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Chapter Text

            Silas awoke with throbbing pain coursing throughout his entire body, the hurt so great that he could barely tell his limbs from his chest. His body seemed indistinguishable under the blanket of agony, and he knew immediately that this wasn't heaven. He wasn't in heaven--for what kind of Heaven could allow a hurt like this? But he also believed he couldn't possibly be in hell. He'd punished himself over and over for his deeds, obeyed Opus Dei and his dear Father Aringarosa until his last mistake. The last mistake.

            Is that why he wasn't in heaven? Because he'd...because he'd shot the man that had given him... everything ?

            Silas's face twisted into a mask of sorrow and he began to weep silently, unopened eyes spilling tears.

            “I am a ghost. I am…” he repeated to himself through his pain. There was no heavenly light shining down upon him. He had failed himself, but more importantly, his Father. He had —

            “There's no reason for tears. You're awake and you're alive.” 

            The sudden sound of a young man's voice startled Silas into silence. He raised a hand, his left, which didn't seem to hurt the rest of his ailing body as much, and rubbed his eyes, opening them. They met the plain, wooden planks of a peaked ceiling. It was then, despite the pain clouding his mind, that he understood. He wasn't in heaven. He wasn't in hell. Not even in purgatory.

            Silas was alive.

*   *   *   *   *

            After a length of time which Silas spent silent, eyes closed again, wondering if the youth would talk again or if he had just imagined it, he heard the voice once more.

            “Did you...die?”

            He didn't answer, didn't know if he could without vomiting, such was the pain running through his body and his head, the unseen mental agony that was sending thoughts that hadn't crossed his mind for years back into his brain.

            “ Moriste?” Silas guessed it was Spanish. He couldn't speak it. Still he waited.

            “ Es tu mort?”

            Silas could speak that, his native language. He opened his pale eyes again, gazed mournfully at the ceiling.

            “ Oui.”

            “ Tu parle anglais?” 

            Silas forced his head down, then up one single time in a nod. The stranger sighed, perhaps a sigh of relief, and his footsteps sounded softly, walking closer to Silas.

            “Where am I?” Silas prompted first.

            “You're safe. You're in a safehouse.” The man answered, then added, “The police are looking for you. In case you didn't know.”

            “I know.” Silas answered with some difficulty. “Do you know...who I am?” He added warily. Every word was an effort--he was panting by the end of the second simple sentence.

            “No. I only knew that you were in need of help.”

            Silas opened his eyes, feeling worse than before. The ceiling was as bland as he remembered, although now he could almost see a figure hovering at the corner of his vision.

            “You don't care about the sins I've committed?” He asked.

            The stranger was silent for a moment. “I don’t know what sins you’ve committed. All I know is that you have a hole in your side, a graze on your arm and three broken ribs.” His tone was matter-of-fact, but strangely caring. “Not to mention the infection on your leg and the marks on your back. I believe you've more than atoned for your sins.”

            “No.” Silas said firmly. “I've...I've killed someone. It was an accident…” he trailed off, refusing to say more, lest he should be cast out. He could feel the youth studying him, and he tried to ignore it, focusing on the numb, yet burning feeling in his arm, matching the sensation in his side, underneath the strips of cloth around his middle and his thigh. Just the thought of someone seeing his pale flesh, exposed and running red with blood, made him blush in anger. Especially another man.

            “ Unless you're just playing dress-up, you're a man of the cloth. Don't you think God will know it was an accident?” The boy replied. Silas swallowed hard, his eyes raised to the heavens.

            “God knows...I deserve...to die.”

Chapter Text

The boy was shocked into silence, that much Silas could tell just from the boy's sudden quiet. He took the moment to tell the youth what he felt he ought to.

“I deserve to die.” he whispered again.

“No one deserves to die.” the boy said, voice sharp. “Punishment, yes. But not death. We don't get to judge anyone that harshly.”

“What if...what if we judge ourselves?” Silas argued. He could hear the boy’s sharp, exasperated intake of breath.

“We can't. Or else we’re not true believers.” He responded without thinking. The insult wasn't meant for Silas, wasn't meant to be an insult at all, but the albino took it that way.

“How dare you —”

He shifted, moving both his arm and his chest. The pain he had been in before was nothing like what happened then. The agony intensified, too much for him to handle, more than the cilice and more than the whip, more than the impact of the gunshot. His muscles seized and he gasped for air, finding none. It was a vicious cycle; every time he convulsed his wounds screamed, and every time his wounds burned like holy fire he couldn't control the spasming of his muscles. Silas was once a strong, capable man. An angel, his Father Aringarosa had called him. Now he was reduced to a shaking mess. Was this God punishing him further, he asked himself in his tortured delirium.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, trying to fight off the pain by any means he could think of. Namely, prayer.

“Notre Père, qui es aux cieux,
Que ton nom soit s-sanctifié!”

“Arrête!” The young man said loudly, holding Silas's thrashing arms down with all his effort. “Stop! Calm down!”

But Silas was incoherent, dizzy, sick and hurt. He couldn't hear or see. The only thought running through his pale head was God forgive me.

Chapter Text

When Silas awoke from not realizing he'd passed out, his arms were bound with a leather belt. Fresh blood stained the mattress and he was stripped down to his underwear, he realized with horror, now that the sheet was gone.

He was sweating, but shaking with chills. He hadn't felt so feverish since the jail cell, since Father had rescued him and nursed him back to health.

Now Aringarosa...Father...was gone. Dead by Silas's hand.

He jerked as a cool washcloth lay on his forehead, wincing at the pain.

“You passed out.” The boy explained, still out of Silas's line of sight. “I thought you were going to die.”

“Mort...” Silas breathed. His chest heaved and his vision was swimming.

“You're not. I think the worst is over. Just so long as you don't move for a couple days. I had to stitch you up again.”

Silas gave a short nod. The young man sat beside him, in what was presumably a chair.

“What's your name, then?” He asked.

“S-Silas. Aringarosa.”

A pause, and then: “Like the man who was shot two days ago?”

“It's been two days?” Silas said. He struggled to sit up but with his arms bound and barely a working chest he collapsed, breathing strained.

“You're too weak still.” The man said. “Remember how I said you shouldn't move?” The cloth was taken off Silas's forehead, then replaced, soaked with cool water.

“T-two days…” Silas said quietly.

“Yes.” The boy said. “But time doesn't exactly matter at the moment.”

“What does?” Silas asked, mournfully.

The boy gave a small sigh, not unkindly. “Maybe you should be asking more relevant questions.”

Silas's tensed shoulders relaxed a bit, sinking back into the soft pillow. He hadn't felt the luxury of a decent pillow since...he couldn't remember when. So long ago that the downy feeling was foreign to him. The right questions finally came to him after a moment.

“Wh...who are you?”

“My name is Remy.” The young man answered.

“I'm at a safehouse...where?”

“Same place you were shot. We're in the Church of St. Luke. The attic...well, my room.” The man said.

The patron saint of physicians. How ironic. Silas felt sick.

“How did…how did I get here?”

“I found you outside, bleeding on the steps. You were just able to make it up here with me before you passed out. I had to clean your wounds and stitch you up all on the floor before I put you on the bed.” The man was silent, and Silas could tell something was puzzling him. Then:

“Why won't you look at me?”

Silas was silent, not knowing the answer himself. Perhaps it was because he was too ashamed of himself, perhaps because to look at Remy would be to acknowledge that he wouldn't die. Like he deserved to. Was this God's punishment, to give him horrible, suicidal thoughts and then not let him be able to carry them out?

“You're not blind, right?” Remy inquired.

“Non.” Silas said. To prove his point, he turned his head and first saw the small attic room, a bookshelf stuffed with books, a rug across the floor covering a rusty stain — his own blood, he reminded himself with a grimace — a small blanket at the foot of the bed, and a pillow. It hadn't even occurred to the man that he had taken the boy's bed from him.

“If you know how to get blood out of a wooden floor, I'm all ears.” Remy said. Silas finally turned to look at the young man.

Remy's dark eyes met Silas's white ones, kind and soft and gentle. A small smile twitched at his lips.

“Hello, Silas.”

Chapter Text

The boy wasn't quite as young as Silas had thought, perhaps around 18, with pale skin and long black hair tied in a ponytail behind his head.

“How...old are you?” He asked.

“19.” Remy answered. He frowned, looking into Silas's eyes suddenly. “Are you okay?”

“Does it...ah...look like it?” Silas asked, wincing. His heart, he could feel it pounding in his chest, too fast.

“Obviously not. I mean...in here.” Remy touched Silas's pale forehead, dampening the cloth again and trying to return it there. Silas shifted, jerking his head out of the way.

“I'm fine.”

“No, you're not. I can see it in your eyes.”

Remy held Silas's white gaze until the albino shivered, breaking the tension inadvertently.

“I'll be fine. God is with me.” he heard himself saying.

“Well I'm with you too.” Remy challenged. Silas looked at the youth again, a flash of anger crossing his delicate features.

“I'm hiding you, caring for you, and nursing you to health.” Remy said.

“Why didn't you leave me on the church steps?” Silas wasn't sure if he asked with regret or with curiosity.

“Because my job is to help people. I've been helped before, so should I repay the favor.”

Remy lifted his shirt to reveal a hard, white plastic brace around his back. That was why he never leaned over to look at Silas, why Silas had to turn to see him.

Silas's white eyes were intrigued and surprised.

“Are you...trying to be a saint?” He said. His vision was starting to swim and his stomach felt hollow, even with his high tolerance to hunger.

“My...loyalty to God is strained at the moment.” Remy answered.

“It's a shame.” Silas said, staring up at the rafters again. His stomach growled audibly, and he blushed.

Remy stood, using the arms of the chair for support. “Let's get you some food.” He said, starting to walk away.

“Um…” Silas knew he shouldn't ask, knew his mind was in too fragile a state to have self control. “What's...what's wrong with you?”

“My spine is deformed. I was born this way.” Remy explained. “I'm glad it doesn't bother you.”

“Look at me.” Silas said, giving a bitter smile. He met Remy's eyes with his discolored ones.

“I suppose not much bothers you anymore.” The younger man said. “Not with you being...like you are and what with the cilice marks and the whip scars.”

Silas started. Remy snorted.

“I know you're Opus Dei. I might not be devoted to the religion but I am informed about it.” Remy walked away.

* * *

Silas realized he'd been so intrigued by Remy that he'd been able to lock his thoughts away, the bad ones. Now that the distraction was gone they all came flooding back.

“Father...please forgive me.”

Silas turned his eyes skywards and then closed them, wishing he had that cilice back, wishing for the pain and the blood.

“Please, Father.”

He wasn't sure if he was praying to God or Aringarosa, most likely both but it didn't matter. He still felt no better, received no closure. He needed something to alleviate the pain in his mind.

Silas stifled a scream as he strained against his restraints, feeling the stitches in his arm rip, the ones on his side aching and sore. Blood slicked the belt around his limbs. The pain had always been there, throbbing, but it intensified as he pushed again, staring down at the stark contrast of red and white. He prayed the Lord's Prayer over and over again as he felt the stitches in his chest finally give way, the blood dripping down his side.

Chapter Text

“Oh God, Silas!”

Remy dropped the plate he'd been carrying precariously up the steps and ran to Silas, face a mask of anger and concern. The man was barely breathing, already white face now waxy with exhaustion and blood loss. His eyes were unfocused.

“Jesus…” Remy said, shaking his head.

“Watch...your...language.” Silas panted. He licked his dry lips.

“Quiet.”

Remy took the already bloodstained needle and thread from a table near him and started to crudely sew Silas's side again, removing the bloody restraints. The man hardly moved, just gasped for breath, not even flinching as the younger man drew the injured arm towards him and started suturing it, too.

“You're a handful.” The boy said as he finished stitching the wound. “Do not. Rip these off. I'm going to run out of thread.”

He slammed the thread down on the table and dropped to his knees on the ground, falling hard since he couldn't bend very well. Looking over and staving off the dizziness, Silas watched as Remy picked up the fallen items, cleaning the spilled food as best he could. The boy hissed in pain as the hard plastic brace bit into his back.

“I'll get you some more food.” He said after a moment. Silas's stomach twisted with a new feeling he couldn't describe. He supposed it was guilt.

Silas raised his hands to his eyes and willed himself not to cry and pretended he wasn't even as he felt the tears trailing down his face, under his fingers. He had no concept of time as he sobbed, and so he didn't hear the boy reenter the room or set the tray down.

“You've been through a lot.” Remy said, startling Silas. “And I'm sorry for that. But…” he took a deep breath. “But I brought you here to heal you. If you want to kill yourself...then leave.” His eyes were dark with a bad memory. “I've spent too much time trying to save people who do not want to be saved.”

There was a silence as both men waited, Remy for Silas to move a muscle, Silas for Remy to turn him away in earnest. Neither of them did anything.

“You need to eat.” The boy said at last. Picking up the tray again, he sat in his chair and used a hand to push Silas's away from his face. He started to slowly feed the incapacitated man, soup that was plain but good. Silas held out his hand after a few bites, looking towards Remy, who sat back, glad for the break from leaning forwards.

“Is...is the soup okay? I wasn't sure what traditions Opus Dei observed, so it's vegetarian...or, or is that...I probably should have checked.” Remy stuttered, face red. “I'm sorry for…”

“Merci.” Silas said softly, eyes following Remy.

“What?”

“Thank you.” Silas found that he liked the boy — even despite his lack of religion.

Remy blushed harder. “You're welcome…I genuinely want to make you well again, you know. Even though you've been making that awful hard for me.”

“I just...I can't make the thoughts go away.” Silas whispered. He waited for Remy to ask what the thoughts were.

“Then focus on something else.” Remy said instead, like someone who understood what it was like to want to die. He leaned back and looked at the man, looked at his sharp features so in pain.

“How can I? I'm a killer.” Silas licked his dry lips and turned towards Remy, wincing. “Aringarosa was my father. And I...I killed him.”

Remy's eyes widened. “Oh, Silas.” He said, voice quiet. “Silas…”

“Now will you believe me? I deserve to die.” he said, heart pounding, mistaking Remy’s surprise for disgust.

“Silas...Aringarosa lived.”

Silas's whole world seemed to crash around him. He wondered if perhaps he was in Hell after all, and this was his torture.

“Bishop Aringarosa is alive.”

Chapter Text

“Non...”

The whisper slipped from Silas’ lips without him being completely aware of it. Remy looked pitying, brows creased in worry.

“Silas, it isn’t —”

“I killed him. He was dead!” Silas was inconsolable, voice rising to a yell. “Il est mort! Il est mort!” He screamed with such force that he could taste blood at the back of his tongue, he could feel his skin straining against the stitches. His stomach churned with a million emotions, things he’d been without for so long…

“This is a punishment, a delusion from Satan, to punish me for my sins! You are un démon! Un démon!”

He struggled to turn to Remy, eyes teary and wild with the intent to kill, maim, do whatever it took to claw his way from this torment. Remy sat stunned by his bedside, completely unsure of how to calm Silas. His face was a mask of helplessness, and finally he wrestled Silas’s hands down, bound them with the belt so he would not hurt himself.

“I will kill you for this lie!” Silas snarled. He was hardly aware of the burning pain in his chest, his arm, but at length he became aware of something over his white hair, just barely touching the strands. He jerked away from whatever it was, but the small distraction had brought the pain of his wounds back into clarity. He was stopped cold for a moment, gasping for air, and as soon as he was still, even for that few seconds, Remy tangled his fingers in that blinding white hair, stroking it down gently. This sensation was as surprising as anything to Silas — it was unfamiliar, and he lay frozen, wondering when the pain would come. The anger was sapped from him as he wondered when the hand would slap, tear at his head and hair, pinch, scratch, pull just like his father’s hands did in one of his rages.

Silas shut his eyes tight, waiting, waiting for that surely inevitable pain. When none came, just that steady rhythm of the hand in his hair, he began to cry uncontrollably, the suspense before the pain too much for him to handle.

Remy’s face was still a mask of confusion. He hadn't been sure of what Silas would do when he touched him, but he had expected anything but crying. His brows furrowed.

“Silas? Silas, calm down. Calmez-vous. Silas...I’m sorry,” he even tried at length, wondering what he had done.

Silas, still choking on sobs and pain, flinched again as Remy's other hand, his left hand, went to his white arm and took hold of it gently, so gently, rubbing softly with his thumb.

Silas could take no more of this torture.

“Si vous allez me frapper, faites-le!” He screamed, coughing and choking on his tears. The hand at his arm went still, as did the hand on his head.

“Silas!” Remy’s voice was completely incredulous now, but he understood. He took his right hand from Silas’ body, replacing the left one at the albino’s cheek and turning the bedridden man to face him. Silas opened his eyes halfway, still trembling and crying. Remy’s soft eyes met his, as much conviction in them as Silas had ever seen.

“I am not going to hurt you. Ever.” He said, voice soft but hard, almost offended. Silas tried in vain to stop crying.

“I...I cannot live with this p-pain…” he moaned, bottom lip trembling.

“Silas, Silas...shh, calm down. Yes you can.” Remy used the back of his hand to slowly, so slowly, caress the pale man’s porcelain cheek, wiping the tears away. The other hand went back into his soft hair, stroking lightly and toying with the strands. Remy let out a sigh of exasperation.

“You’re bleeding.” He said. Silas said nothing, only swallowed hard. When Remy left to go get more bandages, his cheek felt cold.

Chapter Text

When Remy returned, he was silent. It was only after he’d secured the bandages and pulled a soft blanket around Silas to quell his spasms did he speak. He met the bedridden man’s eyes as he did so.

“Are you okay?”

“No.” Silas answered softly. He looked hesitant, and like he was not finished speaking. Remy waited until he was.

“I’m sorry.” He said. He gazed up at the man with tired, tortured pale eyes. “I thought I had killed my father.”

“Maybe it was divine Providence that you didn’t.” Remy suggested, for Silas’ benefit only. He couldn’t keep the bitterness from showing through.

“Maybe it is a punishment.” Silas responded. He watched Remy as the boy took his seat next to him.

“Maybe we should stop talking about it.” Remy said. Silas seemed uncomfortable, and after a moment Remy spoke again.

“Why does Opus Dei require such self-harm?”

Silas shifted, surprised. He hesitated, and then answered. “Because we must hurt as Christ hurt himself.”

“Would Christ really want that?” Remy said. The question was only half-directed towards Silas, but the man went rigid in defense. He was silent, lips pursed, and after a moment he tried to turn away from the younger man, grimacing in pain and dismay when he found he couldn’t.

“I’m sorry.” Remy’s hand went to the pale arm, squeezed lightly. He stood from his chair with some effort, crossing the room to a miniscule window in the sloped wall and peering out of it.

“I’m sorry that I don’t believe that God is merciful. And I’m sorry that I won’t.” he said. Silas was still quiet; the apparent ease with which the boy said these words stung him.

“I won’t sit here and listen to this blasphemy.” he spat, voice dangerous. Then he took a deep breath, wounds smarting bad enough to elicit a groan of agony.

Remy looked chagrined. He gave Silas a look as if he wanted to say something more, but stayed silent instead. After a moment, he started down the stairs. Out if the corner of his eye, he could see Silas clasp his hands together. A moment later, he heard the man’s low voice start a prayer.

* * *

“I brought something for you.”

Later that night, Remy walked carefully upstairs again, holding something behind his back. Silas tensed, expecting some instrument of hurt, but Remy set the object — it was a book — on the table and bent over Silas, undoing the belt around his arms at long last. His hands lingered on Silas’ wrists, thumb rubbing the irritated skin.

“I’m trusting you.” Remy said, voice level. Silas nodded, looking grave. He lay his hands at his sides gently, and the younger man was struck for a moment with how dignified Silas seemed at every moment, even when lying in bed, wounded.

Turning away, he picked up the book and flipped to a dogeared page, beginning to read.

“If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love —”

“I am nothing.” Silas murmured. Remy looked up.

“Corinthians?” Silas guessed. The smaller man nodded.

“I thought you might like it.” He said. “It was the Father’s favorite chapter.” A flicker of sadness crossed Remy’s face. Silas frowned.

“Where is the Father? Won't he find out about me?”

Remy closed the Bible, sighed. “He...he took ill a month ago. He’s still in the hospital.” Remy’s dark eyes were sorrowful. “I take care of the church.”

“You hold services?”

Remy hesitated, and then shook his head. He gave a wistful smile. “I’m not a priest.” After a moment, he looked curious.

“Can you?”

“I am not a priest either.” Silas responded seriously. “What made you think I was?” He asked on a whim, after an awkward silence on Remy’s end.

“You...you’re very devout.” He said. He said it with such innocence that Silas suddenly felt...loved.

He didn't deserve that.

“I am...tired.” He said, instead of saying anything he might regret. Remy closed the book and stood.

“Get your rest.” He said. Before he left, he turned around once again.

“Silas…?”

In the dimming light, Silas’s white-grey eyes shone like stars.

“I don't want you to strain your arm. If you want to read...let me know.”

Silas was sorry he’d said he was tired.

Closing his eyes, he willed himself asleep. All that happened was when Remy crept back upstairs and kissed the top of Silas’ head, he was awake to feel it.

Chapter Text

Days later, Silas was almost strong enough to leave the bed. He awoke from a deep sleep feeling oddly at peace, his inner turmoil momentarily calmed by some divine hand.

Waking with the dawn as usual, Silas waited for the familiar sound of Remy maneuvering up the stairs with a meager plate of food for them both.

And waited.

And waited.

When Remy still hadn't come, and the bells in a far off church chimed eleven, Silas found himself worrying less about starving and more about the boy. He told himself his worrying wasn't impure — he was simply being caring.

He chose not to think about the fact that he had no idea how to be caring — devoted, yes, but not kind.

Eventually, he decided not to think at all. Silas closed his eyes and tried to sleep again, but he had barely closed his eyes when someone stormed upstairs. Silas squeezed his eyes shut, no longer sure if it would be Remy.

“God damnit!” Something near Silas’s bedside, something on the table there, crashed to the floor and now the bedridden man was sure it was Remy. He opened his eyes, struggling to sit up.

Remy was on his knees, sobbing. His hands were over his face, dark hair hanging in his eyes. Silas’s jaw hung slack in surprise — he had a very specific skill set, and comforting wasn’t it.

“Remy?” He finally got up the courage to speak. “Qu'est-il arrivé?”

The young man wiped furiously at his tears. “Where is your God when you need him?” He asked savagely, voice heavy with sorrow and anger. Silas was silent, taken aback.

“Where is God when someone needs him?” Remy whispered, shuddering with sobs. Silas wasn’t sure, but he suddenly thought he knew what had happened.

“The Father.” He whispered. Remy shook his head.

“Why did God let him die?” He cried, hugging himself. He was wearing a shortsleeve shirt, and goosebumps stood out on his arms. The hem of his pants were wet with morning dew, Silas noticed. He must have run to the hospital without even a jacket on.

“It was his time.” Silas said finally, recalling something Father Aringarosa once said.

“Well it wasn’t exactly ideal.” Remy sniffed. “We will have to leave.”

“What?” Silas half-rose from the bed, but winced and willed himself to be still. His colorless eyes trained intensely on the boy.

“The Father is dead. Mort. There is no one to read sermons, or hold mass. I can’t pay for this church. I’ll lose this place.” He said brokenly. Silas understood that feeling well.

Remy shivered again, and the sudden empathy that Silas felt forced him into action. He found the strength to rise from the mattress, dragging one of the blankets with him and placing it over Remy’s shoulders.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.” Remy said, wiping his eyes with the fabric. Still, he allowed the albino to arrange the cloth over his shoulders.

“You’re cold,” Silas answered, as if this was an explanation. Remy supposed that in his way, it was.

“Thank you.” He said after a moment, wiping his tears although they hadn’t quite stopped. “I’m sorry about you having to leave.”

Silas looked at Remy with new eyes, suddenly realizing what had struck him about the man. In all of this, where a lesser man might have lamented his own position, Remy had only thought about Silas and the church.

“You may not be religious,” Silas started, quiet. “But you are as selfless as any disciple of Jesus.”

He had expected rebuttal, even anger, but Silas was once again surprised. He looked up at the albino with shining, genuine eyes that made Silas’s heart stir. “You may not think so, but that means more to me than you know. Now come on. You’re shaking.” Remy stood and pulled Silas to his feet, their hands lingering in each other’s touch.

Silas was trembling quite hard, and he sat down on the bed thankfully, his leg and chest smarting.

“Well, at least we know you can walk.” Remy observed. “And — merde! I forgot to make you food — Jesus, I’m so sorry —”

“Shh.” Silas breathed softly, just the feeling of companionship Remy brought soothing his anxiety. He sat on the mattress, but did not lay down.

“Remy, do you really want to keep the church open?”

The boy’s eyes flashed furious for a moment.

“Of course. Just because I don’t believe, doesn’t mean —” He took a breath and composed himself. “We have a congregation. People like it here. It wouldn’t be fair to let them down. Or you. Where would you go?”

Silas shook his head. He still felt sick every time he thought too hard about himself — those dark thoughts were always too close to the surface, he reminded himself.

“Ask for donations.” He said. “Use the money to keep the church until you find another pastor.”

“You think people will give us their money?” Remy scoffed.

“Didn’t they?”

“Yeah,” Remy grudgingly admitted. “When we were holding services. Now…” He looked up at Silas, skeptical. “You really think people would help us?”

“I think they would help us...us?” Silas said, taking notice of the word. It sounded foreign on his tongue — starved of affection and family, the concept of being a part of something had never even occurred to him.

“Yeah.” Remy said, blushing but holding Silas’s gaze. “It would help both of us, right? You’d get to stay here. You’d be safe.”

As quickly as the hope had come, it was snuffed out by the albino’s overbearing melancholy. He looked down, studying the floorboards.

“I don’t want you wasting any money for my sake.” He said quietly.

“Silas —“

“Non. I don’t deserve it.” He turned away from the younger man. Remy’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he quickly realized that whatever had affected Silas came from within his own mind.

Carefully, slowly, Remy slid a hand around Silas’s shoulders, pulling him closer inch by inch.

“You don’t think you deserve kindness. Is that it?” He whispered softly. Silas shook his head, trying to pull away from Remy, but it caused him too much pain and besides — he’d never had someone want to touch him before.

“Yes.” He found himself saying. “That’s it.” He allowed the younger man to coax him into a hug, awkward and unsure at first, but growing warm and comforting. Those black thoughts were prominent in Silas’s mind now, and he held Remy tight, as if this soothing contact could chase them away.

“Serre moi.” He murmured, his head resting in the crook of Remy’s neck. “Hold me.”

Chapter Text

After that day, after Remy and Silas had (rather embarrassingly) fallen asleep in each other’s arms, it was hard for them to pretend as if they were just acquaintances. What started as lingering touches, a hand on Silas’s, their fingers just brushing but not fully intertwining, bloomed into caresses on pale cheekbones and Silas’s desperate, virgin kisses. Neither of them thought about what they were doing — if they had, they both might have stopped, doubting their religion and their teachings.

As long as they didn’t think, they could be in love.

Of course, Silas didn't know enough about the emotion to give it a name. Remy knew, but was hesitant. He’d seen too many heartbreaks, even after his time sitting in at weddings and vow renewals. He was too cynical about love to admit he felt it, strongly, for the tortured man upstairs. 

Two weeks after their first kiss, Silas joined Remy in the church for the first time. He climbed slowly down the attic steps, still in pain, and sat in the front pew of the small church. Remy sat beside him, silent. It was late at night, after the church had locked it's doors to the public, and so the younger man helped Silas downstairs and waited for the albino to finish praying softly before speaking. He didn’t lay his head on Silas’s shoulder, or touch him; he knew religion and his sexuality were two very separate things in Silas’s life. But the emotions in him were getting harder and harder to hide each day.

All he said was, “I like you.”

Silas turned that pale gaze on Remy, glancing at the statues and images of Christ around them. “Remember where you are.” He hissed, lips pursed in subtle anger. Remy looked away, embarrassed by his thoughtless outburst.

“I’m sorry.” He said quietly after a beat. “But...can we go upstairs?”

The attic. Remy’s living quarters. The only sanctuary the two men had found. An escape from the judgement of God...in a church. The irony was not lost on either of them, especially in that raw moment.

“I’d like to pray.” Silas said. Remy knew his utterance had made the man uncomfortable, recalled those thoughts of sin Silas repressed every time they were together. He stood.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll be in bed.”

They had shared the small mattress, resting unashamedly in each other’s arms for five days. Remy wasn’t sure whether Silas would even join him, now.

* * *

Two hours later, Remy, who had fallen asleep on top of the covers, heard Silas calling his name softly. He sat at the top of the stairs, looking down. Silas was barely standing, pulling himself up the stairs. He looked groggy; Remy wondered if he had fallen asleep down there.

Silas stared up at the boy, wordlessly asking for help.

“Are you mad at me?” Remy asked quietly.

“ Non.” Silas shook his head, breathing hard. Remy descended the stairs and wound an arm around him, helping him the rest of the way. He let Silas settle into bed before saying anything.  

“You know...the number of times I’ve had to put you into this bed and stitch you up, you’d think you might at least admit you have feelings for me. Out loud.”

Silas looked guilty, as if he could feel God judging him even then.

“I’ve only cared about two people in my entire life. Father Aringarosa, and my mother.”

“Oh.” Remy looked down. Had he been mistaking Silas’s feelings all along?

“But now…” Silas trailed off, studying the spark of hope in Remy's eyes. He exhaled sharply. “ Je suis mieux à exprimer mes sentiments en français. ”

“ Donc dis-le. ” Remy whispered.

“ Je commettrais n'importe quel péché pour toi. Je violerais n'importe quelle loi. Je t'aime .”

Both Silas and Remy caught their breaths. Je t’aime. There it was. An admittance of love that Silas was sure would damn him to Hell.

And for the first time in his life, he wasn't scared of it. Satan had no hold over him — Remy, his protector, his love , would be always right beside him.

Remy had been standing. Now, he dared to sit beside Silas, looking into those pale, soulful eyes.

“I love you too, Silas.” He leaned over, to kiss the man, but Silas interrupted.

“Simon.”

“What?” Remy's brow furrowed.

“That was my name, once.” Silas said. “I just...wanted you to know.”

“Simon carried Jesus’s cross.” Remy said gently. “It seems you both carried heavy burdens.”

“Remy…” Silas sat up, wincing, and leaned immediately into the other man’s arms, into a desperate, relieved kiss.