#lads my sleeping schedule is so normal its unreal

[yifftwiceplz]

whipped my head around in confusion because i realized its 3pm and not 8am

[yourfaveisyanderematic]

I Need Thee Every Hour

Nobody asked, but I delivered!  It’s Pucci Time, Lads.

Additional Warnings: gaslighting(ish), unreality.  Mild internalized ableism.  I was raised Protestant and therefore know next to nothing about Catholicism, do not come for me for this.

“Napping in the confessional again, child?”

Your eyes startle open, and you jerk back from the warmed wood lattice your cheek had been pressed against with a little gasp.  You find yourself rubbing at the sticky skin with one hand, self conscious, even as your mind catches up to the present and you realize the other man has no way of seeing you.

“No.  No, Father, I was—“

The priest’s chuckle is low, musical, and you find your excuses faltering without him even saying anything.

“There’s no need.  Nobody else is here…and it’s better for the bench to be used for rest, rather than not at all, I’d think.”

You’re still working past the confusion that always muddles your first minute or so of wakefulness, so your grasp on reality isn’t very firm yet.  There’s a moment where you feel ten years younger, back on that sweltering summer afternoon (it is quite warm in here.  The air feels heavy in your lungs) when you’d been caught sneaking cigarettes by one of the nuns from your school.  The feeling—of being caught in some petty, irreverent act by a lovingly admonishing authority figure—is exactly the same, even if your reverence for the clergy has faded to a vestigial politeness and the age difference has changed from fifty years to maybe five.

The moment passes, however, and the confusion morphs into cold dread.

It’s happened again.

“I’m happy to see you again so soon, but I’ll admit this wasn’t what I had in mind when I asked you to start coming to church more.” It’s a testament to Father Pucci’s charisma that you can hear the smile in his voice, as if indulging in a shared joke. It’s a testament to your own composure that he can’t detect your distress as you try to piece together your last few moments of awareness, but it’s disjointed and futile, like forcing together puzzle pieces from opposite sides of the board.

Over the past couple of months or so, you’d been experiencing…you’d been calling them Skips.  Fainting episodes or blackouts wasn’t the right term for what was happening; during those, you would have collapsed to the floor and awaken some time later, in the same place.  You wouldn’t have remembered doing anything because you didn’t do anything.

(You would have preferred it if you’d simply been having blackouts.  These would have an explanation, some kind of cause.  You could justify going to the hospital.  People would be worried about you.)

Skips were different.  You would start in one place and find yourself in another, hours later.  People would try to continue conversations you didn’t have the start of, or mention seeing you somewhere you had no business being.  Even now, what Father Pucci said about seeing you again so soon—when was the last time?  Could you work out what was said without him getting suspicious?  

Why was it that you would sometimes, for no real reason, simply not remember what you were doing?

After the first couple times you’d noticed it happening, you hesitantly typed your question into the library’s search engine—something to the effect of ‘doing things without remembering’—but when you started reading words like psychotic break and split personality disorder, you became overwhelmed, fleeing the librarian’s gaze in a mad dash for the refuge of your home.  You canceled the doctor’s appointment you’d scheduled for the next day.  Dinner was cold leftovers alone rather than at the diner with your friends, and their numerous phone calls went unanswered; you were too afraid.  Were you going crazy?  Did that just happen to people?

It’s only when Pucci stops that you realize he’d been talking to you, and for a very scary moment you think it’s happened again, but you’ve just been too absorbed in your thoughts to pay attention.

“I’m sorry, Father,” you mutter, “I’ve…I guess I have a lot on my mind, lately.”

Your friends had been getting impatient with your newfound absentmindedness, but Pucci just hums.  Perhaps priests are used to talking to people busy thinking of other things.

“Look around,” he points out, and you catch a glimpse of movement through the screen as he shifts a little closer to where you sit, “there’s no better place in the world for a moment of quiet contemplation.  Given what you were doing before I got here, though,” and here you can hear that quietly teasing smile in his voice again, “perhaps a cup of tea and a walk would do more good for your thoughts.  Come; perhaps I can even convince you to tell me what the problem is.”

The aged wood creaks as he gets up and exits his side of the booth, clearly expecting you to do the same.  You follow suit, though you can’t help but notice the lack of stiffness in your body, despite your unnatural sleeping position.  You weren’t there for very long, then.  No more than a few minutes…but what were you doing, and why did you come here?  Answers remain stubbornly out of reach as your eyes adjust to the brighter interior of the cathedral, roving along the empty pews until you turn to see Father Pucci, adjusting some of the candles nearby.

Something in his free hand catches your eye, glinting in the afternoon sunlight filtering through stained glass.  You can’t help but blink in surprise.

“You listen to CDs, Father?  That’s very modern.  I didn’t think priests could do that.”

Pucci turns the disc over in his hand, considering it carefully, and then slips it into his sleeve.  There’s a flicker of something in his expression, something strange and intense, before his features rearrange themselves into something more casual, and you could easily believe you’d imagined it entirely.

“I really shouldn’t, you’re right.  I suppose I can’t help it…even when I know I have work to do, I find I’m doing it again.  Something about…” his eyes meet yours, and he coughs, a little awkwardly, and turns away.

You find yourself smiling, in spite of the cold fear still dragging at your footsteps as you follow him out of the chapel.  “Alright, Father, I won’t tell anyone.  Though now I have to know: what genre are you into?  Jazz?  Classical, Disco…not, Rock, surely?”

“A Capella, actually,” he shrugs, opening another door for you to walk through, “instruments are wonderful, of course, and they’re doing exciting things with modern electronics, but there’s something untouchable about the human voice, especially one so steeped in holiness.”

“Ah.”  The answer is more boring, somehow, than you expected.  A Capella is…well, it’s typical for a priest, isn’t it?  Too in character.  For a moment you were sure you’d learn something interesting about your unlikely friend, but he’s slipped back into the comfortable realm of the proper clergyman.

It’s only when you reach another set of doors—and this time you open it to admit him, rather than the other way around—that you realize you had been leading the way to the kitchenette, despite never being there before.  You’re not able to do much with this thought, however, because Pucci’s already pouring a cup from the waiting kettle and sliding it towards you with a sly smile and a whiff of bergamot.  His hands don’t brush yours as you take the cup, though you think you see his fingers twitch and imagine it’s because of desire.  Maybe he sees how stressed you are and wants to comfort you, but can’t.  Do they teach people not to touch at seminary?  Is it one of their vows?

You’re only here for the drink, you tell yourself as you stir in milk and sugar and watch him drop a lemon slice into his own cup.  Only here for the drink, and then you’ll be on your way, off to try to work out what had transpired in your missing hours.

There’s a nameless tension in the silence that reigns, as you drink without tasting and nibble listlessly at a shortbread cookie from the nearby plate.  The lull in conversation doesn’t feel like an absence of words, but an expectation of them, like he already knows you’re going to say something and is ready whenever you are.  You’re not going to tell him anything, of course.  The guilt can twist at your stomach all it likes, you won’t be saying a word to him.  You can’t make everyone you know worry about you.

You don’t last three sips.

“Father, I think I’m going crazy,” you blurt out, and regret it the moment you see him raise an eyebrow the moment you finish the sentence.  So much for not making him worry.  You keep going.

“I keep…forgetting things?  I don’t know how to describe it.  But I’ll be walking home, or buying food, or talking to someone, and then it’s like…something happens, and suddenly it’s hours later and I’m on the other side of town—“

It’s like a floodgate has opened, like every word you failed to say to everyone else is suddenly coming out now in a rush.  Your thoughts can barely keep up with what you’re saying, you’re in too much of a rush to say it all.

“—and of course Madeline is worried and so is Ashton, but you can’t just say ‘hey sorry I actually have no idea where I was or what I was doing when I was supposed to be giving you a ride home and it might happen again’ without sounding insane, and I don’t know, I’m really scared this is going to turn out to be something wrong with me—“

You almost want him to cut you off—to stop you before you devolve into terrified rambling—but Pucci just stands there, not once taking his eyes off your face, until all the words are out and you’re practically gasping for breath.

His hand is warm on your shoulder.  It’s heavy.  You force your breathing to return to normal, to let him ground you in the moment.

“It must be terrifying,” he murmurs, “not knowing what’s happening to you.  I’m so sorry you’ve been keeping this to yourself for so long…have you told anyone else?”

The cup rattles in its saucer as you try and fail to sip, to give your mouth something to do other than talk.  “No.  Uh.  This is going to sound really silly, but I don’t want people I know to find out this is happening.”

A smile pulls at his lips.  “Well, we’re not in the confessional, but I’ll still keep your secret.  It’s only fair…you have one of mine, after all.”

You bark out a humorless laugh and wince at its harshness.  “Sorry, Father, I don’t think the two are equal at all.  Your thing isn’t even that weird.  No offense.”

“You’re right,” he nods, “the two aren’t equal at all.  As for your condition…I won’t force you to tell anyone else about it.  They’d only tell you to see a doctor.”

“I should, though, right?” you mumble bitterly.  “I mean, if it turns out I really am—“

“You know yourself better than anyone,” Pucci replies, which is an excellent non-answer, “ultimately, you will decide whether or not to seek medical attention.  Until then, however, I have an idea that can help you.  You own a phone with a camera, right?  It seems everyone does, these days.”

You fumble for your phone, before remembering you’d left it at home; you didn’t want to risk seeing a call.  “Yeah, I do, but the camera’s not very good—“

“That doesn’t matter.  All that matters is that it can take a photo at all.  From now on, set an alarm on your phone for every hour, on the hour.  You said you still behave normally when experiencing this memory loss, right?  So you’ll remember what the timer is for, even if an episode is happening.”

You’re not sure you’re following, but you nod anyway.

“From now on, every time the alarm goes off—not during the night when you’re asleep, obviously—you should take a picture.  It doesn’t have to be of anything, just have the picture.  Later, if you’re having an episode, you’ll have a better idea of what you were doing.  Who knows?  It might even help you remember.”

That’s…holy shit, how didn’t you think of that before?  If he wasn’t sworn against that kind of thing, you’d jump up and kiss him.  Maybe you could even start recording conversations…if you couldn’t track your time on your own, you could get machines to do it for you.  Nobody would ever have to know something was wrong!

Your drink’s unfinished, but you barely care; you have to get home right now, maybe drop by an electronics store for a recorder.  “Father, you’re a lifesaver.  I’m going to get on that right away.”

“Thank me by coming to Mass!” he calls after you as you bolt out of the room without a glance back.  

It’s only when your footsteps have fully subsided that he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.  He takes the cup—not the one he poured for himself, but the one you were drinking out of—and brings it to his lips.  It’s pathetic, maybe.  This indirect kiss doesn’t compare at all to what he indulged in, only a little while ago, but he savors it all the same.  Is it greedy to take any touch from you he can, however slight?  

Is it greedy to love both your joy and your fear--to see your face light up when he promises hope, to imagine what you’ll look like when you finally notice the livid red splotches along your collarbone, or the blood splattered on the side of your shoes?

Perhaps—but that’s a confession you’ll never hear.