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chimivx · 1 month ago

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‘…and when you’re gone, i’ll tell them my religion’s you…’

Jisung’s dreams are an arms length away, lying in the hands of his superior who gives him a test, one that challenges everything he’s ever known, a taste of a life so intriguing. It’s only a matter of time before he’s faced with a choice… Whose hands does he take?

✞ sacrilegious!minsung au ✞ 27k { three of three } ✞ ‼️ 18+, sacrilegious- it says it up top, blasphemy, its all very religious, they live in a clergy home, religious imagery, praying, god/christ/lord usage, they’re all devoted, eventual explicit sexual content, alcohol use, cigarette smoking, mentions of drug usage, light cussing, sexual acts occur in the church, it costs nothing to keep scrolling, IF I FORGOT ANYTHING PLEASE LET ME KNOW !!

“I don’t understand how you could begin to think that he’s ready.”

Jeongin spoke above whisper, his deep, scratching tone softened by the volume the priests chose to speak at. Christopher and Hyunjin stood on either side of him, the three behind the couch with their long coats on and gloves on their hands, scarves wrapped around their necks.

“You should’ve spoken with us before you said anything of the sort,” Hyunjin said, the melodic softness in his tone easing the harshness of the man before him. Nudging his glasses up his nose with his pinky finger, he exchanged an unreadable look with the eldest priest, then pushed, “This week will be the test,” through his lips in a whisper.

“The test? We know that he’s going to be fine, he always is, he always has been.” Christopher spoke louder than them all, the other two hushed him with raises of their leather gloved fingers. Adjusting the buttons on his jacket he tipped his head backward and took a breath. “You tell me you don’t understand, well here I am, not understanding how you can’t see how much he’s improved- within the past month more so than any time else.”

“That’s what worries me,” Hyunjin sang.

“And again,” Christopher sighed, “Until you further explain to me why, that argument is useless.” Hyunin’s eyes sharpened, a wicked weapon he’s not usually so quick to whip out, though he’s had to several times over the last thirty one days.

Jeongin took a step forward, separating the two as he started for the kitchen. “Let’s save this for our drive, we’ve got hours ahead of us-”

“We’ve had plenty of time to discuss this prior to today, I don’t care how many hours are ahead of us, Jisung was, and has been ready for longer than this month. We have all the time in the world, but he doesn’t, there is nothing left for him to give, to show us, to show you,” Christopher snapped. Hyunjin lowered his chin. Jeongin released a breath and turned on his heels. “If I am sick of waiting for the okay, take one minute out of your days centered around torturing him and imagine how he feels.”

“Christopher, lower your voice,” Hyunjin said, venom in his tone. He took two steps toward him, his black boots clicking on the hardwood floor not covered in carpet. Standing his ground instead of resorting to caving in within himself like he would when Hyunjin lurked toward him this way, Christopher lifted his chin the slightest, trying to appear taller, stronger. His brain worked harder, quicker, this he knew, but the dark spirit had a way of getting in his head like everyone else’s, the ability to break his brain from the inside out, crack him. “That boy is the test.” He spoke through gritted teeth.

“Minho?” Christopher questioned, looking between his elders with a growing smile before he laughed. “That boy who has done nothing but his job, attempting to keep up with Jisung who we know goes above and beyond? He’s done it, you know. How long have we said that no one will be able to find the shoes to fit?” Both men were silent. “He’s done it.”

Hyunjin’s shadowed eyes flickered between Christophers, withholding words the youngest could see, a reiteration of what he’d said before. That boy is the test. Lifting a gloved hand, he tucked strands of black hair behind his ear as he turned to Jeongin, his eyes the last thing to leave Christopher.

“I’d like to stop through Soro on the way,” he spoke to Jeongin, passing by him, his boots clicking into the kitchen where he reached for Ann to give her his goodbye. “I want to try that new place for lunch,” he waved a hand about, looking toward the eldest for the answer, picking up a finger when he’d caught the name, “Haven, I believe.”

“Then we’d better leave now,” Jeongin said, stepping toward Ann to also bid her goodbye.

Christopher unclenched his jaw and smoothed his hands over his coat. “I guess I’ll get the kid,” he grumbled for none of them to hear. “Jisung?”

His voice carried through the living room and up the stairs, wrapping around the hall to his bedroom, but there was no need for it to. Jisung sat at the top of the stairs with his arms around his knees, his chin rested on one of the knobby joints. Lips pulled together tight, eyes full of nothing, he barely flinched when Christopher called out his name.

He heard them wake up, he heard them getting ready, he heard them in the kitchen with Ann, having breakfast, sipping their black coffee. The suitcases he offered to pack into the back of the car last night, he heard them move, the priests taking them outside themselves. They had told him, “Get some extra sleep, Jisung, take the day off, you deserve it. We’ll take care of it, we can do it ourselves.” They were set to wake him up this morning, like this he supposed, calling out his name instead of knocking on his door.

Standing in the living room, speaking aloud about him like he wouldn't hear, wasn’t supposed to hear, and then they’d call for him.

And he’d come running for them.

Like he always did.

He’d give proper goodbyes to Jeongin and Hyunjin, make sure they were set, that they’d be safe on their trip, and that they’d come back to him, for him.

He’d maybe give Christopher a hug depending on if the older men got into the car before him. He’d wait for him to tell him good things, nice things. That he would get through this week, that he’d be back sooner than he left, that Jisung wouldn’t even notice he was gone.

Then, he’d shut their doors, plaster a smile to his lips to show them he was equipped to handle seven days on his own, which he was, and he’d watch them pull away. He’d watch the car turn onto the main winding road, and wait until it disappeared over the hilly Avida horizon, and then he’d take to the church, busy himself, distract his mind, and drown in work.

Like he always did.

And it wasn’t enough.

It still wasn’t enough.

“Jisung?” Christopher called out once more, the sound of his feet shuffling on the floor sending Jisung leaping to his.

Settling every gut wrenching feeling down with a breath, he tightened his fingers into fists and took his time down the stairs, a slight pause between each step.

He wouldn’t come running.

Everything he assumed had been the truth. He hadn’t spoken about Minho in a month. He kept their secrets, the ones shared between the hours of one and three in the morning, he’s shown little to no interest in him while around the three other men, only if it pertained to work.

How was he still the assignment?

The test.

This week with him, it was a test?

Christopher wanted to give him the job.

Hyunjin did not, nor did Jeongin.

Christopher was right, Jisung had given entirely too much to not be handed what he deserved.

He had given too much.

“There you are,” Christopher said with a smile as Jisung turned the corner into the living room. Passing by the fireplace he’d light up later, he shoved his hands into his pockets and didn’t bother to greet any of them. “We’re heading out.”

“Okay,” the boy said. The priest took him in, his stance, his tone, his smile. “Get there safely.”

He hesitated, Christopher did, thinking Jisung would move, that he’d say anything else, try to cling to him like he would in the past. Jisung could see it in how his brow curved under, a slight shift in his eyes indicating his curiosity, his intrigue toward what his brothers had been discussing prior to the boy's appearance.

“Thank you,” he said, dipping his chin. The seconds he took to scope Jisung out once more felt like hours. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Jisung said. With the smallest raise and drop of his shoulders, he rounded the sofa and breezed by Christopher, letting the priest's eyes follow him, and then his feet, through the kitchen, out onto the back step of the home.

“Ji?” Christopher’s question held nothing of value, Jisung was shaking Jeongin and Hyunjin’s hands, saying goodbye to them with a tilt of his head and the same version of smile he’d given Christopher. The boy glanced over his shoulder at him momentarily, a raise of his eyebrows with that smile telling him he heard him, but he didn’t want to speak with him.

Tugging at Jisung’s heart was the thought of him not opening up to Christopher about what he’s heard. There wasn’t any reason to punish the priest for not giving him what he wanted, it wasn’t his fault, Jisung needed at least two out of three of them to approve his ascent. He also didn’t see anything when it came to Minho, a tiny detail that didn’t and won't go unnoticed. The other two have raised their noses, or at least, Hyunjin has.

But for the time being, Christopher was on their side. Anything said can and will get back to them.

Jisung wasn’t willing to risk Minho for anything.

Not even Christopher.

“Enjoy your time without us,” Jeongin joked, taking Jisungs shoulder in one hand, giving him the slightest shake. “You won’t have anyone nagging you to get stuff done.”

Jisung shook his head. “None of you do that to me, anyway,” he said. “I’ll miss having you around, like always.”

“I’m sure you will,” Hyunjin's words came with a breath, the man pressing a hand to the boy's back before slipping into the passenger seat of the car waiting for them beside the church. Jeongin followed him after another smile pointed at Jisung, getting into the driver's seat.

Awful really, how he couldn’t believe it. How his smile once held value, telling Jisung he meant something to him, that he was important. He could see straight through it. He couldn’t believe him.

Christopher, the last to get in the car, lingered beside Jisung, waiting for the boy to turn to him, to face him, to tell him what he was thinking, what he could see written all over him no matter how hard Jisung attempted to hide it.

“You’re sure you’re okay, Ji?” he asked him when his eyes finally met his.

Shrugging his shoulders, Jisung nodded. “Think I’m honestly just a little tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.” Christopher hung his head, bobbing it in understanding.

“Hopefully this week you’ll feel better,” he said quietly, flickering only his eyes back up at the boy. “Try not to work so hard, yeah? Get some rest. By the time we come back you know how crazy it’ll get.” Jisung rolled his eyes and they both huffed a similar laugh. Christopher narrowed his eyes, watching as Jisung tipped his head backward to take in the sight of the November grey sky above them. His hands went back to living in his pockets, and his shoulders were rolled back. He appeared taller, bigger, and confident. He stood up straight instead of hunched over like he tried to hide himself.

“I’ll do what I can,” he said with a sigh, looking back at Christopher.

Grown up.

Jisung caught it in his eyes, the priest's surveillance sparked a nerve within him, like he’d blown his cover. “Go,” he laughed, gesturing toward the car. “Before they leave you here with me, you don’t want that.”

Christopher accepted the way the boy pushed him toward the car, smiling as he opened the door for him. “What if I do?” Laughing, he stepped up into the car. “Don’t make me go, stuck with these two.” Jeongin and Hyunjin paid him no mind, the two pointing toward the streets, figuring out which way to go. “You’re so quick to get rid of me, Ji.”

Now Hyunjin paid attention, Jisung felt his eyes like two pistols pressed to the back of his head.

“I am not,” the boy breathed, gripping the edge of the door. “You’re all lucky I don’t climb over you and get in the other seat to come with.”

“Any specific reason why you want to run away from here?” Hyunjin asked.

Jisung shot him that same plain smile he’d been wearing all morning. “No,” he said, sure of himself. “It’s just curiosity for this trip,” he nodded, “I hope I get to hear about it this time.”

Jeongin looked at him now, the scholar wearing a face that rendered him anxious. “You know we always bring things back to you, Han.”

Fingers tightening on the silver metal of the car, Jisung took an unsuspecting breath and shrugged once more. “You’re right,” he said. “You do. How silly of me to think you wouldn’t, you’re all so good to me. Thank you.” Jeongin and Hyunjin exchanged a glance. Christopher gave the boy half a smile. “Enjoy yourselves, try to not miss me too much.”

Pushing the door closed, he raised a hand and took a few steps backward. The car engine sprung to life, and within seconds they were off, rolling toward the end of the parking lot, pulling out onto the main street. Jisung didn’t wait until they disappeared over the hills this time. Instead, he turned on his feet and hurried back into the house, yanking the wooden door shut with a newfound strength.

Feet hitting the floor with a vengeance, heat pulsing beneath his skin, he flew through the house without a need to hide any longer. Whirling around furniture, bumping into end tables, all mannerisms he’d hide because there were six pairs of eyes breathing down his neck. Fueled by the thumping of his heart between his heaving lungs, Jisung hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time, the sound of his feet hitting the wood echoing within the empty house.

At the top of the stairs Minho and Christopher’s bedroom door creaked open, and a wicked smile broke out onto Jisungs face. Turning to greet him, Minho smiled, parting his lips to speak, but Jisung caught them in a kiss quicker than the older boy had a chance to get one word out.

They’d never done this in the hallway before.

This was reserved for his bedroom and his bedroom only.

Through a sigh, an involuntary sound escaping his lips without a second though, Jisung knitted his fingers into his hair and pushed him back inside his bedroom, lips locked as he kicked his door closed behind him.

Two beds were pushed to either wall, a dresser between them and nightstands to match. He’s been here before, but not since Minho’s been around. This was where he’d cry to Christopher. These walls have seen his tears more than his own room probably has, a fact both boys knew good and well about.

Jisung threw himself against Minho, using his hands to pull him and keep him close, keeping himself nearly on top of him, wanting nothing more than for him to do the thing he does that makes him think of nothing else but him. Of Minho. The touch of his hand bringing him the most satisfaction he’s ever felt in his life, more so than he’s felt after venting his feelings to Christopher, even more than he’s felt sitting in a pew within the church.

He’s done it everyday, they’ve done this everyday. In the hours of work he’d do on his own he’d think of nothing else, Minho’s breath on his neck, his lips on his collarbone, his hand over his pants, touching, stroking. Afraid to do anything to himself, if the thoughts got him hard, and they always did, Jisung would clear his head with prayer, turning his focus elsewhere for a moment, until the cycle repeated.

Every night he couldn’t help himself, he’d be throbbing beneath his slacks, his cotton striped pajama pants, whatever he ended his day with, depending on how long it took Minho to sneak into his bedroom. Knowing that Jisung was waiting for him so eagerly had Minho flustered as well, his hands taking to his being rushed, hurried, excited, the two moving like they were sixteen and giggly. They’d fall to his bed, the creak and rock against the wall not stopping either of their curious hands or heated kisses.

He’d get him there in seconds, Minho would. Amidst one of these nights it took one push of his hand over the fabric of his pants and Jisung, so wound up he could cry, finished immediately. Comforting him with kisses to his neck, to his earlobe, Minho calmed him and his pink cheeks down and showed Jisung the beauty, the marvel, in being able to go again. That was the night he gave Minho his first, what he taught him was called, orgasm. Though Minho called it something else, something that sounded much filthier that tickled Jisungs spine whenever the words were whispered into his ear while he writhed beneath him.

Orgasm. Cum. He didn’t care what it was called, he just never wanted Minho to stop. It was all he could think about. That electric feeling in his veins, the burning in his center, the euphoria rushing through him, the way Minho’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes fluttered shut as Jisung touched him, as he learned from the way he released the air in his lungs, the hums in his chest. The way he pressed his forehead to his temple, Minho’s whispers and praises of how good he was doing satiated him, fed him, spurred him on until he was arching his chest into Jisung’s, his teeth latching to the boys neck to keep from shouting aloud as Jisung felt him cum.

That same disgustingly delicious feeling Minho gave him, he was able to give it right back, and Minho was right, as he always was. After that, Jisung was able to go again.

In the middle of Minho and Christophers room they stood with their limbs intertwined, hands in hair, bodies rolling against the other, tongues pressed together. Jisung dropped his hands to the plain t-shirt Minho wore, the man dressing down as soon as he knew the priests were out of the house. Grabbing onto the cotton, Jisung yanked him backward to one of the beds neatly made with pillows lined against the headboard. Minho hummed, eyes blinking feverishly as his own hands tried to move Jisung away from him.

“Ji,” he whispered between pushes of his slick lips, “This isn’t-”

The boy didn’t care to listen. Thrusting his hips forward he knocked Minho backward and the man fell onto the bed, knees spreading so Jisung could stand between them. Taking his hands to his neck Jisung tipped his chin upward and never let his lips leave his. He wedged himself between his thighs and smiled as Minho closed them around him, trapping him.

“This is Christopher's bed,” Minho managed to whisper.

“I know,” Jisung whispered back, their lips never parting.

Noses brushing, Minho furrowed his brows. “What’s the matter?”

“What do you mean?” Jisung asked, catching his lips gently, letting the way Minho looked up at him fuel the fire building within him.

“Something’s up.” Minho’s eyes fluttered shut within the kiss, but each time Jisung parted from him he took the opportunity to gaze up at him, not wanting to miss a moment. “What did they say to you before they left?”

He tried to kiss him again, to shut him up, but Minho dodged his lips and wrapped his arms around the boy's waist instead. Jisung tried again, then tipped his head back with a sigh, defeated. Looking down at the man he held onto, where his hands were wrapped around his jaw, he felt his heart squeeze.

“Why do they talk about you like that?”

His whisper had Minho’s expression go blank. “What do you mean?”

Jisung breathed, looking about the room for help, Christophers blank walls and neatly done bed making the anger he wanted to swallow turn into bile in his throat. “It’s like,” he paused, blinking, then looked down at Minho’s shining eyes, “They know.”

“What?” he asked, hushed, quiet as ever. Jisung swore all color washed from his cheeks.

“No, wait,” Jisung shook his head, feeling Minho’s panic as if it were his own, “They don’t know, I haven’t said anything, I haven’t told anybody anything. This is between us, I promise you, I’ve already promised you, I keep my promises.”

Minho slid a hand up Jisungs torso, placing a hand over his beating heart. “I know,” he whispered. “I trust you.”

Jisung loosed a breath. “I trust you, too.” Minho’s hand slipped behind his head, pulling him down for a slower, longer kiss that made Jisung want to crawl over top of him. “I just hate that they talk about you like you cause me problems.”

Dragging his nails over his scalp, twirling fingers around curls, Minho’s lips tipped up into a smirk. “I’ve been the problem my whole life. I can handle them saying things about me.”

“That’s not fair,” Jisung whined, taking his hands from his jaw to his thighs, falling down onto his knees between Minho’s. He jumped, pulling backward, placing his hands on the bed. Jisung smoothed his fingers over the pants Minho wore, not realizing or recognizing what he was even doing. “You’re not the problem, the problem is them. They’re the ones causing me problems.”

“Wh-what problems?” Minho asked, steadying his breath, keeping his eyes locked on Jisungs. The boy toyed with his belt, his fingers moving as their own entity, like he didn’t know what he was doing.

“I heard them talking this morning,” Jisung started, sliding his fingers in and out of the belt loops on Minho’s pants. “They said this week will make their decision, I guess, for what they give me, or offer me.”

“That’s a good thing though, isn’t it?” Minho questioned, withholding a gasp as Jisungs hands brushed over his zipper before they took back to his thighs. “You do so well this week, you’ve told me all about it. The way you prep them for the rest of the year, it’s always perfect, they’re sure to promote you when they’re back.” Jisung watched his hands as they smoothed from Minho’s hips to his knees. Glancing up at him and his hooded eyes, the boy started to smile. “Oh, you’re hilarious, Han Jisung.”

“What happens if I do this?” Taking his hands to his belt, Jisung sat forward, his chest lodged between Minho’s thighs. Slipping the leather out of one loop, the way Minho’s breath hitched made the boy laugh.

“What? Why are you- You don’t-”

Jisung pulled the buckle out completely, his smile making Minho’s thighs tighten around him. “What happens if I do this?” He dipped his head down, brushing his nose over the fabric that kept Minho’s half hard length from him.

“Jesus, Jisung,” Minho breathed, taking his hands to the boy's shoulders. Jisung blinked up at him, his lips parted the slightest, his smile wiped away in an instant. “What are you doing?”

Seconds were shared in silence, both boys staring at one another, one in shock, the other in denial. Jisung removed Minho’s hands from his shoulders and placed them on his own lap, standing to his feet with his head hung.

“Do you not want me either?” he muttered, averting his gaze to the wooden slabs of the floor.

Minho sprung to his feet, his hands quickly putting his belt back together as he stepped up to face Jisung. Raising a finger he placed it beneath the boy's chin and tipped it up, their noses millimeters apart.

“Han Jisung,” he whispered, and the boy's lip crinkled. “I’m offended you’d even think that.”

“Why deny me?”

Minho furrowed his brow and shook his head. “Never. I just know that you’re feeling a lot of things right now, and I don’t want you to do something you don’t really want to do.” Jisung’s eyes softened. “I don’t want you to regret anything.”

“I don’t,” he whispered quickly, and Minho smiled.

“I know,” Minho nodded, “But, you were about to do something that changes a lot. That changes everything.” Jisung allowed his hands to grab his waist, his fingers dragging along his back. Minho slid his hand into his curls and the other over his shoulder. “I’m not letting you do anything we haven’t already done, until I hear you say the words.”

“The words,” Jisung whispered.

Minho snickered, the two laughing together in the comfort of his bedroom. “You jerk.”

“I mean it.” Jisung leaned into him, letting Minho bear his weight with ease.

The older boy smiled down at him and fluttered his lashes. “And why’s that?”

Jisung pressed his lips together. He wasn’t sure how to explain it. He was able to think it, he could feel it, but no words seemed to suffice. How was he to describe to Minho that he made him feel like no one else? That the way he cared for him, spoke to him, brought him the most peace, the most clarity. That within just one look all of Jisung’s worries would disappear, giving him a purpose, a reminder of who he was, what he stood for. Minho became an extension of him, he filled him with pride, for himself, for Minho, for his work, for his life.

Butterflies filled him entirely, he couldn’t quite place what it was, how it happened, why they were there, but he liked it. It made him happy, Minho made him happy.

He could compare it to the safety he felt around Christopher, but this was such much more. Minho could read his mind, Minho could feel what he was feeling, Minho seemed to understand him in a way no one else could. He never judged him, never hounded him with advice on how to live his life other than inspiring him to live it the way he wants to live it.

Jisung never wanted to be without him. Just the mere thought of him not being here brought him pain, a crack threatening to split his heart in two. It was fragile, already broken and messily thrown back together in no way that was absolute.

Minho held it in his hands, Jisung couldn’t remember when he’d handed it to him.

When he’d given it over so willingly, letting Minho reach into his chest and take it himself.

“Don’t cry,” Minho whispered, dragging a thumb beneath Jisungs dark lashes. “Why are you going to cry?”

Jisung gulped. Burying his face in Minho’s chest, his fingers dug into his back, clinging to him. Pulling him so close he tried to occupy the same space. Holding him so tight he wouldn’t have a chance to leave, to run away from him.

Letting him wrap himself around him, Minho watched, then cradled him, in hand in his curls, the other around his back. Resting his cheek to his head, he breathed, and he let Jisung do what he needed to do, promising in silence to only pull away when the boy decided to. Pressing a gentle kiss to his hair, Minho whispered, “I’ve got you.”

“Who holds Mass then if none of them are here?”

Minho’s voice echoed within the church, the walls catching his voice and pushing it straight back to him, back to Jisung who balanced vases, candlesticks and books in his arms. Empty handed, Minho held out his palm beneath the boy's loot as if it were going to help catch anything if anything were to fall. All day he’d been a bit distracted, almost unaware of what was around him and what was going on. Smiling at him as he walked beside him, Jisung found it endearing.

“No one,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Incredible,” Minho grumbled, looking backward into the church as they approached the double doors to the hall. Jisung questioned him with a hum, waiting for him to pull on the handle for him. “This should be the one week they let you do it.”

Following his gaze out into the church, the walls and pews lit up by the setting sun in hues of yellow and orange from the stained glass windows, Jisung took a breath and considered the possibilities. It made sense. If anything, it made more sense for it to happen now, during this week, since the discussions were happening more frequently, now that Minho was here. The two would be more than capable of running service themselves, they’ve done it together for over a month now.

“I never thought of that,” Jisung said under his breath. “Minho?”

Hm?” He faced Jisung, looking down at him and his full arms. “Oh,” he laughed, lunging for the door handles. “I’m sorry, I was…”

Stepping into the hall with Minho on his tail, Jisung slipped through the curtain into the sacristy and smiled. “You were what?” He dropped the candlesticks onto one table and shuffled for another to place the vases. Giving Minho the smile before shelving the books, he raised a brow. “What’s happening to you today?” Standing to his tiptoes, Jisung pushed the spines back, then spun to face Minho who backed him into the shelves. “I feel like I can’t keep your attention.”

Minho grabbed the shelf behind the boy, caging him in. “If I tell you a secret will you keep it?”

“Of course,” Jisung whispered, honed in on Minho’s features inches in front of him. When he moved his chin, Jisung moved his. When he tilted his head, Jisung tilted his. “I keep all your secrets.”

A smile pulled at his lips. “You do,” Minho whispered, taking a hand to the boy's cheek, toying with a few strands of hair that lay there. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he whispered, and Minho breathed a laugh toward his unwavering innocence he hadn’t seemed to lose yet. He might be stuck with it forever.

“I keep all your secrets too,” Minho said, pulling the curls away from his forehead with a hand pushed backward on the boy's head. He leaned back against the shelf, chin tipping upward as Minho came closer.

Jisung gulped. “Tell me.”

Minho eyed his lips, then gave him a lazy smile. “I’m nervous,” he whispered, “Han Jisung.”

“Why?” The boy screwed his brows further, a line forming between them that Minho drew a thumb over to smooth out, to relax.

“Because,” Minho said, dragging his fingers down the side of the boy's cheek, “I feel like… if I say anything, or do anything, it’ll… scare you off.”

“Scare me off, how could you-“

“I could,” Minho cut him off, pressing his thumb to his lips. “Jisung there’s so much we haven’t talked about. And now…”

He didn’t have to say it, Jisung could feel it, like he always has. The nervousness, he understood it, he felt it himself, but he buried it, didn’t want it to come between them, whatever they were doing. The longer Minho spoke, the more it uncovered.

“You’ve had no trouble in the past telling me about myself,” Jisung said in hopes to acquire a smile, which he did. “Don’t get shy on me now.”

“Never, never,” Minho shook his head, glancing away for only a second, “it’s just, it’s not about you, it’s about myself. It has to do with you, but… it’s me.”

Jisung blinked. “Do I do it wrong?”

Minho broke into a laugh. “What,” he snorted, “Ji, please.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re perfect,” Minho said, leaning in to touch their noses together. Jisung smiled something small. “I just want to be honest with you.” Under the impression they’ve been honest with one another all this time, Jisung’s smile dropped. Minho, quick to take his cheeks in his hands, thumbs brushing over his golden skin, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Remember when I told you about where I came from? The church?”

Cringing, Jisung closed his eyes and shook his head in Minho’s hold. “I do,” he whispered. “Horrible.”

Minho breathed, a dismal smile on his face. “It’s about to get worse.” Jisung peeled his eyes open and grabbed onto Minho’s wrists. “I wasn’t sent away because they found out I,” his voice trailed off as he glanced between him and Jisung, “Prefer… men.” He expected a bigger reaction from the boy, but he didn’t move. “One of the priests there, he and I, we… Were involved.”

“Involved,” Jisung whispered, stuck on his dark eyes. “Like… us?”

“Yes,” Minho said, and Jisung broke from his gaze. Pressing his hands into his cheeks Minho brought his focus back. “And no, Jisung.” The boy, with eyes softening beyond belief, a type of pain behind them he didn’t quite understand yet, pouted his lips. “I was nothing more than something for him to take his shame out on.”

Gulping, Jisung licked his lips and frowned. “You and him, you, you did…”

“Sex,” Minho said, voice hushed, full of shame for himself. Jisung reacted to the word like he’s never said it before. “Yes.”

“And you wanted to?” Jisung asked.

Minho shrugged, shaking his head. “Sometimes.”

“Min,” Jisung sighed, squeezing his wrists in his hands. “You loved him?”

Minho, eyes going wild, rested his hands to Jisung’s shoulders. “Not at all. Why ask me that question?”

Jisung knew why, but he didn’t want to say. It felt juvenile to explain his thoughts aloud. It also brought him immense guilt, the feeling so overwhelming he did not have any idea where to put it.

Sex is exclusive to couples in love. Married couples. Couples as in a man and a woman. One is to be married before engaging in the act, it’s sacred. All his life Jisung kept it aside, didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t think about it, didn’t need it. Not until he met Minho. When the boys in school spoke of it it made him uncomfortable, when Christopher told him his stories of the women he’d meet late at night it made his skin crawl.

Standing here, with his hands on Minho, Minho’s hands on him, his touch strong, confident, and full of care, Jisung seemed to finally understand even if the strategically placed by Hyunjin wires in his brain were beginning to fry. He knew he wouldn’t go through with it if he didn’t care for the person, he knew he wouldn’t do it if he wasn’t in love with them. He’d wait till he was married, until there was a true, pure connection.

It held onto him. It smiled at him. It stood in front of him.

“When people… have sex, they’re supposed to love each other,” Jisung said quickly before Minho reached into his brain to yank him out.

Smiling wider, Minho said, “They’re also supposed to be married.”

“Then why…” Jisung cut himself off before he said something he shouldn’t.

“And if I’m not mistaken,” Minho continued on like the boy hadn’t spoken, “Men aren’t supposed to do this, together.” Color flushed from Jisung’s cheeks. Hands dropping from Minho altogether he clenched his fingers into fists and sucked in a breath. Two hands slid back to his cheeks, knowing this would happen. “This is why I’m nervous.”

You shall not lie with a man as with a woman — it is an abomination.

Jisung knew the words. He’s read them.

They didn’t scare him until right now, in this moment, alone here with Minho. He felt a great deal towards him, he’s spent plenty of nights with him in his bed, it wasn’t fair. Jisung could meet a woman tomorrow, could marry her the day after, and no one would bat an eye, but this connection he shared with Minho… Repulsive. Disgusting. Untrue. It’s what they’d say.

“Don’t be nervous,” Jisung whispered, his muscles relaxing. Reaching out his hands he smoothed them over Minho’s solid chest. “I think… Whatever I feel for you outweighs the text I’ve studied.” He felt a breath release from Minho’s chest, his hands resting over his heart. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“What’s that?” Minho asked, tilting his head a bit, Jisung copying him.

“That if we were to… be something, it wouldn’t be allowed,” Jisung said, lifting his wide, sappy eyes to Minho who appeared as if Jisung had handed him the world in the palm of his hand. “I’ve never explored this with anyone before, Min, but I feel things for you, more than I feel for people I consider to be friends. It’s strange to me, to never feel these things for the women I should, but somehow, all at the same time, it makes entirely too much sense.”

“What the hell happened to the boy I met in September?” Minho breathed, the biggest, most genuine smile lighting up his face.

Jisung grabbed his t-shirt by the fistful, tugging him closer. Pushing off of the bookshelf, the entire thing wobbling, rattling against the wall. He spun around, putting Minho in his place where he once stood.

“Just that, Minho,” he smirked, pressing their noses together, “He met you.” Squinting his eyes, Jisung rested his lips. “We don’t use profanities on the property.”

Minho laughed in his face, his head tipping backward. “You’re unbelievable.” Taking his chin in his hands, Minho looked at him straight. “But, I think I worry about you, Han Jisung.”

Jisung whispered, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But, I do,” Minho whispered back, widening his eyes. “You’re much too fragile to not.”

“Fragile?” The way his brows settled over his eyes made Jisung smile. “Come on.”

“Do not act like you don’t know it,” Minho said.

Rolling his shoulders back, lifting his chin as much as he could within Minho’s grip, Jisung clenched his jaw before he said, “I don’t feel fragile with you.” Minho stilled. “Around you.”

Which also made Minho nervous, but he’d never tell Jisung.

Hands making their claim on his cheeks, where they loved to live, Minho held him close, noses touching, breath intertwining. He wanted to kiss him, longed to press his lips to his, get lost in a moment of them, just them, without a need to fear that someone would find them, that someone would walk in on them. Jisung wanted it too, Minho could see it in the way his eyes flickered about his face, the gears in his head coming to a complete standstill when Minho handled him this way.

Something about being within the walls of the sacristy stopped him. The place sacred, and incredibly important to Jisung. He may not fully understand what he’s feeling, what he’s doing, but Minho did, and Minho could. There wasn’t anything he would do that’d put Jisung in jeopardy, with the men in the house, with the room they stood in, or with himself. He said it, he’s told Jisung, that he wasn’t here to hold him back, to keep him from achieving his dream, his lifelong goal he’s strived and worked incredibly hard for.

Gazing toward him now, the air between them thick, heating up, knowing that if Jisung understood the consequences of his actions, this impressionable, genius of a young man could very well drop everything and run from him. Or, worse. Jisung could throw away everything he’s worked toward. Within his obsessive brain, the hyperfixation jumped from his life, his work, to Minho. Though he feels confident, strong in himself, something he hasn’t ever been able to feel without someone telling him he should, Minho could not shake the guilt that he swallowed and kept buried.

November has never made Jisung smile. November has never filled him with joy. The month of November had been created for work, for grey skies, rainy days, and cool breezes, ones to fuel that incurable cold pit within him. A shock down his spine, skin chilled, raised bumps littering the golden hue he’d been blessed with. November wasn’t a friend, it was a reminder of who he was, where he’d come from, what he hasn’t been able to achieve yet.

Somehow, three days into the priests week away, the grey sky greeted him instead of looming above. The chilly air that’d assault his cheeks, turning them and his nose pink, didn’t cause him as much distress as it would in the past. Whatever the weather, it didn't, and it couldn’t, bother him. By Minho’s side with much more freedom than the two have ever had, November stayed outside. It watched Jisung from the sidelines. It left him alone. With Minho nearby, it couldn’t, and it wouldn’t get to him.

Sitting side by side on the living room couches reading the same book together with the fireplace lit, Jisung couldn’t read one word, his mind couldn’t focus, not with how Minho slid a hand over his thigh beneath the book. The day had come and gone, the two barely getting any work done, spending too much time teasing one another, and when they weren’t poking and prodding one another, giggling like little girls, they were silent, the only sound that of their heavy breaths between kisses.

Minho did kiss Jisung in the sacristy days ago, with his permission. The boy didn’t care, he didn’t think twice, he blinked his big eyes and asked Minho to kiss him, so he did. That night they ended up in Minho’s bed for the first time, and Jisung woke up there, tangled in his arms. It was also the first time their hands explored one another in the hours of the morning, Minho showing Jisung how to take care of the problem he’d wake up with while their tongues pressed to the insides of their cheeks.

It was all Jisung could think about for two days. The way Minho pulled the blanket off of them, how he held beneath his chin, keeping Jisungs eyes focused. His fingers wrapped around the band around his waist and pulled, Minho freeing himself of the pajamas he wore, making sure that the night before he’d fall asleep without a shirt on. The waistband wrapped around his knees, nothing beneath them, Jisung’s lips had parted with a gasp. He’d never seen him before, only felt him.

Talking him through it with whispers to his lips, Minho told him what to do, and Jisung obeyed. The boy pushed his pants down his hips, his heart pounding within his chest, his jaw clenching in Minho’s grasp. No one’s seen him naked before, he’s never seen anyone naked before, and here Minho was beside him, bare aside from the pants covering the lower half of his legs. A smirk had pulled at his lips, the older boy tilting his head to catch Jisung’s lips in a slow, gentle kiss before telling him what to do, to do what he does.

Jisung wanted to watch, but he wanted to kiss him too. Teeth clashing, he darted his eyes to Minho’s hand as it drug over his torso, down his hips. The softest groan came out of Minho, muffled by Jisung’s lips, as his hand wrapped around himself, fingers tightening ever so slightly. White knuckles contrasted with the deepening pink of his tip, Jisung let out a sound right after, tongue lobbing into his mouth without an ounce of self control.

He whispered to him, told him again to do it with him, after instructing him to spit into his open palm he brought beneath his chin, the hand that was just wrapped around his cock. Obeying every order, Minho smiled something soft toward him, grabbing Jisung’s hand that lingered over his torso, letting a thick wad of spit fall from his lips into the boy's palm.

They kissed until they couldn’t. Their tongues danced together until they were whiney, grunting, chest heaving, stomach tightening messes. Jisung came first, Minho showering him in praises in forms of gasps as the boy watched himself cum all over the shirt he wore. Exhilarating, doing that himself, knowing that he can do that himself, and that he will be doing that again, but nothing compared to watching Minho, listening to him, the sounds he made, the sounds his body made.

He knew how to move his hand. Jisung had only been able to jack his hand up and down a few times before he was seeing stars, but Minho, his grip rough, his pace quick, the twist of his wrist positively delectable. Jisung took it all in, he studied him, the way he touched himself without looking away from the boy, his body, his eyes. It took him minutes to finish, Jisung got hard all over again, the moment it happened nearly made him orgasm untouched.

Lips pressed together in a messy spit slicked kiss, Minho jerked himself dry, whispered Can I touch you? on Jisung’s lips, and after acquiring the most pleading Yes he’s ever heard, he drug his hand through his release on his chest and swiftly wrapped his hand around Jisung, the boy's entire body writhing in an instant. Minho touched him, without anything in the way, he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t process it, couldn’t think about anything else but him, Minho. Minho.

It took nothing. Minho twisted his wrist, teased his tip, whispered one good boy to his lips and Jisung was cumming much harder than he ever had before.

Fidgeting where he sat, Minho’s hand now toying with the seam of his pants on the inside of his thigh while the other flipped the page of the book, Jisung took his bottom lip between his teeth and laid his head on Minho’s shoulder. Warmth from the crackling fire comforted him, and would have aided in lulling him to sleep if his skin wasn’t burning more than the flames themselves. His hand was too close, it drove him crazy.

He could see it, his fingers tugging at his length, the way his thumb teased his slit, every tweak of his wrist rendering him utterly thoughtless. God, he’s never felt anything more amazing.

“What are you thinking about?” Minho asked, his voice a low rumble over the cracking of the wood. His eyes never left the page.

Jisung gulped. “Nothing.”

Minho snapped the book shut with one hand and tossed it to the couch beside him. With a smirk on his lips he turned his chin toward Jisung. “Liar, I can feel how tense you are.” Lowering his eyes to his hand and Jisungs thigh muscles tightened into oblivion, the boy attempted to relax with a chuckle as he reached to tangle his fingers within Minho’s. “What’ve we forgotten to do?” Minho questioned, leaning backward on the sofa, stretching his long legs in front of him, his feet touching the coffee table. “I know we’ve got a lot more to get through, you have to show me how to put the office back together, we have to finish bringing out the decorations for Christmas, but we have four days to do it, we can-”

Jisung swung a leg over his lap, straddling him as he would, and as he liked to do. Cutting him short he grabbed his face and smothered his lips with his own, pressing himself against Minho’s rock solid chest. Hands darting out to the side, Minho didn’t know what to do with them. On the couch, on his own legs, in the air beside him, he didn’t know where to hold, what to touch.

They were in the living room, in the middle of the house where everyone spent the most time, where everyone would collect in the nighttime especially now that the world has grown colder. Sure they’ve both grown bolder, have been together outside of the safety of Jisung’s bedroom, and yes, no one was here. Minho thinks he just can’t believe how bold he’s become, and all of a sudden.

Jisung says it’s because of him, because of Minho, because of his presence. He’s bold around him, has grown confident because of him. Though Minho could agree, that Jisung has changed him as well, it certainly hasn’t been to this degree. No, Minho would still keep his walls up around anyone that wasn’t the boy on his lap. He’s grown softer, towards Jisung, but wouldn’t allow the others to see this side of him. They didn’t deserve to see it, not with how they treated him, treated Jisung.

Free of having to hide Jisung let out the sweetest little whines as he grinded his body into Minho’s, his lips trailing from his lips to Minho’s sharp jaw where he pressed the softest kisses.

He knows what he’s done, Minho does. That’s why that guilt grew, that fear within him, it had the power to paralyze him if he didn’t have the strength to keep it down, keep it locked up. Jisung had grown attached, which is nothing for Minho to have a say in, because he’s grown attached too. To Jisung, to the way he moves, the way he kisses him like he’ll lose him tomorrow, how he laughs, how he makes decisions for himself and sticks to them, he follows through, he’s always been confident, always been strong, he’s never needed Minho around to act that way.

He was that way.

His tiny frame, barely matching Minho’s chest in width- entirely endearing. How he liked figuring things out for himself now that Minho’s cracked through that shell of his, how each time they’re here, on top of one another, Jisung is doing something different, pressing his lips somewhere new, not letting his fingers keep an inch of Minho unexplored.

He let him. Minho laid back, finally placed his hands to his thin waist, and let Jisung have his way with him. It was as if Minho rewound the clocks to eighteen, Jisung acting and reacting like a teenager whose brain and hormones finally clocked in.

At least it was him. Between every kiss, every whimper from his lips, every roll of his hips and tug of his hair, Minho thanked God that he had found him before anyone else. The idea that this could have been someone else made his blood run redhot. That Jisung could’ve fallen victim to what he went through, what Minho was forced to succumb to for the sake of his own sexual satisfaction, not that the three men who lived within these walls seemed the type to do such things. Minho worried.

All these years, hearing about Han Jisung, the amazing, talented, genius Han Jisung, Minho had been prepped to be faced with living a nightmare for the rest of his days here in Avida. Hope running on empty, trust rail thin, loyalty on the back burner… Jisung wrecked it all the second he sat down in Christopher’s office. A small, unsuspecting, closeted gay boy flustered beyond belief whenever Minho took a second to look at him. He wasn’t at all what he expected. This boy broke records, this boy held the highest honors, this boy trailblazed his way here without looking back.

This tiny little thing with his knees and toes turned in and the slightest slouch in his shoulders.

“I’m thinking about you, Min,” Jisung whispered, slipping his tongue over his lips. “I’m always thinking about you.”

Minho wouldn’t say he’d done it on purpose, though his eyes told a different story. It wasn’t his intention to have Jisung end up here on his lap, to corrupt whatever pristine fantasy the boy lived within. Simple curiosity drove him here, drove them both here. Minho wanted to know how he’d done it, lived a life so pure, and Jisung was driven by human instinct. Besides, who could blame Jisung for wanting a taste of sin when it looked this good beneath him.

Minho didn’t intend on falling so damn hard.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

These drawn out nights, the sneaking around, the teasing all day just to kiss him a few times at night- it wasn’t supposed to happen. Minho wanted him the second he saw him, wanted him under him, back arched, slim waist in his big hands. It didn’t happen that way. Jisung climbed on top of him. Every time he pinned him down, he grasped control, he took this where he wanted it to go, and Minho so willingly let it happen.

He doesn’t know when he forfeited the fight, white flag waving, he’s not even sure he’s ever even had the upper hand. Something about Jisung, Minho couldn’t say no, couldn’t tell him what to do even if he tried. He wanted to give him everything he’s ever wanted, all it took was a few blinks of those pure wide eyes and Minho was putty in his hands. The slightest pout of his lips and Minho’s brain switched off.

Whatever Jisung wanted, Jisung got.

Small hands gripped the collar of his shirt, tiny fingers slipping in between the buttons, giving the fabric a harsh tug, pulling it open. Jisung, taking his lips down the side of Minho’s neck, pulling his skin roughly between his teeth, he moved over his collar bone, his tongue dipping into the valleys of each bone, every muscle. Minho’s head tipped backward, eyes fluttering shut, his own sighs and desperate hums, pleas for more, spurring the boy on.

Laying messy, hot, open mouthed kisses to his exposed porcelain chest, Jisung tugged his shirt to the side and tried something new, his conscious brain off, driven completely by the pulsing between his legs. Wrapping his lips around one of Minho’s nipples he giggled as his body jerked, the man's fingers digging into his waist. Pulling away, lips slick, having made a complete mess of his chest, Jisung gazed up at him and poked out his tongue, flicking it over the bud slowly, smiling as every muscle in Minho’s body tensed.

“That feels good?” he asked, and Minho dropped his chin, lips parted, eyes hooded.

Taking a hand to Jisung’s curls, he gasped, “Yes,” and pushed the boy's head back down.

With a smile he drew his tongue in circles, slipping a hand beneath Minho’s shirt to brush his fingers over the other. “What if I do this?” A delicate graze over the rock hard bud sent a chill down Minho’s spine. He was hard under him, Jisung could feel it, he was fighting to not buck his hips up into him. Taking his lips to the other, making sure he had his full attention everywhere, Jisung rubbed his thumb through the slick he left behind and pushed. Then he flicked his thumb side to side, just barely brushing the tip. Sucking on the other, he pulled away, a string of saliva dangling from his lips. “Minho?” His warm breath tickled his wet skin.

Sucking air in through his teeth, Minho tipped his head down and clenched his jaw. “Jisung?”

The boy twisted his brows together and studied his face, his expression one like he saw that morning, while Minho touched himself. Keeping their eyes locked, Jisung opened his mouth and latched his lips to his nipple, Minho writhing beneath him. He let his teeth graze over it slightly, eliciting a groan from his chest, and made sure to leave a mess behind when he parted from him.

Lips puffy, shining in the glow of the flames in the fireplace, he released a breath over Minho’s slick skin and watched him gasp. Spinning his tongue in his mouth, gathering what he could, forcing more from his tongue, Jisung leaned over his chest and let a thick wad of spit fall over each hardened bud. Eyes flickering up to meet Minho’s, Jisung pursed his lips and blew cool air over his chest, his middle fingers barely touching those sensitive spots, nudging them, teasing him.

He learned it all in real time, while doing, while watching, listening. A genius, he picked up on all of it, how Minho’s body responded, what he needed to do to make him make moan like that again, what it took to get him hard, what it took to get him not hard.

Wondering what would happen if he kept going like this, if touching him this way could make him cum, he wanted to find out. His body reacted the same way, he made the same sounds, if anything he was louder. Flicking his tongue faster, quicker, prodding him full of more pleasure, he felt determined to make it happen, if it was possible.

But, then he remembered that Minho taught him something about stamina. It’s why Jisung came within seconds, but Minho could go for so much longer. Virgins didn’t have stamina, that’s why Jisung could burst at any moment and Minho wasn’t even touching him. He was new at this, inexperienced, and stamina came with time, with practice. It could take forever to get Minho to finish without touching him elsewhere.

His hands slid down his torso, keeping his lips moving, his tongue working, Minho panting. Unbuttoning his pants, moving so gently he prayed his lips would keep him distracted so he wouldn’t stop him, he pulled at the zipper and sighed, getting his hand over his underwear, over his very long, very hard length. The way Minho moaned made Jisung’s stomach tighten, so much so that he had to stop what he was doing, had to close his eyes and breathe so he didn’t make a mess of his pants.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” Jisung whispered.

Minho threw his head forehead, his eyes wild as he sneered through his teeth, “You’re gonna make me cum.” The way the boy smirked up at him didn’t help.

“Good.”

“Jisung, hang on,” Minho breathed, “Wait, I-”

He didn’t wait. He couldn’t wait. His heart pounded between his lungs, he was one track minded, he had something to do, something to finish.

Sliding off of his lap to the floor, Jisung fit perfectly between his knees, his sturdy thighs framing his face. Fingers curling under the waistband, he tugged his bottoms down and Minho’s length nearly tapped his nose with how it sprung free. Eyes widening, mouth salivating without realizing, Jisung looked up at Minho who held his breath. His hands were on the couch, grasping for anything to keep him here, present, steady. Looking up at him, his broad exposed chest, his wide shoulders, his thick thighs parted to house Jisung between them. He felt small. Just sitting on the couch Minho towered over him, could grab him with a hand and pin him on his back, taking control like it was nothing.

But he didn’t.

His wide eyes laced with lust gazed down at Jisung, admiring how small he was like Jisung admired how big Minho was. The way the boy gulped at the sheer size of him, his pouted lips inches from his leaking, eager red tip, an innocence once conquered by the facade of he knew what he was doing, but he didn’t.

He’d gotten this far, he’d figure it out.

Blinking a billion times, eyes focused, Jisung leaned into his hips and wrapped a hand around the base of his length, praying away shaking fingers as he grasped him, and squeezed him like Minho did to himself that morning.

“Shiii- Ji,” Minho grit his teeth, his head falling backward, eyes screwed shut. His hand, so small, his fingers, tiny little things, still able to send sparks through his being.

Remembering what he was taught, looking between his heaving chest and his cock that somehow hardened further, he spit into his other hand and swapped it for the other, the coolness of his touch making Minho wince and whine. Smoothing the slick up and down his length, every ridge, every vein like gold in his fingers, he started to smile. Taking in how he looked, long, thick, perfect, his lips parted and his jaw fell open.

An involuntary response. Mouth pooling with saliva, bound to dribble over his chin if he didn’t shut his jaw, he felt empty.

“God, Jisung,” Minho’s moans were as desperate as they’d started, every deep, orgasmic sound making his throat and belly tighten.

What is that?

Licking his lips as his hand tugged up to his tip, his palm smoothing over it like Minho had done to Jisung, he gulped and moved closer. His tongue bobbed in his mouth, pushing against the back of his throat, longing to fall out of his lips. Minho’s gasps, the twitching of his length, the jerking of his hips, Jisung couldn’t help but moan aloud, pressing himself into his thighs, slipping Minho’s tip between his parted lips. Hands flew into his curls, Minho’s fingers tangling with the waves, gripping him tight.

“Jisung,” he groaned, but the boy ignored him.

It felt good. Body tingling, heart thumping, Jisung’s eyes fluttered shut. Breathing through his nose, taking in a deep breath, he sighed around him and sank further, letting Minho’s length hit that spot in his throat, the back of his mouth. Sliding his tongue along the bottom, he pulled away just a bit before ever so slightly twisting his chin before sinking back down, the tip of Minho’s cock hitting places that made Jisung feel fuzzy. Minho, a mess beneath him, couldn’t compare to the way Jisung rutted himself against the couch, bobbed his head faster, and faster, longing to feel him everywhere, feeling so full of him, like every need he ever had was being fulfilled in this moment.

He couldn’t stop, not even when Minho moaned out his name, not even when he felt his own high sparked, rushing toward him, whimpering louder and louder, fueled by the way Minho jerked up into his throat. He made him feel good, he was making him feel good. Jisungs nails pressed into Minho’s thighs, sure to leave marks behind in their wake.

“Fuck, you’re gonna cum,” Minho groaned, pulling Jisung off of him by his hair. Lips swollen, eyes clouded over, brain shut off and dizzy, Jisung was positively wrecked. His tongue fell from his lips and his jaw hung open like his mouth awaited more, unable to do anything else but be used. “How do you know how to do this?”

Jisung gulped, throat tightening around nothing, a soft whine following. “Feels good,” he whispered.

“What?” Minho whispered, holding him by his hair.

Jisungs tongue licked around his lips. “I like the way you feel in my mouth.”

Jaw clenching, groan trapped in his chest, Minho released the boy's hair and tucked his hands beneath his arms, pulling him onto the couch, laying him flat on his back. Lowering himself on top of him, noses centimeters apart, Minho poked out his tongue and pressed his lips to Jisungs, sucking his bottom one between his teeth as his hands worked down his body, tugging off the boy’s pants without him even knowing.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Jisung,” he whispered, then moved down his body, nipping at his neck on the way down. Chest arching off the cushions, Jisung scrambled for his shoulders, but he kept moving, so he had to lace his fingers through his hair. “You smart, smart, boy,” Minho pressed kisses to his protruding hip bones, his hands grasping his waist, his eyes marveling at the difference in size. “Learning so quick,” his tongue dipped out, a thick stripe licked across the strip of skin below his navel, “So eager, too.” Minho looked up at him, meeting his eyes heavy with need. “You’re so good, Jisung, you know that?”

The boy couldn’t do anything but tighten his fingers in his brown locks, barely nodding his head in answer. Minho pressed kisses along the inside of his hips, Jisungs aching length waiting so patiently for him to take it.

“But, what would they say to you right now?” Minho grazed his tongue along the underside of his cock and Jisung trembled. “Their good, perfect, pristine boy, what would they tell you right now, hm? With me here between your legs,” Minho managed to shed him of his pants completely, “My cock just down your throat.” He pushed his knees backward and lowered his chin, his nose brushing against that sweet spot under his length. “So dirty,” he whispered, dipping his tongue out to tease his hole that Minho longed to ruin. A smile snuck onto Jisungs lips, one that made Minho perk a brow. “Yeah?”

“What,” Jisung whispered, unable to wipe his smirk away.

Minho positioned his shoulders just under his hips and nosed his length. “Han Jisung, that turns you on,” he said, lowering his tone. The boy shut his eyes and shook his head.

“No,” he sighed. “No, it doesn’t.”

Minho smirked. “Your smile says otherwise.” Sticking out his tongue, he teased his leaking tip, licking away all evidence of precum, swallowing it down, the taste sweet. Writhing where he laid, hands tugging harshly at Minho’s hair, the man grinned. “Jisung,” he clicked his tongue, tone disappointed. The boy looked down at him. “You filthy fuckin’ sinner,” Minho whispered just before he took him into his mouth, sinking down on him until his nose nudged his pelvis.

Jisung sprung forward, jaw agape, loud, guttural moans tumbling from his lips. Minho could take all of him, and then some. Sure, he didn’t compare in size, but still, the way he could fit him in his throat without a breath, without easing himself onto it, he had Jisung’s eyes rolling to the back of his head. His mouth, his tongue, so warm, so wet, his throat hot and tight as he swallowed him down.

It ended faster than it started, Jisung couldn’t help it.

No stamina.

He couldn’t even warn Minho, his words were mindless babbles of nothing comprehensible, just disgustingly delicious wails of ecstasy. He came in his mouth, down his throat, Minho groaning as he did. Pulling off of him with a pop, Jisung a limp, heaving heap on the couch, Minho sat up and grabbed his waist with one hand, the other pulling at his length, yanking Jisung close to him. He fisted himself, thrusted into his hand as he leaned over Jisung in his post-orgasmic daze. The boy, slow blinking, wrapped his arms around his neck and pulled him closer, lips finding lips.

Groaning into the kiss, Minho whispered, “Such a good boy, Ji.” Tongues tangled, chests pressing together, whimpers falling from both of them, Minho’s brow furrowed and his teeth caught onto Jisung’s neck, pressing into the soft skin as he came all over Jisung’s stomach with a moan.

Catching his breath, littering his skin with soft kisses, Minho looked down at the boy smiling up at him, the tiniest thing one would miss if they weren’t centimeters from each other.

With the way he gazed up at him, if Minho didn’t already know that Jisung had fallen, he’d know now.

The heat of the stove warmed Jisung where he sat on the wooden stool, half slumped over the kitchen counter. An elbow on the slab, his chin sat in his hand. Ann moved around the space like she haunted it, knowing every nook and cranny, what tiles to step on, and where everything lived. A tall steel pot sat on top of the stove she stood in front of, just beside Jisung. Dipping a spoon into the simmering, savory smelling soup she’d been working on for some time now, she held it out to the boy with a hand beneath it.

“What am I missing?”

Jisung sipped from the ladle, his eyes widening at the perfect taste. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head as he took the ladle from her to finish what was left. “It’s delicious.”

Her cheeks perked up in a smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling at the same time. “You can tell me the truth, Jisung,” she said, her voice soft, “Unlike the others, you can be honest with me.” She turned back to her pot after taking the ladle from his outstretched hand, her smile deepening as his eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

“What are you talking about?” he asked within half a whisper. Ann stirred her soup, focused on the stove top. Sitting up, Jisung shoved his hands between his thighs, still wearing his pajamas. If the priests were here he’d have changed, he’d have washed up, made himself a bit more presentable than pajamas and bedhead. “This isn’t the first time you’ve said something like this.”

“It’s not?” she asked, lifting a silver brow.

“No,” Jisung said, missing her sarcasm that so easily posed as real. “The way that you talk about them,” he paused, and she gave him a glance, “Why?”

She took a breath. “The Jisung I know has only ever wanted one thing.”

The boy lowered his brows. “The job?”

Ann swallowed a smile. “Acceptance.” A needle struck his chest. He narrowed his eyes. “I have watched you try for years now, working yourself into the ground to impress, setting your own needs aside for the sake of theirs, setting incredible, unrealistic expectations because you believe it’s the only way they’ll allow you to stay, the only way you think you’ll be given the job.”

Jisung gulped. Blinking fervently, he looked down at his lap, his hands that were clammy between his knees. “Just want to show them I can handle what they give me.”

“And, you do,” she sang, moving toward a cabinet full of spices. “You do more than handle it, Jisung, don’t you understand that?”

He pursed his lips, his courage vanishing deep within him. “It’s still not enough. It doesn’t matter.”

“Now, you know that’s not true,” Ann said.

“It’s entirely true,” he snapped, snapping his head up to glare at her. The woman with the silver braid held his stare, her years of life keeping her strong on her feet. “You weren’t here the morning they left, but they said it themselves. I’m not ready, and at this point, I don’t know what else to do to prove that I am.”

Ann lowered her gaze to the stove. “Not much has been done this week.”

Jisung clenched his jaw. “Because they made me not want to do anything.” She kept quiet, stirring the soup, wandering about the kitchen. “I keep giving, and giving, and giving, and for what?”

“Are you looking for a reward?” Ann questioned, rhetorically of course, but it forced an answer from the boy.

“Yes,” he whispered through his teeth. She turned to face him completely, her soft wrinkled fingers smoothing over the apron tied to her front. Jisung met her eyes, her sharp, knowing eyes, and he melted in place. Shoulders slumping, back curving, he glanced at his lap, to his tight fists, and relaxed them. “What am I saying?”

Ann stepped forward, resting a hand to his shoulder. “Frustration is a very normal thing to feel, Jisung. I believe you deserve the position, though my word means nothing-”

“It means a lot,” Jisung whispered, and she smiled, her fingers patting his boney joint.

“Control the things you want to say,” she continued. “What you just told me, as if you were admitting your faults, or admitting your wants, your greed, you know it won’t fare well with the others. Christopher has told you that before.” Jisung cringed at the drop of his name, and Ann tilted her head. “The way they feel about your emotions getting the better of you, Jisung.”

“They don’t get it,” he whispered. “I’m starting to think they never have.”

Ann moved back to her cooking. “Why’s that?” Only her eyes shifted to watch the boy fidget where he sat, rolling his shoulders back, glancing about the kitchen while his heart began to thud between his lungs.

“The same reason why they won’t give me what I want,” he mumbled. The smallest smile graced her lips. “Minho.”

“Minho?” she asked.

“Yes?”

Jisungs head whipped toward the archway where his voice sounded. Dressed half the same, hair in slightly better shape than the boy on the stool, Minho wandered across the tile with something of a smile on his face. Glancing between Ann and Jisung, the woman focused on her work, the boy wide eyed and staring at him, Minho didn’t know where to go. Leaning against the kitchen table, folding his hands over his chest, he tipped his nose in the air.

“That smells incredible,” he said, morning grog still in his voice. Ann turned to him and thanked him with a smile.

Jisung, sitting up entirely straight, couldn’t take his eyes off of him. A white t-shirt clung to his upper half, accentuating every muscle beneath it, where Jisung had his lips last night. Cheeks flushing, he slid his hands over his thighs and gripped his knees. Lethal, everything about him, no matter if he was half clothed and panting on the living room couch or politely speaking with Ann in the morning daylight of the kitchen. He didn’t know where to look actually, any place he chose it made him warm. All over.

He woke up in his bed again, next to him. Tangled with him.

Fumbling up the stairs hand in hand that’s where they ended up. Beneath Minho’s blankets, clothes strewn to the floor, two sweaty bodies curled up with one another.

Nothing existed in that moment besides them. To Jisung, nothing much other than Minho himself mattered when they were like that.

And, when he walked into the kitchen apparently.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything, I just woke up,” Minho said, shrugging his shoulders. He flashed a crooked smile at Jisung and the boy blushed. “It’s strange not being on a schedule, this week feels like a vacation for us, too.”

“I’m sure it does,” Ann said quietly, and both boys looked at her. Minho snuck a glimpse of Jisung and wanted to reach out and shake the shock from his face, where he wasn’t giving anything away, Jisung told her everything.

Jisung grit his teeth together before he rolled his head backward and groaned aloud. “If I wanted to get everything done, I could do it in a day,” he grumbled, then shot Minho a look. The man’s fingers tightened on his biceps. “Besides, I don’t think they’re so deserving of it right now, do you?”

Minho perked a brow, a nervous laugh tumbling from his lips as he glanced between Ann and the boy. “I mean,” he breathed, “What are you saying?”

“That they’ll expect everything to be done by the time they come back,” Jisung held his chin high, “That I go above and beyond, every time, she just said it, I do more than enough.” Minho was quiet, waiting for more. Jisung whispered, “What happens if I don’t do a thing?”

“You don’t mean that,” Minho said through a laugh.

Jisung tipped his chin forward. “What if I do?”

“I’d like to know what you have to do with Jisung not getting promoted like he wants,” Ann said, turning to face Minho. Standing up straight, he dropped his arms to his sides, smoothed them over his thighs, then tucked them behind his back. Eyes wide, jaw clenched, his gaze shifted around the room. “Why does he say you’re the reason why they’re not giving him the position?”

Jisung watched him search for the words to say to her, a man who could once conjure up a comeback in seconds, speechless. Either he couldn’t figure it out, or he didn’t want to say a thing. Beneath Ann’s stare, one that resembled Hyunjin’s, though it tended to be more caring, more concerned rather than just collecting information, Minho stumbled over words, finally forcing something from his lips.

“I- I- I didn’t know,” he shrugged. “I’m just trying to keep up with him, just trying to learn from him.” Ann’s expression relaxed. “I don’t want to stand in his way, if anything I want to help him achieve his goals.”

The woman hummed to herself. “I’m sure you do.” Minho glanced at Jisung, the boys sharing a look that made Jisung queasy. Ann turned back to the stove, busying herself, then she said, “They should’ve put you both in one room.”

Chills shot down Jisung’s spine. “What?” he sighed heavily, fingers tightening over his knees. Minho was frozen, wide eyed and glued in place. Jisung swore a smile longed to break out onto her face.

“Your bedroom door was open when I got here this morning,” she said with a quick look toward him. “Are you going to tell Christopher you’re sleeping in his bed? Or, will this be our little secret, these sleepovers?”

“Our secret,” Jisung said entirely too fast for Minho’s liking. The boy caught the slight narrowing of her eyes before she looked away, his own squinting with intrigue. “Ann,” he said just above a whisper, unable to withhold the trembling of his voice. She peered over. She was smiling. Gulping, Jisung whispered, “These?”

Her smile grew. Looking over her shoulder at Minho, then at Jisung, she said, “I’m an exquisite secret keeper.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jisung’s voice quieted, full of worry. Ann hummed to herself yet again, tending to the soup on the stovetop. “Who’s secrets?” She didn’t budge. “Ann,” Jisung slid off the stool and took to her side, latching onto her shoulder, “Please, you can’t do this, tell me.”

She shifted only her eyes. “Yours, Jisung. I always keep yours.” She watched as he looked toward Minho with brows flipped over and hands trembling on her shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on, then maybe I’ll have a better understanding as to why things are the way that they are.” Jisung snapped his neck to look back at her. “I’m not one of them, I am simply here to feed and take care of you, nothing you say to me reaches their ears. If there is something troubling you, if there is something you need to get off of your chest, Jisung, let me be the one to carry it for you.”

He pulled his hands off of her quickly, pressing them to his chest. Tears welling up in his eyes, he blinked fervently, took several steps backward, then bolted from the kitchen.

Christmas trees would tower beside the altar, wearing lights, silver garland, blood red poinsettias. The stained glass windows would be dressed in wreaths, pine wafting through the air, a sign and a comfort that the day was coming. The day would soon be here, be upon the church, the day Christ is born. Jisung would drape the sanctuary with love and care, adoration. No corner untouched, no space forgotten. It’s the most joyous time of year, the most wonderful, he’d take his time, spend every last minute decorating, polishing, cleaning, making it perfect. It had to be perfect.

Sitting in the last pew staring out into the empty church, not a soul in the room other than himself, he envisioned what it should look like, what it should start looking like. Christmas time. Set up started with him, this week, small things here and there like the wreaths, or the Christmas candles, or the ribbons and garland and bows. He and Minho had brought some of them out, uncovered them deep from the closets, but he couldn’t put them up.

The November sun was setting, flashes of lingering sunlight made the windows glow before it’d vanish into the grey void.

Jisung could feel it today.

Cold seeped through the bricks, the stone around him, caressed the bare skin of the back of his neck, an old friend. Vacant pews, vacant choir chancel, he danced his gaze about the walls, chills erupting over his skin. Tucking his hands into his chest, beneath his arms that crossed, he gulped.

These walls, these pillars that towered over him, that arched into the rounded painted ceiling, they judged him. Cold. The faces in the paintings, in the stained glass windows, the stories they told, that once warmed his heart and brought him nothing but hope and wonder, they judged him. He’d walk down this aisle with Christopher, a knowledge hungry, eager boy who now fears he knows too much.

These marble floors, chestnut pews, porcelain statues wearing tears on their cheeks for Jisung himself, anywhere he laid his eyes, the details spat at his feet. How dare he even walk through the doors, how dare he have the guts to sit down in His home, His palace of worship, knowing what he’s done, what he’s chosen to do.

Things he knew were wrong, actions that came with horrific consequences.

How is he to be forgiven after all this time? Jisung should’ve sat himself here at the first implication, after the first night, the first time.

Sinner.

He’d done it.

Filthy.

A word so pretty when it came from plush lips. It filled him with shame, his skin crawling, a place he longed to escape from. But, when it came from plush, delicate lips full of promise he’s never felt more alive.

A trap is what it was. It’s what he was, those plush, delicate, red hot lips that sent him into nirvana. A trap. A test. The test. A distraction.

But, what of what he’s said?

He’s not here to withhold what he wants, he didn’t come here to keep him from his goals, his achievements, his dreams. For weeks, months now, he’s encouraged, supported, defended, and protected. He’s shared more with Jisung than anyone ever has, now the deepest parts of him, there wasn’t any way he’s been planted here to challenge him.

Christopher wouldn’t let that happen. He’s said it, there isn’t anything left for Jisung to prove.

If Minho was, if what they say is the truth, then it means they’ve…

“Jisung?”

His voice ricocheted off the walls, a dagger to the boy's heart as the judgement amplified tenfold. Pillars, marble, cedarwood alike, they looked down upon them. It nauseated him.

He’d come in through the sacristy, pushing open the doors behind the altar, appearing upon the marble in a sweater and slacks. Jisung gulped, wrapping his arms around himself tighter. Carrying a folder in his hand, one thick and full of white paper, he stepped down to the floor with a pause. Fifty feet of empty air and pews stood between them.

They hadn’t spoken a word since the kitchen this morning, both taking to their work, or lack thereof, Minho holing himself up in the office, organizing documents, shredding what no longer was needed, keeping things fresh for the upcoming year. Jisung escaped into the sacristy after he’d gotten dressed. There wasn’t much to do aside from dusting the shelves again, or stacking the books differently again. After pointless hours of cleaning that did anything but clear his head, he ventured out into the sanctuary, wandered down the aisle and placed himself here, in the pew he’d spent ample time in.

Time he’s unsure was well spent or a waste.

Minho took tentative steps, inching toward the boy in the back pew, shoes clicking with every footstep. The folder swung at his side, his fingers clutching it like it were gold while the other lived in his pocket. His chin had lowered halfway down the aisle, eyes softened yet on alert, not knowing which version of the boy he’s grown to love he’d be approaching. Brown eyes clouded over with guilt, he could feel it the second he stepped into the church.

An attempt had been made to catch him before he ran off earlier in the day, but Minho had been ignored. To think Ann was on their side, the way she spoke, somehow it's done more damage than it’s done good. She had reached into his head, Jisungs’, grabbed his thoughts, the ones that had been pushed aside, and she’d twisted them all up, mixed them together. The good had been muddled with what Minho had feared from the start.

Jisung should’ve done this the first time he kissed him.

Jisung should’ve pushed him away then, when it’d all begun, before either of them started to drown.

He stopped at the end of the pew, Jisung sitting on the farther side. Just the way he clung to himself drove a knife through Minho’s heart. Defenceless. Awaiting an insufficient saviour, forced into the arms of one supposedly corrupt, damnable.

“Jisung.” Voice soft, barely audible, Minho waited for an answer. The boy’s eyes were focused forward, fawning over the bare altar, mentally kicking himself for not doing a damn thing. Lifting the folder to his chest, holding it there with both of his hands, Minho took a deep breath, one shaky as he released it. “I thought I said don’t run from me.”

Jisung gulped, jaw clenched too tight. Only his eyes flickered over to Minho, closing as they met his discern. He whispered, “You’re not supposed to take things from the office.” He would have laughed if Jisung wasn’t having a panic attack. He would have laughed if what he took didn’t have any importance to either of them.

Every file he found, he read through. Every folder with an inconspicuous label, he flipped through. Papers in the drawers neither of the boys were to go through, locked drawers, locked cabinets, Minho found his way in, too curious to breeze past them. Jisung did this often, once a month, straightening up the lives of the three men keeping him on a short leash, and not once had he thought to go through sealed drawers, or folders labeled for the priests only. Minho didn’t care much for consequence, he’d feign innocence and claim he’d only been doing his job, that he longed to be as thorough as Jisung.

Locked meant hidden.

Confidential meant secret.

What he found made him sick.

“Can I sit down?”

Jisung opened his eyes, tears seconds from falling, and he nodded. Minho didn’t come any closer, but he sat down on the pew, many feet separating them from one another. Out of arm's reach.

Wallowing in the silence, the only sound to be heard is that of Jisung forcing himself to take deep breaths and the wind howling past the windows outside in the chilling air, Minho drug his fingers along the edges of the folder he sat on his lap. Taking in the church around him, not once letting his eyes fall upon Jisung, he listened to his breaths, his fingers tracing in time with the sound, dragging faster as the boy's intake of air quickened.

Sobs were caught in his throat. The urge to cry had grown stronger the closer he’d gotten, and now that he sat beside him, too far away, yet not far enough, Jisung found himself entirely torn. Which way to go, where to end up, what to do, it was lost upon him. Vision going blurry, he cried aloud, the sound bouncing from wall to wall, taunting him.

“Ow.”

Pressing his hands to his cheeks, he wiped at his eyes, turning toward Minho who had slid closer, now beside him with the tip of his ring finger between his lips. Reaching out for him, blinded by tears, he clung to the sleeve of his sweater and pulled him in, burying his face in his shoulder. Minho wrapped the arm around his back, knitting his fingers in the boy's hair.

His touch alone lessened the weight Jisung bore. His presence, the sound of his voice, his smell. The way he let him cry, sobbing against him, tears staining his sweater. Jisung grasped fistfuls of cotton, pressing into Minho as if he wasn’t the reason he’d been ripped in two.

It should be simple.

What a Goddamn shame it wasn’t.

The one thing he wants more than what he’s tried to achieve for two years of his life, and he can’t have either of them.

Sucking in a sharp breath, lifting his head from Minho’s shoulder, fists still clinging to him for clarity, he met his eyes and released a trembling sigh. Gaze dancing about his honey’d skin, cheeks tear stained, eyes glossy, Minho parted his lips to speak, to whisper to him, but Jisung tugged him by the sweater, planting his lips to his cheek. With a breath, he kissed him again, and again, his lips drawing lower down his jaw, beneath it.

Gripping him by the hair, curls wrapped around his strong fingers, Minho tugged him backward, swallowing the groan that almost came out of him. Jisung, lips slick, brows tipped up, tears streaming down his face, eyes pleading to let him carry on, how weak he felt in Minho’s grasp, it was entirely obscene.

“Ji,” Minho whispered with the slightest shake of his head.

The boy let out the smallest whine. “Minho,” he whispered back.

“Talk to me.” Minho’s lips thinned when Jisung shook his head. “Why not?”

Jisung cried, his voice broken. “You did this to me.”

Minho glanced at the folder he’d slipped onto the pew, eyes narrowing. In his moment of weakness, distracted, Jisung slipped from his grip and threw his arms around his shoulders, lips locking with his, using a hand to maneuver his chin in his favor.

“Jisung,” he managed to mumble, but the boy wouldn’t stop, and Minho couldn’t help himself. Slipping right into delicious kisses, warm flicks of tongues over lips, nothing he would, or could say would end this.

In minutes Jisung climbed onto his lap, he was waiting for it, he knew it was coming. Knees spread over his lap, Jisung laid his chest against Minho’s, his weight on him entirely, like he was handing himself over, surrendering himself to the man beneath him. Hands taken to his waist, Minho drug them up his side and around his back, pressing him even closer.

This was different. Every smack of their lips grew hungrier as the minutes passed, neither one taking their time to savor the other, each kiss persistent, feverish, like they had something to prove. Shameless, not one worried about where they sat, when their tongues met, noses squished together, Jisung smiled.

The world switched off.

Nothing else mattered.

Taking his hands to his jaw, Jisung caught his bottom lip with his teeth and tugged on it, the man groaning aloud, the beautiful sound echoing up to the angels on the ceiling. Tongue lobbing out to drag over the fullness, soothing the bite, Jisung answered his groan with a whine, grinding his hips down into Minho’s lap, smiling over his lips again as he felt his hands slide down to his waist.

“I can’t believe you,” Minho whispered, trailing his lips down Jisung’s jaw, down the side of his neck, taking the skin between his teeth before sucking at it harshly. The boy tipped his chin back, the softest moan sounding from his smiling lips. “This is insanity, Jisung.”

He laughed, and Minho half gasped up at him before he was gifting with another mouthful of his tongue. Hips bucking up into Jisung as the boy wrapped a hand around the base of his neck, he cursed against his lips, something Jisung couldn’t make out. He didn’t care, Minho was hard already. Before him.

“You were right, you know.” Jisung slowed his lips, looking at him through hooded eyes. Minho questioned him with the furrow of his brow. “This does turn me on,” he whispered, glancing around the church. Reaching for one of Minho’s hands on his waist, Jisung slipped it between his legs, then let him go and palmed over Minho’s length. “But, it gets you first.”

“Look at where you are,” Minho clenched his jaw. “Look at what you’re doing.” His tone only seemed to spur Jisung on, the boy's smirk grew, his body writhing, his hands grabbing. “I have every good intention to stop you right now.”

Jisung pressed an open mouthed kiss to his lips, lingering for longer than before, slower, humming against him, rolling his hips into the palm of his hand, aching for more. “But you won’t.”

“No,” Minho whispered, closing his hand over the boy’s cock, eliciting a whimper from his throat. “I won’t, ‘cause just like you Jisung…”

The boy grinned something wicked, hips bucking into Minho’s hand, the friction not enough. Kissing him fast, rough, he took a hand between their bodies and pressed his thumb to Minho’s forehead. “In the name of the Father,” he whispered. Minho sighed, his eyes screwed shut, lips calling Jisung’s back toward them. “And of the Son,” Jisung spoke between slow, wet kisses, his hand pressing to Minho’s heart before it groped each shoulder, “And of the Holy Spirit.”

“Ji,” Minho could barely make a sound, he couldn’t move. Jisung’s hand took beneath his jaw, tipping it upward, forcing him to look him in the eye.

He smiled, one gentle, and he whispered, “Bless me, Father,” he paused, Minho a trembling mess under him, “For I have sinned.”

“God,” Minho groaned, eyes nearly rolling back as they fluttered shut.

Jisung poked his tongue out from between his lips and drug it over his neck, not once, not twice, but three times, savoring every second, every twitch of Minho’s hips, every whine he tried to swallow. “‘Cause just like me, Minho,” he whispered in his ear, his teeth catching the soft skin of his lobe, pulling before he wrapped his lips around it. “Finish it. Tell me. What am I? What are you?”

Minho grabbed at his waist, fingers digging into the bone, withholding his movement. Keeping him still, his jaw tightened and he gulped, looking directly at him. Jisung waited with baited breath, eyes flickering from his torn lips to his dazed stare. Within a whisper, Minho smirked, “Filthy fuckin’ sinners.”

From pretty lips.

Jisung’s belly caved. Biting down on his lip with a gravely groan, he couldn’t help the way his hips bucked forward. “No, no, no,” he whispered hurriedly, hands grabbing onto Minho’s biceps, fingers digging into the muscle.

“Don’t you dare,” Minho grumbled, and Jisung’s eyes shot open wide. A hand latched onto his jaw, Minho bringing him closer, their noses brushing. “What do you want, Jisung?”

“You,” he whispered, and Minho rolled his eyes. Jisung quivered.

“You’re insatiable, you know that?” Minho grit his teeth, speaking through them. “What do you want, Jisung.”

The boy parted his lips, but nothing came out. A smile teased the corners of his mouth. “You.” Leaning into him, Minho prepared to catch a kiss, but Jisung’s lips ghosted him. Grabbing his wrists, pulling him off of him, Jisung slid off his lap and hurried out of the pew.

Minho sat forward, one hand on the back of the pew in front of him, the other on his lap. “What are you doing?” Holding in a laugh, he watched as Jisung tucked his hands behind his back and stepped into the pew before him. Sitting down on the wood, he rested his chin on top of Minho’s hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. Just as his other hand reached for his hair, Jisung sprung up from his seat and rushed toward the end of the pew, stepping out into the center aisle of the church.

Dainty fingers dragging over the carved chestnut wood, Jisung looked back at him, fluttering lashes and a smile so innocent, all Minho could do was roll his eyes for the umpteenth time. “You want me, but you’re running from me.” Standing to his feet, Jisung’s eyes lit up. Minho took his time, strolling toward the end of the pew, eyes fixed on Jisung toying with the wood, waiting for him to bolt yet again. Shoes hitting the tile every few seconds, Minho reached the end, thinking he’d gotten him, but Jisung was one step ahead. As Minho attempted to swing an arm around the boy, Jisung darted away, to the other side of the aisle, many steps away.

“I really thought you’d be good at this,” Jisung teased. “Honest.”

“You little bas-”

“Don’t curse,” Jisung cut him clean off, lifting a finger. He took a few steps toward the front of the church, and Minho followed suit.

“That’s rich,” he furrowed his brows. “Don’t curse.”

They both took a few more steps, completely in sync on opposite sides of the aisle.

Jisung pouted. “I mean it.”

Minho smirked.

Three more steps.

“I don’t understand you,” he breathed. “I don’t think I ever will.”

Jisung broke out into a grin, lowering his chin. “Try,” he whispered, and they took off. Jisung bolted straight toward the altar, Minho on his heels.

Leaping up the stairs, giggles falling from his lips, Jisung grabbed onto the marble and swung himself around the other side, facing the church. Minho posted himself across from Jisung, both hands planted to the cool stone, arms stretched out to either end.

Like the day they’d met.

Face to face in a church Jisung had made a home out of.

He’d taught it to him, top to bottom, every room, every detail, every corner. The secrets these walls held, that the house kept, things he’s never told anyone else, he’d given it to him. To think that very first day Jisung loathed the very idea of sharing anything with him.

Now he can’t get enough.

Minho tipped toward his left, making Jisung spring the other way. Rounding the altar, light on his feet while Jisung scrambled, knees weak with giggles, Minho paused, and waited. A smile played at his lips, but something sounded off in his brain, coursing through his veins, his skin buzzing. Jisung’s eyes, wide, bright, pure, had Minho digging his nails into his palms, wishing they were Jisung’s thighs, Jisungs hips, Jisungs anything.

He knew what he wanted, what he was asking for, what this little dance was all a part of. It only needed to fall into place, and Minho knew exactly where they’d fit. Jisung may have good foreplay game, but the night they spent on the couch told Minho plenty.

The boy needed someone to pin him down.

He pined after that type of submission, another sick way of him fulfilling his need to please, his need to be perfect.

The longer they spun around the altar, the longer Minho chased after him, the more likely he’d be to give that to him.

“Ji,” Minho said, tone steady yet a bit derogatory. “What happens when I catch you?”

Jisung brought his lips between his teeth, his laugh vibrating along the stained glass windows now casting the boys in shadows, more darkness in the room than there was light. Minho tried to pull a fast one on him, hurrying around a corner while he laughed, but Jisung scrambled away, nearly bumping into the corner of the marble.

He caught his breath, sliding a hand over his heart to ease its pounding, and said, “You tell me.” They met smiles, but Minho’s fell after Jisung whispered, “I don’t know anything.”

His fingers pressed into the altar, eyes narrowing in the dimly lit space. “You know exactly what you’re doing,” he said. “And you’re good at it, too.”

Jisung raised a brow. “Am I?” He smirked.

Minho rolled his eyes. “There, your ego is fed,” he grumbled, curling his lip. “Now, come here.”

In two steps Minho had been able to snatch Jisung around the waist, lifting him off of his feet. With the boy shouting in fits of laughter, Minho placed him down behind the altar and clamped his hands on the marble, Jisung caged between his arms. Jisung sucked down deep breaths, tried to control his smile, his giggles. He wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck and tugged him closer, the man stepping into him, filling the space. Nearly bending him in half over the marble, Minho poked out his tongue and kissed him, pushing his hips forward to pin Jisung to the altar.

“You don’t know what you’re asking me to do,” he whispered.

Jisung pecked his lips, his eyes closed, and shook his head. “I don’t.” He spoke just as quietly as Minho. Opening his eyes, he looked up at him, his brows settling above his gaze. “But, I want it. You, I want you.”

Brushing his nose over his, Minho blinked, thinking to himself, every possibility, every scenario flashing through his mind, not one of them ever ending up like this. In the church, on the altar, dry humping one another, cat and mouse, tongues pressed to cheeks… They should be in bed. The couch, somewhere in the house, anywhere but here. His resentment grew with everything they did, everything they shared, when the fuzziness no longer clouded his mind, when he had clarity, whether it be tomorrow morning, or right after, he’d regret it.

Or, would he?

Reality hit, and in mere moments he wanted more.

Clarity washed over him and he ran back, for more.

The things Minho felt, the things he knew Jisung felt, maybe they outweighed everything else. Maybe what lived within them both was stronger than the stone walls that stood around them.

“I want you, too,” Minho whispered, pressing his lips to his cheek. Jisungs hands slid up into his hair, giving it the gentlest pull.

From running in circles and bickering with one another to quiet whispers and soft touches, the energy flipped entirely. Half aware of what he was asking for, what they were discussing, a nervousness awoke within Jisung, something telling him to stop. Something telling him don’t do this. Threading his fingers through Minho’s hair, looking up at him, his tiny smile seemed to silence it all.

One of his hands brushed over Jisung’s cheek, his thumb dragging along his cheekbone, teasing his bottom lashes. “We don’t have to have sex, Ji, I can read your mind, we-”

“No,” Jisung whispered, bouncing his knees. “Please, I want to, I do, I really do.”

Huffing a laugh, Minho kissed the tip of his nose. “It’s a lot of big steps in two days, that’s all.” Tilting his chin to the side, he brushed their lips together. “Let me touch you,” he whispered, “Then we can talk about-”

“Only if you’re inside me,” Jisung said quickly, gulping, tightening his jaw.

Minho blinked, utter shock on his face. “What?”

Jisung pursed his lips, then nodded once. “You can only touch me… if you’re inside me.”

Eyes closing, Minho took a long, deep breath. “Jisung, you amaze me.” He looked down at him, the boy having no clue what he was on about. “Thank god you’re here, ‘cause if you weren’t…”

The corners of his lips perked up. “Thank God you’re here.” Stringing his hands through his hair, roughing it up, he whispered, “I’m not doing this, ever, unless it’s with you.”

“That’s very limiting.” Minho tipped the boy's chin upward, looking down at him with narrowed eyes. Jisung giggled.

“I don’t care.”

Minho sighed. “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. The death of me, Jisung, you will be.” His smile and blushing cheeks lured Minho in, lips locking, bodies moving. “You have to listen to me, okay?” Minho’s voice was hushed, every push of his lips against Jisung’s silencing what longed to fall from his lips. “You might not like it this time, it might take more, another time.”

Jisung slipped his tongue over Minho’s bottom lip. “I can handle that,” he nodded, “I can, I promise.”

His whisper made Minho’s knees buckle. “Just listen to me,” Minho caught his eye, sure that he was paying attention to him, “Focus on me.”

Jisung licked his lips. “Not that hard.”

Smirking, Minho rolled his eyes. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” Jisung breathed.

Dragging his hands down his chest, Minho kissed him, every bit of movement taken with care, softly, knowing that anything abrupt or sudden would trigger his fight or flight, and though Minho knew how important that piece was, he needed him to enjoy this. Pulling at the buttons on his pants, his kisses were chaste, but keeping Jisung afloat. Where his hands worked, imploring heavier feelings, his lips had to slow. Balance.

“I’m gonna touch you,” he whispered, following up quickly with, “To relax you,” before Jisung dejected. The boy nodded, trying to keep his lips locked with Minho’s. They dropped to his jaw when he spoke, Jisung needing to have something occupy his mouth when it wasn’t busy. “Stay with me, okay? Can you do that?” Jisung nodded, and Minho hummed. “Use your words, Jisung.”

“Yes,” the boy sighed, his teeth grazing the skin of Minho’s neck.

“Look at me,” Minho directed, and he listened, head popping up wearing those big, innocent eyes. “Christ,” he sneered. “You have to do something for me.”

“Of course.” He nodded.

Minho settled his jaw, licked his lips, then whispered, “Don’t cum.” Jisung’s expression faltered, Minho knew it too, he was at such a disadvantage. Taking his lips to his ear, tongue grazing his lobe gently, he whispered, “You cum when I’m inside you.” Jisung writhed beneath him, and Minho laughed. “You can do it, baby, I know you can.”

“Then you can’t talk,” Jisung whined. “Did you just call me baby?”

Minho studied his face. “I did, did you hate it?”

Jisung laughed, the tension on his face washing away. “No, I liked it.”

“Alright then,” Minho smirked, kissing his forehead. “Stay with me, baby.”

Kissing him deep, and slow, making nothing but a mess between their lips, Minho worked him out of his pants, instructing him to kick them off his feet. Slipping a hand between his legs, wrapping his fingers around his length, Jisung jerked at the touch, then sucked in a deep breath, focusing on the kiss rather than Minho playing with him. This wouldn’t be over in seconds, he wouldn’t disappoint him.

Telling himself it felt good, he stayed on the outside of it, though the euphoria tried to yank him under. He could do this. He wanted it to last, there had to be more.

Minho brought his other hand between them, pressing it to Jisung’s throat for a few seconds to make him whine before he slipped two fingers between their lips, his tongue sliding out to wet them. Jisung see, Jisung do. When Minho pulled them away, his hand disappeared behind Jisung, but their tongues stayed tangled together. With a breath Minho engulfed Jisung with a kiss as he pressed a finger to his entrance, feeling the boy suck in a staggered breath, every muscle on his body tensing.

“Relax,” Minho whispered, resting his forehead over Jisung’s. The boy's eyes were screwed shut, his brows twisted above them. “Jisung, breath.” Doing as he was told, he released his breath hurriedly, then blinked open his eyes. “Hi,” Minho smiled, and before Jisung could say anything his finger slipped inside of him.

Jisung didn’t think it was possible for his dick to grow harder but it did. “This will make… This will…” He was panting already, his jaw unable to close, hanging open for Minho’s tongue to explore.

“What did I say?” Minho cooed, taking his hand off of his length, reaching for his jaw.

Jisung fluttered his eyes shut. “Don’t cu- h’oh my God.”

Minho smiled. Two fingers and he wasn’t begging him to stop, he was moaning. “You okay, baby?”

Short, staggered breath answered him. “Y-yeah, yes, I am.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Minho whispered. “How’s it feel?”

“Getting better,” Jisung sighed, his breath evening out with time. “It does feel good, it’s just… at first…”

Minho danced his fingers along his jaw, soothing him. “I told you,” he nodded. “It takes time, you overachiever. You can’t just jump in.”

Jisung opened his eyes and Minho swore he could bust on the spot. Already so fucked out, the daze in his eyes grew the longer he looked at him. “Move,” he whispered.

“I will,” Minho assured him with a little nod. “Keep telling me how it feels, okay?”

“Okay,” Jisung whispered, and the moment Minho scissored open his fingers, Jisung nearly dead weighted in his hold. “Minho,” he whined, eyes screwed shut, head tipping back.

“I know, I know,” he sang, littering his jaw with soft kisses. “Doing so good, doing so, so good.”

Jisung whimpered, he whined, everything that fell from his lips echoed within the church, ringing in Minho’s ears, every sound, every detail, amplified. “Want you,” Jisung mumbled, clawing at his hair, tugging the strands so hard Minho prayed away his own release. “Want you, Min.”

His fingers moved in a circle and Jisung thrust against his thigh, seeking friction from anywhere. “Have to play with you a while longer, Ji,” he whispered, pressing kisses to his curls. The boy threw his head forward, his face buried in his chest. Working him open, his fingers wouldn’t be enough, that was something they both knew. Jisung’s had Minho down his throat, two fingers didn’t compare.

Glancing around the space, the altar, Minho’s eye caught the ambry, a wooden cabinet on the wall beside the towering architecture and statues behind them. He’s seen Christopher go in there a few times, Hyunjin used them more, and Jisung’s polished the glass bottles, shown him how. Three round bottles, chrismals, the holy oils blessed by the three priests themselves on a weekly basis.

A groan caught in his chest as Jisung pressed a hand to his length, a happy breath escaping the boy.

How fitting, the week they aren’t here.

Taking his fingers from the boy, he lifted his chin and kissed him, then spun him around. “Ji, you stay right here,” he said, pressing a kiss to both of his shoulders. Parting from him, the air going cold, Jisung pressed his fingers into the marble in front of him, his gaze looking out upon the empty pews, the arcing ceiling, the angels and saints painted onto it gazing back down at him. Standing here alone, tears welled up in his eyes. Without him, it didn’t feel right.

“Minho?” He’d begun to turn, but Minho wrapped around him, lips taking to his neck as he hurried his pants off of himself.

“I”m right here,” he whispered, kicking the clothes away.

Jisung took a breath and leaned his head back, resting it on his shoulder. Minho’s lips grazed his cheek, then his fingers slipped back into him, this time with more ease than before. Further, deeper, Jisung could cum, he wanted to cum, but he couldn’t, he was told not to.

“Jisung,” Minho said, his chest pressing into his back. Eyes half closed, the boy looked at him. “Hi baby, god, you look so pretty.” Jisung smiled. “You still want me?”

“Please,” he whispered.

Minho smiled down at him. “Take a deep breath.”

He listened, and as he exhaled, Minho slid into him.

Lurching forward, hands slapping to the marble, nails clawing at the stone, Jisung cried aloud, eyebrows screwing in pleasure. Minho took his time, inch by inch, one hand gripping the boy's hip, the other smoothing over his back as it arched for him. His so good, so, so good, paired with the way Jisung whined his name like a prayer, neither of them were certain they’d last for very long.

“Ji… Ji?” Minho managed to whisper, breathless, completely sheathed within him.

White knuckling the marble, Jisung, with his lip squished between his teeth, shot him a look over his shoulder. “Hurry,” he whispered, tears filling his eyes.

Minho wrapped his arms around the front of his chest and laid over him. “Does it hurt, what’s the matter?”

“No,” Jisung gasped. “I’m gonna cum.”

Minho released a shaky laugh. “Me too,” he whispered. “You feel so good.”

“You feel so good,” Jisung moaned, laying his head backward on his shoulder again. “Can you move?”

“Is it getting better?” Minho kissed his cheek.

Breathing through his lips, Jisung looked at him and smiled. “Yes.”

Minho pulled out just to push back in, Jisung writhing against him. Hands pressed to his chest, Minho caged him against the altar, pushing him into the marble with every thrust of his hips. Little by little he moved faster, the louder Jisung got, the faster he’d move. Within minutes he snapped into him, the obscene smacking of skin on skin mixed with the sounds that escaped them both, filling the holy air, tainting it. Jisung, with one hand thrown back in Minho’s hair, the other clawing at the altar, Minho both hands on Jisung’s waist, nails digging into his skin while his lips sucked harshly at his neck, both were blind, it’d take a force to stop them.

It wasn’t until Minho felt his own legs shake that he snaked a hand down Jisung’s front, wrapping his fingers around him, eliciting a whine that shot straight through him, his hips stuttering. Oil on his hands already, he pulled at him, tightening his grip with every pass.

“Min, Min, Min,” Jisung panted, his hands reaching back to hold onto him.

“What?” Minho smirked, jaw slack. “You gonna cum?”

Jisung whimpered, his body weight falling backward onto him. “God, yes, g-gonna.”

Minho nibbled his earlobe. “Before I fill you up? Come on, Ji.” His body tensed, his belly rippled. Each sound grew quieter, came out quicker, pleads, begs for more, like he encouraged it to come out himself. “You’re doing so good, you listen so well. I think if you cum it’ll make me,” Minho kissed his cheek, “So pretty when you cum, show me, baby.”

His body burned, every muscle worked for it. Minho’s touch, how he talked him through it, how full he felt, how full he was. Hands thrown back, grabbing God knows what, his fingers tightened, and that feeling snapped. What once was red hot had now turned pure white, stars in his eyes, skin ablaze, heart like a rock in his chest. Coming to, vision speckling back to the dimly lit church, the haze he was in, the man he clung onto for dear life, he was clinging to Jisung. The boy, heaving breaths in time with Minho, was pressed to the marble, Minho’s hands relaxing off of his frame as minutes ticked by.

“Look at me,” Minho whispered in the quiet, in the calming of hearts beating. Jisung tipped his head back, met with the most gorgeous view, messy hair, sleepy eyes, puffy lips, torn up skin. He was still inside him. Minho kissed him gently, nothing like what had been shared before, and upon pulling away, he mumbled the quietest, “You’ve ruined me.”

The tip of his finger drew up and down his spine, grazing every notch that protruded through his golden complexion. Chin in his tousled waves, messier than they’ve ever been, Minho blinked in the hazy light of his bedroom, his breath careful and quiet. Jisung laid over him where he sat against the headboard, the boy's cheek over his heart, half awake, listening to the steady beat between his lungs, rising with his chest after every exhale.

Sheets wrapped around them, some pillows thrown askew, both in briefs and nothing else, they’d spent the night here. Redressing one another in the church, upon the altar, lips brushing over thighs, the delicate touch of hands on waists, calculated kisses with the adjusting of buttons. Barely a word had been shared, not a sound aside from a breathy laugh, or a whisper of reassurance. Their eyes spoke for them, Jisung reciprocating, repeating Minho’s words back to him without the need to actually say them.

Minho could’ve carried him inside, the boy a baby deer on wobbling legs, holding onto his hand tight, for security, not letting him get one step ahead of him, sticking to his side. Tiny kisses stolen as they tiptoed back into the house, from lips, on cheeks, pressed to clothed shoulders, they took their time up the stairs, neither one able to keep their eyes off the other for longer than mere seconds. Undressing in the dark, unbuttoning each other, hands dancing over bare skin, lips dying for a taste, they fell to Minho’s bed leaving their clothes a mess on the floor, half strung over Christopher’s bed.

Spent, physically, emotionally, Jisung had no more to give, his kisses slower than ever, subdued. Minho wouldn’t let him take it further, even if he did try. Overachiever. On his lap, skin on skin, he dozed off, the both of them did, in and out of sleep for a few hours, holding onto one another, not wanting to let go. Even now as he stirred awake, Jisung’s arms tightened around his back. Lifting his head, his tired eyes meeting Minho’s dark lashes, his face softened with a smile.

“Hi,” Minho whispered.

Jisung’s eyes flickered to his lips. “Hi.”

Hands smoothing over his back, fingers pressing into the muscles he knew were sore though Jisung wouldn’t mention it, Minho sighed. “How are you?”

The boy adjusted on his front, trying to sit up taller to reach his lips. “Good,” he breathed, able to press his lips to his chin. “How are you?”

Minho whispered through rushed air, “Great.” Sliding his hands up his sides, taking them around and under his jaw, he held up his head, tipping his chin backward. Gaze dancing around his expression, fawning over him, searching for anything that may give away how he really felt, Minho leaned forward and kissed him properly. “Are you really?”

Jisung gave him a lazy smile, limp in his hands, letting him move him how he wanted. “Yes,” he whispered. “I know what you’re thinking about.”

“I don’t know what you’re thinking about,” Minho answered, speaking just as quietly.

“You’re worried.”

Minho’s eyes widened for all of two seconds. “I am,” he huffed, brows twisting together. “Talk to me, tell me, say anything.” He brushed his thumbs over his round cheeks.

Jisung’s lips pursed in a tiny smirk. “I’m okay,” he tried to nod, “I promise.” Minho could do nothing but blink. Laughing, Jisung said, “You were right. The feeling, you were right. But,” he paused, his gaze grew darker, and yet somehow warmer, “To do that, to be there, with you… I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I don’t want it any other way. If I can’t have you…”

“Then, what?” Minho whispered.

Jisung took him in, then shrugged, a soft laugh escaping him. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “You make me feel…”

“Whole,” they both said at once, a whisper shared.

Jisung furrowed his brows. Minho maintained his composure.

He asked, hushed, “Like Felix?”

His stomach dropped to his knees, Jisung shoving his hands between them, palms to his bare chest, pushing himself away. “What?” Minho didn’t move, he let his hands fall to the boy's lap. “What are you talking about?”

Minho swallowed hard. He took a deep breath before he said, “I’m just asking.”

Jisungs entire being flooded with unease. “How do you know that name?”

Reaching for one of his hands, Minho flinched as Jisung shied away. Blinking possibly a thousand times, he looked at him and shrugged with a shake of his head. “You mentioned him at some point.”

“When?” Jisung narrowed his eyes.

Minho stuttered. “I- I don’t remember exactly when, Ji, I just-”

“Why bring it up right now?” Jisung spoke in a tone Minho had never heard come out of him before, not even in his past daily outbursts. “While I try to tell you I feel for you?”

“I’m sorry,” Minho whispered. “I just want to understand.” He sat forward, moving Jisung with him on his lap. The boy allowed him to rest a hand on his cheek. “Jisung, I feel for you, too. I know what this feeling is, what it’s called, I’ve felt it once before. I understand it, and I want to understand you.” He gulped. “I want you to understand you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Jisung asked, unmoving.

Minho started to smile. “There you go,” he half laughed, “Let’s talk about it.” He slid his hand up through his waves, pushing them away from his forehead. “You’re so beautiful, Han Jisung.” They shared the smallest smile. “If you don’t want to tell me about him you don’t have to.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Jisung whispered, locked on his gaze. “Felix was a friend from Preso, but I… I shut him out.” Minho lowered his brow the slightest, telling him to go on. “We were studying together one night, and…” Jisung squinted his eyes, the memory fuzzy now that it’s been packed away so tightly all this time, “We fell asleep. When we woke up, he was in my arms… Laying on my chest.” Minho nodded, taking his fingers back to his cheek, smoothing them over his skin. “I think he was going to kiss me.” Jisung looked at him, surprised his words didn’t elicit a reaction. “I ran from him.”

“Why?”

Sorrow filled Jisungs eyes, telling Minho exactly why. “It’s wrong, it’s- I mean, it was wrong. But, now, I don’t… Minho.” Falling forward into his chest, he caught him, wrapped his arms around his back and relaxed back onto the bed.

“It’s okay,” he soothed, dancing his hands from his shoulder blades to his hips. “This stuff is hard.”

Jisung fought back tears. Hands grabbing onto Minho somehow, his arms, or his waist, he buried his face in his neck and took a few deep breaths.

Felix.

The name spoken alone filled his gut with stone, a nauseating weight he thought he’d gotten rid of. The guilt, the shame. A name he hadn’t said in two years, the last time falling over the priest's ears, through his sobs, his heavy cries and heaves of breath.

The last time falling over the priest's ears. Hyunjin’s.

By his side, in the church, in a pew.

Jisung told Hyunjin about Felix.

Springing up, eyes wide, tears brimming, he released a shaking breath.

“Ji?” Minho stilled his hands, bringing them back to his cheeks. He wore concern over his face, but beneath it, knowledge.

“I just remembered I told that story before,” the boy gasped. Minho didn’t move, like before, he was a rock. “Hyunjin. When I started here, when I had my sessions with him, my meetings, I told him.” Panic set in and finally Minho moved, pulling him close, sliding a hand up into his hair, the other around his tiny, trembling frame.

“That’s okay,” he said quietly. “You’re still here, they still care about you, you were… honest with them.”

Sitting in a pew, head in his hands, tears streaming down his face, wetting the collar of his shirt. Beside Hyunjin, the man in black, reciting the story, nearly word for word.

He couldn’t remember what Hyunjin said to him.

There wasn’t a memory he could recall where he heard what the priest told him. How he reacted, how he handled it, to Jisung it was hazy. A memory still buried too far deep within him.

Looking at Minho, thinking of where he came from, what he’s been through, Jisung whispered, “They took you in.”

Minho loosened his jaw. “They did.”

His eyes softened as he sat up. Wiping stray tears that snuck down his cheeks, he said, “If I shared that story with them,” he began, and Minho straightened his brow, “And they know where you’ve come from, what you’ve come from, then… They care.”

“Jisung,” Minho sighed.

“The judgement we feel, that I feel, comes from my own self,” the boy continued. “I’m judging myself,” he laughed, “And, maybe I don’t have to.”

“Ji?” Minho thinned his lips.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t tell them anything.”

Jisung froze, an unsuspecting smile still on his lips. “What?” Another laugh came out of him.

Minho shook his head, slowly, and weight was thrust upon Jisungs heart. “They don’t know about me, I didn’t tell them anything,” he said. “They tried, Hyunjin really tried, but I wouldn’t let him hear it. The church I’ve come from, they covered it all up, they weren’t going to let anyone know what I’d been doing with their priest, they’d condemn him, they’d have to get rid of me, and not just in sending me away. I’d be in danger, and in saying anything, sharing any of it with anyone, I’d be putting others in danger.”

Jisung watched him, lips parted. “What do they know?”

“That the church was close to closing,” he said. “That the priests and people that worked there weren’t the best, and that there was no room for me there.”

“Show some humility. Minho came from a place that couldn’t shelter him, he needs our support. Welcome him, show him around. You remember your first day here, don’t you?”

Christopher told him.

“You lied to them,” Jisung said, and Minho pursed his lips. “I trust them, and you lied to them.”

“Do you?” Minho asked.

Jisung took a breath. “I mean, I did.” He waited with patience, Minho did. “You’ve shown me a lot, you’ve taught me so much. And not just… here,” they shared a soft laugh as Jisung gestured to the bed beneath them. Meeting gazes that both knew and felt too much, they settled their lips into smiles. “I’m not just worthy when I’m of service to others.”

Minho’s smile grew. “No,” he agreed.

Jisung pressed his chest to his, their lips centimeters apart. “I’m always worthy.”

“You are,” he whispered. “Do they make you feel that way?”

“Christopher does,” Jisung said. “Sometimes. But, that’s my own self getting in my own way again. Feeling like I’m not good enough for him. Like, he sees what’s wrong with me, and even if I know he’s not judging me for it, even if he tells me he’s not judging me for it, I can’t help but feel like he is.”

“You’ve told him a lot,” Minho breathed.

Jisung shrugged. “Not about Felix,” he whispered. “I only shared that with Hyunjin… I think. After he and I spoke about it… I don’t remember ever bringing it up again.”

“You ran from Felix like you try to run from me,” Minho said, tone hushed, like he was afraid to say the words aloud.

Jisung blinked. “That day I did.”

Minho tilted his head, running his hand through Jisungs hair. “What else do you remember about him?”

Jisung dropped his eyes to his lap, Minho’s lap. “He was the first one to see me,” he whispered, looking up to Minho through his lashes. “He was a friend. He traveled far to go to Preso, further than me.”

“Why’d he go to the Academy?”

Glancing away, not letting the cold, dark hand of his subconscious pull him under, he tipped the top of the box open and searched. Felix, a boy with blonde hair and golden brown eyes, the thickest Australian accent, and a contagious laugh, Jisung couldn’t remember much else about him. Anything and everything he tried to think up, it made his skin crawl. Even the smaller details, like how his voice sounded, the vibrations he’d feel in his heart, Jisung wanted to positively gag.

“I don’t know,” he breathed, defeated. “Can’t remember.”

Minho took his hand to his chin and tipped it up. “Can’t, or don’t want to?”

Jisung sucked in a breath, one Minho paid attention to. “I’d like to, now that we’re talking about him, he and I were close. The first friend I had, one that I could trust.” A lump lodged in his throat. “The only… Only friend, I suppose.” His voice dropped to a whisper, “He couldn’t trust me.” Squeezing his eyes shut, he shook his head as if to shake the memory, but it latched onto him. “No, I couldn’t trust him, what am I saying, he wanted to go against everything we were learning, everything our teachers had taught us. I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t trust Felix.” Minho furrowed his brow. “I stopped being his friend for a reason, to protect myself.”

Silence surrounded them, Jisungs words hanging in the air like a hand grenade, his newfound reality seconds away from pulling the pin.

Minho’s lips pulled into a frown. “Before that happened, can you remember how you felt about him?”

The boy shrugged, and Minho laid his head back against the headboard. “He was a friend.”

Brushing his thumb over his bottom lip, toying with it, Minho whispered, “And what am I?” Jisung flickered his eyes over his face, the stoic angel, chiseled and perfect, a scramble of features that once angered him, frustrated him, drove him to hate, now one he fawns over in adoration. Minho would have missed how his eyes softened if he wasn’t focused on him, only him. “I am not a friend, Jisung. Friends don’t do this. Act like this.” Minho dropped his hand, smoothing them both over Jisung’s bare thighs. “I like you. I don’t want to be your friend.”

Every muscle in his body tensed. Through his teeth, he whispered, “What do you want to be?”

“More,” Minho said in an instant. Jisung gulped. “I need to tell you something before you say anything-”

Jisung climbed off of his lap, swinging both legs over the edge of the bed, slipping off of it. “That’s…” He searched the floor for his clothes.

“Jisung, wait.” Minho clobbered off the bed after him, pulling on his own clothes. “I need-”

Holding up a hand, sliding his shirt over his head, he gave Minho a look. “I need a second,” he said. “I just shared something with you that’s hurt me, and you want to talk about yourself.”

Jaw falling open, words caught in his throat, Minho threw his arms out beside him. Watching Jisung button his pants, straighten his shirt, and start for the door, he lunged forward, grabbing onto his shoulder, yanking him backward. “Jisung, you’re confused, please, I was only trying to-”

“To what?” Jisung spoke within a whisper. “To do what Felix did to me?”

“What?”

Pushing his hand off of his shoulder, Jisung turned, leaving Minho behind a half opened door.

Felix, his friend.

Jisung wandered outside over the cobblestone, having washed up and spent some time in his bedroom alone, deciding he needed to do something before the priests returned. Two days remained, and the church was bare. Two days until they came home, and not a decoration was up in the house. He wondered what they’d say, what they’d think, coming home to tasks undone, work leftover.

Yanking the door to the sacristy open he dipped inside, pushing it shut with his backside. These shelves could only be dusted so many times, the floors vacuumed, boxes organized, books stacked. He had to decorate, he needed to decorate. Masses were left unplanned, events for the end of the year as well, he’d have guidelines written up, Jeonging, Hyunjin, Christopher, taking what he’d give them, using it to their advantage.

Hands shoved in his pockets he strolled over the carpet, taking his time, brown eyes taking in the space around him, a place once safe and sacred.

They took what he gave them. They used it to their advantage.

He felt awful thinking it. He enjoyed the work, making himself useful, knowing that everything went to plan.

His plan.

Jisung’s plan.

Comfortable waiting on the sidelines, dancing around the edges, waiting in the wings, knowing his moment would come, and that when it did he’d blow it out of the water. The people would know it’d been him all along, he planned the services, he handled the events, he made the connections between the church and charities, he pulled all nighters to ensure paperwork was finished, that all things regarding the church, the patrons, the priests, his community, were taken care of.

Sure, people knew his face, they shook his hand after Mass, but he wasn’t the one on the altar. He wasn’t the being blessing them every week.

If the day were to ever come, if Jisung were to get his wish, would they even believe him? Or, would his existence be overshadowed by the legacy before him? To give credit where credit is due, the priests knew nothing of it. Everyone saw them responsible for Jisungs upbringing in the church, his teachers, his mentors. He had the diploma’s, the certificates, the proof that he’d done it himself, but to them, to the world beyond these doors… They saw three charming, smiling faces. Why would they not believe every word to come out of their mouths?

Bringing himself into the church, passing through the hallway without a sound, he shut the doors behind him gently and stepped up onto the altar, taking a breath as he did. Pulling his arms around himself, fingers yanking at his knit sweater, he gulped. Sunlight poured in through the windows, blessing the marble with swirls of blues and greens, rays fawning over the place he stood last night.

Blinking, he clenched his jaw and looked out upon the pews, empty rows of wood staring back. Stomach dropping ever so slightly, he ignored it, taking himself down the few steps to the tiled floor, footsteps echoing in the empty air.

He glanced about, spinning in a small circle, slowly soaking it in. The church, the atmosphere. Walls of stone, pews of lacquered wood, shining floors. The colors through the stained glass of the windows, they were beautiful, but he’s seen this a thousand times. How the sunlight shone in in literal panes, casting the pews in strategic shadows, an artist particular of with their highlight, it was supposed to wrap around him and hold him, keep him warm, from the inside out.

The walls were walls. The windows were windows.

The mural on the wall, cascading up upon the ceiling, the angels, the saints, their pure, loving faces looking down, showering their blessings over whoever graced the space beneath them, it was a painting. Paint on slabs of concrete.

Turning to the altar, the statues that lived atop of it, behind it, beside it, where he should see visions of working services with Christopher, with Hyunjin, with Jeongin, memories of two years, almost three, they’d been upstaged. By his gentle hands, attentive gaze, and careful words.

His slow kisses and the way he’d let Jisung do as he pleased until he had no idea what he was doing.

Jisung whirled around, facing the back of the church.

Closing his eyes before his thoughts carried and got the best of him, he took a long, deep breath down into his stomach.

And he thought of silky blonde hair.

It slipped through his fingers, it tickled his cheek, it smelled of a gentle lavender.

On his shoulder he’d rest his head, the scent lingering even long after he’d escape back into his room.

Jisung’s eyes sprung open, a sinking happening within him. Folding his hands into fists he dropped them at his side and started down the aisle, studying the way the light fondled his features, his feet, his torso.

Lavender and laughter. Nights spent upon bedsheets, drowning in school books or snacks they’d snuck from the kitchen, staying up too late, whispering secrets…

What secrets?

Jisung sucked down another breath, his heart beginning to beat faster between his lungs desperate for air. That sound, that voice.

What secrets, Jisung?

“I don’t remember,” he whispered, to himself, in the silence.

You remember, you can tell me.

A pit erupted within him, in his gut, nausea washing over him entirely. He could’ve fallen to his knees. Sinking into a pew, his pew, in the back of the church, he placed his arms over the edge of the pew in front of him and pressed his face into them. Keeping his eyes open, alert, on watch, he shuddered in the cold. A lump lived in his throat.

Suppressing a cough, he gulped, knowing he’d dry heave if anything else came out of his mouth. Between his eyes, straight down his throat, down into the depths of him the nausea lived. It sat. It waited. Jisung could smell the lavender, a scent both calming and soft, and it made him want to gag. Blonde hair, sparkling eyes, all of it, he lurched forward, clamping his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes shut until he calmed himself down.

Slumping over, sitting backward in the pew, he laid his hands over his lap and hung his head backward. Tears slipped from his eyes down his cheeks, not that he knew he was crying. He took breaths in halves, able to fill up his lungs only so much without triggering the urge to vomit.

Pray, you can pray and it’ll go away. You’ll feel better.

He had no energy left.

He was beautiful, freckles on his cheeks, heart shaped lips.

Things you shouldn’t pay attention to.

Memories flashed like lightning, one after the other, surfacing like they’d been packed tight, finally given the chance to escape, make themselves known. They’ve lived within him, buried deep, forced to be forgotten.

Between a sob, a lurch of his body, a heave through his chest, the shoving of his face in his elbow, his other hand slapped to the pew, fingers dragging over the smooth cover of a manila folder.

He’d hold onto his hands, his tiny fingers just as big as Jisungs, they’d hold onto his tight, he’d bounce on his knees and he’d laugh, throwing his head backward, a smile too big for his face lighting up the room. Contagious, Jisung would laugh with him, he’d fall forward, the two smushing their foreheads together, eyes crinkling in corners, bodies convulsing in pure laughter. A happiness. The boy who lit up his darkest days. Sunshine.

Through tears Jisung pulled the folder onto his lap, the file full of things left here by Minho who’d taken it from the office.

1957 had been written on the front.

Wiping his cheeks, sniffling, Jisung furrowed his brows.

Confidential.

“Why did he take this?” he mumbled, defeated, head rolling back as his hands raised and dropped to the top of the cover. Looking down at it, how full it was, the paper clips sticking out of the edges, he couldn’t ignore the curiosity that lingered.

Within this folder lived the entire year, 1957.

The year Jisung arrived.

He’s never seen his paperwork. Once things were signed, he never saw them again.

The priests ushered him in, welcomed him to their home, and the work began.

There were probably progress reports in this folder, the priests taking notes while he worked beside them, while he met with them and spoke with them. The things they wrote, about him, he held them on his lap.

This folder should be in a locked drawer, one Jisung never thought to question.

One he never had the guts to question.

Those monthly cleanings and purging of papers no longer needed, all that time spent in the office alone, the keyholes never caught his eye. Complete and total trust.

Taking a finger along the edge, the bottom corner stained with a splotch of crimson, he curled it beneath the folder and paused, adrenaline coursing through him. Looking out at the church, eyes falling on a pew near the front, near the altar, he envisions what life was like two years ago, something he hasn’t thought to do ever.

Side by side, him and Hyunjin, they sat here. For hours on end. Jisung sobbed until he made himself sick.

But, why? He blinked, gulping, his palms clammy.

He’d ask him that.

But, why?

Hyunjin, a spirit soft spoken and adored by hundreds, his words rained upon him like bullets. The mere thought of them now made him want to rip his heart out of his chest.

Jisung opened the folder.

Flipping through mindless sheets, budgets, records of events and milestones, his eyes scanned the words furiously, searching for his name amongst the bullshit.

The door behind the altar opened and closed just as gently.

Jisung’s Jobs…

Jisung’s Shopping Lists…

Jisung’s Education…

Pointless, pointless, pointless, he could remember all of that, he could picture it all as if it were happening in real time. His fingers flipped faster, the footsteps drew closer.

Why couldn’t he remember speaking with Hyunjin?

Why were his memories doused in gasoline, and why were the priests standing over him with a match, lit, ecstatic to ignite?

Jisung’s Reading Work…

Jisung’s First Service Plan…

Plan’s for Jisung’s Youth Group…

That never happened.

He flipped, he ripped, he threw papers to the ground, messier and messier, lungs sucking down air quicker with every pass of a page. Legs trembling, hands shaking, there had to be something here, there must be something that could tell him why- Felix.

Felix.

The paper had been crumpled up, then flattened again, like someone had attempted to get rid of it, but it had been recovered.

His name was written across the top, in handwriting, stunning, thin lined cursive writing. Hyunjin’s handwriting. Body going still, Jisung grew dizzy, a weightlessness surrounding him. Tunnel vision, oblivious to the being sitting themselves down on the pew in front of him, facing him, his eyes ate away at the cursive, the writing spilling things to him, that he said himself, that he couldn’t remember.

Memories shared with Felix, the nights they’d spent together, Jisung had gone on and on.

Silky blonde hair, it was written there, in his cursive, lavender, scribbled somewhere beside it.

“Jisung?” Minho.

Nausea.

Jisung admits to thinking he loved him, that the two shared more than friendship. Their connection deep, a level of understanding only a lover could fulfill. Felix makes him feel whole.

“I’m here,” Minho whispered. “Let me help you.”

The page was stapled to a plethora of others, all in Hyunjin’s writing.

A relationship between male and female, he describes, is how they would act. Erotic thoughts plagued them, though Jisung describes them as a natural curiosity. The boys shared various acts of romantic gestures, such as kissing, sleeping in the same bed.

A sob shook his body, tears falling onto the paper, the ink of the pen bleeding, smudging.

The boys acted upon one another sexually, Jisung showing little remorse for telling me what they’d do, neither wanting to have sex, knowing they were to wait until matrimony, but it didn’t stop them from accepting one another physically, orally. Neither thought they were wrong.

Cold. It filled it, it drowned him.

The folder fell from his lap, papers scattering across the tiled floor as he slid off of the pew beside them. Curling into himself, knees to his chest, his head to his knees, his fingers grasping his hair, clawing at his waves, he sucked down a breath and at once, screamed, half muffled by his knees, the sound vibrating the marble that swallowed him, that chewed him up, and spat him back out.

Shaking as he cried, while he sobbed, his body tense, sweat beading over his skin, a hand laid over his back, dragging gently to his shoulder. Fingers pressing into him, telling him he was not here alone, Jisung reached back and threw them off of him.

Minho retracted, on the floor beside him, between two pews, he tucked his hands into his chest and pressed his lips together. “Jisung,” he whispered, watching the boy wail, his body rejecting the truth his subconscious had protected for only so long. “I’m here.” Tears welled in his eyes. Jisung’s pain now his pain. Sitting on his knees, hands gripping his thighs, he shook his head. “They took so much from you,” the boy began to quiet after a gasp, “It’s unfair. It’s incredibly unfair.” Reaching out a hand, Minho touched it to his back hesitantly. Jisung didn’t reject it. “Listen to me when I say I am here for you.”

Lifting his head, a complete mess, he trembled as he pushed himself from the ground. Minho took him in his arms, taking his hands to his shoulders to help him up, his being weak, his entire world pulled out from beneath him. The warm brown of his eyes, it’d gone cold. Vacant. Distant. Dark.

“Ji?” Minho whispered, brows flipped, gaze pleading for a response.

Eyes looking down to the floor, to the papers scattered about, to Minho’s form, to his own shaking hands, Jisung looked straight at him, and whispered, “You read it.”

Minho nodded. “I did.”

A tear slipped down his cheek. “Why didn’t I remember it?”

“It says… They wrote why you don’t, or why you wouldn’t remember it the way you told them,” Minho spoke softly, with all the care in the world. Shaking his head, holding back a cry, his lip crinkled. “It’s horrible, Jisung.”

“What does it say?”

He shifted to look below him at the papers. “I have to find it, I-”

Jisung lifted his hands, planting them on Minho’s knees. Eyebrows upturned, lips pouted, honey complexion pale and withdrawn, he begged, “You tell me.” Minho froze, his eyes widening as they shifted over to Jisung. The boy gulped. “I don’t believe anything they say,” he whispered. “I believe you. You tell me.”

A boy so beautiful, with eyes so bright. Features placed to perfection, lips of gold.

It is as it is.

It is as it was.

Nights spent upon bedsheets, beneath them. Every waking second, spent together. A laugh, a smile that lit up the darkest parts of himself, that reawakened hope within him. Something he thought he’d never felt before, things he’s done, things he’s thought he’s never done before. Where he thought he caught on fast, when he thought he was a quick learner, turns out he’d already practiced. More often than not, the things he’s done with Minho, he’s done them before. All except one.

“I love you,” he whispered, and Minho gasped, jaw gone slack.

“Jisung,” he started, “You’re feeling a lot right now-”

“What did they do to me?”

Minho snapped his mouth shut. “If I tell you,” he said just above a whisper, “It will ruin everything you think, everything you feel, everything you know… about him.”

Jisung’s stomach lurched, his muscles tensing. Cringing outwardly, fingers clawing into Minho’s thighs, he whined as his tears fell instantly. “Tell me.”

“Everything you’ve built here, everything you stand for-”

Jisung threw himself backward, screaming, “Tell me!” Minho jumped. “I don’t give a damn what I’ve built, what I came here to do, who I came here to serve. They took him from me. I loved him and they took him from me.”

“Okay,” Minho breathed, holding out a hand for Jisung to take. The boy glanced at it, settling himself against the back of the pew, pulling his knees into his chest, wrapping his arms around them. Crossing his arms over his chest, Minho took a breath and lowered his gaze for a few seconds before training his eyes back on Jisungs. “I’ve heard of this happening. In my years where I came from, and my years prior to rejoining the church. I used to laugh at it, thinking that there's no way it’s effective, there’s no way it works.” Minho bobbed his head the slightest, one hand poking out to gesture to Jisung. “Then, I met you.”

The boy released a breath, holding onto every word he gave him.

“Everything I’ve told you, it’s the truth. Hearing about you and your success with schooling and landing your spot here. I truthfully was interested in meeting you, working with you. But, when I did,” Minho dropped his gaze, eyes drawing over Jisung and his frame, “I did not expect this.”

“What is this?”

He met his eyes once more. “There’s a form of therapy,” Minho kept his voice steady, “A type of therapy. They’ll call it a treatment of sorts, as if we’re unwell. Sick.”

“They tell me I struggled when I first got here,” Jisung whispered. Minho acknowledged him with a nod.

“And, do you remember what you struggled with?”

Jisung’s vacant eyes couldn’t give him an answer.

Minho lowered his voice, moving closer to Jisung as he whispered, “They think they can convert you, turn you into a heterosexual. It’s called conversion therapy.” Jisung’s expression shattered. “The priest who used me, he’d help people. Convert them to what they thought was normal.”

“But never you,” Jisung whispered, his cries quivering within his voice.

Minho shook his head. “He couldn’t, then how would he get me naked?” Jisung buried his face in the nook of his arms, body shaking as he cried. “All the times I’d watch the people leave after meeting with him, nothing but trauma on their faces, in their souls… It wrecked them all, but it never worked. He was a sick man.” Minho reached a hand toward Jisung, placing it gently over his arm, dancing it toward his shoulder hoping to soothe him. “The day that I met you, Ji, in Christopher’s office, I could see it. You felt something when you looked at me. The boy inside of you, the part of you they scared away, that they forced you to hide, he felt something when he saw me. You saw me, and I saw you.”

Jisung lifted his head, teary eyes locking onto Minho’s.

“That look in your eyes,” he smiled at him, “I’ll never forget it.”

“You laughed at me,” Jisung whispered, voice squeaky.

Minho’s smile grew. “I did,” he said. “I didn’t mean for it to be rude, I couldn’t help myself, I knew who you were. I knew what you were.” Lifting his head completely, Minho reached his other hand forward to brush tears from his cheeks. “When you told me about Christopher, about how much he meant to you, how afraid you were to disobey him in any way, it confirmed everything I thought. He kept you close. If you were to venture away from him, spend too much time without him…”

“I couldn’t, that terrified me,” Jisung said.

Minho nodded once. “They conditioned that into you. That’s his job. To watch over you, to keep you safe, yes, but… to make sure that this,” Minho gestured around them, to the papers, to Jisung crying, “does not happen. After all of my meetings with each of them, I learned even more. They attempted to get into me, especially Hyunjin. Thankfully I met you, I spent time with you first, so I knew what was coming. It prepared me.”

“For what?”

“This,” Minho whispered. “I liked what I saw in Christopher's office, Han Jisung.” The boy couldn’t fight back his smile. “So did you. Even if you didn’t know it.”

“That’s why you pried at me the way that you did,” Jisung mumbled, moving a hand over top of Minho’s. “Said those awful things.”

“Were they really so awful?” Minho questioned with the perk of a brow and tilt of his chin.

Jisung shook his head. “Not anymore.”

Quiet fell around them, as did a thousand unanswered questions. Staring at one another, that feeling between them stronger than ever, smiles sparked and grew so much that Jisung had moved into his arms entirely, his face buried in Minho’s neck, their arms wrapped around one another.

Drawing his hands over the boy's back, aiding in soothing his breaths back to normal, his heartbeat steady, Minho whispered, “For what it’s worth, I love you too.”

Jisung smiled. “You took my virginity, I hope you do.”

A laugh escaped him. “Ji, we had sex in here.”

Sitting up, hands gripping onto him still somehow, Jisung sighed. “It’s sick.” Minho’s brows creased in the center, worried. “I want them to know.”

Withholding a laugh, the sound coming straight from his chest, Minho dropped his head forward, his grin eating away at his cheeks. “There is so much of you left to uncover,” he half groaned, looking up at him. “I knew that couldn’t have been your first time with a cock in your throat.”

“Stop,” Jisung whispered with a smile.

Minho took a hand to his chin, dragging his thumb over his cheek. Smirk evident, he asked, “Too soon?” Jisung nodded. “I’m sorry.”

The boy looked down to the mess of papers under them. “I need to read all of this,” he said. “Before they come back, I just…” he glanced up at Minho, sorrow filling his eyes, “They’re coming back.”

Minho muttered, “You don’t sound too happy about that.”

“How can I be? After all of this?” Jisung clenched his jaw, scanned his surroundings, ended with Minho, then said, “Bring all the papers to your room. Please.”

Minho, awaiting instruction to move, nodded. “I will. What are you going to do?”

Jisung leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, lips lingering by his ear. “Get ready for you.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to have sex with you, not only after this,” he gestured to the mess around them, “But…” Looking up at Jisung he swept his fingers over his cheeks and held them in the palms of his hands. “You need to slow down. We’ve moved so fast, Ji.”

His face went unchanged. “I lost three years of my life,” he whispered. Minho’s eyebrows flipped over, Jisung swore his bottom lip pouted. “Even more than that, because of them,” he tried to look up, look around, at the granite that towered over them, caged them within its persistent pursuit of a holiness that did not exist, “Because of… this.”

“And, what of when they come home?”

Jisung clenched his jaw, squeezing it shut with such force Minho could feel it in the heel of his palm. “I don’t know.” The words slithered through his teeth.

“Are you going to tell them?”

Jisung quirked his head in question. “About us?”

Minho huffed and breathed through a laugh, his hands dropping to the boy's lap. “God, no, Ji,” he stifled his laughter, “That you know, that you’ve figured them out, that they have no control over you any longer.” Glancing down to Minho’s hands, Jisung took a deep breath, his lungs squeezing from the pain of heaving for so long. “You’ve broken their cycle, you can change what’s happened here, you can rewrite years, you can save others from succumbing to the same fate as you, you can be all you’ve ever wanted to be, but stronger. You have the upper hand here.”

The upper hand.

Stronger.

One step ahead.

“They’re smart,” Jisung whispered. “Why would they keep this around, so close, if they know I could’ve found it as easily as you have.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. “They’ve trusted you. All this time. Just as you’ve trusted them.”

The angelic curvature of his face went unphased, an expression so set in its ways. Jisung studied him, his perfection, his assertiveness regarding the matter, that his whole world had been flipped upside down. He studied him. With brows upturned and tears on cheeks, he maintained his composure, didn’t let Minho in, and for the first time in a long time he allowed himself to analyze.

As if some subconscious being had reawoken within him, like the wires in his brain had gotten tangled and finally put back together. Through cinnamon sugar eyes, he watched, studied, learned.

“Why were you bringing this to me?”

Minho pursed his lips into the quickest smile. “What?”

Jisung swallowed, licked his lips and nodded, voice absolutely quiet. “The folder, Minho. Yesterday you brought it in here, I assume you were bringing it to me.”

Furrowing his brows, he slowly bobbed his head. “Right after I had read it, I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I needed to know if you knew, I had to confirm what I already knew to be true.” He attempted to reach back for his cheeks. Jisung dodged his touch. “Ji.”

“Why bring it to me?” Jisung lifted his chin. “To confirm what you knew to be true, you think that sounds spectacular, but you know what it sounds like to me?” Minho could barely shake his head. Jisung whispered through his teeth, “Sounds like you were put here to challenge me.”

Minho leapt where he sat, higher on his knees. “No, no, don’t you dare-"

Jisung pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, looking down and around at the papers on the floor. “Did you do this?”

“Do what?” Minho leaned forward, exasperated, eyes pleading with Jisung.

The boy rolled his shoulders back, meeting his eyes after a few moments of silence. “I don’t know.” Minho sighed, his head dropping toward his lap. “It seems awfully fitting though, doesn’t it, Lee Minho. That you come here, seeking my job. You tell me you knew who and what I was from the start, you fall into Christopher’s good graces instantly. You say you told them nothing. Yet, here we are, behind their backs, defiling their church. We're supposed to be serving them, and they said it themselves, you are the test. I find it highly amusing that you got past Hwang Hyunjin, because nobody does.” Minho sat like stone. “Either you’re here to mess things up for me, or you’re working with them.”

“Good god, they screwed you up,” Minho muttered, head shaking, eyes boring into Jisung’s. “Ji, I’m real. I’m not working with them, I’m not here to-"

“Then, you did this yourself,” Jisung laughed aloud, a cackle of sorts, sending chills down Minho’s spine. Rolling onto his knee caps the boy grabbed fistfuls of paper, crumpled them up and threw them toward him. “You made this up, this isn’t real. You needed something to help convince me of this fantasy we’ve been living in.” His stomach flipped, nausea rising within him. “This whole time, all this God damned time.”

Standing to his feet his knees wobbled so much so that he had to grab onto the pew for stability. Minho scrambled to his feet. He was shouting something, saying something, but Jisung could only hear the pulsing of blood in his ears, could only focus on the heave of his stomach as he backed away from Minho. Using his hands to turn him around, he shook his head. Tears fell, sobs bounced off the walls. Jisung used the pews as a crutch, hobbling for the altar as fast as he could, wanting nothing but to run from him.

At the altar his knees hit the marble, his hands slapping to tile just after. Tears slipped from his cheeks to the floor, sparkling in the dim sunlight. Gasping for air, he rolled over onto his back, elbows on the ledge, and he looked down the aisle, dread consuming him, filling him to the brim with pins and needles.

Cold.

Minho strolled the floor. Slowly. His gaze locked on Jisung where he laid. He carried himself no different than before, a stunning face full of sorrow, a build more structured than the walls around him. Perfection.

Jisung sobbed harder, his chest squeezed by an invisible rope it seemed the man approaching him seemed to be holding.

He stepped over him, his skinny legs. Casting him in shadow, Minho paused with his waist between his ankles, and he crouched down. Reaching out a hand, he drug two fingers over Jisung’s cheek, brushed away his tears, and lifted his chin.

With a steady breath, he danced his thumb over his honey toned skin, and smiled. His own eyes brimmed with tears. After a nod, he whispered, “I forgive you,” and he kissed him. Not once, not twice, but three times. Pulling away from him, forehead to forehead, both of their eyes squeezed shut, Minho took a deep breath, breathing him in, and just as he released it, he released Jisung, his footsteps receding behind the altar until they were nothing but a faint memory living in the back of the boy's mind.

The back door to the clergy house pushed open in a hurry, one both excited and nervous. Barreling through the threshold, suitcase in hand, Christopher greeted Ann with a dazzling smile, but breezed past her. Something more important would be waiting for him, in fact, he’s shocked he wasn’t waiting on the doorstep. Behind him Jeongin and Hyunjin got themselves in the kitchen and greeted their caretaker appropriately, unlike their youngest.

“Ji?!” Christopher called out into the house. Leaving his suitcase in the kitchen for the other two to deal with, he tore off his gloves, his hat, his scarf, feet moving a mile a minute through the hall and into the living room. Unbuttoning his jacket, he paused behind a couch and sighed. “Hi,” he nearly sang, his smile deepening into his cheeks, dimples on display.

Jisung sat on the couch to the right of the fireplace. Eyes fixed on the priest, he didn’t say a word.

Christopher let out a laugh as he finished with his coat, tossing it over the back of the sofa. “Mad at me? A week is too long, yeah?” Hyunjin and Jeongin joined him on either side of the couch. Jisung shifted his eyes. Christopher tilted his head, eyes narrowing, scanning over his prodigy. “Everything okay?”

Then, his eyes zeroed in on the folder sitting upon his lap. One thick, full, labeled 1957.

Hyunjin and Jeongin seemed to catch it right away.

“Jisung,” Hyunjin began, but Jisung sat forward, silencing him.

Jeongin lifted a hand. “Let’s talk, Han, I believe-“

“I believe you need to explain yourselves,” Jisung spoke with such a sureness it took them all by surprise. “But, I don’t think I have the patience to sit here and listen to it.”

Jeongin placed his hands by his sides, tucking them behind him, folding them together. Hyunjin watched him, took him in, read him, and Jisung knew it, could feel it. It’s how he knew how to do it, too. Fast learner. Everything written in the pages on his lap, the truth.

Christopher, with both hands sliding over his chest, reaching for his neck, he stuttered before choking out, “Where’s Minho?”

Jisung settled his lips in a lazy smile, one half amused and half disgustingly ticked off. Tucking a finger beneath the cover of the folder, he tossed it open and licked the tip of his finger to rifle through the files. “Don’t worry,” he shook his head, clicking his tongue, shooting the three of them a look so sinister, “I did it.”

Christopher whispered, “Did what?”

Jisung smirked. “Won.”

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