Take Me To Church
an: thanks mel for the idea @artstennisracket and @blastzachilles for the random read. also thanks to my irl maddie for catholic imagery recs you're a real one for that. not proof read, or spell checked, written in a daze in the span of a couple hours so forgive quality. also tumblr hates when i try and include a photo and the one i wanted didn't work so enjoy this random blurry one.
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For as long as he’d been able to walk, he’d made the short trek to church each Sunday. When he was particularly small, he’d hold Nana’s hand when crossing the street to make it to the large, pointy-roofed building safely. He sat on her knee, fingers gripping the backs of the pew in front of him, and nodded his tiny head in rhythm with the sermons he heard. He refused to go to the children’s service, no matter how the youth pastor tried to goad him into coming. It was too juvenile for him, he thought, even if he hadn’t even graduated from kindergarten yet. He needed to know everything he could. He wanted to know why he was here, what God’s intention was with all this. With each ‘amen’, his little fingers would wrap around the small, golden cross resting daintily on his sternum, and he’d smile as if he understood it all. On his walks back to his house, there was always a bit of extra energy in his body, and he saw each sway of a blade of grass, each breath of the wind, as the movement of God’s vessel. Where his place was in it, he hadn’t yet figured out. But if he was here, he could only have been planned to be, and he would carry out his purpose dutifully.
He was quite upset to find out the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy had no services on campus, and the bus full of his future peers all looked at him quite strangely when they saw him mumble a prayer of each sip of water and opened granola bar. He was even more peeved to find that the boy he was bunking with, his age and an inch or so taller, was wearing a Star of David and a smirk that pulled to the right side of his face. It wasn’t that he felt it was wrong, per se, to not devote oneself to God the way he did, he just couldn’t quite make sense of it. He felt for God the way he felt for tennis, that it was something too beautiful, too invigorating, to let slip past him without indulging in the light it shone upon him. Patrick, as he’d come to find out, watched from his bed, lounging on his side, as he prayed that night, propping his cross against the wall as he couldn’t find a nail to hang it on. Patrick could practically see the halo over Art’s head of cherubic, golden curls, but maybe it was just the old, orange hue of a lightbulb about to die off.
“What are you doing down there?”
Art bit back a sigh, though he felt a sense of excitement stir in him as he shifted slightly left on his knees, patting the spot once taken by him. It was an invitation most teenage boys wouldn’t take, stuck in their need to feel more adult than they truly were, driven to defiance. But, after a moment’s consideration, he felt Patrick’s presence beside him, awkwardly chuckling into the oversized neckline of a hoodie.
“Do we just start talkin’ to ‘em?”
And here it was, it seemed. Art’s purpose at this moment. After all, was it not his duty to spread the gospel? If he could watch the symbol on the end of that thin, expensive-looking chain around his new roommate’s change, then maybe, just maybe, he’d be looked down on with favor. He could practically feel the lights shining down on him at this very moment. He took the boy’s hands in his own, clasping them into a ball, and began his prayer all over again. Patrick looked Art over with something akin to wonder, watching his closed eyes and moving lips, his bare knees oh so close to his own. He couldn’t help but feel that it was all so strange, and he tried his hardest to stifle his nervous laughter, but he couldn’t really be bothered to care when Art finally finished, looking up through pale lashes and frustrated, furrowed brows.
That night, long after rising from off the floor, finding the small, circular indentations of carpeting in his knees, he stared at the ceiling without a goal in mind. His palms felt tingly, almost dry, and no amount of wiping them down the length of his shorts did little to rid himself of the feeling. His hands felt like Patrick’s, rough and dry and tingly. Calloused in places. How had that happened? Developing into Patrick as quickly as he’d met him. And, most importantly, why did that thought make his stomach stir with something akin to glee? Why did he like Patrick’s skin being so different from his own? Why did he want to reach out and grab at it? It was all so odd. It was unlike him. He flipped onto his side, now facing Patrick’s half of the room, and observed with all his might the image of him sleeping. His lashes weighed gently on his cheeks, lips almost pouting, and his chest rose and fell softly, steadily, slowly. It was almost beautiful. With each lift of his chest, the hem of his shirt rose just above the waistline of his shorts, and Art found himself focusing on that slim line of pale skin each time it revealed itself. He felt that stir again, deep within his gut. He frowned, turned over again, staring at the bare, brick wall.
Art and Patrick had found a push and pull, and the prayers became a semi-regular occurrence, as did practicing with one another, eating at the dining hall in ‘their’ corner, splaying themselves across the floor with cigarettes that Art had so reluctantly tried, and now become hooked on. They’d become friends in that odd, disconnected way only teenage boys could. And God, did Art love it. He liked feeling known in the way that only Patrick seemed to know him, reading him with just a sideways glance. They knew just about everything there was to know about each other, which is why tonight was so strange. Art’s eyes shot open, alerted by a muffled sound from across the room, almost pained in nature and he immediately sat up to find… oh.
Patrick stopped dead in his movements, half-way through something Art definitely wasn’t meant to see. Patrick looked sticky with perspiration, chest heaving, bottom half of his body veiled by a duvet.
“I’m practicing my backhand. Obviously, I’m jerking off. What does it look like I’m doing?”
He didn’t seem particularly ashamed, because Patrick never did, but Art was catching on. And it was wrong, so, so wrong, but he couldn’t help it. Curiosity was only natural, and so were needs. If it was friendly, it couldn’t count, could it? And Patrick was a good friend, always generous with his things, his knowledge, and he offered to teach him. Art considered it heavily, torn between duty and desire, and found himself disgusted with the way that his need seemed to outweigh all else. The Lord is his shepherd, he shall not want. He was to follow orders with his head bowed, worship unquestioningly at the altar. Yet, Patrick seemed to be herding him at that moment. All he did was want. And so, he learned. He murmured the name of some girl, Kat Zimmerman, because Patrick did. He didn’t quite care to imagine her, though, as suggested. He watched Patrick’s face scrunch, brows knit and lips curl, and felt something snap. He looked down at his hands, his lap, and scowled. Patrick simply laughed, like all this was so normal, so perfectly alright. Art gathered up an old t-shirt from the floor, wiping himself as clean as he could manage, but he still felt dirty. His lip wobbled the whole night through.
At fourteen, Art found himself nervously picking at the dead skin of his bottom lip, nursing a red cup of JUST the juice part of the punch, watching Patrick dance with some girl in ways that for sure weren’t considered appropriate. Too much touching, too little space. He wanted to grab Patrick by the shoulder and scold him. After all, there was no way that the God he’d tried so hard to get Patrick to believe in would approve. He was just being a good, caring friend and saving him from some kind of divine punishment. It had nothing to do with the nausea in his gut, or the clenching of his fingers. He felt something wet hit his shoe, and when he looked down he saw the white fabric had been stained red with his drink, the cup forced out of shape by his own hand. So, he did what he thought, instinctually, would be best. He forced a smile and found a girl to occupy himself with. A nice one, whom he recognized from… something. He’d never really bothered to care about anyone at school but Patrick. She spoke too fast, words tripping over each other on their way out, shuffling between her teeth. He didn’t listen to most of it, eyes inevitably following their way back to Patrick. He wonders if Patrick had ever been a dancer. He moved quite gracefully, in his own way.
He wasn’t quite sure why, what cue he’d given her, but she’d grabbed him by the wrist and led him back to her dorm, biting at her bottom lip as he sat across from her. He sat back on his heels, lifting off of them only when she began descending towards him, and their lips met. He expected to feel more. Some kind of thumping in his chest, fluttering in his stomach, something like what he felt that night with Patrick. But still, he felt nothing. And based on the way she was sighing, grasping at his shirt to draw him further in, he was alone in that sentiment. So, he imagined. Patrick said things like this were always better if you imagined someone, hadn’t he? Think of long, skinny legs in tennis skirts, think of flowing hair and batting lashes, think of hands you’d want to touch. And all that came up was Patrick. Patrick with his stupid smirk and pointed canines, Patrick who had made things easy, Patrick who had made things so much harder. Suddenly, her lips felt soft, warm, and insistent. He pushed her away with flat palms to her shoulders, gathering himself and rushing out the door, mumbling an apology she certainly wouldn’t make out. It was wrong. He ran his fingers over the cross on his chest, and only then did he notice it was really just a piece of metal. Still, he begged for its forgiveness.
Now, he was eighteen, eighteen and relegating himself to unsatisfactory, rarely occurring kisses with girls. Girls who always seemed to want more than what he could give them. Something serious, in some cases. Something with lingering hands on waists and bruises sucked above pulse points. Something that would make his parents shake their heads in disapproval. Eighteen and spending one of many summers at the Zweig estate, watching Patrick swim in the deep end of the pool.
“You seriously not gonna get in?”
Art shrugged, looking anywhere but Patrick, noting the trees, a dove flitting its wings upon a branch, as if preparing for flight. He thought he was fine where he was. He’d always been more than happy just to observe Patrick in any way he could. Patrick made up of taut muscle and stupid, horrifically perverse jokes and a softness that only showed itself when he let it. But, he did move, seating himself at the edge of the pool to submerge himself in that crystalline water from the ankle down. Patrick slotted himself between Art’s legs, pushing his sunglasses up and off the bridge of his nose, which crinkled along with his eyes from the sudden intrusion of sunlight. Close. So close. He could run his hand down the curves of Patrick’s jaw, should he have the bravery to just move his hands. He wanted nothing more than to be brave. He was so glad to be a coward. And Patrick did nothing. Patrick just watched, breathed, maybe even waited. And he rose, soon, pushing off of his elbows to meet Art at eye level, tip of his nose bumping against Art’s. They were close enough to feel the heat of each other’s anticipatory breaths on each other’s skin, close enough to not know whose was whose. Who leaned in first was unclear, but he blamed that on feeling faint. Patrick tasted like stale cigarette smoke and spit, like chlorinated water and wine, like Patrick, Patrick, Patrick and it was so good he moaned down the other boy’s throat. It was warm and soft and insistent and he was going to be sick. He pulled back like he’d been shot, eyes wide and an arm covering his mouth. Patrick frowned, held up his arms as if to surrender, mouth open to ask what's gone wrong. Art scrambled to his feet, only able to get out repeated ‘mm-mm’s before running back inside. Patrick called out for him to wait. He didn’t.
He stayed locked in the guest room for hours. He watched the sunset through the windows, he smelled dinner being cooked, heard muffled, uninteresting conversation and scraping cutlery against china plates. He saw the shadows of feet planted outside of his door, shifting from one to the other, hesitating, hoping, fearing. They walked away. He had never prayed so passionately in all his life. He could practically feel the flames licking at his feet, the disappointed shaking of heads from above as they looked down at him. How the mighty had fallen. If he had ever been an angel, his wings must have shriveled up and fallen away. He looked down to his chest, feeling for the familiar weight of a crucifix, cold and unyielding. It wasn’t there.
At midnight, he padded down the hall towards Patrick’s room, planning to do something. What? He wasn’t sure. Apologize? Correct his mistakes? Cry until he couldn’t anymore? But he managed a knock, and the door opened immediately. Like Patrick had been waiting. And they did nothing but stare at each other. One step forward, silent and heavy, then another, another.
Art silenced whatever was about to be spoken with his lips, rough and raw and not at all with the delicateness he would’ve chosen if he could think clearly. But, of course, he couldn’t. All he heard was the soft, wet sound of lips coming together, then coming apart, the blood rushing in his ears, and, when he was lucky, Patrick. Patrick practically clawing at Art’s hair, his shirt, his hips, anything he could possibly grab ahold of, and Art doing the same. Wrong, wrong, wrong, and yet, no part of it felt that way. Shouldn’t it feel horrible? Something so sinful should only feel disgusting. Perhaps that was the true test of his faith. Only giving in to temptation could feel so good, and he was meant to resign himself to living life feeling… what exactly? Dulled? Empty? He shall not want.
Patrick pulled away, confused all over again, and Art wanted to smooth the crease between the boy’s brows with his thumb. He resisted the urge.
“Art, what are you talking about?”
“Just… it’s supposed to be wrong. It should feel wrong. It should- it should hurt. I need you to show me it’s wrong… hit me.”
He’s laughing uncomfortably, nervously, reaching back out to resume things or just touch, Art’s not sure which. He dodges the movement regardless.
“Hit me. Please, I just- just hit me.” Remind me that it's bad by making me feel the pain I think I should feel and I just don't.
Hesitantly, Patrick does. He swings an open palm to a flushed cheek and winces at the crack that the connection makes. His palms tingle, Art’s face now a thick, ruddy rouge. He whimpers once, twice, and pulls Patrick right back in. The Lord is his shepherd, he shall not want. And yet, with Patrick walking him backwards towards the plush of his mattress, his touch much softer than to be expected of a man so brash, he can’t help but to think that he is being shepherded by God himself. Otherwise, this would hurt. Nothing not divine could feel so all-consuming.
Patrick kisses down the lines of his body like it’s worship, like he’s offering his devotion to the shrine of some kind of God, and Art feels like it’s the silliest thing Patrick’s ever done. It would only make sense for the roles to reverse. But they don’t. Not when Patrick is baring himself to Art, firm and strong and vulnerability swimming behind his eyes. Nor does it happen when Art’s bared all the same, bent in on himself as if there was anywhere to hide. But each brush, of fingers, of lips, of tongue, is like a small taste of heaven. And so what if they’re sweating, so what if it’s a sin? Because Patrick’s hand is in his and he hasn’t felt a sense of pride like this since he decided his purpose was to urge Patrick down the right path. How naive. It’d never been him doing the urging. His breath shook afterwards, and he still didn’t quite feel like he’d ever be forgiven. He needed no forgiveness. If being happy was wrong, he hoped to continue to make irrevocable mistakes. He saw the glint of his chain on the wooden floors, lit up by the moon. He turned away from it and found Patrick. For now, that’s all he needed to find.
