a man without need. marcus wonders, briefly ( in the back of his mind, behind the silence for listening that puts so much pressure on his lungs ), if that’s why he’s never been a very good priest. it’s a dry, humorous thought. he went through the motions of seminary, had his vegan phase, smoked cigarettes, avoided debates with atheists because of a tendency to get into fights once the conversation devolved into you don’t really believe in god, do you? god, angels, demons, they’re metaphors and concepts — but he was enlisted for a holy war and was never destined for a parish or for an office. his faith has rested on entirely different pillars to bennett, all this time. and he knew that, at least he thought so, but — did he really know that, if bennett can say all this and it can seem so much of a surprise?
( and it’s not lost on marcus that this is the most he’s ever heard bennett say at once, and he’s accordingly quiet, accordingly listening. it’s a core tenant of exorcism, that you listen, that you learn, but he’s never been able to apply it correctly outside of that — constantly all bluff and bluster, and the magnitude of your need cuts him but he holds his tongue. nothing bennett is saying is wrong. )
when he’s certain bennett is done, he has his turn. ‘ — thank you. for telling me that. ’ for saying so much. it seems important that he knows that marcus sees how taxing the articulation of everything is, that marcus knows the value of - this. them, talking. the next thing, the, the what, the next step or the right thing to say eludes marcus; it’s a lot to take in, and one hand moves from his ribs to his mouth, unconsciously quieting. until he has something worth saying. he clarifies the silence with a muffled, ‘ i’m just thinking. i’ll have something proper to say in a minute. ’
he understands and doesn’t, in the same breath. that serving god best was by making himself into a wall for marcus to throw himself against over and over, it makes sense, but - it’s a horrible thing to make sense of. neither of them deserve that. god is luminescent and searing for both of them in different ways, and still, neither of them deserve that. ‘ i didn’t know him, ’ marcus confirms, eventually, hands dropping from ribs and mouth, hip-checking the counter and leaning into it. ‘ but i - knew he was there, i’d … seen him. by then, especially, i knew. ’ in haiti, in rome, elbow to elbow on planes, looking at bennett’s reflection in the surface of water, lying with bennett’s thundering heart under his hand. he nearly says, and i — wanted him, you, so badly, but - obviously. ‘ but, you shouldn’t have had to choose. i - didn’t understand. ’
it’s hard to parse what first changed, going from railing against being paired off with some brat to knowing that bennett intrinsically was someone marcus wanted to be with. enough to skirt around the edges of his vows, again. enough to - step back because this is really it this is going to be how i topple this is who the columns come down for. knowing that, stepping back in the knowledge of that, should’ve been enough for marcus to just stop. it wasn’t, never was. his inhale stings his lungs. ‘ you let me, but — i want us to balance each other because we love each other, not - ’ he scratches his jaw, cuts off before inhales can turn into sniffs, before he can lose his words and wind up frustrated with himself. softer: ‘ i didn’t know that you didn’t speak … i want to know you. every part. ’
the tightness in devon’s swallow errs somewhere close to the equivalent of a dismissive, defensive shrug that doesn’t show up in his muscles, bone.
‘ i didn’t see the relevance. ’
it’s the falling back on the old script, the diplomat, that yields up the biggest tell of being worn thin — falling back on something familiar, if not comfortable. he knows the lines to tread back over, there; doesn’t have to try so hard for their delivery. the biggest sign of something tired.
( that, or the way he doesn’t quite manage eye contact, something just shy of it, a little to the left and a little too low, as though he doesn’t have to see the signs, whether hurt or disappointment or frustration, if he doesn’t look. )
devon’s inhale pulls somewhere between bruising and steadying, pushes back out on a dull ache he doesn’t know where to place.
‘ i wanted … ’ another swallow, fighting, still, the way the words want to crawl back away between his teeth, stick and dry up. no, not wanted. what’s past is past and can’t be changed, and there’s no use in inviting their old shadows, the ones that dog them in twos and threes, into this now, not when love is such a large, sore, tender sound, feeling, an overripe peach in the palm, in the pit of devon’s chest. ‘ i’m not in the habit. ’ of being known, that is, of talking — of this sort of love, either. he wonders if it’ll ever stop feeling selfish, getting to have it both ways. ‘ but ’ — and it sounds a little too much like a question — ‘ i’d like to try. ’
