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A calm, pale moonlight washed over Pity, soothing the sleeping town in a peaceful quiet. The gentle lapping of waves against sandy shores drifted through the air, but other than that and the occasional howl of a far off coyote, the streets were silent.
It wasn’t unsual for the preacher to be up deep into the night. He found that he worked best when he was alone. He hadn’t slept in days now, and the night was at a slow enough pace that his sleep addled mind could stumble its way through his never ending to-do list effectively enough. Honestly, if the preacher was truly honest with himself, he didn’t know why he hadn’t let himself rest. The walls of the church stood proud and sturdy, all the pews, shelves, and floors had been cleaned at least 4 times over, every book was perfectly organized, and every candle had been turned to a fourty five degree angle. It wasn’t like it mattered if you weren’t intensely focused on which way the wick crumpled when burnt, but unluckily enough for the preacher, he was. Maybe poking at the imperfections he’d make up would keep his racing thoughts from breaking through the dam he’d so meticulously built up in his mind, or perhaps he was afraid of running a church like this. He hadn’t had to deal with the Word since he was a little boy, and every candle wick out of orientation mocked his façade. Ren swallowed and turned his head away from the like of candles set on top of the organ, leaning against the podium and letting his head droop. The darkness that surrounded him felt like a blanket, and he could almost hear his bed calling for him. Its whispers were the most intense temptation he’d remembered facing in his life, so close to not bothering to even blow out the flames around the church, collapse into the sheets, and not wake up for the next week. His shoulders had just begun to relax—not by choice, but more so because it felt like weights had been placed on his spine. Ren let his head dip further, leaning most of all his weight upon the creaking wooden lectern. His mind had just begun to fog, glasses slipping from his weary eyes, when the front door of the church was shoved open.
Ren felt his soul leave his body momentarily as he shot back up straight, hands flying to push his glasses back on his face. “In the name of the Word-!” He exclaimed, blinking the blur out of his eyes as he frantically looked around for a shape to focus on. Then, a quiet burst of familiar laughter hit his ears, and the preacher found himself relaxing before he could even try and ask himself not to.
“Howdy, preacher.” Sausage, the man who’d entered so suddenly, chirped with a grin that could give Ren a heart attack. It wasn’t necessarily something he meant to memorize, but the way Sausage’s lips quirked upward just a little more to the right, so perfectly imperfect, had branded itself into his mind. Ren was already more than shy about that, and so he definitely wouldn’t mention how he’d thought of counting every line on Sausage’s face, asking where every scar or knick came from, prodding to hear the joyful tales that left those bewitching laugh lines. It wasn’t something he thought of often, but it wasn’t rare either, and the way Sausage managed to slot a key into his heart and click open the lock so swiftly scared him. It scared him in the way you’d fear the peak of a rollercoaster, that antsy rush that has you scrambling to the back of your seat but with an ear-to-ear smile plastered on your face. That’s how Sausage scared Ren, in the way that got him giddy for another round of adrenaline.
“Preacher? Are you tired? Hello?” Sausage called with a cock of his head, waving a hand obnoxiously in front of Ren’s face. As much as he wanted to groan and knock it out of his personal bubble, Ren definitely did need the call back down to Earth. The preacher cleared his throat and pushed himself upward, still leaning on his wobbly arms.
“Apologies, Mister Sausage, I was lost in thought. What purpose do you have in the church of the Word at such an hour, child?” Ren asked, trying to subtly shift and stretch his body. That ounce of sleep he’d teased himself with had ruined his whole momentum. The backs of his eyeballs ached, and he had to bite back a yawn every other word. Pull yourself together, thought the preacher, if only until Sausage leaves. Speaking of which, Sausage’s eyes narrowed just a smidge, and it felt as if Ren had just been looked through. He felt his heart stutter in his chest. It wasn’t fair.
Sausage slipped into the isle seat of the pew in the front row, crossing on leg over the other and tilting his head to look up at his preacher. He shrugged his shoulders with small hum. “I saw that the lights were still blazing in here, and I wanted to see if you were available?” Sausage batted his eyelashes innocently, and Ren had to bite his tongue to suppress a snort. It always got at least a smile out of the preacher when he did that, and judging by the glimpse of softness that Ren caught in his smile as he looked elsewhere, Sausage knew that too.
“Well, Mister Sausage,” Ren began with all the stoicism he could manage, “Confessionals are on Wednesday, sermons-“
“-Are on Fridays, I know.” Sausage cut in with a warm and sincere chuckle, “I’m not here for either. I just wanted to see you. In the church obviously, because you’re never free for a drink.” Sausage paused, “You’re not free now, right? If you are, I’d love to treat you.” He spoke with too much eagerness than Ren’s poor heart could take. That sparkle in his eye had the preacher wondering if the Saloon was open now (or even if it wasnt, if Graecie would be kind enough to make an exception to a late night escapade), but all he could respond with was a sharp, nervous laugh.
“Ha- Well, erm- No, I uh, I’m not free.” Ren could feel the burn in his cheeks begin to reach what he hoped was its crescendo, promptly turning to face the window behind him instead, pretending to inspect imperfections. It wasn’t hard to get swept in the ones that were there when he was pretending to focus on ones that weren’t. Ren heard a muttered and slightly higher pitched ‘dammit’ from the man opposite him, and it made him want to roll his eyes in what he wished could be annoyance. It never really was. “However, the church is always open for you, no matter your purpose.” Ren straightened his voice, reaching up and running his hands down his face for a moment.
The preacher’s eyes flicked around to the pristine church, hoping to find something else to fixate on. He rolled his sleeves up and pushed himself off the podium, planning on sifting through his chests a third time to see if he could rearrange anything within, move something somewhere else, or maybe just move everything while he was at it. His limbs felt alive, fingers twitching with an anxiety he couldn’t seem to soothe. He’d squeeze his eyes shut and pray for tranquility, but his clapsed and trembling hands wouldn’t reach his saviour. He’d hoped Sausage would talk soon so he could loose himself in the theatrics of another one of his rants. Ren would listen to anything right about now, anything other than the tempo of his accelerated heartbeat.
Sausage knew his cue well, and promptly got himself comfortable on the pew. He swung his legs over the side and leaned back against the armrest, tipping his hat over his face so it wouldn’t clatter to the floor. “So Martyn-“ Sausage began, a lit to his voice that filled Ren’s chest with something unnameable. It wasn’t peace, nor was it fluster, but instead a heavenly middle. It was something akin to fondess, but stronger. Whatever it was, it made the time pass faster than it would’ve alone, and certainly made it more bearable. If Ren wasn’t wrapped up in Sausage’s story, he would’ve noticed how his tremors had settled to almost non existent. The story itself bounced from adventures with Cherri, Apo, and the gnarpies, to him and Martyn trying to see who ‘had a stronger headbutt’ (Ren decided not to ask about how that came up in conversation) and Sausage ending up getting flung into a spring. Ren tried not to laugh at the mental imagery, but the chuckle that slipped past his lips had Sausage sputtering to defend himself in two milliseconds, max. The preacher couldn’t count how many times he had to talk Sausage out of picking him up to prove that he was in fact strong in the span of 5 minutes.
However, all good things must come to an end.
They’d spent a long while chatting away. It went like it usually did, Sausage ranting about whatever had happened since they’d last caught up, and Ren listening and occasionally chiming in with questions, clarification, or opinions. Sausage would get this twinge in his voice whenever he was really passionate or excited about something, and it warmed Ren’s heart when he heard him catch his second wind and shift on his seat. He felt included, wanted, and it was precious. Though, when Ren had turned to go try and tidy another already clean area, Sausage’s voice fell mid-sentence. The silence quickly swallowed the bubbly atmosphere inside the church walls, and Ren’s eyebrows furrowed. He turned his head to look at Sausage, and felt his heart twist at the faint worry on his face.
“Mister-“
“What are those scars from?”
The question caught Ren severely off guard. He blinked and pulled back like he’d just been told the sky had never been blue, cocking an eyebrow in Sausage’s direction. Ren followed his eyes to his arms, and that fluttery feeling was immediately crushed. Burns covered his forearms and slipped upwards under his sleeves, some markings newer and some older, some overlapping until the skin had been forced to heal oddly. He simply stared at himself, a hold swiftly eating its way into his gut as the silence grew thicker. The tension swallowed whatever warmth had bloomed within these walls, and it left the preacher paralyzed. It’s not like he could’ve pulled his sleeves back down and said Sausage was seeing things, that gentle but heavy concern in the rancher’s eyes gave Ren the feeling this wouldn’t be something he’d let go. He stuttered for a moment, bouncing from excuse to excuse, but eventually he settled on a solemn sigh. The preacher slowly stepped down into the audience, clasping his hands behind his back.
“A ritual of the word. We, as mortals, can only truly cleanse ourselves of our sins through the pain of hellfire.” Ren spoke so matter-of-factly, a flat face with every stress line carved into his skin on display to the world. Sausage’s eyes widened for a split second before narrowing, and Ren could’ve sworn he could hear the words unsaid as the pressed against the back of his lips. The troubled look on the man in front of him’s face made unease twist his gut, and he found himself waiting for his reaction like it was judgement day. Sausage opened his mouth after a moment, and though nothing came out at first, a hushed voice did fill the air.
“Could I see?”
The preacher could’ve almost missed his words if he wasn’t focused on his lips. When they reached his ears, hesitation flooded his mind, causing his body to stiffen. His first thought was the fact that he wasn’t opposed to it, and that’s what made him so cautious in the first place. Memories of lonely nights traveled across dangerous and deserted lands permeated his mind, memories of having nothing but a map, dirt under his fingernails, and the swirling greed he’d later silence with an ember. It had been a long while since he’d dare dwell on the thought of vulnerability, but looking at Sausage made something in him snap. The worry in his eyes, his slightly knitted eyebrows that creased ever so slightly, and the lack of that signature beaming smile. It made his heart ache in his chest, yearn for what it had been denied during its solitude like a starved man with a buffet in front of him. Sausage was so easy to collapse into, he could coax anything out of Ren’s mouth with a hum or perfectly timed use of puppy-dog eyes, and the preacher couldn’t find it in him to complain. Not all temptation was demonic, it couldn’t be. Not when the temptation was laced with such softness.
Ren silently settled into the pew next to Sausage, closer than he’d usually sit to anyone else. Their knees briefly brushed, and the preacher swore he could’ve seen a bit of color creep onto Sausage’s face.
“Can I ask why at the very least, Mister Sausage?” Ren spoke as if he wasn’t actively offering his arm to the man beside him.
“You don’t take care of yourself, preacher. Someone has to.” Sausage reached out for the preacher’s arm, fingers grazing his skin so delicately it sent a shiver shooting up Ren’s spine. He cleared his throat as a blush rushed to his cheeks, listening to his heart thud in his ribcage like it was trying to break free from his chest. Ren closed his eyes and harnessed every ounce of self control into focusing on the tingly feather-light touches of Sausage’s hands as they traced the edge of every patch of scarred skin. His fingers were calloused and worn, indented from what Ren could only assume was from years of gripping farm tools, but despite their rough texture, held Ren like he was the divine being this church was dedicated to. Even with the nerves bubbling in the back of his mind, or the burn in his face, or the way his own fingertips twitched and trembled with an anxiety much more adolescent, the preacher felt oddly calmed.
He could feel Sausage’s breath every time it occasionally ghosted his shoulder, and it made him tense and melt simultaneously. It was a feeling undescribable, but miles away from unwelcome. The rancher’s hands trailed further up Ren’s arms, humming softly each time he finished tracing the perimeter of a scar, mentally checking it off in his list of details to memorize. The preacher didn’t argue with the gentle tending to him, instead letting it wash over him in waves of safety and warmth he’d thought he’d long since outgrown. The silence of the man beside him was unfamiliar, but it made him smile just a little bit. Was he really that captivating? Ren chuckled quietly to himself, and Sausage’s eyes flicked upward to his face.
“What?” Asked he, an awkward smile tugging at his lips. Ren only chuckled more, bringing a fist up to cover his mouth.
“You’re too sweet, Mister Sausage.” Ren remarked with contentment in his voice, leaning his head back as exhaustion began to wrap itself around the corners of his mind. Every muscle in his body that relaxed inched him closer and closer to falling asleep right here. Surely Sausage wouldn’t mind, right?
Sausage giggled quietly, obviously muffled from his canine tooth digging into his bottom lip. He dipped his head down like he was trying to hide his face, which unfortunately only made the preacher more curious about what exactly his precious expression would look like.
“Well, anything for you, preacher.” Sausage flattered with a snort. His fingers continued to trace the lines and curves on Ren’s forearm as the preacher himself began to grow groggier and groggier. His heart still gave a stubborn lurch whenever Sausage would shift and accidentally bump his hip into Ren’s, but he’d lost himself in the peaceful howl of the wind outside to pay too much attention to it.
It wasn’t long before the preacher drifted off into much needed sleep, slumping against Sausage with his head rested on his shoulder. Sausage himself took a moment to simply admire the saint pressed against him. His face was truly relaxed in a way he’d never had the privilege of seeing before, and it sent the butterflies that had settled in his gut fluttering recklessly. Sausage watched the slow rise and fall of Ren’s chest and tried to match his breathing to the pace. He slowly zoned out and back into his own thoughts, hand sliding down Ren’s arm and fingers intertwining. Even in the depths of slumber, Ren squeezed Sausage’s hand in return, and it took all that was in Sausage not to giggle again. He vaguely pitied Miss Yamon in the back of his head, knowing damn well this would be all he’d talk about for at least the next week. Being his neighbor meant being the recipient of his gushings whether she liked or not. Sausage smiled to himself and closed his eyes, resting his cheek against the top of his head.
It didn’t take long for the warm fuzzies to morph into sleepiness—it was the dead of night, after all. Sausage fell into a sleep better than any he’d had in the last year, his last memory before slipping off being rubbing the back of Ren’s knuckles with his thumbs. How precious he was. Sausage wondered for just a brief moment if a life in the church would suit him. Between all the gunfire and shouting, he let himself invision a life of domestic moments like these. Perhaps the walls weren’t all that bad, after all, it led him to someone he’d dare call a purpose.