Chapter Text
In the church basement, where the Bible study met every Thursday night, the air always smelled like instant coffee and old carpet. The folding chairs were arranged in a loose circle, and Spook sat with his shoulders tight, hands laced together as if prayer alone could keep his thoughts in line. He listened. He always listened. He nodded at the right verses, laughed quietly at the right jokes, bowed his head when everyone else did.
Across the circle sat Noobenhimer.
Noobenhimer never tried to make himself smaller. He sat wide and solid, elbows resting on his knees, presence undeniable. He didn’t quote scripture perfectly, didn’t always know the right words, but when he spoke it was thoughtful, careful—like he was afraid of hurting something fragile. Or someone.
Spook hated that his chest ached every time their eyes met.
He told himself it was admiration. Gratitude. Brotherhood. Anything but what it actually was.
Because what it actually was felt like a sin that lived under his skin.
At night, Spook prayed until his throat hurt. He asked God to take it away—it, whatever this thing was that made his pulse stutter when Noobenhimer laughed, that made him feel safe when Noobenhimer walked him home after meetings. He prayed for forgiveness for thoughts he never dared say aloud. He prayed to be fixed.
Spook noticed how Noobenhimer always angled his body toward him when people spoke. How he listened with his whole attention. How, when discussions turned sharp or judgmental, Noobenhimer’s jaw tightened—not in agreement, but restraint.
As if he were holding something back
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The night Spook forgot his jacket, it was cold enough that his hands shook by the time they stepped outside. Noobenhimer noticed immediately and draped his own coat over Spook’s shoulders without a word. It smelled like laundry soap and something warm and grounding.
When the cold leather brushed Spook’s pale, bare shoulders, he whipped his head away, instinctive, like he’d been caught doing something wrong. Heat flooded his face, sharp and humiliating, and he ducked his chin to hide it, curls falling forward like a shield.
“I—I’m fine,” he said too quickly, voice thin. “You didn’t have to—”
Noobenhimer’s hand paused for half a second, then settled anyway, careful and deliberate, as if asking permission without words. The coat stayed. The warmth stayed.
“You’re shaking,” Noobenhimer said quietly.
Spook hated that he was seen so easily. Hated—and loved it. A sharp pain shoots through his hands as his nails dig into his own palms. The neckline of his top dipped lower than church-approved, skin exposed to the night air and, worse, to Noobenhimer’s attention. He felt bare in every sense of the word.
“I forgot,” he muttered. “My jacket.”
Noobenhimer stepped just a little closer, close enough that his voice didn’t need to rise. “You don’t have to apologize for that.
Spook swallowed. The coat was heavy on his shoulders, grounding him, anchoring him in a way prayer never quite managed. He could smell Noobenhimer—clean, familiar—and it made his chest ache.
“I look stupid,” Spook said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Noobenhimer frowned—not in anger, but something sharper, more protective. “Don’t say that about yourself.”
Spook risked a glance up. Noobenhimer’s eyes were steady, unflinching, like he wasn’t seeing something embarrassing or wrong. Like he was just… seeing him.
“You’re allowed to exist exactly like this,” Noobenhimer continued. “Cold shoulders and all.”
The corner of Spook’s mouth trembled. He nodded once, small and careful, letting the coat stay where it was. Letting the warmth sink in. Letting himself believe—just for this walk, just for this moment—that being held together by someone else didn’t make him weak.
As they kept walking, Spook stayed close, the leather creaking softly with each step, and for once, he didn’t pull away from the comfort offered to him.
He let himself be cared for.
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Spook and Noobenhimer parted ways to walk home.
Every step made the coat shift on his shoulders, a constant reminder. Of warmth he hadn’t earned. Of care he didn’t understand how to accept. Of how wrong it felt to want it this badly.
His chest tightened.
This isn’t right, a voice whispered—familiar, well-worn. The same voice that echoed sermons and half-remembered verses. The same voice that told him safety was conditional, that comfort was something you lost the moment you strayed.
He hugged the coat closer anyway.
Guilt followed immediately, sharp and punishing. He imagined the church basement again—the circle of chairs, the bowed heads. He imagined how he must look from the outside: too soft, too pretty, too much of something he wasn’t supposed to be. Standing here, wrapped in another man’s coat, heart racing for reasons he’d been taught to fear.
His hands trembled.
“What if I’m wrong?” Spook asked suddenly, the words tearing themselves free. He stopped walking, breath shallow. “What if this—what I feel—it’s just temptation. What if I’m choosing something I’m not supposed to?”.
The streetlight painted him in dull gold. Spook couldn’t look up from his feet as he walked.
“What if God hates me for it,” Spook whispered.
“What if He already does?”
Spook’s breath hitched as his eyes widened and the street light shone down on him. “But what if I lose everything?” He takes a shaky breath. "What if I lose Noobenhimer?”
He slaps his face to try and compose himself “what am i saying” he whispers.
“I don’t know what I'm supposed to do anymore,” he admitted.
The words echoed back at him, fragile and unwanted, hanging in the cold air like a confession made to no one.
Spook stood there longer than he meant to, fingers numb, face burning where he’d struck it. The street was quiet. Empty. No divine answer split the sky. No voice rose up to condemn or absolve him.
Only his own breathing—ragged, uneven.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore,” he repeated, softer now, like if he said it quietly enough it might stop being true.
He pressed his forehead into the collar of the coat. It still held Noobenhimer’s warmth. That, more than anything, made his chest ache. Because if this was wrong—if this comfort was sinful—then why did it feel like the only thing keeping him upright?
Because it’s a test, the voice insisted. Because you’re weak.
Spook squeezed his eyes shut.
He thought of Noobenhimer’s hands—careful, restrained. Of the way he never demanded, never pushed, never made Spook feel like he owed him anything. If this was temptation, it was a strange kind. Gentle. Patient. Protective.
The thought scared him.
“I don’t want to choose wrong,” Spook whispered into the night. “I don’t want to lose You. I don’t want to lose him.”
The coat slipped slightly on his shoulders, and instinctively, he caught it, pulling it tighter around himself. The motion was small, almost unconscious—but it felt like an answer all the same.
He didn’t know what the future held. He didn’t know how to reconcile faith with feeling, obedience with honesty, fear with love. But standing there alone, wrapped in borrowed warmth, he realized something quiet and terrifying:
He didn’t want to let go.
Not of Noobenhimer.
Not of the part of himself that felt seen.
Spook exhaled slowly and started walking again.
He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t have certainty. But he carried the coat home with him anyway—like proof that, for one night at least, he had been cared for without conditions.
And that thought stayed with him long after the streetlight faded behind him.
End of Chapter.