𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇

THIRTEEN

A bit more. All Y/n needed was a bit more.

The physical touch proved that no matter how warped Anton's affection or desire was for him, it was still love. That even if his obsession was sacrilegious, almost if the very object of affection was treated like a god...it was still obsession. A voracious flame that threatened to devour any reason.

It was perilous. Upsetting. Distressing.

But it was also in his favor.

Y/n's eyes followed Anton's movement—from when the priest calmly placed a cloth around his trembling shoulders, from when the priest came closer until Y/n could feel his fine, golden hair tickling his skin.

"You are not becoming sick, are you?"

If I am, it's because of you. Y/n found himself entangled in the sinuous embrace of the priest: he could only focus on his breaths.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Breathe in, breathe out...

The cloth was adorned with intricate patterns and imbued with a faint scent of incense, draped over Y/n's shoulders. Y/n's nostrils tingled from it—it wasn't unpleasant, and to others, may even have been welcomed, but it was like a drug. A sleeping pill. Those kinds always had a distinctive scent to it.

"I am well," Y/n's tone betrayed nothing. His voice was carefully measured—he needed to make a conscious effort to maintain this...this precious equilibrium. This delicate balance.

Oh, how unfairly beautiful he was. Oh, Anton. Oh, Anton. Heart so wretched, face so fine. His countenance seemed to be sculpted by soft strokes of celestial brushes—sculpted with divine precision. He bore the grace of an angelic presence, though Y/n knew he was everything but. His eyes were the very color of midnight skies kissed by starlight, and there were only a few fortunate enough to be caught in that soul stirring gaze. His hair seemed to be spun from velvet silk, golden and bright. It was as if the constellations had chosen to nestle within the strands that framed his face with otherworldly elegance. If he was so wretched, why was his God's favorite?

And his smile. His cunning, devil smile. It was like a fleeting glimpse of heaven—he embodied the ethereal beauty of an angel descended from heaven, so why was he so cruel? Why didn't he bat an eye on murder? What made Anton turn out this way?

Y/n recalled the family portrait, with his mother's eyes crossed out. He had been dressed in all black. This man, who wore the visage of an angel, yet bore within him an indescribable, maddening darkness.

Y/n shuddered as Anton's fingers traced the contours of Y/n's face.

"You must take care," Anton murmured, his voice soft and almost pleading, "the world outside these church walls are cruel. You know that, don't you? Is it not the very reason that you have come to confess, my dear Y/n?"

My dear.

My dear.

My dear.

"You have been looking so stressed lately," Anton smiled gently, "how about you come to my home—God's home?" Anton leaned in, a fraction too close for Y/n's comfort. The priest's devotion, obsession—whatever it could be classified as—was still a weapon Y/n had in his arsenal. If used correctly—he could manipulate the strings of it to orchestrate his own salvation.

To orchestrate even Lucas's salvation.

"...Alright then," Y/n rasped out, throat so awfully dry that whatever words that left his mouth felt raw and painful, "to...your home? Like—like a gathering like the last time? Will there be people there?"