Work Text:
Father Oak was a dying man. Everyone in his congregation knew that the young priest wasn’t well, everyone sent their prayers and food to his flat in Edinburgh. Nobody knew why. The man kept his cards close to his chest regarding his illness, though it never stopped him from delivering sermons seeming to have been written by the hand of God. He sat in the confessional, listened, forgave. Father Oak was a very forgiving man, offering an ear to every soul entering the booth and a blessing as they left. How could a man like him be robbed of his life so young? How could the congregation be forced to watch him deteriorate, shrink, weaken?
Sunday Oak was a sinner. He was thirty years old and visiting doctors to beg for any way to keep himself alive. He was lying in his bed, sheets clutched over a bare body as he stared at the ceiling and prayed. Would the Lord listen to him?
He’d wanted to make a difference. It’d been obvious since his youth that he would go into ministry, but his purpose had been made clear later: to make his faith and his congregation open their wings, their eyes, their hearts. No human being deserved to live in the darkness just because of who they were, the Holy teachings showed otherwise.
Well.
No human being, except for Sunday. The Lord had made that clear in His verdict of a death sentence for the man.
Sunday would never cast his judgment on another the way He had cast His on him. It didn’t matter to him if he spoke to a sinless young boy or a man high in an alleyway, human lives were sacred. Everyone was deserving of as good of a life as they could manage, even if they wouldn’t make it to eternal life in Heaven.
Whenever he prepared himself for a trip to a hospital, Sunday would see his gaunt reflection in a mirror, chilled yet feverish.
At twenty-three, he’d been the pinnacle of health.
At twenty-three, he’d been foolish.
At twenty-three, he’d thought he could live fast and forever, at least on some nights. His schooling was a priority, of course, but what was a man to do with himself in rural Scotland, 1979?
Go into the city.
Sin, gentle sin that was never a sin.
Sin, loud, violating sin committed by another.
And Sunday received His punishment.
Because of course, had he not opened himself up as someone to take, he would not have been taken. Had he not gently sinned, he wouldn’t have been violently sinned against.
He stopped visiting the city until he had to go to the hospital. It wasn’t immediate, Sunday only went after a month when he’d been ill and getting worse. The nurses had treated him coldly once they’d given him a diagnosis of HIV– clearly, he was just another faggot.
And he was.
But he was safe.
Until someone decided he didn’t deserve it.
Seven years later, Sunday returned to a hospital on a Tuesday. November 11, 1986. He’d barely made it through his last Mass. Antibiotics, painkillers, stimulants– whatever they could give him.
November 11, 1986.
Sunday was not given antibiotics, or painkillers, or stimulants. He was admitted to a long-term care wing for a worsening pneumatic infection in his lungs.
November 13, 1986.
A temporary priest from another congregation was set to replace Sunday while he received care.
November 20, 1986.
The medical world was truly not what it could be, was it?
November 24, 1986.
Hushed, machine-aided breathing.
Immune system failing as entirely as was possible.
In, hiss, out, haa.
Don’t cough.
It’ll make it worse.
December 1, 1986.
13:01 PM.
Snow.
December 1, 1986.
13:05 PM.
Sunday’s sister used to play in the snow.
Robin sang now. She sang at the top of the charts. She visited when she could.
She was coming soon.
Robin was on her way.
December 1, 1986.
13:47 PM.
Hiss.
Haa.
Hiss.
Haa.
Hiss.
Haa.
Hiss.
Haa.
A cough.
Hiss- cough, energy-sapping, phlegmy cough.
Hiss.
Haa.
Hiss.
It was snowing, wasn’t it?
And Robin would be here soon.
And her song was playing, wasn’t it? Her new song, the one she’d sang for Sunday the last time they’d seen each other.
And there was a noise, it was a long beep, it wouldn’t go away. Sunday wished it would go away. It was interrupting the song.
Robin would be here soon.