Work Text:
I can't stop
dreamin'
about devourin' him, Father.
Ain't never even touched him
outside my head, so how is it
we can still be homesick for this
feeling we don't
yet know?
I want a life without fangs
or claws. If this is love, make it
song-soft, make it a valley full
of sparrow feathers, or else
some
place
where we can hallow ourselves in
poisonless
light.
— KEATON ST. JAMES
There is a church three blocks from Seokjoon's apartment.
Old stained glass casting shadows of red and yellow across the pavement and spilling out into the street. Like wine, like blood. When it rains, Seokjoon thinks it looks beautiful.
The paint is chipping on the corners, walls worn from years of weathering and schoolgirls leaning their hands against the walls while they adjust their Mary Janes. Seokjoon only hears the church bells when it's overcast, parked in the street when he goes to run into the corner store.
The only attendees are the nearby primary school for their devotionals and neighborhood grandmothers, clasping on their best pearls and overcoats before shuffling inside. Seokjoon rarely sees it full, this city deciding to turn their attention towards the bigger church in the downtown district. Golden lights and pews made of mahogany, nothing like this tiny neighborhood congregation.
Seokjoon has never been inside, merely sidestepping those who walk down it's steps with a humble smile and a quiet apology before hurrying to his car.
The first time Seokjoon sits in his car, unable to return to the wide emptiness that is his apartment, he looks at the old stained glass casting shadows of red and yellow across the pavement and spilling out into the street. Like wine, like blood. There is rain outside, blending the colors together and puddling in the street. Seokjoon thinks it looks beautiful.
┈┈ ✝ ┈┈
There is a holy man that Seokjoon sees.
Not a priest, no deacon in a dalmatic pushing open the doors. Instead he wears jeans, blue and faded at the knees when he steps outside the church during mid-day.
His hair is the color of spun gold, long enough to be tucked behind one ear. The leather jacket sits heavy on his shoulders, his own form of clerical clothing. No Roman collar to speak of, just a crucifix in gold tucked beneath his t-shirt.
Yet still, he is holy. He must be, because Seokjoon sees him cross the steps right when the bell tolls, when the rain begins to fall in sprinkling diamonds across his hair. He is beauitful, too, like saints his mother used to pray to when he was a child. Just out of reach, watching over and protecting them all.
┈┈ ✝ ┈┈
His laughter is like a hymn.
The first time Seokjoon hears it, it's when he's walking down the sidewalk, stained glass in view. Shades or red and yellow become blue and black when the man steps out of the doors, worn jeans and a t-shirt so tempting Seokjoon wants to touch. They nearly collide, Seokjoon taking his hands out of his jacket pockets to steady himself as the man sidesteps him.
"Sorry," he says, and he laughs, and Seokjoon hears hymns.
Seokjoon doesn't know if he utters his own apology, he just knows the man's face softens, lips part when he asks Seokjoon if he lives nearby, if he'd like to grab a drink together.
Seokjoon doesn't attend mass but he thinks a conversation over melting ice and cocktails is the closest thing to a communal prayer he'll experience.
┈┈ ✝ ┈┈
He learns his name is Seongil, and Seokjoon repeats the name in his head like a mantra, like a devotional between only him and God.
Seongil works with his hands but he is gentle, pulling open the door to the bar and ushering Seokjoon inside. Seongil works with his hands but the callouses on his thumbs soften with the condensation on his glass, wear away when he presses his palm to Seokjoon's back.
The hours seep together until it is dark outside, until night captures them both and Seongil drives Seokjoon home with a hand on the wheel and the radio turned low.
There is a holy man in the driver's seat and Seokjoon doesn't think he is worthy, but his gaze lingers a little longer when he pulls up to Seokjoon's apartment, his eyes trail down to his lips when he isn't sure Seongil is paying attention.
There is no guidance from the saints when you fall in love with another man but Seokjoon doesn't think it's wrong when he presses his lips to Seongil's, when Seongil doesn't back away but instead pulls him closer.
The radio is low. Seokjoon thinks it sounds like worship music.
┈┈ ✝ ┈┈
Spring turns to summer, turns to open windows and kicked-off sheets and Seokjoon sitting on his mattress and looking up at the moon.
Seongil is a gentleman, takes him places and pays for his meals and Seokjoon sees the light hit the crucifix around his neck when they walk through parking lots, close enough to speak but not so close they raise suspicion.
There is no guidance from the saints or God or the holy man sitting next to Seokjoon when you fall in love with another man, but Seokjoon sees the way it nestles deep in Seongil's bones. How guilt twists up his throat and holds him there, how when he wears shorts he can see the way Seongil's knees are bruised, pew kneeler flattened from years of use.
Prayer cannot answer everything, a thought Seokjoon keeps close to his chest.
┈┈ ✝ ┈┈
Touching Seongil is like touching a relic.
There is gospel written about this, how love cannot be wrong when it feels this right. How Seongil looks up at Seokjoon with such adoration, such devotion, lamplight turning his hair into a halo when Seokjoon combs his fingers through it. They are in Seokjoon's apartment, and if they stay quiet enough, they can hear the church bells from this distance.
When they kiss it is quiet as a confession, but as right as the word of God. Seongil holds him there, kneeling on the edge of the bed, legs parts just enough for Seokjoon to slot his body through. Blue jeans, the same pair he wore the first say Seokjoon saw him, soft at the knees where Seokjoon presses his palms in for leverage.
Seongil utters Seokjoon's name and Seokjoon decides then it's the only thing that matters tonight. That he would do anything to coax it from his mouth once again, cradling Seongil's face like he's breakable.
"You do something to me," is what Seongil says next and Seokjoon wants to laugh, wants to point the mirror back at Seongil just so he can see. He runs his thumb across Seongil's bottom lip, kiss-swollen and soft. Seokjoon thinks there are prayers in Seongil's mouth that want to escape from his lips. Seokjoon thinks he wants to hear them all.
┈┈ ✝ ┈┈
Seongil showers at Seokjoon's place, once. In between work shifts when his shoulders feel heavy and the second Seokjoon opens his front door, he can see the weariness in his eyes. Eight months after knowing each other, Seongil showers at Seokjoon's place.
Seongil has never stayed the night. Has never shared a bed with Seokjoon, nothing more than tender kisses and touches on his waist that linger. He claims he wants to take things slow, but Seokjoon sees the way his thumb and forefinger play with the crucifix around his neck. Shiny and gold.
Seokjoon makes coffee for them as the water runs, tries not to think about Seongil on the other side of the thin bathroom door. By the time he's grabbed mugs and is bringing the French Press to his modest dining table, the door opens.
There is water dripping onto his floor, Seokjoon knows this before he turns around. When he does, he finds Seongil. Same jeans, same golden hair, but his chest is bare save for the crucifix on his neck. Shiny and gold.
"I have another hour before my next shift…" Seongil says, but his words trail off when he sees Seokjoon. Sees how close he is. Seokjoon reaches out, fingers tracing Seongil's body as he kisses him. Soft, slow, coffee long forgotten and cooling on the table. Seongil kisses back, hands finding Seokjoon's waist but he stills when Seokjoon's fingers trail up, brushing against the crucifix.
"What's wrong?" Seokjoon asks, when he feels Seongil freeze. Then, he feels the space from them growing wider.
"Nothing, I," Seongil starts, blinks. He cups Seokjoon's face, holds him there for a moment. Seokjoon knows what devotion looks like, but he also recognizes the storm behind Seongil's eyes.
This kiss is more hesitant, warmth fading between their lips.
When Seongil pulls his shirt on and tells Seokjoon he should leave, Seokjoon doesn't fight it. When Seokjoon is left alone in his apartment, too empty and too large, he can hear the church bell toll in the distance.
┈┈ ✝ ┈┈
Seokjoon finds him on a bench, right outside the train station, hours later after the sun has set. Two blocks from the church.
Seongil doesn't speak, not at first. His hands are in his lap and he looks groggy, and for a moment Seokjoon wonders if he slept there.
"The first time I saw you," Seongil starts, eyes locked on something in the ditance that Seokjoon doesn't want to turn his head to look at. Doesn't want to miss any part of the way Seongil's face moves. "I was praying for a sign."
Seokjoon doesn't ask him to elaborate, just waits, hands clasped together in front of him. In patience, in prayer.
"I needed to know I was okay," Seongil says, finally looking at Seokjoon. "The way I am."
"You are," Seokjoon says, so softly. He wants to reach out and touch Seongil, but Seongil beats him to it. Hand open, palm up, he takes one of Seokjoon's hands. He brings it to his lips, kissing it so softly.
"I know," Seongil says, looking at Seokjoon with so much gentleness. There is a streetlamp alove them and the light settles over Seongil's hair like a perfect halo. "Being with you, I know that now."
There is a holy man that Seokjoon loves.
"Come back home," Seokjoon says, pulls Seongil into standing. He does so willingly, standing close to Seokjoon and brushing hair out of his eyes. "Come home with me."
"Okay," Seongil says, cups Seokjoon's face. Seokjoon glances down at the crucifix but it lasts for only a moment, because Seongil kisses him and Seokjoon thinks he should pray, thinks he should worship every Sunday just so he can have one more moment of this.
They walk back to Seokjoon's apartment with their hands clasped together. In prayer, in love.