Chapter Text
When Andrew starts going to church, Dennis isn’t happy about it.
He tries to withhold judgment. He knows rationally that not all churches are high-control groups like the one he grew up in. Christianity is a massive religion with innumerable variations in theology and practice—he literally has a bachelor’s degree in this stuff, he ought to know this. It’s not fair to have a knee-jerk distrust of all churches just because his parents raised him to be tirelessly embroiled in a cosmic war against the forces of evil. Plenty of congregations are compassionate, welcoming communities that revolve around doing good in the world, helping others, advocating for the downtrodden. He knows this first hand, having relied on them for a free meal plenty of times. He’s even attended Society of Friends meetings a handful of times since moving to Pittsburgh and enjoyed it. Even still, every Sunday morning at 10 am he checks whether Andrew’s phone is on do not disturb mode, chewing on the inside of his lip, engulfed by a heavy sense of foreboding, skin prickling as if sensing an impending lightning strike.
If he’s honest with himself, part of the anxiety is because of how Andrew is going about it. It would be one thing if he could articulate what he’s thinking, why he feels compelled to be a part of a religious community, what he gets out of it—anything, really, so it doesn’t seem like a bizarre and abrupt sea change. Andrew is not stupid. He’s extremely capable and pragmatic and conscientious, in his somewhat indecipherable way. When it comes to expressing his feelings, however, he’s completely adrift. Dennis gets the sense that no one ever cared to ask him how he felt, and now he’s like a feral child raised by dogs who can only speak in yelps and barks. He just doesn’t have the language.
So when Dennis asks him why he’s started going to church, sitting at the kitchen table in Andrew’s apartment with their coffee, Andrew shrugs and says “I like it.”
Dennis hangs his head, massages his neck. Takes a deep breath. It doesn’t help to get frustrated. “Okay, Andy. I need you to take some time and really think about why.”
Andrew frowns at the floor, brow furrowed. “You’re mad at me.”
“No! No, I’m not mad. I’m just confused. I just want to understand, okay?”
Andrew looks decidedly unconvinced, eyeing him warily. He was sitting normally in his chair, but at the first sign of criticism has tensed, back perfectly straight. Poised to flee.
“Can I ask you some questions?”
Andrew nods, a sharp little jerk of his head.
“It’s Catholic?”
“Non-denominational.”
“Wait. Aren’t you Catholic?”
“No.”
Once again Dennis has to swallow a wave of irritation. This would be a lot easier if Andrew could just talk about himself, so he wouldn’t have to do all this fucking detective work to figure out anything about his past. This whole time he assumed Andrew was Catholic, based on the prayer card of St. Jude he has taped to his wall next to the photos of his estranged daughter and, to be totally honest, his Irish surname. Dennis, being well-versed in Christian theology and its various sects, had felt like he at least had some understanding of the tradition Andrew might be drawn to. Now he’s got nothing at all to go on.
“Is it evangelical?”
Andrew shrugs.
And that, right there, is another part of this that has Dennis freaked out. He doesn’t want to condescend. The only reason he has an above-average knowledge base in this particular topic is his own deeply unfortunate and frequently terrifying upbringing, and four years of education that, in all honesty, would’ve been a catastrophic waste of time and money had it not been the final push he needed to start the long and winding process of deconstructing the faith he was raised in. He can’t reasonably expect Andrew to know all the dog whistles, all the tactics that a preacher, knowingly or not, might use to manipulate a congregation, of course—but Andrew doesn’t even seem to care about knowing the basic differences between different Christian sects, which only makes these waters he’s wading in all the more dangerous.
Despite all his physical strength, his intimidating snarl, his generally off-putting demeanor, Andrew is vulnerable. Dennis is painfully aware of how little he actually knows about Andrew but he is, to be frank, obviously fucked up. The list of vulnerability factors is honestly astounding: reformed criminal, alienated from society; profoundly estranged from his family of origin, alone in a new city, no social safety net to speak of; riddled with nigh unbearable grief over his sister’s death, his wife splitting, and not being able to keep custody of his daughter; very clear signs of child abuse that Dennis isn’t prepared to think about too deeply...the list really does go on and on. Dennis can see that all of these things make Andrew feel lost, adrift, confused, desperate to be part of something bigger than himself—he’s actually the perfect candidate for indoctrination. And he doesn’t even know what kind of church he’s going to, let alone how to spot one that might have an ulterior motive.
It is abundantly clear that Andrew has lived a difficult life. From what Dennis can understand, he has been subject to such steady, unwavering brutality that he has no expectation of gentleness or kindness at all. Andrew is accustomed to degradation—would he have any self-preservation instinct at all if this new church preaches judgment and hellfire? Often Dennis feels like he’s coaxing a stray dog, a shivering, fearful thing that bites to protect itself. It breaks Dennis’s heart, and all he wants to do is keep Andrew safe. Dennis wants to shake Andrew by the shoulders, shriek in his face that it’s not safe, he needs to run. But Andrew is an adult; it’s weird and condescending and kind of insane to try to control what he does. It’s just church. It could be a very nice church. They probably aren’t faith healing or exorcising demons from children or preaching that gay people are going to hell. Andrew wouldn’t put up with that shit. Right?
Dennis wants to push it, find out the name of the church, interrogate Andrew about what the pastor or whatever is saying at the pulpit, but he needs to calm down. Andrew is cringing away from him, shoulders hunched and arms crossed over his stomach. It won’t help to push him away with his anxiety. Dennis reaches across the table, palm open.
“I just get nervous because of how I grew up. Promise to talk to me if you have any questions, or you’re confused about anything, okay? You can tell me anything.”
Andrew blinks at Dennis’s hand for a moment, frowning, before taking it.
They’re at Andrew’s apartment, savoring a lazy evening. Dennis is stretched out on the couch, pretending to read; mostly, he’s watching Andrew smoke. He’s slouched in his armchair, shirtless, legs spread wide, eyes closed. His arm, raising the joint to his lips, is listlessly graceful, the smoke curling as it billows from slack lips. Dennis can’t smoke, but he loves it when Andrew does. He loves when Andrew’s face softens and his body surrenders some of its tension. The weed soothes his constant simmering discomfort and he gets cuddly and sweet and sometimes, if Dennis is really lucky, even talkative.
Andrew blinks open heavy eyelids and sees Dennis openly gazing at him. Sober, he might flinch his eyes away but now he gazes lazily back, smiles a little.
“C’mere.” Dennis whispers, patting his chest.
Andrew considers for a long moment, then puts out the joint. His glossy eyes never leave Dennis’s as he slides heavily to his knees, then his hands. He crawls slowly, with a languid poise he can only conjure while stoned. He’s undeniably feline—like a stalking tiger, eyes bright, thick ropes of muscle undulating under his skin. Easy, comfortable power. Sometimes Dennis can’t believe such a gorgeous man would want him, let alone submit to him—but beyond his own petty insecurity he knows Andrew’s trust is a precious gift and the responsibility not to squander it an honor, especially when so many others have.
Andrew climbs onto the couch and rests his head on Dennis’s chest, stretching out his body between the slighter man’s legs. Dennis strokes his hair, presses his lips to the top of his head.
“How’re you feeling, sweet boy?” he whispers into Andrew’s temple.
Andrew nuzzles into Dennis’s chest and hums deeply. They lay like that for a while, breathing deep and slow, both of them mesmerized by the rhythm of Dennis’s hand stroking up and down Andrew’s back. He gets heavier and heavier against Dennis as he relaxes. Eventually he shifts onto his side, nuzzling into Dennis’s shoulder, his breath ghosting the other man’s neck.
“I’ve thought about it,” he mumbles.
“Hm?” Dennis isn’t even high but all the cuddling has made him feel a little hazy too.
“Why I like church.”
That makes Dennis jolt to attention; he hopes Andrew didn’t feel him tense. He takes a deep, grounding breath to calm down, be present. He nuzzles into Andrew’s curls, inhales the warm sandalwood of his shampoo. “Talk to me.”
Andrew is quiet for a long moment. “It’s because I’m bad,” he whispers against Dennis’s neck.
It takes every drop of willpower in Dennis’s body to lie still, to withhold reacting at all. He has to make a conscious effort to breathe. His lungs are ice cold and his fingers are tingling. He can feel the floorboards of his adolescent bedroom, knees aching from kneeling for hours as he prays over and over please Lord, fix me. Please make me into someone else. The hair on his neck bristles like it did back then in church, feeling eyes on him, terrified that someone could smell the twisted wrongness of him.
“Did someone tell you you’re bad?”
“I’ve always been bad.”
“Andrew—”
“Ever since I can remember I knew there was something wrong with me. Everyone could tell.” He grabs Dennis’s wrist and brings the other man’s hand to his chest, holds it against his heart. “I’m just bad. I’ve done bad things, but I was bad first.”
Hot tears press behind Dennis’s eyes. He swallows painfully. My God, what did they do to you?
“But it’s okay. Jesus doesn’t care that I’m bad. Even I can be redeemed.” He looks up at Dennis, his eyes wide and childlike, his face slack and open and pleading. He seems to find what he’s looking for in Dennis’s face; satisfied, he snuggles up to the other man’s chest again. “Also, I like the music. They have a good band.”
“Andrew, look at me.” Dennis caresses Andrew’s cheek, holds his face steady so he can’t look away. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
A heavy shadow passes over Andrew’s face, brow furrowing deeply. Dennis can’t help a shiver; he’s not afraid of Andrew, but sometimes he catches a glint of something sharp in his eyes that reminds him that this man is—was—dangerous. He untangles himself from Dennis and stands, all the familiar tension back in his flexed arms, his hands twitching. He glares at Dennis, who suddenly feels so small and weak—he wants to reach out, pull Andrew back to him, hold him and comfort him, but his blazing eyes, the threat in his stance, coiled to strike—Dennis is frozen on the couch, ice in his belly. He’s scared, and Andrew can smell it.
“Andy, please—”
“You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Andrew spits. He’s out of the door in an instant, leaving Dennis to curl his knees to his chest and sob.