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Gallagher rarely gets sick.
Since he has met Sunday, he’s always been careful with hygiene. Not that he has never been—that would make him sound wrong. He’s now only more prudent: the priest, once drunk, has told him he has a little problem with…germs.
Atrocities, Sunday called them. It sounded like a joke, leaving Gallagher baffled at the time. But as days, months, and even years passed, and he got to know the priest better, he realised Sunday wasn’t joking.
Dating has been hard at first. Not because Sunday is a priest and loving another man means sinning. The young man has never explicitly told Gallagher so.
But the older man knows. The feverish cry of Sunday when he’d found him on the ground in the rectory sometimes still replays in his mind. He knows the young man feels guilty about something he shouldn’t be.
What had been hard at first, especially for Gallagher, was trying not to touch Sunday’s bare hands, bare face, bare body. Follow very strict rules, be careful, and set boundaries that were beyond his comprehension. But those were the least challenging things Gallagher had to do. A very intimate friend once asked him, “Why are you staying?” when he, drunk, whined that even a hug required a specific request.
Why are you staying? developed into a full dilemma.
Why is he staying?
The answer is not simple.
And now that Gallagher is sick, it thrums his head. It engulfs him and swipes him like a wave swipes the seashore. He rarely gets sick, and when he does, his thoughts shape into monsters. Gallagher hates being alone when his thoughts take over him. He’s inclined to do things he’d normally never do.
Maybe he shouldn’t have kissed Sunday when he caught that horrendous fever.
Gallagher hates himself even more now that he’s in front of his TV, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, and staring at his phone. Precisely, he’s staring at Sunday’s ID. The priest’s name pops up on the recent calls display, more assiduously than his other numbers.
With a groan that sounds more like a whine, Gallagher does it. He calls the priest. His boyfriend, but he’s not sure about that. They’re a secret—their relationship is concrete only when they’re alone. Outside, they’re nothing more than a priest and a detective, two men who owe nothing to each other—who fake hatred when they see each other’s faces.
“Hello?” Sunday’s voice reverberates on the other side of the phone.
Gallagher flinches. He was so absorbed in his wallowing thoughts that he nearly forgot he’d called the priest. “Uh…” he fumbles. His mind is foggy.
“Hello?” Sunday remarks, his tone urgent as if he’s prodding him. He knows it’s Gallagher.
Gallagher sniffs. He wants to cry, to wipe like a neglected idiot—which he is. He is a neglected idiot. He hates himself – he hates that it’s a damned priest who makes him feel so loved and seen. “Hi…” he tries, his voice raspy from the flu. He realises he doesn’t know what to say. “Um…”
On the other side of the phone, Sunday sighs. “Gallagher...” he murmurs, though he trails off. He seems unsure, too.
Silence.
There’s silence. It sweeps them both away to a shore known only by them, its entrance forbidden to anyone else.
But it’s unnerving—Gallagher hates silence. And he hates himself again—he wants Sunday. He wants him for himself and only; he wants him to come to his apartment and hug him. Cuddle him. He doesn’t know what he wants to do with him. But he wants him. He wants him so much it hurts.
The need twists his guts. It squeezes his heart. Gallagher sniffles, blows his nose in a too-used napkin, and almost cries. “I’m sick,” he says at last.
“Flu?” Sunday asks, sounding like he’s been awakened from a dream.
“Yeah…”
Sunday hangs up.
Gallagher listens to the dry sound of the ended call. He drops the phone on the couch. He knew. He knew Sunday hates him too.
Something ripples inside Gallagher’s chest, sliding down until it presses at the pit of his stomach. It’s a dull mud, bitter like gall. Tears come as his heart cracks, and slick goo oozes from its tender wounds.
A bittersweet paranoia presses onto Gallagher, engulfing him. Sunday’s gentle whispers sound like a lie in the back of his mind, and he wonders if he’s ever been loved, or if that has been just another mock from God.
𓏵
A mere half-hour after the odd-hung-up call, Gallagher is woken up by the trill of his doorbell. He groans, headache still hammering his skull.
As he stands up from the couch, he stumbles on the blanket tangled around his legs and falls on the ground with a loud thump. He pouts and starts crying like a damned idiot, face sticking to the linoleum floor.
Someone bangs fists at the door. “Gallagher?” they call, their voice dipped with worry.
Gallagher frowns, his sobs soothing as he realises it’s…Sunday. Sunday. So, he has come at last. He didn’t abandon him as he’d thought.
Gallagher feels so pathetic for having believed so. Sniffing, he pushes up from the ground, head throbbing and bones aching from the tremendous fever that is rising again. Coolness seeps into his bones now that he has left the blanket behind.
Sunday throws two other worried knocks at the door before the older man can open it.
When Gallagher finally does, a static silence wraps the air, lengthening down the outside corridor.
From the tall window that runs down the wall in front of the staircase, rain taps the glass incessantly. Grey sunrays seep through the cloudy sky, sliding inside the building where Gallagher lives. They dull everything, and suddenly, the man doesn’t like the atmosphere. He shifts his gaze to the priest.
A worried frown wrinkles Sunday’s forehead. “I was wondering why you haven’t come to church for a week…” he whispers, golden eyes kissing his tired lover’s face with a gentle shine. “You could’ve told me.”
“But I’ve already taken a lot of your time lately,” Gallagher murmurs back, holding out a hand only to let it fall limply at his side again. “You shouldn’t let an old idiot deceive you from your duties.”
A soft chuckle warmly wraps Gallagher with a non-physical hug. The hint of a smile purses Sunday’s lips. “I’m not someone who can be easily deceived,” he placidly says, his gloved left hand stretching out to his lover’s. “If I’m here, it means I need to be here.” He intertwines their fingers together, then tugs at Gallagher, making him lean in. As he plants a kiss on the other man’s cheek, he whispers, “Am I allowed to take care of my lover or not?”
The detective looks up, glancing over Sunday’s shoulder and checking if anyone has seen them. But there’s no one in the building, except for the two of them. “Yes,” he mutters, looking down at his lover again. “I think you can.” The kiss burns his skin like the fever consumes his bones; his head throbs terribly—he can’t think properly.
Sunday sighs. “You should be in bed.”
“I don’t want to,” Gallagher pouts, sniffing.
Another sigh, a shake of the head, and Sunday pushes his lover inside. “Let me prepare something warm for you at least,” he says, already giving up.
Gallagher smiles. Relief squeezes juice of happiness out of his heart. He really doesn’t know why he has worried himself thinking Sunday didn’t love him anymore.
𓏵
The silence in the apartment is lovely. The dim lights in the living room make the house feel like a home.
Wrapped in his thick blanket, Gallagher can’t help but think that he hasn’t felt at home for years. He’s been living in his dull apartment since the beginning of his career, but he can’t remember when he effectively felt at home there. He is grateful he has an accommodation, of course. His family could’ve left him on the streets.
But his house has always felt like an empty shell. There had never been the warmth of a familiar presence.
Curled up against the couch’s corner with his head resting on a pillow, Gallagher glances at Sunday. The priest is sitting next to him, now wearing a borrowed grey sweater. He should’ve kept his frock on, but he has lamented that the white collar was suffocating him—too rigid and uncomfortable. So he had changed, letting his boyfriend’s jumper keep him warm over his short-sleeved shirt.
Gallagher shifts his head on the pillow a little, just enough to better observe his lover.
His left elbow resting on his knee, Sunday has brought his hand to his lips. Between his curled fingers, the purplish beads of his rosary spill out like a faithful cascade. With his eyes shut, he moves his mouth around a soft prayer. His right hand is clasping his lover’s, squeezing it from time to time.
Gallagher doesn’t mind the little ritual. In fact, the sight makes his heart light. He somewhat feels better, even if his head still faintly throbs. Lost in the image of Sunday praying on his rosary, his eyes eventually begin to burn, and reality weirdly blurs with his imagination.
Perhaps because of the warm atmosphere of his living room, perhaps because Sunday constantly looks more ethereal than an earthly being, Gallagher’s mind starts to play some tricks on him.
In fact, the more the priest prays and frowns, the more a weird light seems to shape around his bluish hair. It has already happened once, but this time, the hallucination is stronger. Threads, which fabric is made by the brightest yet softest light ever known, draw a circle above Sunday’s head. It’s a halo, feeble and immaculate like that of an angel.
Gallagher squeezes his eyes. He frowns, trying to distinguish reality from dreams. But as he tries, his hallucinations shape into some fresh new images. Between hair, little wings sprout from behind Sunday’s ears. They flutter slightly, as if they are mirroring the priest’s subconscious feelings.
Led by an impromptu need, Gallagher sits up on the couch and tugs at Sunday. The priest flutters his eyes open, turning to look at his lover. He looks as if he’s been awakened by a pleasant dream, his expression as placid as the surface of the sea on a sunny day at the beach.
The priest’s look, both gentle and puzzled, makes Gallagher’s stomach churn. He feels like his fever is rising again. Without thinking, he stretches a hand toward Sunday’s little wings—they look so soft, it’d be a pity not to brush them…
But as the detective touches the right one, the forgotten kettle in the kitchen boils. Its insufferable whistle fills the apartment like a newborn crying in hunger. Gallagher snaps from his reverie of sweet hallucinations, finding himself cupping his lover’s cheek.
Sunday arches a brow. He curls his fingers around the detective’s wrist, peeling it away from his face. He rests his rosary on the coffee table, stretching a hand to cup his lover’s nape. After, he leans in and plants a firm kiss on his forehead, checking for his temperature. “The fever is rising again,” he murmurs, leaning away. “It’s better if you don't drink tea.”
Gallagher watches his lover push up from the couch. “But…I’m fine,” he says before Sunday disappears into the kitchen, his voice dipping into a confused tone.
Well. Maybe he’s not fine, since he has just seen an angel.
The priest returns to the living room with only one cup of tea. “You look terrible, Gallagher,” he sighs, sitting on the couch again. “As if you have just seen a ghost. I don’t think you’re…okay.”
“Maybe I have.” Gallagher adjusts on the couch. With a tremendous headache tormenting him, he realises Sunday is indeed right. His whole body still burns and aches. The fever hasn’t quelled at all.
Sunday casts a worried look on him. “What? I was kidding—”
“I saw an angel,” Gallagher says, boring his tired eyes into Sunday’s. “And it had your face. No – you were the angel.”
The priest’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline in complete surprise. “I see,” he places the cup of tea on the coffee table next to his rosary, “the fever is still doing its work…”
“But your wings looked so real—”
“Dear,” Sunday cuts him off, “what we need now are some cold cloths for your forehead.”
Gallagher wrinkles his nose, offended. He wants to complain because the hallucination has felt way too real—but maybe Sunday is right. With a sigh, he lies down on the couch again and closes his eyes. “If you say so,” he mutters.
Sunday presses another kiss on his lover’s forehead. “Let me take care of you, for once,” he whispers, gently.
With a grin tugging at his lips, Gallagher flutters his eyes open. “Okay,” he agrees, “for once.” He gets repaid with the kindest, sweetest smile he has ever seen.
𓏵
The fever is tremendous. Gallagher has never found himself crying, laughing and whining in the span of half an hour. He has even rambled that sometimes he feels abandoned by Sunday, only to realise how ludicrous and immature he sounded after.
“I’m so sorry, love,” Sunday says as he dabs his boyfriend’s forehead with a wet napkin. “An old lady came into the sacristy without knocking first and nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Gallagher huffs with relief when the cold napkin wets his burning skin. “How rude,” he murmurs, “I always knock before entering.”
Sunday chuckles. “I know that.” He swipes the other man’s cheeks with the napkin, quelling the hotness for just a few seconds. “You’re rude only by aspect.”
“What do you mean, Sunny?” Gallagher whines, turning his head on the pillow to look at his lover. “That’s not so kind of you…” But Sunday is right. He indeed looks rude. Like a bachelor in his full forty. Which he is. So maybe his boyfriend is right, as always…
Still crouched at the end of the couch, Sunday dips the napkin in the basin full of cold water beside him. “I mean that you truly are unapproachable, sometimes,” he says with a smile, dabbing Gallagher’s forehead and cheeks again. “A rude man with the softest of hearts.” He shifts the napkin on the older man’s lips. “And so kind. You have always been so kind to me, Gallagher. I was kidding.”
A weird lump of repressed feelings knots Gallagher’s pit of the stomach. He tries not to be affected by the look Sunday gives him, but truly, it’s impossible not to. “You really look like an angel, Sunny,” he lets slip out. His lips are fresh and cold when his lover presses the cloth on them—such a pleasing sensation.
“Stop with this story, Gallagher,” Sunday sighs, “it sounds like a blasphemy. You’re not Dante, and I’m not your Beatrice.” He leans in and places a kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek. “Just two very common men. Don’t make our love even more impossible than it already is.”
Gallagher brings up his hand, gently placing it on Sunday’s shoulder. “Do you want it to be earthly?” he asks, sliding his hand to touch his lover’s cheek. He tucks a bluish tuft behind the priest’s ear, his thumb gently brushing the cheekbone as he does.
“No. I want it to be the quotidian. It’d be so much easier,” Sunday murmurs, cupping the hand on his face, “if it were socially acceptable.” He squeezes it tight, as if he is seeking comfort now.
Gallagher frowns with sudden sorrow, his eyes a little glossy with upcoming tears. “I’m sure it will be, one day.” He slides his hand behind the priest’s head, cupping his nape.
“I pray every day for it to be,” Sunday murmurs, shifting up to kiss his boyfriend’s temple. He places his right palm on his lover’s chest, while his left hand is still pressing the napkin against the forehead.
Gallagher closes his eyes, bringing his hand to his chest and cupping Sunday’s hand here. He accepts the kiss on his eyelids. He melts every time the priest covers an inch of his face with his lips. When he opens his eyes again, Sunday is observing him with a gleaming look.
The young man leans in again, grabbing Gallagher’s chin. Surprisingly enough, Sunday smooches his lips. It leaves the older man almost amazed. “But you hate—”
“Oh, come on, Gallagher.” Sunday leans a little away, showing him his bare hands. “I’m not even wearing my gloves now. I took them off before praying, don’t you remember?”
That little detail has escaped Gallagher’s keen gaze. “Why?” he asks, genuinely beginning to worry. The priest has told him what comes with his little problem—the madness, the dizziness into which the young man plunges whenever he touches things with bare hands. Why is he doing that to himself?
Beneath the warm lights of the living room, Sunday’s golden eyes gleam with what looks like desire. “If I give God something mine, will He give me something I seek with all of my soul?”
The knot in Gallagher’s stomach melts. It ripples to his chest, and he suddenly begins to sob. He doesn’t know why he’s crying. Maybe it’s the fever. Maybe it’s Sunday’s words. But all he knows is that he wouldn’t last a day without the priest at his side.
Between a concerned look, worried words and a tender hug, something else strikes Gallagher. It sinks in his chest and twists the blade of truth in his heart. Now that Sunday has entered his life, his leaving would be painful.
So, in the end, Gallagher is condemned forever to a sweet yet sinful love. And that is why he’s still staying.