sunday between wet, slippery sucks. He pushes his hands on tight pectorals, essentially breaking the kiss apart. Sunday gasps like a diver breaking out of water. He lolls his head back, chest heaving up and down and torso slightly slipping down the couch. Gallagher chuckles, large hands gripping his thin waist and keeping him upright.
“Out of breath already?” Gallagher pulls the smaller man into his lap. Sunday allows himself to be repositioned, even hugging for safety.
Sunday straddles the larger man. Sitting higher so that he’s looking down on Gallagher. Gallagher smooths down the glossy material of Sunday’s turtleneck; hands trailing downwards to the hem. Fingers slip past the hem and under the shirt. Sunday jolts at the contrasting sensations on his abdomen: one hand is rough leather, and the other warm, human touch. As the hands caress upwards, they also pull-up the turtleneck, exposing milky skin.
Goosebumps were already raised in the wake of rough leather and hot caress; the addition of the room’s cold air made Sunday shudder. He shuts his eyes, feeling shy. They fly open just as soon as a leather, index finger and thumb pinch his right nipple. The tiny bud hardens.
Sunday wanted to complain, but a high pitch squeak is all that follows when a searing, wet tongue swipes at his left nipple. The other side is still being pinched and twisted as well.
Sunday can’t contain his breathless moans. He clenches brown locks, further pressing Gallagher’s face against his chest. Encouraging him in his slurping and sucking. Gallagher swaps sides; the cooling and drying wetness on Sunday’s left nipple intensifying the heat between his legs. Sunday isn’t sure when he started grinding against Gallagher, but he’s been doing it. A tent growing in both their pants.
Gallagher unlatches from the right nipple with an audible pop. He drags a lick up the sternum, ravishing the heat emanating off soft, supple skin. His tastebuds caught tangy saltiness from the slight perspiration forming. Gallagher sits back, admiring the raw-red and sensitive buds. He looks up at Sunday: eyes closed and hush moans slipping from pretty lips. He’s in his own realm. Gallagher slaps his hands on the thighs straddling him. The Halovian jerks, breaking out of his rut. He still looks dazed, but Gallagher takes not another moment to say:
“Should we...today?” That completely cleared Sunday of his haze. He turns pinker than before, gaze flitting down briefly at both their arousal. He turns red. Eyes closing for a second and arms throwing around Gallagher.
“I...” Sunday says beside Gallagher’s ear.
The dream starts to fade. Becoming blurry.
“...to...t--” It’s breaking apart; the edges of the scene dissipating.
“...take me.”
Sunday is pushed onto his back as the dream/memory fades into nothing.
The cathedral is empty again today, but for good reason. It’s cleaning day in a couple of minutes. While tomorrow is the breakfast date. No. It’s just breakfast. That’s also beside the point. Sunday didn’t come here, extra early, about that. He needs to cleanse. Come to terms with the shame.
Shame. Deep, scornful shame. That lustful dream. What would THEY think of him? Sunday clutched his hands together so tightly he could crush the rosary beads he held. He shouldn't destroy such a holy instrument. Sunday gradually releases his grip until his hands fall beside him.
Sunday rubs his temple. He slowly rises from kneeling and sits on the bench instead. He can’t concentrate.
It must be a dream. It could only be a dream. The implication of what happened when the dream faded away.... He can’t believe it. As far as Sunday can remember, he is a virgin.
He frowns. There’s no way to check. He can’t be sure.
Sunday stands suddenly. He paces the aisle up and down, attempting to find solace in the echo of his quick steps on the marble floor. His wings start to twitch, and face heats up.
It felt so right.
Just like the kiss at the archive, that dream felt right and real.
Real like it happened before.
That room and being on that couch with a blanket wrapped around him did happen. However, Sunday can’t say for sure where that place is, or what he was doing besides what he saw. Perhaps, he’s just tricking his mind to have a “good reason” that what transpired in the archive was acceptable.
It wasn’t.
Sunday falls to his knees before the altar. A resounding thump reverberating across the empty congregation. He gazes up to the mosaic window above; the stream of early morning sunray bathing his troubled face. Those darkened gold eyes, swimming with fatigue and uncertainty, somewhat twinkles.
“Oh, Creator...bestow upon me your knowledge,” Sunday mumbles the rest of his prayer. Hush and secretive. A knock cuts through the silence. Sunday stands and straightens his suit to answer the door.
A nun smiles at him, followed by an entourage of more nuns with cleaning supplies. That’s right: cleaning day. Sunday lets them through when the leading nun pulls him aside.
“By the way pastor, your assistant called the office. She asked about...cardstock paper preference?” The nun recalls. Sunday squints. Alright...insignificant thing to call for.
“She said call her back. It's for your new business cards.”
Sunday momentary widens his gaze. Something just fell into place.
Business card.
His old card was left behind in the confessional booth. It didn’t immediately feel like it was his; but now, just like these odd memories, it feels all the more real and his.