Work Text:
Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
1 Corinthians 13:7
‘In name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’
Tanrak allows the same words to be echoed in his head as he draws the cross from his forehead to his chest, across his shoulders, and a brief touch of lips on his thumb. Everyone else in the church performs the same gesture with equal if not double the candor. Except for him, because what is left on the usual seat, third row from the front, left side where the kneeler is slightly splintered and an extra Bible on the narrow shelf, is an empty space – a caesura amongst all the joined hands and praying hymns, a missing pawn in a board full of all other pieces.
‘The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the Love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all.’
He has the thurible[1] ready, the silver chains rattling on the skin of his fingers as he walks from one aisle to the other, nodding at Father Arnon. ‘And with your spirit.’ The subtle scent of frangipani petals and jasmine buds mix with the woody aroma of frankincense as he sways the metal vessel back and forth. The censer is not heavy but he takes extra attention going up and down the steps, careful not to trip on the long hems of his pristine white surplice and even longer crimson cassock. It was not supposed to be his duty today with the incense – it was supposed to be Barth’s.
‘Do you have a minute, Tanrak?’
He has just finished washing the last plate from the breakfast horde. ‘Were you looking for me, P’Phak?’
‘Please help Father today during service.’
‘Wasn’t it supposed to be Barth’s turn today? He needs it for his scholarship.’
‘Barth will not come. He asked me to have the day off.’
He dries his hands and arms on the already wet towel on top of the drying racks. ‘Why? Is he sick?’
‘He didn’t say anything. It’s okay, Father Arnon has approved of it already.’
‘What about the cross? Everyone else has already been assigned with something.’
‘Kongdech can take care of it.’ Master Phak hands in a clean, perfectly ironed cassock. The fabric is still warm to touch. ‘You’re the most reliable of them all. Father needs you the most today. Don’t forget today is the day of the Ashes.’
Tanrak doesn’t forget and he sings the chorus of Gloria in Excelsis Deo together with the members of the choir, Cherry winking at him for arriving just on time and smiling almost comically when she fails to meet the highest note. The boy sitting in front of the piano is just slightly shorter than Barth and yet their posture couldn’t be more different. There is a neurotic tremble of his shoulders, sagged and a compulsive need to check the music score every other phrase, a quality that Barth doesn’t have.
Because when Barth plays, the rhythm is imbued on the tip of his fingers and they dance on each key, full and half alike. He sweeps across the chords as if he was sprinting and settles with the strength of a golden hammer for each note. When Barth plays, silly nursery rhymes or even more ludicrous melodies that he makes on the spot, he seems happier than ever.
Because when Barth plays, he too can feel the same freedom.
Only theirs.
When Kongdech finishes the first reading from the Old Testament epistle of Jonah, he is already standing by the ambo[2], the palm of his hands still smelling of the cinnamon oil mixed with the ashes. From where he stands, Barth’s absence is even more striking, a hollow in the coordinately even number of his row. The golden ribbon bookmark is tucked a few mere pages away but it weighs on his fingers when he flips to the Psalm of David.
Maybe when he lifts his eyes from the Gospel, he will be there.
Except Barth is still not there.
I sought the Lord, and he answered me; he delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.
This poor man called, and the Lord heard him; he saved him out of all his troubles.
The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them.
The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles.
The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.[3]
‘The word of the Lord.’
Father Arnon starts the very short sermon of the day much to Tanrak’s relief. Marking the first day of Lent, besides the stronger rays of sun on the stained-glass lancet windows of crosses and angels, and the humid air that hangs in the nave, the priest asked each member of the audience how much slower they were today when entering the house of the Lord. Not because of the weather or the usual chatter (a few giggles were drawn among those at the back) but because of how much each and every sin they carried weighed them down. ‘Let us not be the farmer that in comfort choose not to toil and in adversity choose not to beseech His voice.’ Penitence is what he urges everyone to seek within their hearts, that God will not forsake any lamb, especially the lost ones, and that abstinence was the way nearer to Him.
Tanrak notices how everyone is suddenly quiet during the homily, as he stands next to Father Arnon and helps the elder with drawing crosses of ash on their foreheads. He knows what the message is all about, or so he convinces himself for his ears filters the speech of the familiar ‘fasting of meat’ or ‘self-restraint’ or ‘willful sacrifice’, and all he can do now is seek in each row for that missing face, untamed hair in the morning and the defiant radiance masquerading the misunderstood childishness. He recognizes all the people in mass today – the sisters from the bakery, their donuts deliciously sweet but always dry; Khun Kiet and his four sons, all of them one year older than the other, the youngest one finally graduating primary school; Kruu[4] Achara who always comes with her parents and her rheumatoid-knees grandmother; Dara, Fahsai and Nalin, who he has only met during choir practices; and Kongdech’s parents, always smiling and bowing, always eager to please and forever proud for being a family that raises boys into priesthood.
Where are you, Barth?
The same cross that led to the initiation of the mass, the people now do the same for dismissal, the final Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life echoed in the walls and hearts of each and everyone in the communion. Tanrak stands next to Father Arnon, a few words of blessing given for the weekly donations of fruit baskets, new cutlery and uniforms, some homemade garlands of jasmine flowers and embroidered covers for the more threadbare Bibles. He bows and politely joins his palms in a wai for them, until the only people left in the nave are Cherry with a polishing cloth for the pews, Kongdech who is checking whether the fans are properly turned off, and a couple more boys closing the window shutters and sweeping the long carpet by the altar.
He thinks of returning to the back chambers to remove and wash his cassock when the ghost of a shadow sprints by the front door. It is a fleeting silhouette gliding past the large doors one might think it might have been an illusion created by the wind, but Tanrak knows it is not. He recognizes that gait, lazy in its hurried posture, wide strides and gliding flip-flops.
It is Barth.
‘Aren’t you going for lunch, Tanrak?’
He doesn’t answer his best friend’s inquiry, the answer lodged on his throat and swallowed for extra oxygen, as he bolts out to meet that apparition. He knows he should not make haste in the house of the Lord but his feet automatically move on their own, pulled by the gravity of this uneasy restlessness that permeates his muscles. If he doesn’t run now, the path to the dormitory of Saint Magdalene College filled with little pools of water and splinters of sand, he is afraid he might lose sign of him.
He might lose Barth.
The locker room is unlocked and there is no one there except for the crucifix by the door frame, a couple of pin-up posters of some football stars, and the other youth, Tanrak notices. He is slightly out of breath but he tries to muffle any sound that might betray his presence. He wants to walk to his own locker as if he had forgotten something paramount to whatever he was supposed to be doing at that moment, open it in the most natural unlatching on the hinges and then pretend he had only seen him there, a usual ‘I didn’t see you there, where did you go?’
He does neither of these, this ideation blueprint a mere drop of ink in the vast ocean, and he simply does nothing but stare at the boy in front of him – sagged shoulders, his rucksack almost sliding down to the floor, a deep sigh that forces his whole body forward, forehead hitting the steel door and the plate that read his name.
‘Barth?’
Tanrak’s voice might have been too low and soft because the other boy does not move. He has his eyes closed and a frown that is evident even from the chiseled side profile, straight nose bridge and sharp jawline. He looks like one of the sculptures that he had seen in those thick books about the Basilica of Saint Peter, Michaelangelo’s Pietà and Bernini’s Longinus.
He calls his name again somewhat louder than before. ‘Barth?’
It is almost instinctive when Tanrak’s hand reaches for his shoulder, the other boy so lost in the maze of his own world. It is also a reflex when Barth jumps at the mere touch, startled as if branded by hot iron. The feral tinge on his dark brown irises fades almost immediately when he sees Tanrak’s recoiling figure, the frown between his eyebrows softening.
‘Where did you g–’
A pair of strong arms encircle his – not just the arms but his whole torso, his whole being. Barth settles his face on the crook of his neck, inhaling the frankincense still lingering on the white surplice. A delicate hint of pine as well.
It is almost uncanny how their bodies fit perfectly with each other.
At distance, a couple of footsteps and incoherent mumbling can be heard, the boys most likely finished with sorting out the ribbons and flower bouquets used during the mass and dusting the remnants of ashes on the carpet. Tanrak pushes their chests apart, not forcefully but not feeble either, enough to dislocate themselves from the hug but still within each other’s grasp.
‘There are people coming, Barth. Let me g–’
‘Let’s go.’
And without a proper prologue and prelude, Tanrak is dragged out of the locker room, his feet almost tripping on the couple of steps by the door. Barth’s hand has seized his wrist and he is held with a force that is almost bruising. The taller boy leads with a frantic pace unlike the time when they probed through the teak and myrtle trees in the forest before the waterfall – they run in a frenzied rhythm, so fast and chaotic that both their lungs beg for oxygen when they reach the common restrooms, Tanrak’s back shoved to the door of the cubicle that they lock themselves in.
‘B-Barth…’, the other’s warm body is pressed against his, back to the positions they were in before the interruption, ‘… let me go.’
‘Shhhh,’ a finger taps his lips to keep quiet as Barth’s ragged breath tickles his cheeks from their proximity, ‘… they will hear you.’
A couple of voices, rowdy and boisterous invades the stillness of the moment, the gossip on the girls in plaits from the other province that came, how short their dresses were and how the outlines of their bras very visible beneath the fabric of their blouses. It is all obnoxious giggles and titters until master Phak arrives and threatens to uphold their lunches if they were late the next minute.
Barth’s sigh is of relief when the steps finally recede, unlike the still wet patches on the tiled floor from the morning cleaning shift most likely, and he melts against Tanrak, a not so déjà-vu as when they were in the locker room, or of their escapades in the double deck beds, or two bodies riding the same bicycle.
‘I miss you.’
The swelter on his neck spreads to his face and Tanrak is not sure if the heat he feels on his skin is due to the double layers of his ceremonial robes, the mock marathon he just participated in or the lack of ventilation of the claustrophobic cubicle he was in. Perhaps it was all of it at the same time and none of it too.
‘You smell so nice today.’
‘You…’, Tanrak tries to cross his arms in a resistance stance, a mock insurgence for always falling prey to his teasing, and he contorts his upper body to make himself smaller, ‘let me go.’
‘My mom,’ Barth secures him in the same place, the hold even stronger, more dominant, overbearingly firm as if the acolyte would (could) escape, ‘… I went to visit my mother today.’
Tanrak stops the squirming, his back suddenly straighter and glued to the door, a few names scribbled and carved on the wood.
‘Mom is… she is… she seems… she…,’ Barth’s voice is muffled by the collar of the cassock as he nudges at the crook of his neck. He sounds so feeble and frail, his towering height reduced to that of a child, lost in a multitude of faceless heads. He takes a couple of seconds, almost a minute, to find the words that had escaped somehow, gathering the courage and assurance to continue.
Tanrak does not know what to say at that moment too.
‘She looked miserable.’ A pause. The first pause. As if all the resolve had dissolved that moment. ‘She looked so thin. So much more than the last time I saw her. I know she doesn’t like the food there. My mom is from the North so she cannot handle even an ounce of spiciness. She hates when they use old papayas for the som tam and she cannot eat glutinous rice. It upsets her stomach.’ Another pause. A second pause, one that further deconstructs his level-headedness, and the tremor in his voice betrays his composure. ‘She was very pale – I wonder if she ever goes out to see the sun. The sleeves of her shirt… she would always mend the buttons and the hems of my school uniform. All she does now is…,’ Barth hugs him tighter not because he is afraid the other boy will run away but because he thinks he might slip away any moment ‘… is clutching her Bible.’
Tanrak’s fingers gently tiptoes on his shoulder blades, drawing small concentric circles. He doesn’t know what to say so he stays silent. He brings his lips instead to Barth’s forehead and rests them there in a light peck, another one on the temples, then on his closed eyelids.
It is the sign of a cross. Not Christ though – only theirs.
‘But… but she says she is happy. Happier than before.’ Tanrak nods, reassuring the taller boy that he too should be rejoicing for her healing. ‘She says she can sleep well every night. That nightmares don’t bother her anymore. Yesterday… she finally doesn’t see father’s face when she closes her eyes.’
‘I miss you my son.’
‘I miss you too, mae[5].’
‘Are you eating well, son? Have you made new friends in school?’
‘Yes, mother. Everything is fine.’
‘Mother can finally rest too, my son. He has not forsaken me.’
‘He?’
‘Yes, my son. God has forgiven me.’
‘She belongs to Him again, mother told me.’ Barth chuckles lightly, mocking pity on his lips. ‘He has not abandoned her. But He did abandon me.’
Tanrak reaches for Barth’s chin, the roughness of the stubble there tickling his fingertip. ‘I will always be with you.’
The body in front of him stiffens for a second, the mute stillness hanging gravely between them and Tanrak wonders if he should have said those words – I will always be with you – a promise heavy as the vows he is supposed to make with God but now – may the guilt consume his gut and brand him a betrayer of the gospel – his faith has beaconed him wayward to the one with the name of a saint – Bartholomew, martyr of candid honesty and rebel of deceit. Bartholomew, Barth not of basketball but of thigh tic-tac-toes on Theology lessons and Barth of roti crepes with palm sugar syrup and smeared fingers and moist li–
The sudden gasp that escapes his mouth jolts him back to reality as he feels Barth’s teeth sink into his Adam’s apple, the small opening of his collar giving the other boy access to the exposed skin. ‘You smell so good Tanrak.’
‘S-stop it.’ It is annoying (and so beautiful) the glorious smirk on the other’s face and he wants to escape before it snatches his control away. ‘Let me g–’
Barth’s lips are pure electricity when they clash against his and he static as the current rides his nerves and grounds him to the floor. They are soft and warm, just as he remembers from when they were on the waterfall, but now they are unyieldingly demanding access to his mouth. He grants it and Tanrak is the one to seek out his tongue, their kiss messy and with an urgency to claim and mark each other. Barth tastes of soda bubblegum, rottenly saccharine, and he wants to savor more. And more. Barth tastes of midnight escapades and freshly cut grass after the rain, of fried roti with coconut shreds, and smeared ink on homework pages.
It is only when the biological need for oxygen became instinctual that both of them separate, just mere inches apart, Barth’s shallows breaths mimicking his own, a shade of pink blooming on his cheeks and ears. Tanrak is sure that he too is glowing in the same light, and he feels adventurous. He feels bold like he never did before – maybe it was the rapture of being locked with Barth in such a small space or the thrilling risk of being found out – and he leans forward, licking the trail of saliva on the other boy’s lips.
‘Can I…,’ Barth’s voice almost fails him as he falls short of stealing another kiss, ‘… can I touch you?’
Tanrak nods, only nods at the plea – he too is afraid that his voice will sabotage him that moment.
Barth’s smile is enchantingly haunting and for brief moments, he can see desire, his own and theirs together, reflected in his eyes. His hand, broad, a few calluses on the palm, runs down his neck, pressing on the crucifix of his rosary and it rests for awhile on his heart. Even with the double layers of the cassock and surplice, Tanrak is sure that the other boy can feel the frantic beating against his ribcage. ‘I want you Tanrak.’ But he doesn’t stop and it keeps descending slowly, leisurely sluggish, to his navel – a sharp moan echoes in the room as the hand stops and presses on his crotch.
‘I want you Tanrak.’
He bites his lips to suppress another obscene sound from being released when he feels the fingers fumbling the buttons of his cassock underneath the immaculate, white garment. The friction, on and off, teases his clothed manhood with the promise of a proper touch, yet it shies away just when it feels – it feels right. It is (almost) embarrassing the tightness of his briefs and the way Barth stares down, the hem of his surplice pulled up to reveal the bulge in red.
Barth subconsciously licks his lips, the tip of his pink tongue swaying over the bruised flesh, wetting them, and Tanrak feels his knees going weak.
‘B-Barth…,’ the other boy has stopped playing with the buttons and Tanrak directs his gaze to his own, as hungry and starved as he had never seen before, ‘touch me.’
It is not his rosary that he latches to when the same warm palm, now fever on his skin, slips through the cotton layers and touches his erection, but the stall door, his fingers curling and digging through the wood as pleasure washes over him. Barth is gentle but at the same time not, the way he doesn’t wait and moves in a clumsy rhythm, ‘d-don’t… go s-slower,’ down the shaft to the base and back to the tip.
He doesn’t know what the feeling blooming over his chest is.
He simply knows it feels good.
‘Please,’ Barth grabs Tanrak’s wrist and anchors the acolyte’s hand over the zipper of his own jeans, ‘I want you to touch me too.’
He is not sure what to do and he doesn’t want to disappoint him – he wants to please him – so he emulates the same actions, fingernails prying open the jeans and diving into the elastic waistband of the underwear, pubic hairs grazing his skin when he finally meets the hardened member.
Barth’s cry is even more beautiful than when he sings.
Anyone could enter that moment but it is in their own world that they are, drowned in the intimacy of their uncoordinated movements, pulls and pushes, gossamer caresses and unsteady, blundering strokes, until Tanrak feels light-headed, all his thoughts gathered on Barth’s hand that hasn’t stopped. They seek each other’s lips as they drink of shared whispers and subdued laughter, of promises of lust and prayers of each other’s names.
They come at the same time, the strength of their climax blinding Tanrak momentarily as he closes his eyes, a mute gasp on his parted mouth and white bliss flooding their fingers and painting their clothes – the navel blue jeans and the crimson cassock. Barth falls on him, his ragged breath tickling his ears and sweat down his temples, but Tanrak catches him with his whole body, grounding them both.
‘Tanrak…’
The taller boy keeps humming his name in his own made-up mantra until their heaving chests settle in an adagio pace. At far, the rotating ceiling fan blades and very faint steps can be heard.
If you exist God, please protect him.
‘C’mon Tanrak,’ Barth gently kisses his forehead, ‘… let’s go do some laundry.’
Tanrak smiles and nods.
Please God, let us stay together forever.