His Holy Place | MxM AMBM |

1 | The facade of our relationship (REVISED)

SAGE

His love for me was only a misconstruction of deception. A love so tattered that it took gentle hands to hold carefully, keeping it from falling apart. For a priest, Michael didn't fear his God or the sins that would lead him to hell. Nothing. Yet in front of his congregation, he was a man who feared these things—a devil in disguise.

Saving people is what people like him do, but what happens when you can't save yourself?

The mid-October air was cool, pushing away any traces of summer like a dishonest lover.

St. John's was letting out from Sunday services. I leaned against the railing at the bottom of the steps, the cigarette I was smoking barely scratching the itch inside my chest.

Churchgoers threw me dirty looks, like I was the scum beneath their feet. Fuckers.

"You shouldn't be here," Michael said, taking the steps one at a time down toward me.

His hand rested on the black steel rail of the steps. I brushed my fingertips across his knuckles, the faint scars from years ago still pink and puffy. Michael lingered for just a second in my touch before pulling his hand away.

Smiling, I put out my cigarette. "Isn't everyone welcome to church, Father?"

"If atheists suddenly started to believe in God, then the church would be full, wouldn't it?" He smiled.

"I can't support my man?"

"Leave."

"I haven't seen you for weeks," I said. "I miss you."

Church is his priority. I was his second. Lately, I'm starting to think he's using it as a way to avoid us. He flakes, backtracks, and doubts us; loves me in silence because he's too afraid to commit fully. It has nothing to do with his religious beliefs—just what he convinces himself to believe.

Every part of me has been deeply rooted in this man since I was a teenager. Loving someone who is just as broken as you are is a tragic disaster. You think you can fix them, but instead, you take on their darkness, darkening your own, turning you into a monster of their creation.

Michael looked around to make sure no one was watching. He brought his hand to my face, caressing my cheek. His touch was warm and comforting, and I couldn't help but press my face into it. I didn't realize how touch-starved I was.

"I could use an extra pair of hands to help set up for the youth group meeting." He turned and walked back up the steps to St. John's. I grunted and followed him.

The youth group's room buzzed with the energy of children, their laughter and footsteps bouncing off the walls as older kids arranged the space. Michael's instructions rang in my ears as I moved chairs into a perfect circle. Gospel music played softly from the speakers, filling the room with a sense of joy.

All the kids adored Michael, even the smallest ones clinging to his legs while he cradled a crying baby.

After placing the last chair, I grabbed a lukewarm strawberry-kiwi Capri-Sun from one of the coolers. Everyone was talking to Michael at once, a crumpled mess of voices. A woman approached him and whispered something in his ear. The color drained from his face. The moment he made eye contact with me, I knew something wasn't right. He handed the baby back to its mother and hurried out of the room.

I followed him. At the end of the hall, he stood in front of a tall Asian guy. The guy smiled at Michael, but it quickly faded.

"I told you not to show up here," Michael said, unease thick in his voice.

"How long are you going to make me wait?" the guy asked.

I walked up and stood beside Michael. "Everything good?" I looked between the two of them.