Small flash fics dedicated to the characters and relationships of the Midnight Mass miniseries, written with the help of the special words of Writober 2021 ♥
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(Riley & John Pruitt / Mildred Gunning) •••
Christmas isn't exactly his favorite holiday - everyone knows by now that he prefers Easter to all other holidays, and perhaps John owes this preference to the fact that, despite having lived a fulfilling life, he misses something that , in the position in which he is, he cannot obtain. He is not allowed.
So Easter is better than Christmas, because there is the resurrection, the return to life - to a different life. Christmas is just the birth, only the take-off towards a new world that frightens, disturbs, destroys, and of which absolutely nothing is known.
The kids play in front of the open space just outside the church and he is there, sitting on the wooden steps of St. Patrick, watching them pass the ball he has just given them.
"Don't get hurt, or I'll have to slap you on the back of the head," he says, pointing to the mayor's son, who is clearly tugging at the butcher's grandson without any hassle. "For God's sake, Leonard, at least pretend you have some sporting spirit!"
The boy stops, raises his arms and, looking him straight in the eye, curls his lips. "Oops! I'm sorry, father. I will not do it again!"
"Yes, sure, sure. This is the fourth time you have said this. Be careful and don't break anything. The nearest hospital is on the continent and I haven't learned to fly yet, "he smiles, even though he shouldn't. Sometimes he would like to be tougher, it's just not in his nature. His father, at the time, was and, in his humble opinion, from a strict parent one can learn to love more or less. It depends on how you decide to use that experience and he, after all, has always believed in love for one's neighbor.
He doesn't have time to allow himself a sigh that, suddenly, his cheek is hit by the ball and, stunned for a few seconds, John staggers. It was not too strong an impact, it is more the fear that has stiffened him. Crockett Island seems to go off for endless seconds. The children stop and look at him; John gets the impression that someone has hit the pause button on an old tape recorder.
He no longer even hears the chirping of crickets in the distance. It doesn't even feel like summer anymore.
Maybe he went deaf after that blow?
"Monsignor, are you okay?"
It is the voice of Anthony Creek, the bartender's son, the one that comes a little muffled to his ears and, placing a hand on his cheek, massages it lightly.
"Could be better. What happened?"
"Riley threw the ball to shoot at goal and hit it in the face!" Leonard yells, and points to the Flynn son, who immediately stands up and walks up to him in anger.
