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Ever since he was a child, Joshua had been taught to put God first. To love Him above all else, to fear Him with the kind of reverence that lived not only in his prayers, but in every small decision, every glance, every breath. His parents had built their household around scripture—mornings filled with Bible readings, Sundays always reserved for church, discipline delivered in whispers that sounded more like sermons than scoldings. And Joshua took it all in, faithfully, wholly, the way good sons do.
He believed. He still does.
But belief gets complicated when your heart doesn’t behave the way it’s supposed to.
Because even as a child, even before he knew the words for what he was feeling, Joshua already knew that something about Seokmin made his chest beat differently. He was just a boy then, too young to understand the weight of his own longing, but already there was something about the way their eyes met that made his breath catch. The warmth that bloomed in his chest whenever Seokmin grabbed his hand. The dryness in his throat when their skin brushed just a little too long during games or sleepovers or careless laughter shared under the afternoon sun.
At first, he convinced himself it was just happiness. That maybe he was simply lucky to have a best friend as kind, as vibrant, as radiant as Seokmin. Someone who never hesitated to laugh, to speak his mind, to hold your arm like he meant it. Someone with a smile that looked like sunrise and eyes that made the world feel smaller, easier, safer. Someone so full of life, it was impossible not to be drawn in.
But the older they got, the harder it became to pretend.
Because Joshua started to notice how his eyes would linger too long. How his thoughts wandered to Seokmin in the quiet moments—when he was brushing his teeth, or standing in church, or lying awake at night with nothing but his heartbeat echoing against the silence. He started to feel it in his body, too, a kind of awareness that curled into his spine whenever Seokmin was near. And the guilt—God, the guilt—came like a storm.
He knew this wasn’t normal. Knew he wasn’t supposed to feel this way toward another boy, least of all his best friend. So he tried to fight it. He avoided Seokmin’s eyes, forced himself to step back when their shoulders brushed, flinched at innocent touches just to teach himself how to recoil. He thought distance would fix it. Thought that if he just made himself colder, smaller, holier, it would all go away.
But Seokmin noticed.
Of course he did.
He always noticed.
And one day, he cornered Joshua after class with a frown etched into his usually bright face, arms crossed, voice clipped with quiet hurt. “Galit ka ba sa'kin? may nagawa ba ako?”
Joshua had no answer. Or none that made sense. He couldn't say, Bakit parang pinag-kakait ka sa'kin ng mundo? Couldn't say, because every second I spend around you feels like I'm one step closer to hell. So instead he said nothing. Let Seokmin walk away confused and disappointed, and hated himself more than he thought possible.
After that, he stopped trying to pull away. Because even if he couldn’t have what he wanted, he couldn’t bear to lose what little he was allowed.
So he stuffed it down. Shoved whatever the hell he was feeling so deep into his gut, he convinced himself he couldn’t feel it anymore. Buried it under routine. Under prayers. Under quiet glances and suppressed smiles and the ache that came with every almost-touch.
Until today that one Sunday night
The walk to the back of the church had always been familiar. Predictable, even. A shared rhythm between two boys who had grown up side by side—Joshua with his polished shoes and quiet eyes, Seokmin with his loose hoodie and loud laughter that echoed too easily through the chapel walls.
It was Sunday night. Mass had ended. The streets glowed with leftover lamplight and flickers of votive candles still burning inside the sanctuary. The scent of melted wax lingered in the air, mixing with the faint musk of rain that hadn’t fallen yet.
They were halfway to their usual spot behind the church when they passed them.
Two boys.
Holding hands. Laughing. One leaned into the other like gravity didn’t apply to them, like the world had nothing else to say. Joshua didn’t even get a good look at their faces—just the blur of happiness, the casual ease of it. That kind of intimacy in public, especially here, in front of the church they had both been raised in?
Joshua’s footsteps stuttered, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did Seokmin.
They just kept walking
Their spot hadn’t changed. Same chipped bench under the old streetlamp, same rusting fence creeping with vines, same leftover warmth from the day clinging to the concrete. It was quiet—comfortable in a way that made Joshua's skin itch.
He sat beside Seokmin, legs stretched out, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He tried not to think about what he saw. Tried not to remember how casually their fingers were laced together. Tried not to feel that strange tightness curling in his chest.
But the thought kept scratching at the inside of his throat. Restless. Sharp.
And then, without fully realizing it, without even meaning to let it escape—
“...Ano kaya sa feeling humalik ng lalaki?”
The question tumbled out before he could stop it.
The silence that followed stretched long and taut, like something hanging over the edge. Joshua blinked. Realized what he’d just said.
Fuck.
He didn’t look at Seokmin. Couldn’t. But he felt him still. Breathing beside him. Alive in the space they shared.
Unlike Joshua, whose only real experience in relationships was with a dog named Toby—his childhood companion, gifted to him at age five with a red ribbon around its neck and more unconditional love than most people ever offered—Seokmin had loved. Had lived. He had dated people. Boys, mostly. Girls, sometimes. Joshua had heard stories in passing, seen flashes of affection in the way Seokmin talked about his past. But he never asked.
Not really.
He remembered the first time Seokmin came out to him. They were seventeen. The sky was pouring. And inside the safety of Joshua’s room, with his knees drawn to his chest and tears welling up in his pretty eyes, Seokmin had clutched at the rings on his fingers like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Ayoko lang na mag iba tingin mo sa'kin..” he had whispered. “Alam ko naman… Aware naman ako sa kung ano ang mga pwede mong isipin pero—ang hirap kasi itago sa’yo.”
“Ang hirap itago sa best friend ko kung ano talaga ako.”
Joshua hadn’t said anything.
Because what could he say?
He didn’t understand the ache twisting in his chest. Didn’t know whether it came from fear, or shame, or something else entirely. Something worse.
Was it because Seokmin was someone he should’ve been condemning? A sinner, by the rules he was taught to follow? Or was it because Seokmin liked boys—had kissed boys—and Joshua wasn’t one of them?
He had no answers. Just questions. Just silence.
Now, years later, that same silence stretched between them.
Until Seokmin broke it, laughing.
Laughed into the night air like it didn’t weigh anything. Like it didn’t carry every unspoken thing between them.
“Curious ka?” he asked, still half-laughing, half-daring. His voice carried its usual mischief, but it was softer around the edges. “Tangina, Joshua. You of all people.”
He turned, probably expecting to catch him flustered, maybe ready to tease him more. But he paused.
Because Joshua was already looking at him.
No, watching him—like someone seeing a painting too long and too closely, like something inside him was trying to memorize the shape of this moment before it passed. Like if he blinked, he’d lose something permanent. And in a way, he already had.
It was the kind of stare you weren’t supposed to catch. Heavy, raw, a little broken around the edges. It was a look that knew exactly how long it had been hiding.
Seokmin didn’t move. He just looked back, the corner of his smile twitching, unsure now. And Joshua—Joshua felt the ache like a second skin.
He should’ve looked away.
He always looked away.
But tonight, something was different. Something was slipping, unraveling inside him like thread being pulled too fast. He could feel it in the silence, in the space between them that used to feel safe and now felt like a live wire pressed against his ribs. He could feel it in the way the air turned thick, in the way his breath shortened, in the way Seokmin’s gaze didn’t push or pull—it just waited.
Joshua tore his eyes away. Looked down at his hands. His lap. The concrete. Anything. Because if he looked any longer, he was afraid he’d say something stupid, or worse—something true.
But the thoughts wouldn’t stop coming.
That he had spent years kneeling in pews and folding his hands and asking God to take this away, but it had never left him. That he had learned to say “Wala ‘to.” like a mantra, like an exorcism, and still found himself drawn to every inch of Seokmin like a tide that wouldn’t let go. That he had sat through sermons that made him feel like a monster, only to come home and replay the sound of Seokmin laughing on loop in his head just to sleep.
All those nights spent praying for clarity, but never once asking himself why God felt further than Seokmin ever did.
Maybe that was the worst part.
Not the sin. Not the secret.
But the fact that in every version of heaven he was promised—Seokmin wasn’t there.
And wasn’t that the bigger hell?
Joshua’s jaw clenched. He swallowed hard, throat dry and burning. The guilt was there, sure. It always was. But it was quieter now. Muted. Like background noise under something louder. Something bigger.
Something that sounded a lot like surrender.
Maybe he was tired.
Tired of silence. Of biting his tongue until it bled. Of smiling through hymns that made him feel small. Of holding his breath whenever Seokmin touched him, even by accident. Of pretending like this wasn't real. Like it hadn’t been real for years.
Or maybe it was because Seokmin was beautiful.
In the way that broke things.
In the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, even as they shimmered with something softer underneath. In the way he never flinched from being seen, even when he was scared. In the way his lips curved—too pink, too full, too real. In the way he wore his queerness like light—unapologetic, warm, blinding.
He lifted his gaze slowly.
And there Seokmin was.
Soft and unsure and impossibly real in the golden wash of the streetlamp, eyes waiting, lips parted like maybe—just maybe—he already knew what was coming.
Joshua leaned in.
Not in some grand, sweeping way. Not like the movies. But like someone finally letting go of a rope they’d been gripping for too long.
And when their lips met—not softly. Not carefully. Not like he’d imagined once or twice (or a hundred times) in half-dreams and silent prayers.
It was desperate. It was clumsy. It was years of denial exhaled all at once into the mouth of the only person who’d ever made him feel alive and terrified in the same breath.
Seokmin made a startled noise, but he didn’t pull away. He kissed him back, hands flying up to Joshua’s shoulders like he was trying to hold on to something that might disappear. But Joshua wasn’t moving. Not this time. His hands tangled in Seokmin’s hoodie, pulled him closer, closer, like it still wasn’t enough, like he could press the sin out of his skin if he just got nearer.
It wasn’t long before Seokmin moved. He shifted, fast and fluid, sliding into Joshua’s lap in one swift motion like he’d done it before—like he belonged there. And maybe he did.
Because Joshua didn’t stop him. He just wrapped his arms around Seokmin’s waist, held tight like a drowning man clinging to the first real thing he’s touched in years.
Around them, the church loomed—fractured saints staring down with hollow eyes, broken halos casting jagged shadows across stone and weed. The place where they had once lit candles and whispered confessions now bore witness to something raw, something unholy, something so beautifully human it hurt.
And God, did it burn.
Because now Seokmin was moving. Just enough to be felt. A slow, testing roll of his hips that made Joshua suck in a sharp breath, made his eyes fly open to meet Seokmin’s.
There was something wild there. In both of them. Something cracking open—hunger, want, a need too long starved.
Joshua tightened his grip as Seokmin rocked against him again, a slow, steady friction that sent heat racing up his spine, left him gasping into the kiss. The layers between them—thin fabric and trembling restraint—suddenly felt unbearable.
“Shit,” Joshua breathed, voice ragged, half-moan, half-prayer.
He was sure he’d burst into flames.
Seokmin just smiled against his lips. “Sarap?” he murmured, teasing but breathless, like he wasn’t entirely in control anymore either.
Their movements grew more desperate, more ragged. Seokmin grinding down with intention now, hands curled around Joshua’s shoulders for leverage, mouth dropping to his neck to muffle the broken sounds crawling up his throat. And Joshua—God help him—bucked up to meet him, chasing friction, chasing warmth, chasing the kind of salvation he wasn’t sure he deserved.
It was heat and sin and the dizzying clarity that he would never be the same after this. That he didn’t want to be.
Because this wasn’t a mistake. It didn’t feel like one.
It felt like truth.
And maybe that was the worst part. That under all the guilt, the shame, the doctrine and the fire and brimstone, what he felt most—more than anything else—was relief.
Seokmin buried his face in Joshua’s shoulder, breath stuttering as his movements slowed, became shallow. Joshua held him through it, forehead pressed against Seokmin’s temple, heart pounding so loud it echoed in his teeth.
When they stilled, when the silence returned—not cold, but warm now, soaked in sweat and confession—they didn’t speak.
Because what could be said?
The sins had already been committed.
The saints had already turned away.
And Joshua—trembling, heart bruised and lips swollen—was already begging for forgiveness.
Not from God.
From himself.
The silence after wasn’t holy.
It was heavy.
It dripped down their skin along with the sweat, clung to the curve of their spines, settled into the cold night air like incense. Seokmin’s forehead rested against Joshua’s collarbone, their breaths still tangled, rising and falling out of sync. Somewhere behind them, the church bell let out a low groan, the kind of sound that didn’t mark time but mourned it.
Joshua’s hands were still on Seokmin’s waist, loose now, more holding on than holding back. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He felt something between exhaustion and mourning, like something inside him had broken open and refused to be patched back up.
Then the tears came.
Quietly. No sound. No shuddering gasps or dramatic sobs. Just that quiet, trembling leak from the corner of his eyes like he couldn’t even stop it if he tried. It wasn’t sadness exactly—it was grief. For every time he’d prayed this away. For every hymn he sang with this love burning in his throat. For all the years he spent pretending God couldn’t see this part of him.
Seokmin felt it and he didn’t even flinch.
He just wrapped his arms tighter around Joshua and tucked his head closer, like he was trying to build shelter from the storm he knew was coming.
Even if it wasn’t his storm to fix.
Even if all he could do was sit in the wreckage with him.
Joshua’s breath hitched as he whispered into Seokmin’s shoulder, voice breaking like communion glass.
“I’m sorry.”
Seokmin didn’t ask why. Didn’t ask what he was sorry for.
Instead, he just said: “I know.”
And held him tighter.
Joshua hadn’t slept.
He lay in bed long after the sky began to change, watching the ceiling peel itself apart with the coming light. His sheets clung to him like guilt. The kind that couldn’t be shaken off with a shower or scrubbed out with soap. Not when the scent of last night still lingered on his skin—sweat, longing, sin.
The sunrise filtered through the blinds in thin, gold slats, slicing the room into fragments. And all he could think was: this is what Seokmin looks like when he smiles. That same color. That same warmth.
He turned away from the window.
It hurt to look.
He got dressed in silence. Pulled the same jacket over his shoulders that Seokmin had tugged on in the dark—not that Joshua would admit to remembering that. Not that he could forget.
The door clicked shut behind him like punctuation.
He didn’t know where else to go.
So he went to the only place that ever promised answers.
The church was quiet. Too quiet.
Even the birds seemed hesitant to sing as he stepped through the side entrance, footsteps echoing too loudly against the marble. Every sound felt like a crack in the stillness, every breath like a trespass. The scent hit him first—old wood, incense, dust, candle wax. Memory. Punishment. Devotion turned sour in the back of his throat.
Every corner of this place was etched into his bones, like a map of all the things he was supposed to be. A son. A servant. A believer. But this time, he didn’t walk like any of those.
He walked like a thief.
Like someone returning something they were never meant to take—but not really willing to let go. His hands trembled, hidden in the pockets of his coat, like even they knew the weight of what he carried.
The confessional sat in the far corner. Shadowed. Waiting. It looked more like a tomb than a refuge.
He knelt. The motion felt mechanical. Muscle memory. Automatic. But hollow. And when he slid the screen open, his fingers felt too far away from him, like he was watching someone else do it.
Now playing “Take me to church” — Hozier
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
His voice came out smaller than he meant. Ragged. Like the words had been scraped raw on their way out—too long buried, now rising from the rot.
My lover's got humour
She's the giggle at a funeral
“Matagal tagal na rin nung huli akong pumasok dito.” He swallowed, trying to keep his voice from breaking, but it was already splintering at the edges.
“Hindi ko po alam saan sisimulan eh.”
He laughed, but it was a hollow, ugly sound. There was no humor in it—just self-disgust, brittle and bitter on his tongue.
Knows everybody's disapproval
“I mean, technically, matagal ko na rin namang nararamdaman ‘to. Pero ngayong lumaki lang ako nung narealize kong hindi tama yung mga naiisip ko, mga imaheng nabubuo sa isip ko tuwing nakikita ko ang kaibigan ko.”
I should've worshipped her sooner
He hadn’t meant to say that part out loud. But it spilled anyway—unfiltered, shame-drenched, searing.
The screen stayed silent. The priest didn’t interrupt. But the silence felt heavier than judgment. Like God was holding His breath.
If the heavens ever did speak
She's the last true mouthpiece
“Sinubukan ko namang ibaon sa limot,” he said. Now the words came sharper. Tumbling out like stones flung into glass. “I tried. I memorized verses. I starved it. Nag dasal ako hanggang sa namamaga na yung mga tuhod ko.”
Every Sunday's getting more bleak
A fresh poison each week
“Sinubukan kong kumbinsihin ang sarili ko na baka—baka kung masaulo ko lahat ng naka-sulat sa bibliya ay mawawala na, matatapos na.”
But nothing had ended. Not the thoughts. Not the hunger. Only the hope that it would disappear.
"We were born sick," you heard them say it
He exhaled through his teeth, jaw tight like he was holding back bile.
“Pero hindi eh. It got worse. I got worse.”
He blinked up at the lattice screen like maybe he’d see judgment already waiting. A silhouette. A flash of divine rage. Fire.
My church offers no absolutes
She tells me, "Worship in the bedroom”
But it was just shadows. Just the quiet hum of a sanctuary that didn’t feel like sanctuary anymore.
“I kissed someone last night,” he said quietly. “Isang lalake..”
The only heaven I'll be sent to
Is when I'm alone with you
There was a pause. His lips parted, but nothing came. His throat felt tight. Shame curled hot beneath his skin.
“No. I didn’t just kiss him, Father. I—” he swallowed, the word catching like a blade. “We didn’t stop there.”
I was born sick
The memories came unbidden. Unrelenting. The weight of Seokmin pressed to him, the tremble of fingers trailing under fabric, breath catching against his neck. Heat. Contact. The way their hips moved like prayer turned inside out.
It wasn’t just desire. It was craving. It was a question he'd never dared ask, finally answered by skin on skin.
“I let it happen,” Joshua whispered. “Ginusto ko.”
But I love it
His voice was smaller now. Fractured. And when the next words left his mouth, they came like a wound splitting open—
“I wanted him.”
Command me to be well
There. It was out. The rot beneath the confession. The core of it. Not the act, but the longing. The willingness. The joy.
His hands clenched in his lap. Nails dug deep into his palms, like pain could make up for pleasure.
Amen.
“Alam ko naman ang turo ng Simbahan. Alam ko kung ano ang dapat kong maramdaman—dapat nagsisisi ako ngayon. Dapat nakaluhod ako, humihingi ng tawad, kaya eto ako ngayon.”
Amen.
But the guilt felt disjointed. Mechanical. Like a ritual performed without meaning. Like he was mouthing lines he didn’t believe anymore.
A bitter smile twisted his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes.
Amen.
“But all I keep thinking about is his mouth. His laugh. His hands on me like I was something worth touching.”
Like he was not a mistake. A shudder crawled up his spine like something inside him was unraveling.
Amen.
“I’ve never felt more alive than I did when I was sinning.”
Take me to church.
And that—that was the real blasphemy.
Not the kiss. Not the heat. Not the sweat-slick limbs tangled in darkness.
The real sin was the ecstasy.
The liberation.
The freedom.
I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
And worse—the ache for more. Even now. Even here, beneath the weight of stained glass and judgment and centuries of doctrine.
He dropped his head into his hands. Breathing like it hurt. Like it scorched on the way out. He felt naked. Flayed.
I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
“Pumunta ako rito na nag babakasakaling mabura ko lahat,” he said. “But I don’t think I want to. Not really.”
Because buried beneath the shame was something else.
A quiet, trembling truth.
Offer me that deathless death
Good God, let me give you my life
He looked up again, eyes shining through the slats. Hope and terror warred behind them.
“Will I still go to heaven even if I like boys, Father?”
Take me to church.
Still, no response. Just the sound of his own voice echoing back at him, thin and unsure, folding in on itself like a prayer lost mid-air.
A long silence passed.
Then, finally — finally — a voice behind the screen. Gentle. Weathered. Human.
“Mahal mo siya, iho?”
Joshua’s breath caught. He hadn’t expected a question. He hadn’t prepared for kindness.
“I…” He blinked. “Opo.”
The priest was quiet again. Then:
“Then your sin isn’t love. It’s fear.”
And that was all.
No absolution. No penance. Just seven words that cracked him open wider than guilt ever had.
Joshua left the booth moments later, vision blurred, skin cold despite the light pouring in through the windows. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, streaking through the stained glass like blood turned into light.
He didn’t feel forgiven.
But he felt seen.
And maybe—just maybe—that was a start.