Archive of Our Own

Hiding from Boothill had always been a futile effort. The man himself had claimed to be some kind of hunter, though Sunday hadn’t seen him hunt for anything except for scraps of attention from the people he’d considered his companions. Unfortunately, Boothill had come to think of Sunday as something close to a friend, so, truly, he didn’t know why he had expected it to go any differently.

Sunday still did not look up, even when the door to his room shut quietly behind him. The stillness was broken by the sound of heavy boots wandering closer, absentminded, as if it didn’t take much thinking for Boothill to navigate his way through Sunday’s things. The thought should make him shudder; instead, it only succeeded in making him feel warm.

“So, here’s where you’ve been hidin’ out.” Boothill let out a low whistle, one that morphed into soft, amused chuckling. “I was wonderin’ how many more doors I gotta kick down before I’d find ya.”

You didn’t even kick my door down. You just opened it gently, Sunday thought resentfully, before it struck him what a foolish thing this was to be upset about. Of course, Boothill would have treated the doors gently; for all that he liked to pretend, Boothill had always been a good man. A gentle man, albeit with some degree of clumsiness, but always earnest. Honest with his intentions, if nothing else.

Sunday sighed, finding that he lacked the heart to pretend as if he wasn’t already familiar with this man—too familiar, he would even say. Still, he made no move to turn around and look at him. He suspected he would lose his nerves if he dared try.

“Boothill,” he greeted. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

If somebody had told him just a few months ago that he would become close enough with his dear sister’s self-appointed ‘bodyguard’ that he could recognise the shift in the air without even looking back, he would have laughed. After all, what business did he have with the man who insisted on following his sister’s entourage as they crossed the globe, bringing hope and light into the world through her dedicated ministry of music? This man might have been Robin’s friend, but he certainly was not Sunday’s.

As it was, at the minute pause that followed his words, Sunday could not help but grimace. Boothill was not upset, not truly, but he certainly was not pleased. As such, Sunday was unsurprised when there was the sound of shuffling behind him, indignant and petulant, followed by the telltale noise of his things being shifted slightly out of place.

Sunday felt his eye twitch, though he supposed he was wholly deserving of it.

“Now, don’t ya be treatin’ me like a stranger, angel.” If Sunday didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought Boothill sounded wounded; but he did, because he knew what Boothill actually sounded like when he was hurt, and it was nothing like this. Boothill wouldn’t say anything at all, he would just leave.

“I’m not,” Sunday returned curtly.

“I ain’t stupid, dollface. You ain’t even lookin’ at me.”

It was a poorly laid trap, one that relied on emotion more than it did logic. It was the kind of cheap trick Sunday would have never employed, but Boothill had always been far too fond of, claiming them to be capable of working miracles when set by the right hand. Boothill had spent his entire life laying these kinds of traps, Sunday never stood a chance, really.

“I’m in the middle of prayer,” Sunday gritted out, even though he most definitely was not.

“Ain’t it blasphemous to put God on hold for a mere mortal like me?”

Sunday slammed his hands on the ground, rising to stand without a sound beyond the movement of his robes against the cold tiles. Ignoring Boothill was proving to be of little use; while Sunday was stubborn enough to match, admittedly, he had been wanting Boothill’s company for some time now as well. It was as Boothill said, he would be leaving tomorrow; there was only so much time left for them to talk before the call of their respective duties would part them for good.

“Fine,” Sunday said. “What do you wish to say to me?”

Both of Boothill’s eyebrows lurched in surprise, his expression conveying equal parts bewilderment and bemusement. It was a look Boothill often made when within his presence, and so Sunday was decidedly unmoored in the face of it.

“Now, what’s with the hostility, angel? What have I done to ya this time?”

While there was no anger in his question, curiosity shone brightly enough that it had Sunday’s haunches lowering.

Sunday inhaled sharply, his eyes coming to a close as he pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly. The anger was unwarranted, he reasoned with himself, and not to mention awfully unfair. It wasn’t as if Boothill hadn’t told him he would be leaving eventually. If anything, Sunday had kept a calendar tucked away in his room, counting down the days until then. At first, he’d meticulously kept track of the time until his sister’s departure, and then, as he’d gotten closer to Boothill, he’d found that he’d started counting for him too. He crossed the days off at the end of his night, once he finished his prayers and nightly routines, and he was finally settling into bed for a good night of rest.

There was only one day left unmarked on that calendar: today.

“I apologize,” Sunday sighed, shaking his head soundlessly. “I didn’t mean to… It seems that you’ve caught me at a bad time. It wasn’t my intention to snap at you.”

Boothill waved a hand dismissively, the bland expression on his face informing him of how he had been forgiven before he had even thought to apologize. Idly, Sunday could not help but wonder how it was that this God-less, faithless man could be more generous in extending forgiveness than the holy men of the church tended to be. “It seems I’m always catchin’ you at a bad time these days,” Boothill said instead. “That the real reason you gotta schedule up? So no one’ll catch you at ‘a bad time’ or some shit?”

It was precisely why Sunday had maintained a strict consultation schedule, but there wasn’t a need to offer more ammunition to the man who already had a plethora of them against him. “Perhaps if you were to peruse it, you might find out for yourself,” Sunday returned snidely instead.

Boothill’s response was only to laugh, and Sunday could sense his shoulders lowering on their own. This was one of the good things about Boothill’s presence, he found; there was nowhere and nobody else he could find that was as effective at lowering his walls. Perhaps, he ought to be more cautious of its imminent danger, but here, in the safety of this private room, where there were no eyes around to bear witness but the all-knowing God’s alone; and God already knew everything, from the pure to the wicked. Sunday could not hide himself, even if he tried.

“What are you doing here, Boothill?” Sunday heard himself asking once more, though it was kinder this time—less vicious. “I thought you said you wanted to go sightseeing one last time before leaving.”

Boothill’s flight was early in the morning, the result of Robin’s doing no doubt. Boothill had kicked a fuss about it the entire time since he’d learned about the arrangement, to which Sunday had responded by asking him if he would like him to speak with Robin about it. Boothill had told him a firm "no," and then he had gone on to continue throwing a tantrum about it. When he had brought it up with his sister, Robin had only laughed.

“There’s no need to worry about him, brother,” Robin had said, patting him gently on the shoulder. “It’s just how he is. Watch, he’ll complain about the early flight, but then he’ll stay up all night seeing sights.”

Sunday had stared at her, bewildered. “Why?” he’d asked.

“I never thought to ask.” Robin had shrugged. “I suspect that’s just his way of saying goodbye.”

His sister, as she had a habit of being, was naturally right. Earlier, in the morning, once he finished scarfing down the last of his breakfast, Boothill had loudly announced that he would be unavailable for the rest of the day because he intended to go sightseeing. Robin had exchanged a knowing look with Sunday, to which he had responded with a shake of his head as he returned to nursing his morning coffee. It wasn’t his business what Boothill decided to do on his last day here; Sunday had plenty of things to tend to outside of him anyway.

But then, Robin hadn’t been entirely correct either. Boothill had, against all odds, decided to return. The sun hadn’t even set yet, though the sky had become bruised as it approached the horizon, and here was Boothill, cramped inside his room, decidedly not sightseeing.

“I did,” Boothill said. “I am.”

Sunday arched an eyebrow. “And the sight you’ve decided to see is the interior of my room?”

Boothill seemed to take that as an invitation, his hands coming to perch on his hips as he surveyed the room as if he were seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t, and not much had changed since the last time he had been here. There wasn’t much space for it, anyway.

Sunday’s room was modestly sized, and it barely took Boothill any time at all to take in the sight of bare walls, sparse shelves, a cleared-out desk, and a neatly made bed in the corner. The only thing that was of any interest in his room was the small figurine his sister had given him years ago that sat politely on his bedside table, next to his Bible and journals. But Boothill had also toyed with it far too many times, rolling it between the curves of his fingers absently, so much that Sunday suspected he could draw it from memory alone.

“I mean, it’s a pretty nice place,” Boothill drawled out in a tone that suggested the opposite. Sunday huffed, used to the teasing by now, and it drew Boothill’s gaze straight to his face. “But nah, that ain’t what I came here to see.”

Sunday’s breath hitched in his throat, like he was no better than a ridiculous schoolgirl with a petty crush. He cleared his throat, barely resisting the urge to look away. It’s hard, sometimes, to meet Boothill’s eyes without flinching. “What’d you come here for, then?”

“You, angel,” Boothill said plainly. “I wanted to see you.”

Sunday released a strangled noise in response, something caught between a disbelieving scoff and a humiliated whine, and realized he never should have resisted. He covered his face with one hand, though he knew it was too late to hide the flush crawling up his skin, and turned around to avoid Boothill’s intelligent gaze entirely.

“How shameless,” he muttered, though it lacked any heart or heat. “If all you intend to do is charm, then you’re better off flirting with another man.” Yet, even as the words left his lips, they scalded against the skin of his tongue. He still did not take it back.

“There you go again,” Boothill said, though he didn’t sound upset about it. If anything, he sounded almost worried. “Icin’ me out just like that. If you’ve got somethin’ against me, angel, I’d rather you said it straight. I can’t handle this whole ‘pretendin’ things are okay when they’re obviously not’ shit. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

Sunday’s mouth twitched at the corners despite his best efforts. It was nearly painful how earnest a conversation with Boothill could be sometimes. It was as if he had never learned how to conceal and defend his thoughts, though Sunday knew otherwise. Boothill could be an excellent liar if he wanted to be; most of the time, he didn’t.

He felt his shoulders lowering despite himself, his thoughts wandering as he cautiously entertained the possibility of telling Boothill what was truly on his mind—his worries for their future, his yearning to be close to him for one more night, his desire to unload everything on Boothill so that he wouldn’t have to be a painfully solitary island forever—even though he knew he wouldn’t. He cared for Boothill too much; such a burden was meant to be carried by one person. It was his and his alone.

Before he could come up with something to say in response, Boothill had already decided to speak up once more. “Is this ‘bout me leavin’ tomorrow?” he asked, his voice low. It lacked the usual wittiness that came with their banters, though the warmth persisted. “Is that why you’re doin’ all this to me, huh? Tryin’ to make it hurt less for the both of us?”

Sunday inhaled sharply.

Too close. Boothill had struck a little too close to the truth, and now Sunday felt his heart being the one to pay the price for it. He backed up on instinct, one foot already shifting backwards into a brace before he could catch himself. Boothill’s eyes tracked the motion with sharp intent, and Sunday knew there would be no point in amending himself. It would only be a direct, bald-faced lie, and while Boothill might not call him out on it, Sunday knew that he wouldn’t know how to be at peace with himself if he did it.

In the end, Sunday chose to say nothing at all; Boothill, mercifully, didn’t push either. Instead, they stood in silence for a long while, simply mapping each other out with equally steadfast gazes. Sunday didn’t know what emotions must be showing on his face, but Boothill was being uncharacteristically open tonight: the scrunch of his eyebrows betrayed his thinking, and the thin line of his mouth revealed his sorrows. It was as if Sunday was peering into his own emotions, having it be reflected back to him, though boldly amplified in its honesty. Sunday envied him a little bit; he’d never been as good at being honest as Boothill was.

He’d made the mistake of confessing it out loud, once. It had been a warm day, the summer breeze lazily kissing his cheeks making it easier to be mindless. He had borne no intention of being so honest that afternoon, but it had been hard to be anything but unguarded when Boothill was dragging him through the golden fields he’d grown up walking past but never playing in until that day. Sunday was grown, and he was too old to be doing these kinds of things; yet with Boothill, it had been all too easy to pretend as if it changed nothing.

“You’re brave, Boothill,” he’d said. Blurted out, really. “I wish I could be more like you.”

Boothill had only tossed his head back and laughed in response, his long hair knotted into a messy, reckless bun at the base of his skull. He’d tied it back haphazardly with little care for how well it would hold up in the long run, only that it would stay out of his face for the time being. Sunday had yearned to fix it, if only to have an excuse to touch him.

“Nah, angel. That ain’t right,” Boothill had said, shaking his head. “It ain’t the bravery you’re cravin’, but the freedom. And that kinda shit, that ain’t got nothin’ to do with me. Ya can always have it if ya want it, but ya really gotta want it. Like, seriously. More than ya do anythin’ else in this big, beautiful, shitty world.”

Sunday had been drunk off the taste of sunlight and Boothill’s companionship, and so he’d pinched his brows together and quietly asked him, “How?”

Boothill had slowed down suddenly, and he’d turned around to look at Sunday. His shrug had been painfully lazy, but there was no denying the sharpness behind his eyes. “I dunno,” he’d answered, a moment too late. “It ain’t my place to tell ya. Your bravery’s gotta come from your own heart, angel. Otherwise, there’s no point, you’d just be borrowin’ some other fucker’s faith.”

Quietly, Sunday had wondered, Would that be so bad? But he knew Boothill, and he knew what his answer to that would be, and he’d already scraped so much of himself to be more honest right there than he had been in years. So, he hadn’t said anything after that, not until Boothill picked up on his silence, and he’d changed the topic to something else; something far safer that didn’t need Sunday to uproot too much more of his belief.

But Boothill had said it—had made it into tangible, graspable, comprehensible words; the kind that Sunday could mull over in his mind whenever his head would get too quiet—and Sunday couldn’t unhear it either, so here he stood before Boothill, much later, and still thinking about it: about being brave, and being free, and wanting it more than anything else in this world.

Now, he thought, Would that be so bad?

Yes, whispered the softer part of him; the one that would always remain that weak, soft lamb with a pair of broken legs, the one that would always be afraid of everything else in this world, the one that would always gravitate towards safety above all else. Yes, it would be.

Because Boothill’s words were ripe and sweet, dripping with honey. It was tantalizing in such a way that Sunday had never imagined was possible to begin with: an offering that he had never thought would be offered to him. Boothill’s words were daydreams, portals to another world; something short of a promise for a better tomorrow where the skies were always blue and the wind current would always uplift their beating wings and nothing could over harm them. It was a beautiful daydream; therein lies the heart of the problem.

Sunday knew what it meant to dream. He knew what it meant to fall, too. Thus, he also knew that if a person had fallen asleep, it would be unkind to wake them up—let them continue dreaming in a fictitious, beautiful world! It was certainly better than this real but rotten one. Allow this humble servant to protect it; to ensure nobody ever arises from their perfect dreams to this terrible nightmare.

Boothill’s hands came to wrap around Sunday’s wrist, sudden enough to make him jerk back in his surprise. At once, Boothill released him, both of his hands raised in a universal gesture of surrender. Sunday mourned the loss of the warmth instantly.

“I apologize,” Sunday said, in lieu of something more embarrassing, like pleas for Boothill to return to him. Had he not humiliated them both enough with his displays? “It’s as I’ve said, you caught me at a bad time. I was… thinking.”

Boothill cocked his head to the side, a strange look crossing his face. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, dollface. I was just messin’ ‘round,” he answered, his expression smoothened out in an instant. “Seriously, if you want me to come back later instead, then I can always just—”

“No,” Sunday cut him off, making an aborted half-step forward. His hands were already reaching before he could correct himself, and he tried to salvage whatever little was left of his dignity by shaking his head. “I don’t want you to leave. I just… I just have a lot on my mind.”

Boothill softened, the corners of his mouth becoming more lax while his shoulders dropped to become more open, and Sunday knew that it could only be the product of generous effort and caution on Boothill’s part. He didn’t have the time to correct Boothill for it when warm hands navigated their way over the small distance between them until their fingers were knotted with each other. Sunday had to admit that it was quite the pretty sight: his own pale and gloved hands, tangled up with Boothill’s darker, rougher, and ring-smattered ones.

“All right,” Boothill murmured, squeezing their intertwined hands gently. “I’ll bite. What’s goin’ on up in that pretty head of yours, angel?”

Right now, all I can think of is you, Sunday thought, and the response came to him with such scant consideration that he found it little trouble to squash out before it grew to bear fruits of further disaster. His answer would likely only make Boothill laugh if said out loud, but it would ravage his heart as he would no longer be able to ignore the feelings growing in his chest. The thought of it choked him up, akin to invisible, thorned vines wrapping around his throat.

Sunday shook his head. “Nothing,” he muttered.

Boothill’s eyebrows shot up, making no attempts to disguise his dramatics. “And here I thought y’all saints ain’t made for this lyin’ shit,” he said. “You sure ya ain’t gon’ explode anytime soon? Dunno ‘bout you, angel, but I like you livin’ more than I do you burnin’ and smote.”

Sunday scrunched his nose. “That’s not how it works.”

“It ain’t? Well, fuck me, that’s what I heard from those sermons an’ shit growin’ up,” Boothill mused but it was clear that he didn’t actually believe it. He was simply painstakingly, endearingly, fishing for some kind of response from Sunday. Had it been anyone else, it would have seemed pitiful, but it was Boothill, so it instead tugged insistently at Sunday’s heartstrings.

“I’m not going to get smote for lying.” Sunday looked at their hands, still tangled with each other. It took everything in him not to pull Boothill closer to him until they stood chest-to-chest. “The sin is enough of a punishment. And I am no saint.”

“Coulda fooled me.” A crooked grin hung off his mouth, and Sunday burned with envy and a desire to taste it with his own mouth. “You’re all shinin’ halos and benevolence and all that good shit. Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder how I’m meant to meet God or whoever the fuck when I’m down here bein’ too busy gettin’ distracted by one of his finer angels.”

Sunday flushed. “That’s not the compliment you think it is,” he said.

“It ain’t the insult you think it is either,” Boothill returned, still grinning. “So let’s just call it even.”

Sunday scowled, but even he could tell that his heart wasn’t entirely in it. What Boothill had said, it would have been a kindness a long time ago. Any acknowledgement of the hard work Sunday had, time after time, poured into becoming the man that he was now came scarcely, and he cherished every rare instance of it happening. Whenever he would be praised for being a good man or a pious man, he would preen and puff with shameful pride.

Now, he recognizes this arrogant assumption to be merely yet another fact of his shortcomings. He must certainly be so very shallow, so very egotistical, to presume that he was a good man, much less a pious one. As he’d said, he was no saint, and unlike what Boothill liked to think, he was certainly no angel. Sunday was simply a man: one with desires, such as lying, and tendencies, such as desiring.

Boothill’s smile faded naturally with time, though that dazzling mirth still glimmered in the depths of his gaze. Sunday made no move to retreat, even as Boothill tilted his head until they were leaning close to each other: an invasion of space. This close to him, Sunday caught a glimpse of his own reflection peering at him through the pools of Boothill’s eyes. His reflection seemed plain and unassuming—perhaps even sweet, as Boothill often liked to call him—nothing at all like the greedy and terrible thing he always knew himself to be.

Instinctively, Sunday recoiled in shame at the face of his sins. Boothill made an inquisitive noise, an awfully sad thing that was swiftly followed by an arm secured around Sunday’s waist, reeling him in. “Now,” Boothill rasped out, so quiet that it could be nothing but intimate, “where the hell do you think you’re goin’, angel?”

Sunday ripped himself out of Boothill’s embrace, staggering the final steps that left him relishing in the phantom shivers of the cold now that he was no longer encircled in Boothill’s warmth. He knew that his eyes must be wide, though he felt unseeing. All he could feel was a cloying stickiness in his throat—dirty, he thought, sickening. Nothing short of a disease.

Just how many lies had he gently pushed past Boothill’s lips under the guise of showing him the paths that would lead him closer towards Sunday’s own God? Just how many cloying, borderline loving words had he ripped out of Boothill’s throat in an attempt to soothe his own bruised heart? Just how many delusions had he fed Boothill until the man could regurgitate them blind, in response to just a cutting gaze from Sunday?

Too many was the answer.

Sunday had thought himself to be a good man. Now, he undoubtedly knew that he was a bad one.

“Angel?” Boothill was watching him, oblivious to Sunday’s internal struggle, an arm outstretched as if Sunday hadn’t just pushed him away. As if Sunday wasn’t rotten and ugly and diseased, and he wasn’t just going to make things worse for the both of them—for Boothill. “Let me in, dollface. What’s on your mind?”

Later, much later, Sunday would recognize that the sole thing to be blamed was his own innate and inexplicable desire to flee. It seemed that in the years that had come to pass between his childhood until the moment he stood before this beautiful man now, Sunday still had not shed the true nature of his being—he was still, at the end, a coward who hid behind gilded words.

But for the time being, Sunday blamed guilt for the words that left his lips next.

“I am not made for you.” His voice trembled, though it must have been near imperceptible. Nobody who did not know him would ever notice; his reputation remained intact, unlike the heart crawling in his throat, racing to clamber out and flee. What an odd sensation it was; Sunday had not been afraid in a long time.

Or, perhaps, the more accurate thing to say would be that he hadn’t been this afraid in a long time. All that he feared in the past was simply that: matters of the past. They belonged in a place and time that he could not return to, no matter how gravely he dreamt it. But there was nothing past-tense here, presently in this room, where he could see the eyes of God smiling benevolently at him, framed almost neatly around the crown of Boothill’s head.

“Just…” Sunday cleared his burning throat, humiliated. “Just as you are not made for me.”

He lowered his head hurriedly before he could think to meet Boothill’s gaze. He hated the thought of making a habit out of shying away from matters which worried him—he was too respectable for that; too Oak, too privileged, to be allowed to consider such mindless cowardice an option—but there was something about Boothill that never failed to make him want to flinch. To perform, even. To expose his jugular and bare himself to those sharp teeth, ripe for the picking.

He had done that before, once. The bruises had long faded, but the memories lingered on the folds of his skin, like a scorched handprint—a haunting.

A beat, silence ghosting over them, and suddenly, Boothill laughed. It was a loud and wheezy thing, akin to the noise produced by an old car attempting to start up its engine, the kind of laugh that only emerged when he was properly amused.

Sunday’s face flushed, the sting of shame coloring his cheeks in an inescapable rush. If it had been anybody else, he would have attempted to mask it before anybody could put a name to it; certainly, nobody would dare to call him out on his embarrassment. But this was Boothill, wild and untamable and ridiculous, and Boothill was a man significantly more shameless than him. So, he grimaced without making any effort to hide it, and Boothill laughed until he was satisfied.

“Sometimes,” Boothill said slowly, a grin sharpening his mouth. “I forget just how fuckin’ weird you really are. But then you go on and open that pretty mouth of yours, and I can’t help but remember.”

Shut up, Sunday thought desperately, certain that his face must be burning with the same intensity as the shame was igniting his chest. Boothill had always been good at fishing out such unwanted reactions from him. Outwardly, he frowned. “Ah,” he murmured. “I apologize.”

“Don’t ya worry, angel.” Boothill winked. “It’s real fuckin’ cute.”

Sunday flustered.

He was beginning to believe that speaking with Boothill ought to be thought of as his personal trial and temptation, one that was designed around his pride. That was the only explanation he was able to come up with that would sufficiently explain why he must endure so much shame. How could Boothill say such a terrible, embarrassing thing so unhesitatingly? How could those words pour forth out of his lips like sweet wine? Cute, he said, as if such a word could ever be considered appropriate to describe the twisted, horrible creature that Sunday truly was.

His childhood—the one that had come before Father Wood and this church and all that he knew to be his life ever since the day he and his sister were saved—had been one filled with so much anger. There had been very few good things in his life, so little that, oftentimes, that rage would turn its face outwards to barrel into everything that dared to stand in its path. Sunday had been a monster as a boy, and as much as he would like to imagine that he had changed, he knew that he had not. Not by much; not nearly enough.

He was still too angry. He still clenched his fists far too tightly, although he had since learned how to conceal them behind the folds of his robes so that no one would witness the ugliness of his rage. He was still crafted out of too much pride. He still held himself at too high of a regard, only eclipsed by the depth of hollowness in his bones, reminding him that he was truthfully lesser than most. He was still too envious. He still yearned for things that belonged to other people—people who belonged to other people. Sunday must become a pious, holy man, for he knew he was not one.

A pious man did not want the way he did everything, with a desire made of black holes in his chest and in his guts, as if his mouth could afford to unhinge its jaws wide enough to swallow the whole world. In his deepest fantasies, the one where he was still a child who couldn’t possibly know any better, he dreamt of salvation: of bringing it to the people, of shepherding them into a world without suffering or strife or pain. He imagined himself as the mouthpiece of God: the vessel of divinity.

Certainly, a pious man would not desire another man’s touch the way he yearned for it either. No, a pious man would not allow his hand to wander along with his mind, moving downwards until he reached the waistband of his pants. He would not take himself in his hand, would not imagine himself with another man, would not feel any desire—much less any pleasure—at the idea of being taken by another man. A holy man would not be tempted by such worldly things, and Sunday liked the idea of having Boothill too much to give him up.

Blessed was the one who persevered under trial, but Sunday did not—could not. Desire gnawed into him, a dog to the bone, until he could no longer determine where he began and his desire ended. They had become a continuance: one great, greedy existence.

Perhaps, it was precisely because of this weakness of his flesh that he did not flee as Boothill’s steps drew closer to him, closing the distance between them until they stood chest to chest with each other, even though he should have. He should have turned his face away, walked away—run, even, for was it not written that holy men must flee when faced with evil? That was what a good, pious man would have done. Boothill touched his face with his hand. Sunday did not move.

Here was the truth, because Sunday still imagined himself to be a man headed towards holiness: he had not held his hands into fists since Boothill’s ultimate arrival. Rather, it was as if he had been overcome with an incessant case of twitching instead: the constant desire to touch.

Boothill’s palm cupped his cheeks. Firm, unyielding. Before Sunday could think of running from its certainty—of becoming once again a pious, holy man—Boothill’s other hand moved, and Sunday found that his face was trapped in Boothill’s warm grasp. His hands were calloused; Sunday could feel them where the roughness caught onto the skin at the outer corners of his eyes. Part of him was afraid again, heart fluttering in his chest like the hurried wings of a caged bird, but he did not retreat.

It was nice, tender, even, in a way things were rarely allowed to be for him anymore. His future had lately become an object of scrutiny, and it would merely take one wrong move to cause everything to crumble apart like a house of cards. He knew Father Wood—along with the rest of the church—placed high expectations for him, and there were many who wished to see him fail. Sunday had devoted his entire life to this; it was his duty to bear fruit. He couldn’t allow room for indulgences, because he couldn’t afford failure. He bore the Oak name; he bore the church itself.

There were still the sweeter moments, of course. Warmth never failed to steadfastly build in his chest each time Father Wood would turn his approving gaze on him, or when Robin would return year after year for the summer, even though he wouldn’t begrudge her for leaving entirely and never returning. It was times like these that reminded him of what—of who—he was doing this for. He was the lamb, the martyr, the saint who would bring them towards a time of peace, a world he had thought for the longest time could only exist within a dream.

Naturally, as the lamb upon the altar, as Moses had when he led the people to the promised land, he would not be allowed entry into that land of milk and honey, but Sunday had made peace with it. After all, he had been raised for this. He was the son, the one who must trudge that long and lonely path towards the place of the skull. He wouldn’t see that beautiful place, but the people whom he loved would, and was that not what he had always wanted? Paradise for all?

Not all.

Boothill wouldn’t want that kind of paradise, he thought silently. No, Boothill wouldn’t want any kind of paradise at all. He would call any kind of paradise boring—dull. Perhaps even a waste of precious time, if he were in a less than stellar mood. Boothill would scoff at the idea of Sunday’s paradise—a sweet, endless dream where the people prosper and nothing ever dies—and then he’d spend the entire time trying to find a way out. Sunday knew that, knew it just as well as he knew anything else he knew about Boothill.

Sunday had asked him about it once, about Heaven and Hell and God. He’d asked what he thought of it—of the hope it cradles and the suffering it bellies—because admittedly, shamefully, he simply couldn’t help himself. Boothill wasn’t shy about his beliefs, or rather the lack thereof at all, but he gazed at the cross and the statues and the murals on the walls as if he was searching for some kind of great answer anyway. Sunday had tended to various kinds of sheep over his tenure in this church. He knew Boothill wasn’t in search of God, only something to believe in.

Expectedly, Boothill had laughed right at his face. “Ya already know I ain’t got jackshit to say ‘bout that, angel,” he’d said. “Sure, the idea’s nice and all, but if there is a god, they sure as hell ain’t on my side. So, I ain’t on theirs either.”

For a moment, Sunday had said nothing as he watched Boothill flick at the lid of his lighter. It was easy to imagine Boothill taking a drag from a cigarette, leaning against the wall with his head tilted back as he blew out a cloud of dull smoke. Robin had mentioned something about Boothill smoking once, but he was still yet to catch Boothill in the act. Maybe Boothill had assumed that Sunday wouldn’t want to see it, that he’d probably hate the smoke and the cancer and everything else related to it; it should be the correct assumption, and yet.

“What about heaven, then?” Sunday had asked next, eyes still watching the way Boothill ran long, deft fingers along the length of the lighter absentmindedly. He had wanted it to be him. He wanted it to be him. “Do you believe in that?”

“Sure,” Boothill had answered, easy.

“Really?”

“Now, what’s that look for, dollface?” The responding wolfish grin had practically split his face in two, revealing sharp canines. It should make him look scary, but Sunday had only thought that he looked especially boyish like that.

“I just…” Sunday had shaken his head; he should have expected it, really. Boothill never was the kind of person to give away direct answers freely—if at all. He fought the urge to tug at a loose thread in his lap or to form his hands into fists. “I just wasn’t expecting that, that’s all. I’d thought that, considering you don’t believe in the existence of God, then you mustn’t believe in His heaven either.”

Boothill had snorted. “Who said jackshit ‘bout your God’s heaven?”

Sunday had only blinked. “Pardon?”

“No offense, angel, but I don’t believe in that kinda heaven and hell shit either.” Boothill had raised a brow, a belligerent smirk occupying his face, though the softness of his mouth gave away the truth of his sincerity. “I don’t believe in the afterlife at all, period. Spirit world—why not? Reincarnation—maybe, sure. But an entirely different plane of living? Nah, hard pass.”

“What,” Sunday had asked, “do you believe in, then?”

“I believe in this.” Boothill had gestured at the sprawling fields surrounding them, expanding into what seemed to be the infinite. “In this world. In the fresh air that we’re breathin’ in, in the soil jam-packed here under our feet, in the grass that’s always greener on the other side.” He had laughed, the target audience for his own joke. “This—this world, this earth, you and me standin’ right here right now—this is what I believe in.”

Boothill had grinned at him then, sharply laced with mischief, and Sunday had wondered how it would feel to taste it, to taste him—to run his tongue along the clever juts of his canines, to feel them sink into his skin, to endure the feeling of Boothill’s bare, open hand on his body.

Sunday had known even then that Boothill’s hands were large and warm. He had imagined the feeling of his callouses fitting across his own palms over and over after Boothill had taken his hand that one time a few days prior, tugging him through the thick crowd at the market. It was easy to transfer that image onto the rest of his body, over the skin that nobody ever got to witness, onto the parts of him that he never thought anybody would want to witness. It would burn, he had thought to himself then. It would burn like something holy.

“And heaven?” Sunday had asked him.

Boothill had tipped his head back and laughed, but he’d looked like he could’ve been drinking the sun itself. “This here,” he’d answered, unhesitating, like he didn’t have to think about it. Sunday envied him. He had envied the sun, which had known the taste of Boothill’s lips. “This right here is already heaven, angel.”

No, Boothill had no place in Sunday’s paradise at all. His very presence would stir up too much trouble and cause Sunday’s lifelong plans to fall apart. In this sweet dream, Boothill would do as good as an infection; he would corrupt the foundations of his paradise with his misleading conceptions and lead the desperate, naïve flock out of the safe cradle of Sunday’s cage. In the face of peace, Boothill would offer something far more tantalizing: hope.

Sunday knew hope. He knew that hope was a fickle thing, one that came with a short expiration date. Hope was a thing fueled by childish naïveté and held together by the duct tape of desperation. Hope had been the thing that made Sunday dare to imagine that he and Robin could have a brighter, kinder future. Hope had been the thing that shattered his wings, unyielding as the earth that he had crashed into when he’d grown up and realized just how cruel this world truly was.

There had been none of the soft cushions hope had promised him; no gentle hands to pick him up, to dust him off. There had been none of the sister hope had promised he could protect; no innocence or softness waiting for her in her adulthood. There had been none of that salvation hope had promised; no future where he wasn’t compromised, sold off, bartered away like a commodity.

No, hope was a cruel mistress, one that held a short leash. Sunday had spent too much of his life kept as its lapdog for him to wish such tender brutality upon somebody else. His knees were aching from how long he’d been kept on his knees, nothing more than a good dog, as did his back from how hope continued to clip his wings, shearing off the feathers on his back, making him bleed so he wouldn’t fly out of his cage.

As if he would; as if he could. A trapped animal tended to do poorly once released into the wild. While the skies might call for the bird like a mother to her child, it did not mean the bird would take to flight. It did not mean the bird would be capable of soaring through the open skies, traversing with the wind currents, headed towards an unnamed freedom. Take a caged bird, for example—it would not know the way to hunt or to soar or to nest. It would only die outside of the cage, cold and alone, away from the only home it had ever known.

Sunday was a caged bird; he did not want to die.

Hence, the cage—the paradise—that he wanted to build for the people he loved. He had always yearned to do nothing more than to create one safe place where caged birds could come together and commune, where it would not be necessary to look at the skies because everything they needed could already be found within its enclosures, where these birds could chirp and sing all day without a want for anything. Safe and sound, peaceful in their cage.

Boothill would sooner die than be caged. Boothill would pick the lock and unlatch it; he would want to take to the skies no matter how beautiful the cage was, and he would want to bring with him as many others as he could manage. Together, they would soar into the endless blue, where the strong would survive and the weak would be picked off. Boothill was strong; he would survive. But not everyone he brought with him would be. Boothill was strong, so he would have to watch the weak die. Boothill was strong, and he would survive, but for how long?

Hands still full of Sunday’s face, Boothill’s wrist proved to be strong perches for him to wrap his hands around solidly. Boothill startled, one of his eyebrows crawling all the way up to his hairline. “Well,” he mumbled, sounding faintly choked. “I was gonna tell ya not to run from me, but I’m guessin’ that ain’t gon’ be necessary.”

“No,” Sunday agreed without much fuss.

“Good,” Boothill said, but his second eyebrow had gone and joined its twin. “It ain’t gon’ do much for you, anyway. I’d catch ya in a heartbeat, dollface.” He was grinning, though Sunday could tell that it was halfhearted. Boothill was worried for him.

Sunday nodded. “You would have.”

Boothill abandoned all pretenses at hiding his worry. He squished Sunday’s cheeks firmly between his hands, making his lips pursed. His gaze sharpened intently, no longer masking behind a nearly artistic, well-curated laziness, roving across Sunday’s face. He’d stood on the receiving end of that look often enough by now to recognize the way Boothill was making equal attempts to search and to memorize. It was as if Boothill was afraid that Sunday would leave behind nothing but memories, when, between the two of them, Boothill was the one who would be gone by dawn.

“You’re a real sweet one, ain’t ya, angel?” Boothill murmured, sounding far too soft—softer than what Sunday deserved to have. He’d loosened his grip around Sunday’s face, and he was just holding his face now, keeping him there. “Meltin’ for me like sugar; it makes me jealous.”

Sunday stared at him. “Jealous?” he asked.

Boothill barked out a laugh, and it came out gentler than it would have been if it were completely honest. “Pretty stupid, ain’t it? But you know, for the guy who spends all day takin’ confessions and forgivin’ sins and whatever the fuck else, you’re real good at makin’ a guy worry, angel.”

“What,” Sunday said.

“But I just— I mean, I can’t help myself! How am I meant to not worry when you’re sayin’ shit like that?” Boothill continued, as if he hadn’t heard Sunday speak at all. “I mean, come on. I know I’m great at the whole actin’ like I don’t-give-a-damn shtick, but that’s only ‘cause I do give a shit. I give so much shit! It’s drivin’ me crazy.”

Momentarily, Sunday entertained the notion that Boothill had suddenly begun spouting out a new, foreign language with him. However, that wouldn’t explain how Sunday could understand the vocabulary stumbling out of Boothill’s mouth. No, his only struggle was in comprehending the manner at which they were being arranged—the nonsensical way he’d strung those words together, sentences that crafted illusions of sense only to fall apart upon closer inspection.

“Boothill,” Sunday started cautiously, as if he were approaching a spooked bird, though he couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice entirely. “What in the world are you talking about?”

Boothill huffed, looking characteristically impatient. Sunday recalled a time when it used to irritate him, then a time when it had made him curious; now, it only made him reproachfully fond. Boothill’s hands slide downwards to catch Sunday’s jaws over the curve of his thumb, the rest of his hands impenitent where they rested across the slope of his throat. It should feel constricting, akin to the high collars he must wear to maintain his appearances; Sunday could only think about how it felt warm.

“You,” Boothill said, a frown pinching his mouth. Sunday wanted to smooth it away with his hands, his thumb, his mouth. “Earlier, you were goin’ on ‘bout how I ain’t made for ya or whatever the fuckin’ hell, so it’s gotta mean that there’s somebody out there who is, right?”

No, Sunday thought immediately, shutting down the idea before it even had the chance to become a proper thought. No, of course not. He had been thinking about Boothill when he’d said it, not himself. So, what did it matter if there was somebody who was made for him? It never mattered to him as a child, when his life had been devoted strictly to the church; it certainly mattered to him even less now. His other half, it would not be Boothill, so why would it matter to him?

Yet, before Sunday could try to voice out his protests, Boothill’s thumb came to rest over his mouth to silence him. The pressure was light enough for Sunday to free himself, but he found that he had no desire to—not yet, at least; not until Boothill said whatever ridiculous matter was tangling up in his mind. Sunday had been taught time and time again the importance of patience, and for Boothill, he could exercise it.

“I’m thinkin’ of ‘em.” Boothill’s casual shrug was a poorly-suited match to the sudden, added weight in his voice. “And I gotta say, angel, I’m real fuckin’ jealous of ‘em. It’s stupid, ain’t it? I mean, fuck. It ain’t like I didn’t get here first, right? The shit that you’ll give away to ‘em one day, all of it was mine first.”

It was awful and immature and crude on purpose, not at all uncharacteristic to Boothill’s preferred method of lashing out. If it had been anyone else, Sunday would have snapped back at them for daring to degrade him in such a way, for insinuating that his mouth, his touch, and his affection were things that could be bought, just because Sunday had decided to give them away. They were not commodities. He was not a commodity.

But Boothill’s gaze was devoid of any hunger nor desire. There wasn’t even a hint of the jealousy he was so proudly boasting of. Instead, there was simply heat: deep-seated and certain, urgent while lacking in entitlement. Boothill was being indulgent in his recklessness, not because he believed himself deserving, but because he was certain that Sunday would play into his hands beautifully. Embarrassingly, Sunday realized he almost did.

Boothill’s fingers were careful when they looped around a lock of his hair, teasing where he tucked it behind his ear. He leaned in close, anchored by Sunday’s hands still clasped around his wrist, confident. “I know it’s damn stupid,” Boothill murmured into his ear, “but I just can't help myself ‘cause I know you ain’t gon’ stay mine. I’m gonna have to give ya away, won’t I, angel?”

Yes, Sunday thought and resented the thickness that formed in his throat in the wake of what must be surety. Boothill was in no position to stay, and Sunday was in no position to grant him what he deserved. Boothill was a free-man, wild and uncaged; he was a bird that had taken to flight and now soared along with the horizon, mapping out new ground in the lands beyond. He was the final dove released from the ark, the one that did not return. Boothill was everything, and he was everything that Sunday was not. Boothill could not afford to be anchored here, to be chained, the way Sunday could only be; Boothill would not survive it.

Sunday built cages to protect those who could not protect themselves. He designed paradise so that its inhabitants would live happy and fulfilled lives. He masterfully crafted painstaking plans to ensure those within his flock would not stray from their path through the grassy plains. Boothill was entirely too capable of protecting himself. Boothill would not be content unless he was free. Boothill did not believe in God, and he was not part of Sunday’s flock, and there was no fall awaiting him in his future. Boothill did not fit inside the world Sunday had built for himself; Boothill did not fit inside an enclosure.

Boothill was leaving tomorrow, at the first signs of dawn, because he was never created to be a still creature. Birds like him would migrate south for the winter, but when spring eventually arrives and thaws out the thick frost, they must return to where they belonged. Boothill was merely migrating, a visitor; Sunday was merely a temporary fixture, a pit-stop, a place to rest before he must continue with his journey. After all, Boothill’s story could not end here. It mustn’t.

So, Boothill must give him away. But before then, Sunday must first set him free.

But what if, came the low whispers of that wretched serpent, slithering into his mind just as it once had wound itself into the gardens of paradise, you didn’t have to let him go? What if there was some way to make him stay?

Sunday closed his eyes against its temptations, breathing shallowly through his parted lips so that he would not have to acknowledge the tantalizing offer of desire. Its tail constricted around Sunday’s throat, the forbidden fruit nestled neatly in the cradle of his palms; Boothill made no move to pull away, even as Sunday’s fingers flexed around his wrists.

Quietly, Boothill called for him. “Angel?”

“I am not made for you,” Sunday forced out of his mouth. Before him, Boothill visibly softened; his eyes looked wider, like an eager little boy’s, and the laughter that shook his shoulders fit him far better than that ill-fitted nonchalance had been. Sunday liked him. Sunday liked him so very, very much.

“I ain’t got a hell’s damn to give ‘bout that, dollface,” Boothill told him, easy, as if it was something that he didn’t even need to think about. “Fuck that shit. I want you, angel. I really, really fuckin’ do.”

Sunday had arrogantly thought himself to be a pious man. A fool’s notion. He was no pious man, for holy men could not belly this kind of wanting; good men did not desire with a breadth that could choke down the entire cosmos; devout men did not sink into temptation with their eyes wide open. Sunday was not so good a man. He was a corrupt man, an infected man. He was a desperate man, wronged one too many times and in search of a way out of the cage he had built around himself. Paradise was fiction, a dream, a sacrifice, and Sunday was a caged bird; he did not want to die.

But hope dripped from Boothill’s lips.

Desperately, Sunday surged forward to taste it with his own mouth.