Chapter Text
… Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation… – Matthew 6:12, 6:13
“... But deliver us from evil. Amen.” Roughened hands clasp down around the edges of the podium as the prayer closes out, the Priest’s head bowed.
“Amen,” the congregation repeats in unison.
Mass continues like normal, as it always had, and presumably always will. The young Priest keeps his voice commanding and full of conviction, he goes through all the Rites and prayers, and keeps the sheep in his flock in order. In the small sea of heads, he can make out the few, most devout parishioners with tears in their eyes.
Hyakunosuke Ogata’s face remains impassive as he leads the congregation into closing prayer.
If the truth didn’t matter, he would readily admit that he never wanted this. Religion wasn’t his cup of tea, and he felt the concept of God far too vague, and without proof, a folly. No, this wasn’t much of anything he particularly wanted, but it was his mother’s dying wish.
His heart would not let him become anything else, and so, here he was now, through years upon years of training, an ordained Priest.
And, it is not to say that Ogata was completely unaffected by the concept of Faith – there were instances where he would tell himself that what he was doing was asinine, but continue anyway. When things were particularly challenging, he found himself praying quietly under his breath, or idly thumbing the beads on his mother’s rosary he kept on his person. Acts of routine, he would tell himself, no more, no less.
After the cacophony of Peace be with you’s dies down, it is only expected of Ogata to remain in the Sanctuary, exchanging pointless pleasantries, and hearing the pleas of the sinners. To hold such a poker face, to wear a mask of sympathy and understanding has become less a gift, and now a perfected craft.
How foolish it was to put so much stock into this.
All of that is to say, such Sunday mornings were mundane, predictable. That is, until the already small gathering of folks had dwindled down to just a few talking amongst themselves – neighbours, if Ogata had to presume – and an unfortunately scarred young man approaches him with caution.
He’s much taller than Ogata, with warm amber eyes and shaggy mouse-brown hair, a pensive expression worn on his face. His face is marred with ugly scars, and his manner of dress is quite humble – a simple dress shirt and slacks, and an aged navy peacoat.
Another one to beg for forgiveness. The last one of the morning, for now, thank God.
“Father,” the young man greets him carefully, his head dipping in a soft bow.
Ogata’s head lowers just slightly in return, more of an unconscious, mirroring gesture than anything else. He gestures for the young man to continue, making an extra effort to keep his face as interested and empathetic as possible.
“I’m… Really don’t know how to put it…” The young man’s gaze averts, and he scratches at the back of his head. Ogata finds the manner too casual and improper, but he says and gives nothing away of that thought.
“You’re new,” the Priest comments, his head tilting to the side. Now that it has been brought to his attention, he realises now that this is a genuine, fresh new face. More pleasantries… he sighs internally, and holds his hand out for a shake.
“Hyakunosuke Ogata,” his hand is taken and firmly shook. “I pray you’ve found our Church to be welcoming enough to see you return, hm?”
“Saichi Sugimoto, it’s… yeah, a pleasure to meet you, Father… Ogata.” An eyebrow raises, and Ogata nods in confirmation. “I’ve never really been much of a religious man, y’know.”
Who would have guessed.
“You’re seeking assistance with something,” Ogata muses, his left hand slipping under his robes and into his pockets, where he runs his thumb over the beads of the rosary residing within.
“I mean, yeah, sure… something like that.” Sugimoto has yet to elaborate, and, sensing the potential gravity of whatever it is this young man wanted, Ogata gestures for him to walk with him.
“I’ve a few moments. Come, walk the garden with me. It’ll help you get familiar with the grounds here, and, ideally, grant you some semblance of peace.” The last part comes out softer, something adjacent to a joke, but Sugimoto accepts it sincerely.
—-
The garden is something that remains carefully cultivated for the small Church. The pathways are starting to grow over with some moss, and the cherubs and Mother Mary statues remain just about as pristine as they could be after sitting ‘round for years upon years now. Birds chirp their morning songs in the distance, and the ambience in general is overall just ripe for a pseudo-confession. Even Ogata found these little things to be, for lack of a better word in his vocabulary, beautiful.
“Didn’t expect such a little place to have such…” Sugimoto’s voice is quiet, perhaps even a little incredulous if Ogata had to guess.
“We do well to keep the garden well tended to. Nature is perhaps one of the closest things to God’s immediate presence. Peaceful, serene… This is possibly as close to Eden as one could get.”
“Yeah…”
Silence stretches on for a moment, and Ogata finds his teeth setting his jaw tightly in impatience. So it would seem that he has to move this along himself. He opens his mouth to speak when–
“Nothing’s been going right in my life.”
Ogata’s footsteps slow to a stop, of which Sugimoto’s follow suit soon after. The statement is so simple, one he’s heard countless times over, but something about the situation feels so uncharacteristically off – for once, he’s hooked, and curious as to what it was this man wanted.
“Choosing to stand in God’s light whilst facing adversity is a perfect first step to turn your life around.” They always eat this up.
“That’s what I’ve been told. Nothing else is working, so this can’t really… hurt.”
A bird flits by, stopping just a few paces on the cobblestone before the two men to pick at something unable to be seen with a cursory glance before taking off again. Ogata isn’t so sure, suddenly, whether or not to pry into just what is ailing this man.
“... No matter your reasoning, Sugimoto, I can assure you that this is the right decision.” Ogata begins walking once more. In the short distance, the babbling sounds of a fountain can be heard. “You need not do anything drastic, you can start as slow as you need to, but I implore you to be proactive.”
“Don’t know why I thought it’d be as simple as just showing up,” Sugimoto shoots the Priest a handsome grin.
“It’s a start,” he replies, his eyes narrowing by a fraction at the grin.
“Right, yeah. I can just show up–”
“Like today, yes.”
Sugimoto hums, and once they reach the end of the path at both an entrance and an exit, he stops once more. It’s his turn to hold his hand for a shake, and there’s a brief hesitance before Ogata takes it, and offers the same degree of strength in their first handshake.
“I’ll give it a shot, then. Got nothing else to lose, Father.”
Their hands break, and Ogata’s takes a moment before lowering back to his side.
“Then I suppose I’ll see you at Mass next Sunday,” not a question, but a statement spoken to gain either declination or confirmation.
“Next Sunday, then.” Sugimoto offers another slight bow, before turning on his heel, but not without offering a further: “I’ll see you, Father.”
Ogata watches as Sugimoto turns, almost entranced, before the sound of another bird flitting past his ear snaps him out of it. He jumps, but he’s honed his outward emotions well, and the flinch is carefully concealed. He remembers, just in time, that he has to be polite.
“God be with you,” he calls out.
The world keeps turning around Ogata as he mulls over just what force is compelling his intrigue to this lost soul in particular, out of the countless he’s encountered in his years.