Work Text:
all the people on the village green
are gathered round their TV screens
to hear the government about to speak
for solider boys and jesus freaks
Graham is waiting for him; and it was hard to suppress the wicked burn in his gut when Damon saw him, heart jumping out his chest violently. Damon, now, is taking the rare chance to observe him through the chapel's tiny windows, gazing at him impassively (or so he hopes, desperately), as Graham shuffles around on the pavement, hands by his sides, glasses glinting in the sun and cropped hair ruffling in the wind, chin held high as the congregation peers at him while they walk past. Damon wonders if they see what he sees.
Damon can feel the arrival of Father Hammond behind him, the slightest shift in the chapel's calm. Nevertheless, he is trapped in a state of suspension, incapable of turning to greet the man - rather, applying himself to staring at the curve of Graham's jaw a little longer, to appreciating the line of his nose a little better. This is Damon's indulgence. A slight cough interrupts him though, and he drops his head onto his hands for a moment, Graham's silhouette burnt into the back of his eyelids, before swinging around, plastering a polite, obliging smile on his face. Father Hammond is clutching a book of hymns and is perched on the pew sitting horizontal with the window. His lips are pursed, eyes kindly but growing considerably wary.
"Now who's that boy, son?" Damon avoids his eyes, vision skidding towards the altar, apologetically, ashamedly, though Damon knows he has nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing Father Hammond can accuse him of.
"His name's Graham, father, and he's my friend." The words slip of his tongue easily, but they've been tailored just for this room. Father Hammond is leaning forward, fingers whitening as they methodically grip and release the book, whilst Damon is pressing himself back against the wall accordingly. Damon thinks about the curve of Graham's jaw, the line of his nose, how the wind ruffles his hair and all the different ways in which the sun can illuminate his eyes, turning them from brandy brown to sinking amber, like panels on stain glass as the sun rises.
"A good friend?" Damon wants this conversation to end already, but he wouldn't dare pray for anything. This time Damon doesn't think about the dusty pews or the suffocating incense, and he doesn't think about the red-lipped cherubs fluttering through stain-glass above his head, the dull, flat yellows and blues, hardly registers the pressing weight of the cassock he's laden with. All he can focus on is the blank gaze of Father Hammond, and the image of Graham burning into his eyelids, overlapping and intertwining, the two joining and for a split second, becoming singular, blurring Damon's vision momentarily.
"A good friend, father." There's a small smile forming on the elder man's face as he slides back into focus, but Damon is preoccupied hiding his hands, sticking slightly to the wall where they've been pressed behind his back painfully, sweat marring the stone. If hiding his sweating palms meant he could hide the rest of himself a little while longer, Damon would cut them off.
"Nothing more then?" This is Damon's betrayal.
"Nothing less, father." This is Damon's indulgence.