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it was a simple word, pretty, spilling out from the lips of a wayward churchgoer who was sobbing on the pew next to him. her hands were shaking as she pressed them against her forehead, and over her mouth.
“deacon dahlia,” she made out, eyes red and bleary, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to be as devout as you.”
devout.
that word had echoed in his mind for the rest of the day.
he’d never thought of himself as devout. after all, he hadn’t set out to become a deacon. he hadn’t given the church itself much thought before he stumbled into his position here. if anyone deserved to be called devout, it would be someone like barbara, who eagerly devoted every performance to barbatos with a hand lifted towards the heavens. or someone like michael, who was here every day, mumbling prayers before the altar.
devout people lived on their knees, hands folded, eyes turned towards the heavens. dahlia had both feet on the ground and each hand around a wineglass. he did, however, have both eyes trained on his god.
he had to make a conscious effort during services to say the right name. lord barbatos.
dahlia knew him as venti.
venti.
venti, chubby-cheeked, just the right height to lock eyes with dahlia. he grinned like a devil and sung like an angel. he could hold his liquor like no one dahlia had ever met, and could entrance the surliest of hearts with his lyre.
dahlia supposed he could be considered devout. if devout meant stumbling out of a tavern with your god pressed up against your side, still giggling and hiccupping together. if devout meant his head falling onto your shoulder, his steps heavy. if devout meant puking next to him on the side of the road. if devout was holding his braids back with one shaky, weak hand, and him giving you a small white handkerchief to wipe your mouth with.
was it an act of faith to wash this handkerchief in the sink, and keep it tucked into your pocket for the next time? was it an act of faith to reassure the red-haired tavern keeper that he will pay his tab i promise i swear as a deacon of the church of barbatos that he will pay his tab next time as your god made his eyes as big and cute as possible next to you? was it an act of faith to avoid making eye contact while delivering a sermon, positive that you would lose your mind laughing if you saw him? was it an act of worship to meet him afterwards, and giggle together about the too-loud singer in the front row?
if so, dahlia supposed he could be considered devout. a faithful follower of barbatos.
he saw venti that night, at angel’s share. venti was waiting for him at their usual table, two steins of beer already on the tabletop.
dahlia slid into the seat next to him, grinning.
“good evening, deacon dahlia.” venti tipped his hat and raised his glass. “how were prayers this morning?”
“my goodness, venti, you missed them?”
venti grinned mischievously over the top of his beer. “barbatos will forgive me.”
“oh, you’d better hope he will. you’ve got a lot to apologize for.”
dahlia grabbed his glass and drained half of it. venti cheered him on.
barbatos give me strength.
they were working on their second drinks when dahlia finally found the courage to ask. he leaned towards venti, pressing both hands down on the table; venti leaned in, cocking an eyebrow.
“do you think i’m devout?” dahlia asked. his voice felt small.
“devout?” venti blinked. “well… you’re a deacon, aren’t you?”
“i know. but i didn’t try to be. you know i kind of… stumbled into the role. and i’d never gone to church much before it.” dahlia stared at the foam in his cup. “i mean… i do my job well. i lead the congregation when i’m asked to, and i hear confession, and i help clean and organize the archives. but i don’t pray as much as i should, and i’m not always as… forgiving as a deacon should be. i guess i just… i wonder, sometimes, what…” he kept his eyes focused down on the tabletop, doing his best not to notice venti's curious stare “...barbatos thinks of me. if he… if he’s proud to have me as a follower. or if he doubts my faith.”
venti was silent. his mirthful eyes were quiet, thoughtful. dahlia sucked at the rim of his glass, heart pounding. why did he feel so vulnerable? why did this feel so wrong?
“well,” venti said, finally, “what do you think of barbatos?”
“hm?” dahlia’s cheeks dusted a rosy pink. “well, i -”
venti stared at him.
dahlia winced a bit. should have seen this coming. “w-well… i think he’s pretty cool.”
“pretty cool.” venti’s gaze was piercing holes in him.
dahlia squirmed, his stomach tight. “venti…”
“okay, fine!” venti lifted his hands. “you don’t need to tell me. if it’s embarrassing.”
“it kind of is!”
venti laughed, tilting his head back. dahlia let out a breath of relief - seeing venti solemn was like seeing rain falling upwards - and sipped at his beer again.
“i think,” venti said, to the ceiling, “that as long as you’re willing to share a drink with him, barbatos will consider you faithful.”
“yeah?”
“yeah. i think you could drop out of the clergy entirely and never attend another service and he wouldn’t mind.”
dahlia raised an eyebrow. “maybe that's overkill.”
venti shrugged. “maybe.”
“so barbatos considers sharing a drink the highest form of worship possible?” dahlia asked, leaning his chin on his hand.
venti copied the gesture. “yeah. i think he does.”
dahlia’s lips twitched up into a smile. “okay. well, then.” he lifted his drink and waited for venti to clink his against it. “cheers.”
“cheers.” venti smiled at dahlia, his eyes sparkling, his braids a little messy.
dahlia felt a little giddy as he drained his glass.