Chapter Text
"For where your treasure is,
there your heart will be also."
[Matthew 6:21]
The thin voices of the choir bounced off the walls and echoed up toward the snow-white ceiling of the church. The August sun had already managed to warm the table by the window, though the day had only just begun. Peter adjusted his shirt collar under his light acolyte surplice and lit the third candle: the wax melted, threatening to drip onto his fingers. One wick simply refused to catch, and he impatiently brought the burning candle closer.
The choir’s voices died down just as the last candle finally yielded.
Peter strained his eyes, searching the crowd for familiar faces. There were almost no empty seats left at the service today. Third pew on the left. He gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile toward a short brunette with her long hair pulled back into a ponytail. May smiled back as he walked to his empty spot next to the choir.
For some reason, everything seemed unusual today: the light from the small windows near the ceiling was unusually bright, and his fingers felt strangely slippery from the melted church candle wax. Perhaps it was because summer was slipping away, inexorably bringing his senior year closer. Or maybe it was because this was the final day of his seventeenth year. It felt strange.
Peter didn’t like his birthday. May always baked a celebratory cake and had even invited his friends over for a surprise party last year. The cake was delicious, and Ned had gifted him one of the new model kits he’d been eyeing through the store window for months. The party had been great, if you didn’t count the two hours before bed that he’d spent sobbing in the bathroom under the sound of running water. Seventeen felt like a heavy burden on his shoulders already, and eighteen—considering the upcoming senior year and college applications—felt simply unbearable.
The noise in the hall subsided. Father Van appeared at the microphone—a short man in his sixties with graying temples and thin-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose. He began to speak, loudly and clearly. A sense of warmth and calm always radiated from the priest.
"I would like to start this Sunday with a parable..."
Peter tried to focus on the words, but today the meaning of the sermon was slipping away. Perhaps it was the subject matter. He pressed his lips together as the priest raised his hands, palms upward, surveying the hall.
"Remember: only the chosen one shall know the true love of God. For this gift is granted to but a few of His heirs on Earth. Pray, that you may be heard. Sow goodness, that you may draw closer to His miracle."
It sounded like a children’s fairy tale. On the last Sunday of the month, the prayer was always the same, referencing the oldest surviving scripture. Peter knew the words by heart, but even so, they meant absolutely nothing to him. A fateful dream was supposed to reveal a true match to the chosen ones. And to reject such a vision meant condemning both to suffering. Although, if one believed the holy scriptures, it was impossible to simply refuse one's true destiny. It shackled people forever; not heeding it meant merely delaying the inevitable, while inviting the wrath of the Lord along the way.
Peter barely stopped himself from snorting out loud. He kept all the commandments and diligently attended Sunday school at the church, but this legend was beyond his strength. And his understanding. No matter how carefully he read the holy scriptures, no matter how he turned the old pages in his hands, they never gained meaning. Peter couldn't grasp it: why, with only a handful of real "true pairs" in all of human history, did people still believe in it? How, in dreams, could you even distinguish "the true ones" from other people? And how could you be sure that all the true pairs in history didn’t just make up their dreams because they wanted to feel special?
He dreamed of different people. Every night, Peter saw a multitude of faces, both familiar and strange. Sometimes he even floated through the air above the city. But he had never once felt like a chosen one.
"And if in a dream you see His image, then our Almighty Lord speaks to you." Father Van crossed himself, and the hall followed suit.
The benches creaked as the crowd began to slowly leave the church. Peter was among the last to stand, gathering Father Van’s things from the table while the priest shook hands with the parishioners. He blew out the candles and headed to a small room with a few cabinets and a desk. It was always colder here than in the church. After service, Father Van often chatted with him or the other acolytes; sometimes they even had tea after Sunday school. But today the service had been short, and afterward, everyone was free to do as they pleased. Father Van didn’t comment on his decision, but to Peter, it was clear: it was a small gift in honor of the end of the school year.
He placed the books on the shelf and tugged at the collar of his mantle. His back felt uncomfortably damp under his clothes, and the cool draft in the room felt good against his skin.
People continued to make silly movies and write books about the legend. Peter would only smirk when the girls from the choir started talking about their latest dream involving some new, handsome actor. And about how, maybe, he was the one. Big deal. He’d dreamt of a pack of white wolves just last week. Why wasn't that a sign of global scale?
He shook his head at his own thoughts and flinched when a cool hand touched the back of his neck.
"You held up great today, dear," Aunt May said, gently smoothing a strand of his grown-out hair and smirking at his startled expression. "The book club is meeting, but I’ll be waiting for you at home by six."
He hadn't noticed her enter the room while the voices in the church had died down.
"Actually, I wanted to go to Ned’s today. We’re going to watch a movie and play a couple of board games before... my departure," Peter shifted his gaze to his aunt, noticing a pensive smile in her green eyes.
Summer camp this year felt more like a joke than anything impressive. Senior year, exams, and choosing a college were looming ahead—all the things that would make even an average student’s heart race. And Peter had never been an honor student. Maybe an above-average one, but without any special talents in biology or math, like Ned or his girlfriend, Betty.
Worse, everyone around seemed to expect some special resolve from Peter. Just because he would be the oldest—an eighteen-year-old in his senior year—and that always made him want to hunch his shoulders even further.
"Of course, just don't stay too long, I beg you: we need to pack for camp, and I can't wait to give you your gift!" May laughed, winking.
As if all the other reminders of how much he didn't fit in weren't enough: May made an event out of his birthday every single time. It was supposed to be joyful, but Peter only offered a weak smirk.
"My birthday is only tomorrow," he pulled away slightly, and the woman's palm slid from his shoulder.
The best gift would be if everyone just forgot about this damn holiday for at least one year.
"I still won't be able to wait until you get back from camp. Let's consider it not a birthday gift, but just a present for the end of the school year. You can unwrap it tomorrow!" May pressed her lips together.
He closed the room’s doors, and they walked past the empty pews toward the exit.
"Are you sure you want to go? Last year you talked about nothing but camp with your friends for the whole month, and now you haven't said a word."
"Yeah, of course. Ned and Betty are going too, so it’ll be even more fun than last year," the boy looked out the open doors at the road, where only a couple of parishioners’ cars remained.
"I’m sorry, dear, I know it’s so chaotic... I really wanted you to have a great summer, and then it turned out there were only spots left for the last session. And on your day, too... Are you sure you don’t want to spend the day differently? I can cancel everything," the woman clasped his hand in hers and looked into his eyes.
This conversation wasn't the first of its kind, and May sincerely regretted that he would only be at camp for three weeks instead of the usual eight, returning just in time for the start of the school year.
"Hey, Parker!" The boy lifted his head, spotting a familiar tuft of hair by one of the cars. "You ready? We've got huge plans today."
Peter dodged a lazy poke in the shoulder. A short, swarthy brunette in a blue shirt, black slacks, and bright blue sneakers—which didn't fit in with his Sunday mass attire at all—ran up to them.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Parker," Ned smiled at the woman, and she nodded in return. "We actually have to go."
"Just no funny business!" May walked toward her car.
The sun was scorching. When the car pulled out of the parking lot, it became quiet by the church. Ned silently watched it drive away.
"If she weren't your aunt, I wouldn't be responsible for myself!"
"Oh no, shut it!" Peter brushed him off and started walking down the street.
"Well, what? Everyone at school agrees she doesn't look like your guardian at all. At most, a college student!" the boy persisted, catching up to his friend. "Stop being such a nerd, or sometimes I honestly can't understand why I hang out with you..."
"Because I'm the only one willing to listen to theories about alien invasions and kryptonite, besides your girlfriend?" Peter kicked the guy in the side, and then suddenly froze.
In the distance, a painfully familiar engine roar echoed.
Peter hadn't seen it yet, but the image of a black Mustang with uneven flames on the sides already stood before his eyes. And he knew exactly who was behind the wheel. The roar intensified as the hood of the car appeared in the distance. The sounds of music—though it was hard to call that howling "music"—carried down the entire street. All the seats of the convertible were occupied. Peter didn't need to look closely; he knew exactly: it was five teenagers in dark leather jackets in the cabin, and one on the trunk of the convertible. Or maybe it was a girl with short hair.
"Hey, why’d you stop?" Ned looked up from his phone screen, surprised, to look at the frozen Peter.
His body went numb. Usually, after service, Peter managed to turn onto a different road with Ned, grab his bike, or leave with May in her car to avoid running into the Mustang. But today, for some reason, he wanted everything to be different. As if, with the end of the school year, his personal nightmare should finally dissolve into thin air. It was presumptuous and optimistic to think that anything could influence the driver of the car, which squealed to a halt a couple of meters away.
Behind the wheel of the car, which had stopped level with Peter and a surprised Ned, sat a tall brunette. The leather jacket on him had cracked long ago, and his T-shirt looked more like a rumpled gray rag. Several iron chains hung down to his chest, clinking with every movement. Peter hated them with all his soul, although Father Van despised this feeling at every scripture reading.
Eugene Thompson and his "Dogs," as they were called at school, loved only three things—his Mustang, heavy metal rock, and getting into uneven fights. And for some reason, the latter fell to Peter more often than anyone else.
"What, cat got your tongue? Head in the clouds again, Peter-the-faggot?" The brunette’s sharp voice made Parker hunch his shoulders. He wanted to hide from him. To crawl into a corner and wait it out. It seemed Thompson's voice was one step below the screeching music from the speakers on the list of the most repulsive sounds in the universe. Laughter erupted from his pack behind him.
Thompson's attacks weren't unexpected in Peter's life: the guy had first chosen him as his target last summer on the first day of school. And from that moment on, not a week went by that Peter didn't have to give up his pocket money or endure attacks from his cronies. Usually, he got off with a few rough shoves or a gutted backpack if he refused to comply the first time. But once, he came home with a cut eyebrow—because of that, May still threatened to call the police.
Overall, Eugene Thompson had firmly woven himself into his daily schedule over the past year, becoming a regular, mundane point, like the hour of reading a day or swimming lessons on Fridays. Peter knew exactly which days not to walk the streets alone, and which days it was better to skip physical education, even if his report card was on the line.
Meanwhile, Thompson jumped out of the car swiftly, not bothering to open the door. It seemed that over the past year, the guy had grown even taller, towering over him and Ned by a good two heads. Perhaps that was the reason for his endless aggression: lack of competition. No one, even in the senior classes, could compete with the local gym rat and the ringleader of a group of future petty criminals.
"I can't understand why you're always under my feet like a mangy mutt. And your little buddy, too," the guy almost lunged at Peter, his chains clinking.
Two others climbed out behind him, moving to his sides.
"Aren't you tired of it? Get lost, Thompson!" Ned suddenly raised his voice, shielding his friend with his shoulder.
"Beating the stupidity out of another bleating lamb of God? Never gets old," Thompson stepped almost right up to Peter, who had lowered his gaze.
Peter tried to stop his friend, but it was too late. Usually, everything ended faster if Peter stayed silent. Probably because Thompson got bored quickly. Once, a similar attack had been prevented by Father Van—that time he had thoughtfully offered to apply a silver communion chalice to a bruise on his shoulder, and they’d even laughed about something.
This time, the church spire was left far behind, and the street was treacherously empty.
"Leave us alone," Ned raised his hand, poking a finger at the guy’s chest, even though the other looked down at them.
"In your dreams," Eugene pushed Ned in the chest with force, causing him to stumble into Peter, who was standing behind him. "Why is your buddy so slow on the uptake, huh, Pete?" Thompson pushed the staggering Leeds again as the other two moved closer, anticipating a fight.
"Get your hands off!" Ned shoved him back, but it was a mistake.
The first blow landed somewhere on the guy's temple, and the second turned his friend's lip into a bloody mess. Ned flew to the side, colliding with one of the thugs in leather. Peter moved forward, weakly pushing Thompson in the back, but he immediately regretted it because he received a kick in the stomach in return. The air left his lungs, and Peter doubled over.
When another blow knocked him off his feet and onto the lawn, Peter cried out in pain.
"Funny, Peder, where’s your god when you need him?" Eugene stepped hard with his boot on the boy’s ribs, preventing him from breathing or moving. "Where is he? Will he come to your aid? Throw a lightning bolt at me or something?" he threw his hands up to the sky, staring upward. "Oh no! Looks like he doesn't exist! Can you imagine, what a riot!"
Peter heard the repulsive laughter of his two cronies, who kicked Ned—already lying on the grass nearby—several times, before walking back to the car to the sound of metal. He had no strength to move. The hot sun beat into his face, and Thompson's boot dug into his skin under his white shirt, it seemed, down to the bones.
"Alright, we're late, so consider this a demo version today, not the usual," the boot vanished, and a dark shadow appeared over his face.
He kicked him weakly in the side one more time and spat on the ground nearby. A couple of seconds later, the Mustang roared and sped off down the street.
"Ned?" his voice was raspy from the strain when Peter opened his eyes, searching for his friend.
"I'm alright, I'm okay. That was a hell of a hit, though," he propped himself up on his elbows, wiping a bruise from his lip.
"Well, it's not our first time, so this one can even be considered getting off easy." Peter got up behind his friend, rubbing his bruised side and straightening his disheveled hair.
Eugene Thompson had been his personal nightmare since elementary school. Back then, they had been the same height, and all the teasing was limited to broken pencils or taunts during recess. Peter winced, recalling Aunt May’s frequently tired or tear-filled eyes.
He remembered little before his sixth year. And the year after his sixth birthday was as if covered by a veil in his memory. Everything became different when he ended up in this small town. And now, it seemed, there was no other life. A life without pain and constant nightmares, in which icy water flooded his ears and mouth. Even in the middle of a hot street, he could clearly feel the heavy winter clothing sticking to his skin and the cold that chilled him to the bone.
"Earth to Parker!" he jerked, noticing that Ned had been standing silently by the yellowish house for a long time. "Snap out of it and distract my parents while I wash off this 'war paint'." Ned gestured to the bloody spots under his lips. "Come on, the whole street has already noticed us!"
The guy pushed his friend into the house and ducked into the bathroom to the left of the front door.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Leeds!" Peter gave a strained smile and walked down the hall toward the smiling woman.
Elina Leeds squeezed the boy tightly in her arms, causing him to grit his teeth slightly—the new bruises promised to be felt for a long time.
"Hello, Peter, you look like you've lost a little weight? Betty is already waiting for you in the living room. I'll make your favorite lemon pie, would you like that?" the woman smiled and headed to the kitchen, not needing an answer from him.
"Pete!" Betty's quiet voice came from the top step of the stairs, and the boy involuntarily smiled. "What happened over there? Why so long?"
Quick footsteps tapped on the stairs, and a moment later, a blonde girl stood before him. Two braids and the edges of her dress swayed from the movement as she hugged him, causing him to hiss.
"Eugene Thompson," Peter looked fearfully around, lifting the edge of his T-shirt and showing the already bruising hematoma on his side.
"No way! And Neddy?" she listened to the sound of water from the bathroom and lightning-fast pulled the door handle. "Show me!"
The startled guy jerked by the sink, but seeing his friends' faces, he continued to wet his white shirt. The scarlet spots seemed to have eaten into it forever. Betty, with the air of a professional, took the boy's chin in her fingers and pulled it toward her. Edward grunted something through gritted teeth, but didn't break away.
"Let me guess: did you go after him first?" the girl opened one of the cabinets above the sink. "And why, tell me please, does this constantly happen when I'm not around?" she rattled tubes and jars.
"And what if it did? Would you have jumped in to defend us?" Ned snorted, turning off the water. "She's beyond saving," he threw a wet ball of white fabric into the sink and shook the water from his hands.
"I wouldn't have let this stupidity happen, that's all," she closed the cabinet, setting out several jars and cotton pads. "Now both of you to me, quickly. Peter, close the door."
Betty threw her braids back with professional knowledge and opened a bottle, soaking a cotton pad.
"This will sting a little," she applied the cotton to Ned's lips, wiping away a drop of blood.
The guy hissed and closed his eyes. Peter smirked for some reason: it was simply impossible to oppose this girl. Betty applied ointment for bruises to both, and satisfied with her work, ducked into the living room. Peter was left standing with his shirt lifted, waiting for the medicine to soak into his skin, while Ned wrung out his and threw it into the laundry basket nearby.
Two short guys were reflected in the mirror. His friend's reflection jerked and disappeared behind the door—the guy creaked the closet in search of a T-shirt. Now only a short boy in black pants and slightly unnaturally protruding ribs was looking at Peter.
Perhaps Mrs. Leeds was right: he hadn't been eating much lately.
Peter lingered on the dark circles under his eyes. Barely noticeable gray shadows had settled under his eyes a few weeks ago, when the nightmares returned. Peter hadn't remembered them for several years, but recently he had woken up in the middle of the night from the sensation of icy water in his lungs. He had simply jumped up in bed, trying to take at least one breath.
Peter jerked, lowering his T-shirt and turning on the water faucet. A cold stream quickly filled his palms, and he washed his face several times in a row under the watchful gaze of his friend. Father Van would be unhappy to learn that he had lied during confession last week, but Peter for some reason considered this experience private. So private that he tried to hide it even from God.
The boy looked up at the mirror, searching for a shadow of deception on his face, but saw only cold drops and gray eyes under strands of grown-out hair. And then he met Leeds' steady gaze.
"What?" Peter grabbed a towel and wiped his face.
"Nothing," Ned hooked a slightly rumpled T-shirt from the hook behind the door and peered closely at it, checking for stains. "Let's go, Betty is waiting."
The ointment cooled his skin pleasantly. Peter got lost in thought and simply trailed after his friend, staring at the floor.
"Hey, Parker, want to hear a joke?" Ned’s voice sounded mysterious, which made the boy stop and look up. "You didn't think we forgot, did you?" the brunette smiled, winking.
"Forgot about what?" Parker stared at his friend, uncomprehending.
Ned took a couple of steps toward the room when bright balloons and several party hats caught his eye. A gasp of surprise escaped his throat as the room filled with voices.
"Happy birthday!" a dozen voices rang out from all corners of the room.
Peter laughed, noticing his aunt, the Leeds family, Betty, a laughing Michelle, and the barking dog, Rocky, in the crowd.
"Congratulations! Even though the holiday is tomorrow, we couldn't let you leave without a birthday cake!" People took turns hugging Parker.
Several faces, poppers, and eighteen lit candles on a cake flashed past his eyes like a whirlwind. Peter smiled dutifully, staying silent and clenching his palms in his pockets. They knew perfectly well how much he didn't want to celebrate.
Lemonade fizzed in his mouth. Warm cream melted on his lips.
Peter glanced at his watch for the fourth time that evening, but the hands seemed to have frozen in place. Father Van would be doubly unhappy about this impatience. In the Leeds’ living room, the radio and a dozen voices played softly. The summer camp session started this morning, and twenty minutes remained until the planned departure.
He was truly glad for them. Peter was truly glad for everyone in this room, he just hated his birthday. So, he silently bit the inside of his cheek, twirling a glass of lukewarm lemonade in his fingers and waiting.
Today he had become the happy owner of a brand-new tablet and a limited-edition comic series from May. Also, a powerful flashlight was now dangling in his pocket, and a gifted book had been carefully packed into his suitcase. As if he looked like a fan of literature. The boy took a sip of the warm lemonade and winced. On the other side of the room, Betty and Ned were trying to play an intricate board game, and Peter was distracted from his thoughts for a second, trying to make out the title on the box.
"You don't seem very happy," a quiet voice nearby made the boy jump with his whole body. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I just saw that you were sitting here alone on your birthday..." Michelle sat on the sofa beside him.
"Just want to leave already," Peter shrugged and put his glass on the table.
"Betty told me about Thompson. What a jerk," MJ looked thoughtfully at her knees. "Do you think he'll mature over the summer?"
"Not sure if people like him know anything about mental maturation," Peter gave a sad smirk, glancing at the couple opposite.
MJ had been hanging out with them for a long time, but she was more of Betty's friend. He couldn't even remember them exchanging more than a few phrases during the entire last semester. But for some reason, this didn't feel simple like it used to. Peter even caught himself thinking that any communication had been a huge struggle for him these past weeks.
"I'm going too, by the way," MJ's quiet voice made Peter look at the girl point-blank again.
"Where?"
"To camp with you guys. Betty and I agreed to stay together. We'll be able to see each other and all that," the girl watched Ned and Betty, who were engrossed in an argument over a pair of paper figures, intently.
"Cool." Peter looked at the clock again and nearly jumped for joy.
The hands were inexorably crawling toward four o'clock in the afternoon.
"Pretty great, right? Do you know who else is coming from our class?" the girl followed his gaze but said nothing.
"No, but I think we definitely won't miss them there." Peter got to his feet, not letting her answer, and moved toward Aunt May, who was chatting with Mrs. Leeds, pointing at the clock face.
The drive to camp took more than two hours. By the time the guests gathered and loaded the suitcases into the Leeds’ car, Peter counted another forty minutes of saying goodbye to relatives and dogs before they finally hit the highway and turned toward the city exit. May tousled his hair and took his packed suitcase from the trunk, and then waved her hand as the Leeds’ minivan pulled out of the driveway. The four of them settled into the backseat, and Peter finally felt the knot of anxiety that had been haunting him since early morning beginning to unravel.
Warm wind from the half-open window blew against his skin. The boy leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes—Betty and Michelle were deciding what to watch on the road, and Mr. Leeds had turned on the radio. The tires hummed along the asphalt, soothing. The sun disappeared behind even rows of fir trees—the car had entered a small forest. Behind the trees, the sun looked red; there were no clouds. The noise of the radio and his friends' arguments faded, and Peter simply made himself comfortable in the seat, slipping into sleep.
Suddenly, the bright light was replaced by a reddish glow among the trees. He was standing in this forest all alone.
Peter turned around, feeling a hot gust of wind. Gray smoke was spreading under his feet. The forest around him was burning. The boy clearly heard the crackle of wood and smelled the burnt fir branches. Tongues of flame soared above the treetops into the blackening sky, but he didn't want to run. Peter simply took a few steps closer to the fire, examining the whimsical tongues of flame in the branches.
For some reason, the fire didn't seem dangerous. Or hot. In the distance, strange sounds were heard—the crunching of branches mixed with loud footsteps. Something huge stirred behind the tree crowns. Peter reached out his hand to push through the thicket.
"Hey! Wake up, sleepyhead, we're almost there!" Betty’s voice dispelled the flames, forcing him to wince with dissatisfaction and open his eyes.
Peter jumped up startled in the car seat, and the seatbelt pulled at his skin unpleasantly. Outside the car windows, the edge of the forest and the brown roofs of the camp cabins were visible. A bitter taste of ash and cinders lingered unpleasantly on his tongue.