Archive of Our Own

AUTUMN

There were no sounds in the early morning aside from the pounding of Marco’s sneakers hitting the pavement as he ran. Long, confident strides moving him forward as he ran up the hills of the neighborhood he now called home. But there was only so long he could run before the whirlwind he so desperately wanted to escape caught up with him, catching him in its swirling winds and carrying him off like leaves ripped from a tree. The strides he took now were so different, so unlike the tentative baby steps he took when he came out to his parents. It took him months to even work up the courage to consider telling them about his partner: a man with whom he broke his vow of celibacy.

He wasn’t a fool, he had no delusions regarding the heartbreak his parents would face but what did make him a fool was his hope, his foolish, stupid, childish hope, that they might accept him. That they might find something within their hearts to forgive their sinner of a son, but forgive they did not.

His mother sobbed at the table, his father red-faced and screaming as his eldest sister ushered the rest of their siblings to their rooms. His mother asking why and how between choked gasps and his father saying he knew it he knew he shouldn’t have allowed Marco to go so far from home for college, that being away from him, his family, his church would turn him to deviancy, and he was disgusted . His father demanded that he move out of the room he rented to him, fearing that his Godless ways may rub off on the rest of his children as his mother silently looked on, tears still streaming down her face. It was painful enough to disown one son and they couldn’t bear the thought of losing another member of their family.

Ever obedient, Marco trudged up the stairs, eyes rimmed with red as he packed his bags quietly. He fit as many of his clothes and valuables as he could in his backpack and suitcases, loading them in his car. Once he got everything in his trunk he drove until the tears that gathered in his eyes made it impossible to see.

He pulled into the parking lot of a nearby strip mall, parked his car, and sobbed, leaning his forehead onto the steering wheel. The light of the Dollar Tree sign seeped in through his windows, illuminating the crucifix he had hanging from his rearview mirror. He would be forced to leave the church, now. His father made it clear when he told him he would contact the bishop and let him know Father Bodt was a Father no longer; a deviant couldn’t be allowed to work in the church, let alone run youth groups. Despite the pain of it all, Marco couldn’t help but agree with pieces of what his father said. Somewhere within him was the seed of sin that the devil watered, tempting him like Job but, unlike the shepherd, he failed. He gave in to temptation again and again and again, and now he was paying the price. 

But there was one thing his father was dead wrong about.

It started much longer ago - these desires - before he ever set foot on his college’s campus. He recalled sitting in the confessional as a child, the priest gently teasing him and asking if he was a good boy for his parents; if he did his homework, ate his vegetables, said his prayers. The answer was always yes but as he aged the Good Father questioned him about his relationships with girls - if he started to gaze upon them as a husband might his wife and he answered no. Satisfied, the priest released him. 

Therein lay the problem - Marco did have impure thoughts, but they were not directed towards girls; rather, his gaze turned upon his fellow altar boys, whose melodic voices curled in his brain and whose touch twisted his stomach in painful knots he didn’t understand. Just a brush of another boy’s hand against his when setting up for Sunday mass stayed in his memory for so long. He never made the connection until the other boys started talking about the girls in their classes with the same longing he felt for their boyfriends.

He sat there, crying and reflecting, for who knew how long. The hours and the minutes melded together in his mind, molten metal on which to immolate his shattered sense of self. He only left when a policeman knocked on his window, informing him that a good samaritan had called because they were concerned about the lone car in the parking lot long after the mall had closed.

“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, shifting his car into drive so he could leave.

There was only one person he could call at this point, and he hoped that he was awake to answer. With a sniffle, he picked up his phone in front of the stop sign.  He dialed the number, sticking it into the mount attached to his vents, and put it on speaker.

“Hello?” Jean’s voice filled the empty void in the car.

Marco opened his mouth to speak, but only a sob came out.

“Marco? What’s going on?”

He cleared his throat, rubbing his fists against his eyes roughly, “I...talked with my parents today…” he sniffled.

Jean stayed quiet for a moment. “It...didn’t go well, did it?”

Another sob. “No,” tears streamed down his face, obstructing his vision, “they kicked me out.” He leaned his head against the steering wheel, pushing forward too hard and too fast, landing against it with a soft thump that only added to the painful ache in his head. “I have nowhere to go-”

“You could stay with me,” Jean replied, cutting off the rest of Marco’s ramblings.

“Th-thank you,” Marco muttered, “is it alright if I come now?”

“Yeah. You always have a place here, y’know.”

“See you soon,” Marco said, hitting the end call button.

It wasn’t a long drive to get to Jean’s apartment complex - he wasn’t sure if he should be proud or ashamed of how quickly he memorized the path to it. At the very least he could appreciate it now for the ease of it all. He wasn’t sure how much thinking he could realistically get done at the moment, not with the last interaction he might ever have with his father looming over him, a pillar of salt casting a cold shadow that made him shiver. He couldn’t look back, the only thing he could do was look forward. 

That was in the past, now. At least some time had dulled the pain and eased some of his hurt. Though the pang in his chest when seeing other, happy families still cropped up, he turned his attention elsewhere to ignore it. They were out in full force, picking apples, carving pumpkins, playing in raked leaves. The envy that gripped his heart when he looked at them embarrassed him. It was so hard to focus on anything else when these negative thoughts plagued his mind like locusts, devouring what little solace he could find in silent moments. 

That’s why he started running. The pain of his sharp breaths and the constricting of his chest competed with the emotional pain, and he found it easier to cope when he focused his attention on the physical; with his blisters and the burning of his lungs at the forefront of his mind, it was easier to ignore just how much he missed coming home . Of course, he was grateful for Jean’s hospitality, for the roof over his head, but he still felt like he didn’t belong there.

Brown leaves crunched beneath his feet, the feeling bringing back memories of holding his mother’s hand and looking for the driest leaves on the sidewalk just so he could go out of his way to stomp his little sneakers on them. Autumn had been one of his favorite seasons, but now the falling leaves only served as a reminder of what he had lost, the connections that had died. Where his eyes were once drawn to the changing colors, swirls of yellow, red, and orange, all he could see was the desolate brown of dead and rotting leaves. It felt fitting, the sight, knowing what happened and how everyone felt about him. Knowing that, for the first few weeks, the only person he had was Jean. A strong gust of wind blew past him, fluttering leaves hitting his heaving chest as he ran harder, feet pounding against the pavement as he approached the steepest hill in the area.

Lungs ablaze, he panted and imagined fire spewing out of them, rising from his mouth and enveloping his tongue; used as heat for the sledgehammers of the truths his father had roared at him as they swung in perpetual motion, pounding against the iron heart of sin that had so tempted him. The crash of metal-on-metal once made him wince, made him want to cower in fear like he always did when his father yelled at him, but he tried to think of it differently. In his mind’s eye, he conjured up a vision of his own heart encased in iron, but this time it served to protect him; the sledgehammers that rained blows upon it strengthened the protective exterior, encasing the tender flesh in armor. The fire, too, changed into the words of encouragement Jean would whisper into his neck, rather than the words of disgust and anger his father threw at him, the ones that he threw at himself.

It was all a matter of reframing, wasn’t it? Taking what was already there and changing your mindset to wrap around it, to cut unwieldy pieces into more manageable bite-sized ones. Just as he could conquer the hill, he, too, could conquer this.

He continued up the hill, rough with rocks and slippery with leaves, and thought that maybe, just maybe, if he could get up this hill then everything would change; that maybe once he headed downwards, aided by gravity, the dust might settle beneath his feet, and he could leave behind the old world he had lived in and begin anew.

Reaching the apex brought him some comfort, but it was quelled just as quickly as it came when the realization hit him as his feet carried him downwards.

Nothing changed as he descended. No feeling in the air around him, no shift in the earth at his feet. It was just the same as it was as he struggled to climb up, sweat dripping down his body. The childish voice in his mind expressed disappointment, but he knew his hopes were nothing but vanity, that nothing lay ahead of him but the dust of his grave. The idea of becoming a handful of dust in the wind no longer seemed quite so scary; to go back to what he once was, earth crafted into some shoddy facsimile of God Himself. He couldn’t help but wonder why it was that he was born at all, if this was the outcome.

His mind raced back to the question of theodicy postured in his courses at university. Perhaps this was just retributive justice and he was now reaping the seeds of sin he had sown, but even then it was difficult to imagine that he deserved all of this. Back then, when he was still an untouched, pure student, it was easy to believe that good was the final goal of ill; that God’s trials were meant to make him stronger. What didn’t kill him was meant to give him strength, but eventually it would catch up with him, wouldn’t it? He lifted his eyes skyward in an attempt to stop tears from forming, looking up at the trees above.

The orange leaves of autumn fell loose from their trees, fluttering down to the street to dry up and die. Dry up like his phone that once often buzzed with texts and calls from family, die like the relationship he once had with his parents, aunts, uncles, siblings, and cousins. His siblings and cousins would sometimes, in secret, reach out to him; they were more open-minded than the older members of the Bodt family. Other than that, there was no contact with the rest of his kin. He imagined the gnarled branches above him were those of his own family tree, whittled down to a single leaf holding onto an otherwise empty branch for dear life.

No matter how hard the leaf held on, the wind kept blowing and he knew it couldn’t hold on forever.

WINTER

Even on the weekends, Marco was an early riser. Though, it wasn’t difficult to feel like one when his partner could sleep late into the afternoon when given the opportunity. He shifted, rolling onto his stomach so he could look out the window while Jean let out a soft annoyed huff at the loss of contact, arms blindly searching for his boyfriend, only stilling when his hands made contact with Marco’s lower back. He knew it had snowed overnight, but he was still surprised at the thick blanket that coated the quiet world beyond the glass. Marco leaned up on his elbows, peering at their end table to see the clock. 7:20. Stretching his body a bit, he scooted back into Jean’s arms, settling between them as his partner held him closer. He pressed his head to his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart and feeling his head rise and fall alongside the gentle breaths of his sleeping companion. Feeling at ease, he went back to sleep with a smile.

When he rose again, hours later, Marco slowly stretched and swung his feet over the edge of the bed to get his day started. Really, he should’ve stayed awake the first time he opened his eyes but Jean was so warm and soft and comfortable that he couldn’t resist. But he had things to do today and he couldn’t spend the whole day curled up in Jean’s arms - as much as he wanted to. His partner groaned again, grabbing a fistful of the back of Marco’s shirt.

“Come back,” he mumbled, eyes still firmly shut.

Marco laughed, peeling his hands off of him. “Go back to sleep.”

He got a grunt in response as Jean let his arm go limp, thumping against the bed.

After that he was free to start his day, stripping from his pajamas and putting on a sweater and jeans before grabbing his laptop and setting it on the kitchen counter. After losing his job at the church, he decided to go back to school and pursue a master’s degree in social work. He still had the urge to help in him, and if he couldn’t do it as a priest, he thought he might be able to make a difference in the world, or, at least, a life, by going into that field.

Marco poured water into the kettle and put it on the back-right burner, turning the heat up to medium and put a sachet of English Breakfast tea into a mug. Jean was not really the type to drink tea, and would often just put a mug of water in the microwave should the urge for a hot drink come to him. Even then, he was more likely to pour a packet of instant coffee into the mug than to steep a teabag. But the thing that surprised Marco the most about Jean’s place wasn’t the lack of kettle - most people he knew didn’t have one - or even the lack of a coffee maker. It was the copious amount of Red Bulls that took up most of the space in the refrigerator. He was never a caffeine person himself, so a cup of tea was all he needed, but he was certain that the amount of energy drinks his partner drank in a day was enough to kill a small animal. Maybe even a medium-sized dog.

He laughed at his own joke to himself, turning away from the stove and towards the window.

The snow outside was no longer the untouched white expanse that it had been that morning. The plows had gone through the street, pushing it into piles that were now turning black and gray with dirt. It was still visually appealing if he were to look in the right places, but it was far less pleasant than the view he got while the world was still asleep. 

A soft sigh escaped his lips as he watched a small group of children throwing snowballs together, laughing and screaming in the streets. A sight that once brought him joy only reminded him of what he was missing. He loved waking up early to watch the morning snow with his younger siblings, taking them outside knowing he would be pelted with snowballs the moment they could wrap their little hands around clumps of snow they scooped off the ground. They always apologized for the onslaught by letting him place the hat atop the snowman they would build together - the final piece and, to their minds, the greatest honor. And then, after that, he would go inside with them, helping them strip out of heavy winter gear and into warm pajamas. They would watch Christmas movies together, sipping on hot chocolates and munching on grilled cheeses their mother made them. 

What he wouldn’t give to -

He was torn out of his wistful memories by the whistling of the tea kettle. He poured the hot water into the mug with a sigh, watching the tea steep. How unpleasant it was, to watch the brown curl out from the teabag, ruining the pure water around it. While it steeped he grabbed the carton of milk from the fridge and poured that in as well. Jean always asked him why he didn’t just bother drinking a glass of milk if he was going to put that much in his tea. The thought was enough for him to turn the corners of his lips up slightly. 

He brought the mug to his lips, imagining the taste of hot chocolate.

--

A taste he didn’t have to imagine was that of Jean’s tongue on his and he relished in the feeling. His partner’s hands danced across his body and when Jean broke the kiss to nuzzle and bite his way down his neck Marco opened his eyes, looking out the window once again. It had been several days since the initial snowfall and the once pure, white sheet was muddied and dirtied, brown slush in the streets that represented nothing more than an annoyance. An eyesore. What was once untouched and serene was now dirty and disgusting. He couldn’t stop the tears as they fell from his eyes. 

Jean ripped away from sucking dark marks into his shoulder to kiss his forehead and cup his face in his hands, thumbs brushing the tears from his cheeks. “I’m sorry, baby,” Jean breathed.

Marco squeezed his eyes shut, imagining himself, once virginal and pure, ruined by another’s touch. He felt like the chewed piece of gum the nuns said the girls would become if they let a man touch them: used up and disgusting. Something nobody could ever want. So much of his life was dedicated to remaining celibate in the name of the Lord, others often commenting on how admirable it was that he abstained from women not knowing how easy that aspect was for him - it was their husbands he longed for. Even aside from that, the constant praise for his celibacy became an integral part of his being; part of his identity was irrevocably tied with his sense of purity and now that Jean had known him, there was no going back to who he was before. The man he was before no longer existed; that Marco was a handful of dust, dark specks on an otherwise beautiful landscape. 

Chewed gum on the sidewalk, snow turned to slush and blackened with dirt, a priest cornered in a confessional...it was all the same, wasn’t it? 

It wasn’t uncommon for him to burst into tears while he was with Jean early on in their relationship, but as time passed he melted into his touch; yet the image of the dirty snow reawakened a shame he thought he had grown past and poured contempt on his slowly burgeoning pride. It felt like every time he was coming close to accepting himself, realizing that it was safe to be who he was, there was something there to knock him back on his knees, begging for forgiveness from God, from his parents, from whoever would listen to him. His choked-up apologies usually fell on Jean’s ears, spilling unrehearsed from his lips in a desperate attempt to find some scrap of solace.

Despite his search, he never seemed to find it.

Jean was always patient, stopping and buttoning his shirt back up the moment his boyfriend seemed uncomfortable or even slightly less responsive than he typically was. He rubbed Marco’s back as he hugged him and buried his face in the crook of his neck, sobbing soundlessly into his skin.

“Who gives a shit,” he always had a rough way of speaking, “it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, as long as you’re happy.” Jean ran his fingers through his own hair, letting out a shaky breath. “And you are...aren’t you?” His voice was quiet, strained with the anxiety of hearing an answer he did not want to.

Marco swallowed, wrapping his arms around Jean even tighter. “I am, I am,” he sobbed out, “it’s just so hard sometimes.”

They held each other until Marco’s shaking breaths quieted into the gentle, even breathing of sleep. 

When he woke up the next morning, he craned his neck, looking at Jean’s sleeping face. His perpetual frown did not adorn his lips, replaced by a slack jaw and a slightly open mouth, a thin line of drool dripping down his chin. Marco pressed his lips against Jean’s cheek gently and brushed a stray lock of hair behind his ear. He was so lucky to have someone so patient and handsome, and he was happy to call him his boyfriend. Just looking at him evoked the gentle crackle of a fireplace as it warmed his palms and melted away his sorrows. He knew he could always count on Jean to warm him up, no matter how cold he got.

The sun that shone through the blinds of the window was another source of warmth he knew he could rely on. One day winter’s cold grip on the sun would end, the golden beams no longer leaking through gaps between its fingers, and the traces of the filthy snow would melt away as a new day began. Until that day came, he could lean on Jean; one man alone would freeze, but two together could share warmth between them. He pressed his lips against his jaw, moving down to his neck and placing one final kiss against his collarbone. 

Kissing Jean didn’t taste like hot chocolate, but it was good enough for him.

SPRING

The verdant green of spring’s blooms cropped up, slowly but surely, after the harsh winter. The turn of seasons slowly dulled the sting of pain in Marco’s chest; a reminder that time marched on and that he wasn’t frozen anymore, just like the blades of grass that had peeked through the snow at the tail end of the previous season. Things were so different now than they had been a year ago. It was about this time Jean had cornered him in the confessional, ravaging him the way the faceless, nameless man in his mind did ever since he was a teenager.

Jean asked him once if he regretted it. If he had asked him right after it happened he would have said yes, yes with all his heart he wished he could take it back just so he could stand tall and proud before his parishioners, the words of the prophets falling from his lips - gentle drops of a spring rain over parched grass. Saturday nights of Jean laying his hands on him in his car became Sunday’s remorse, which was never fully eased by his trips to the confessional of another congregation.

But it was different, now. 

The tumultuous thunder Jean’s presence brought into his life no longer carried the scent of ozone and terror, but of the comfort of heavy raindrops pounding on the roof, lulling him to sleep; low rumbles of thunder whispering da, da, da. It wasn’t a lapse in self-control at all - he gave to Jean, as he gave to him as well, the two of them holding more compassion and love for each other than Marco had ever experienced before. 

He told Jean no, he wouldn’t take a moment of it back because he loved him. He was growing to love the life he had now, even though it was so different from the life he had before. His richest gains came from his biggest loss, and he found his heart fuller now than it had ever been before.

He turned the question back to Jean.

His boyfriend looked back at him with shock for a moment and agreed; he wouldn’t take it back either, but not in the way Marco would have expected. He thought that there was nothing to take back at all - the happiness Marco had brought him after a long while of loneliness came to him at just the time he needed it. Jean shared these pleasantries with pink across his cheeks, not out of embarrassment but out of vulnerability, the kind it seemed wasn’t easily shared but was so honestly spoken.

The spilling of seed had changed so much, from the landscape of the world around him to the trajectory of his very life. Seed spilled from packets or hands - no matter where it came from, it was the same in some form. When he first kissed Jean, he imagined the acrid taste of poison on unclean lips, but that all changed once he allowed himself to find the grace in his lover’s lips; now it felt petal-soft, dripping milk and honey; reminiscent of the sweet flowers girls twisted into crowns and necklaces to adorn themselves for their beloveds.  

Marco grasped Jean’s hands in his, pulling him closer so he could press his smiling lips against his boyfriend’s. If the flower of affection that bloomed in his breast grew from the seed of sin then Marco would gladly go to Hell. 

At least, that’s what he told himself before he gathered up the courage to set foot in another church. Hitch and Marlowe, Jean’s friends who had quickly become his own, urged him to try attending service at a local Methodist church. That denomination, according to them, had a much more LGBT-friendly stance than the Catholic church, and they thought he might like to reconnect with his faith.

“If it was strong enough for you to become a priest,” Marlowe reasoned, “then it must be important to you, right? It wouldn’t hurt to try.”

It was nerve-wracking to set foot even on the courtyard outside of the church. The host of golden daffodils that peeked out between hearty shrubs might have seemed welcoming to anyone else, but to him, it felt like the yellow of a streetlight - asking him to slow down, stop, and consider just where he was going and what he was doing. They fluttered in the breeze, but he couldn’t tell if they were beckoning or mocking him. He swallowed, bunching his hands into fists, and opened the doors.

He underestimated just how good it would feel to be back in the pews, listening to another man of the cloth read God’s word, how wonderful it was to sing alongside other parishioners to the hymns he still knew all the words to.

It took Marco three weeks of attending service to gather the courage to approach the pastor, a tall, broad man with impeccable blond hair and soft, blue eyes. Pastor Smith still intimidated him, but he couldn’t help the twinge of guilt that still had its roots in his heart. He wasn’t sure if he belonged here and felt that it would be better to nip that in the bud now; if he were not wanted it would hurt less to be uprooted now than after he settled further.

Marco stayed behind until the others left the chapel, leaving only him, Pastor Smith, and the children’s group in the building. Taking one final, deep breath for courage, he slipped out from his seat in the pews and walked towards the front of the church.

Pastor Smith looked up from his open Bible, giving Marco a warm smile. “What can I do for you, my child?”

He stood before him, looking up at him from the lower part of the floor before his podium. “Pastor...I’ve really enjoyed attending your service, but,” he swallowed, preparing himself for the worst, “I’m not sure that I...belong here.”

“Why is that?” His head tilted slightly to the left.

Marco curled his hands into fists, the nails digging into his palm. “I..used to be a Priest.”

“Are you Catholic, then? Our doors are open to anyone whose heart is open to Christ.”

“Yes, I...” he paused, “ was Catholic,” he willed his lower lip to stop quivering but it seemed to have a mind of its own. “I was Catholic until I stopped pretending to be someone I wasn’t and now my own family can’t stand to look at me, I haven’t heard from them in months - almost half a year.”

The pastor stepped down from the platform, standing level with Marco. He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.

“The church was my life, Pastor Smith, but I can’t go back, I can’t show my face there. I was excommunicated, I came out to my parents. I’ve always been interested in men, for as long as I could remember, and I always knew feeling any sexual attraction was wrong, but this was worse because I’m gay,” he breathlessly babbled, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, “and now that my parents know that my partner is a man they want nothing to do with me, they outed me to the Bishop which I honestly can’t blame them for, but I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye. Not to anyone, not to the clergy, not to the kids in my youth groups, not to my parishioners.” He looked down, squeezing his eyes shut as tears fell from them, dropping onto the floor. They splattered, spreading out across the floor in disconnected puddles with arms that reached out, desperate to become one again. “I can’t go through this again.” His voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

Pastor Smith’s hands clapped over his shoulders. “What’s your name, son?”

He sniffled, answering with a barely audible reply of “Marco.”

“Well, Marco,” he gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze, “You see that man over there?” He gestured towards the children’s group where a small, black-haired man held two puppets, both with leaves adorning their body, and made them dance around a wooden apple for an audience of children who laughed and shrieked in delight. “That’s my husband, Levi.”

His eyes popped open again. He raised his head following Pastor Smith’s arm to look at the man he was gesturing towards.

“You mean, you’re…”

A nod.

“And...that’s allowed? You’re allowed to be…” 

Pastor Smith gave him a warm smile. “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things, there is no law.”

Marco rubbed the sleeve of his dress shirt across his cheeks, feeling more like a child than he had in a very long time. “S-so I can stay?”

“Of course you can,” Pastor Smith removed his hands from Marco’s shoulders and stood next to him, placing one hand on his back, “I have to prepare for the afternoon service now, but you’re more than welcome to come and chat another day.”

“Thank you, Pastor.” Marco turned around to leave, but couldn’t resist the urge to look over his shoulder, watching the pastor lean down to whisper something in his husband’s ear, as the children put the toys away, and planted a small kiss on the top of his head. He opened the door, stepping out onto the church’s manicured lawn.

Somehow the shrubs and flowers seemed more lively, more bright and colorful under the light brought on by acceptance. They had been inviting him in from the beginning, that much was clear now. He had come into the church that day fully expecting to be politely asked to leave and never show his face there again. The image of bright, yellow daffodils flashed in his mind again, no longer in a pensive mood. 

Christ had come to save the sinners, of that Marco was sure, but...what if he wasn’t a sinner at all? At least, not for the reasons he thought he was. Pastor Smith was allowed to practice and his husband worked there, too. His husband ! The very word coated Marco’s tongue in a sweetness that he had never before experienced, nor one he ever expected to.

He cried again; this time it wasn’t in shame, but relief. He always thought that God's love was agony; constant tests and suffering to prove your righteousness and devotion. It was so hard to fathom love without pain, without discipline, without punishment that he didn't know what to do when he received it - whether it be from Jean or his new pastor. But it was something more, now. No, it was always something more, something beautiful and pleasant and worth finding and cherishing. Something worth fighting for. 

He could finally feel it again, his faith growing strong and beautiful like shrubs and golden daffodils outside the church, and knew he found another place he could call home. 

SUMMER

“Hey, watch where you throw that thing!”

Marco couldn’t help but laugh when a nearby group of teenagers accidentally hit Jean in the face with their beachball. He was convinced that his boyfriend secretly hated the beach, only going because he loved him and there was nothing Marco enjoyed more than sprawling out on a towel as the salty breeze rolled in, the gentle coming of the waves providing background noise to nap to.

“Don’t mind him,” he told the teens, tossing the ball back towards them, “he’s always grumpy.”

“Easy to say when you’re not the one getting a ball spiked in your face,” Jean huffed. He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling at the ocean. He always stayed firmly planted beneath an umbrella when they went out. His pale skin often burned in the sun, which was disastrous when coupled with his tendency to forget to reapply his sunscreen.

He chuckled again, shifting so he was next to Jean under the umbrella and wrapped his fingers around his boyfriend’s. His eyes followed the teenagers for another moment, but, as he was about to turn back towards Jean, he noticed a family playing in the sand nearby. They looked so happy, a baby intently shoveling sand into a bucket as their mother leaned over them, no doubt crooning about what a lovely job they were doing. It was then he realized - seeing this picturesque moment shared by a happy family no longer brought him pain. He was happy; happy to bask in the golden rays, like the host of daffodils outside the church, happy to see others simply enjoying the day as he did. Seeing them no longer left a pang in an empty part of his heart; where he once felt poverty, he now felt rich Rich in happiness, in love, in luck, in, well, everything. In fact, no part of his heart felt empty anymore. 

Not wanting to further intrude, Marco turned his gaze to the azure sea before them.  

It was just as blue as the water he was baptized in for the second time; standing beside Pastor Smith on scraps of carpet and towels next to a small blue tub. The pastor was reciting scripture next to him, but it was hardly more than a low hum in the back of his mind. He could barely hear the words over the sound of his heart thumping wildly in his chest like a bird fooled by the false azure of a windowpane, flying over and over into it in hopes of finding freedom. Some nervous part of him wondered if the azure water before him, too, was an illusion; that he might bounce right off of it the moment the Pastor dipped him backwards into it.

“Are you ready, Marco?” Pastor Smith offered him a warm smile.

He nodded, stepping into the tub and slowly bringing himself down to sit in it as he brought his hand to squeeze his nose shut between his thumb and his index finger.

To his great pleasure, Marco did sink into the water as Pastor Smith dipped him in.

He rose from the tub as a new man. When the water dripped down his face and into his mouth, he thought it would taste bitter, like wormwood in the river, but found it tasted like nothing. It was fresh, like a new beginning, like a blank slate. The taste only changed when the tears that ran down his face dripped past his lips, leaving salt on his tongue that cleansed away the grip of guilt on his palate.

Other parishioners came to him to offer their congratulations and to welcome him as a member of their church, but the only one who mattered to him then was Jean.

Marco smiled, bright and wide, at him, unable to contain the happiness that was welling up within him. He stepped towards him, reaching his hands out to grab Jean’s. 

His boyfriend took his hands in his and said -

“Those fucking kids…” Jean’s grumbling snapped Marco’s mind back to the present.

He smiled warmly at his boyfriend, lifting his hand to his lips to plant a small kiss on the back of it. “Do you wanna keep moping, or do you wanna go swimming?”

Jean made a big show of rolling his eyes and huffing, “fine, but only because I love you more than I hate the beach.”

Marco smiled and laughed, rising to his feet and pulling Jean up to his, too.

Jean was the type to float on his back, carried wherever the waves may take him, as Marco leaned on his chest, treading water beside him. He had thought of Jean as an island, his sole source of stability while he was surrounded by an ocean of uncertainty, but he came to realize that wasn’t true at all. Jean was just one piece of land, like him, like their friends, like their families, who all joined together to form one continent. While the ocean slowly eroded at the shoreline, stealing away clods of dirt and sediment, it transformed the landscape from familiar scenery to something entirely new. Perhaps it was missing some of the steep and lofty cliffs Marco was so used to, but the land was still his home. The water carried so much away, but it, in turn, washed ashore so many people and experiences he now cherished.

His entire life, to this point, had been a dance that was controlled by the lengths of his father’s arms. But here, in the sea with Jean, nothing was forcing him this way or that way. Only the gentle coming of the waves lapping at the two of them, both free to enjoy the world and their time together for what it was - not what it could or should be. Marco gazed outwards, the infinite spread of the ocean meeting his eye as the sun beat down on him. His former heart would be full at the sight, the feeling of warm love that radiated from Jean and all of the friends he made along the way. The crash of waves against the shore drowned out the still, sad music of his past. He was no longer a man who flew from what he dreaded; he was one who sought the things and the people he loved.

Jean’s presence brought on so much more than Marco ever would have imagined from their initial encounter. From him, he felt the cloying sweetness, the burning warmth, and heard the sweet songs that inspired other holy men before him. It always seemed so far-fetched, over the top, and dramatized to Marco until the moment he experienced it for himself.

He once thought himself weak for his inability to embrace the world and not want to keep it, to have and to hold it all for himself. But now he knew that wasn’t the case; he was made in God’s image, with a heart meant for love. To give and to receive that love was not something that would shame him any longer.

And the sea billows rolled, not like sorrows but like the promise of something new.

AUTUMN

The brown leaves on the ground crunched under Marco and Jean’s feet, as the breath of autumn’s being blew, driving them away from the couple like ghosts. The leaves were dead and dry, dead like the thoughts that once rattled around Marco’s head like skeletons dancing in a closet, dry like the well of uncertainty that once took residence inside of him. Things weren’t perfect; it wasn’t like some magic wand had passed over him and mitigated all of his worries, but things were better and continued to improve the more the days went on.

He couldn’t believe another year had passed so quickly. It felt like he had blinked and suddenly autumn was here again, swirling, living hues of orange, red, and yellow adorning the once green trees. Running up hills and praying that something in the wind would change didn’t help - what did was spending time with Jean and all of the other people he met on his journey towards self-acceptance. Those thoughts still flitted across his mind, not in earnest but as a reminder of just how far he had come from those days of longing to be nothing but dust in the wind. 

It comforted him to know that he was in an entirely different place now than he was then. It wasn’t always smooth sailing - overcoming years of being taught so much of what he was doing was wrong was no easy feat - but he made so many great strides towards being the man he always wanted to be. Maybe his life didn’t take the same form as he once imagined, but, oh, it was so much sweeter than anything his mind could have conjured up.

He wanted to turn to Jean, tell him how much he adored him and how happy just being in his presence made him, but the other man spoke up first.

“Friendsgiving is stupid,” Jean muttered, and Marco could practically hear his eyes rolling.

“I think it’s cute,” he replied.

“It’s just a fucking dinner party and I’m telling her that.” He stared intently at the store-bought pies he was carrying.

Marco laughed. “Don’t get her too riled up,” he requested, shifting the containers of green bean casserole and macaroni and cheese they made to free up his hand to knock on the front door.

He found that wasn’t necessary, though; Hitch was at the window and immediately moved to let them in, greeting the two with a hug and ushering them inside. 

“You can put the food in the kitchen! Everyone else is in the dining room already,” she placed her hands on the smalls of their backs, pushing them towards the other room.

They dropped the food off where Hitch requested, then followed the sound of laughter and conversation to find out where the dining room was. 

When they entered, Marco took a moment to survey the room. The table was full of all the friends he had made over the course of the year, an air of levity warming the room as they turned to greet him and Jean. It felt so different from Thanksgiving celebrations with his parents, but in an entirely pleasant way. With them it was so prim and proper, each member of the family sitting board-straight in their seats, holding hands and saying grace. If any of them so much as looked at any of the plates on the table for more than a second, their mother’s wooden spoon would crack across their knuckles.

The thoughts of his family, his former life, still twinged with vestiges of a pain he yearned to no longer feel, but the logical part of his brain knew that he would never fully be free. What he could do, however, was allow himself to feel his feelings - to embrace them for what they were rather than chasing them to the back of his mind where they would compact into one horribly unpleasant emotion; something heavy and black that he never learned how to lift himself. He was grateful not only for Jean, but all the others who had helped him along the way. If not for them, he wasn’t sure if he would’ve been able to make the great strides he had.

Sasha patted the empty seat next to her and her boyfriend, a man named Niccolo Marco had only heard of. “Come sit with us!”

Before Jean could make a snide comment about how those were the only two open seats at the whole table, Marco took his hand and sat next to Annie, a taciturn woman who seemed to be the exact opposite of Hitch. He supposed opposites did attract. He and Jean could be considered a testament to that as well.

Jean took the seat next to Sasha as Hitch and Marlowe started putting the food down at the table.

“Now that someone finally got here, we can eat!” Hitch winked at Marco.

Marlowe put a large platter in the center of the table, pulling the cover off with a flourish. “We’ve got turkey, ham, and nut loaf. This should hit everyone’s dietary restrictions.”

As everyone started to dig into the various dishes before them, Hitch stood at the head of the table, tapping a fork against a glass.

“Before we start, let’s have a quick toast! Thank you all for coming, Marlowe and I are so, so, so happy to see all of our friends here! And even more grateful that all of you brought something to eat - even the ones who bought pre-made pies,” she shot Jean a glance at that last remark. “Anyways! Blah, blah, blah. We love you guys! Happy Friendsgiving!”

Perhaps Marco was so intently focused on his own suffering, drawing parallels between himself and Job, that he had forgotten just how The Book ended. When Job emerged from the tunnel of his trials God had blessed him with twice as much as he had before. Nothing was the same as it had been, but what he was left with was good enough for him. Better, even.

“Friendsgiving is a stupid name,” Jean retorted, a scowl on his face.

“And so is Jean ,” she pronounced it closer to Gene, “but you don’t hear me complaining.”

“Just call it a dinner party.” He plopped a spoonful of mashed potatoes on his plate, eyes crinkling in a mix of laughter and feigned annoyance.

Even with a scowl adorning his face, Jean was still beautiful to Marco; once he let go of the bitterness, the confusion, he could see his love in all his glory. This was just as much a pilgrimage as it was listening to the longing of his soul that he had suppressed for so long, for as long as he could remember. Jean had tugged his hand, dragging him up the hill before them and the sight of his visage and the love he graced upon him gave him the strength to continue, even though he still had days where he wanted to do nothing but lay in bed.

The bitter winds of winter would come again, but, when they came, he knew he could delight himself in the warmth of Jean’s love.