#pre romance

"Okay, hear me out. Mira's hair is pink. Rumi's is purple. The saja boys' are the color of the transgender and asexual flag. It's pride month. Does that-", such is the start of the, low-key conspiracy, tweet that sends Zoey down the rabbit hole.

Ever since she was a child, she's always been left in awe at seeing people with blue hair, with green hair, or split hair, or whatever cool design there can be.

But recently, she's been getting fascinated with people with colorful hair again, whether they had to dye their hair to get crazy cool design or not. It's not too common, but it's a fact: some people are born with blue hair. Or green. Or-

And while there's many more logical explanations to that, that being the tweet, like the hair colour gene of the saja boys being affected by their demon gene ( or something like that? she doesn't have a degree in demon biology), or just being some sort of shapeshifting spell..

For Mira, the logical explanation could be that she just dies her hair pink. But, well, her eyebrows are pink as well. Same with Rumi.

Uncommon hair colours are, well. Uncommon, but they exist: there might be a good 25% of the population who has hair of colours such as green, blue, red, or whatever else shade naturally.

Which is absolutely awesome? Hello? Her friends too, she's pretty sure, because never once has their roots been anything other than pink or purple. Or, maybe they touch them up literally every time they start showing but, come on. They'd have no reason to hide that from her unless it was some sort of a veryyy long term prank.

And she's been wondering: is it the hoonmoon and coming into contact with it that caused that for them? Caused wild, pretty shades to tint their hair, like reaching into the hoonmoon let them create their own magical weapons?

She thinks it could be, but none of its previous protectors had colored hair so..

So maybe not, maybe she's reaching, but it'd be so cool if that was the case. Because.

She has no clue whether her friend's hair are this way because of fate or because of their own doing . But the one thing she knows is that, that is absolutely unfair?? Like, come on! She has a very much common hair colour. She didn't get to have a fun one either at birth or afterwards. And, the cherry on top, is that she got the hair colour that's the hardest one to dye.

By that, she means that she'd have to bleach her hair, and absolutely damage it, unless she can settle with, maybe, simple black hair that'd sometimes glows red-dye in the light or something. Life's unfair.

It's not that she's frustrated or jealous, but she'll admit it, she is indeed kind of envious of her two best-friends, her besties that don't seem to realize how awesome their hair is, how pretty and ethereal it looks.

Wich might be why she kind of harass them with that fact. Wich, really, absolutely is why she bully them about their hair.

She figures, if they're not going to outright tell her if their shade is natural or not, she might as well have some fun while trying to figure it out.

She had tried finding childhood pictures of younger versions of her friends.

Usually, Zoey's good at that, at scrolling through medias and content to stalk someone's life. She loves being noisy, to look everywhere on the internet digging up informations, and that's an activity that's only made easier by their countless fanpages.

Except those fanpages only uses candids from any of their countless concerts (candid shots they somehow always manage to look absolutely flawless in, zoey's owns being a whole other question), pictures they've posted themselves on their socials, or official shoots. Her researches don't offer her much more. Mira's baby pictures seems to be as well hidden as the One piece, and Rumi's younger pictures as a whole seems to be an ancient legend you could doubt even existed.

But Zoey's everything but not persistent. She had thought she should outright ask them for baby pictures, for child-pictures, then. And so she had ! Asked, shared hers, shared some pictures of herself when she was still in highschool, aswell.

They had withdrawn. Mira's had lowered her head to conveniently clean her glasses, while Rumi had sooo awkwardly tried to avoid her gaze. So awkwardly Mira had raised up her head and changed the subject (, very much less subtly than Rumi was trying to be). So.

She hadn't insisted.

They're very close to each other, and they share a lot of moments, and they've been living in the same home for 2years now, but her girls keep their past close to their chests. And that isn't something she necessarily mind! There's things she doesn't tell them about what her life used to be like, as well.

But it's true she's more at ease expressing herself than they are, a little too much sometimes.

And yes, she wishes they wouldn't close off so suddenly; so drastically.

But, well.

She doesn't want them to feel uncomfy with her.

Wich is why instead of prodding at their past, she's currently proding at Rumi's hair. At a specific strand, specifically, one that's refusing to stick with the others.

Playing with her friend's hair is a way more effective way of investigating, the girl definitely more relaxed that way. She's actually kind of melting into the cushion, wich is both very endearing and also hilarious.

Zoey's not really doing this just to try and check for different colored roots or strands anymore. She's honestly doing it for the sheer joy doing so makes her feel. And also because seeing Rumi with her hair down is always an occasion to jump on.

Listen, she gets the appeal of having a signature hairstyle: she does have one, and Rumi's pretty characteristic, and it fits her well, but.

It's such a shamee, because if Rumi's braid fits her and accentuate the sharp features of her face, she looks like a downright goddess with her hair down. The way hair frames her face. Woah, to put it simply.

She doesn't even needs to make up an intricate or original design, really, so she's just making tiny braids there and there. It kind of looks like lavender, except the shade of rumi's hair is warmer than that. But, yes, that might still be a gooddesign idea anyway.

"Oh my god, that is genius, how did I never get this idea", she hears from the other side of the bed and under her, Rumi makes an enquiring grunt, or an agreeing one.. Wait. Pause. Uhhhhh? Did Mira just read her fucking mind?

"I've been saying, drag queens are genius walking among us mere humans."

Oh. Okay, yeah, Mira's answer explain everything. Drag show they've been watching. She's no mind-reader.

"What's the genius thing?", she asks, still focusing. Her fingers continue twisting hair strands around. She sticks her tongue out a little. If she wants to makes it seems like a sprig of lavender, she needs to focus so as to twist it just like that-..

"She did a sexy megamind costume and she made the ball cap work", Mira explains.

Which, yes, explains the amazement.

"Please don't get any ideas from her.", Rumi says, and she snorts.

"I'm sure you could rock a ball cap tho", she chimes in. Mira definitely would, at least. She rocked a sleeping bag and could probably rock a trash bag if she wanted to.

"Eh.. I'm not sure the fans would like it"

"They so would not.", Mira intervenes, solemny nodding, wich Zoey sees only from the corner of her vision, because she'd rather not mess up her idea, or, worse: mess up rumi's hair.

"I'm sure you could make it work! Somehow."

"I mean.. If you really want that, we could try incorporating bald caps into a choregraphy? Really not sure how tho.", Mira answers her. Still from the corner of her eyes, she sees her repositionning herself , half turning toward her and Rumi.

"Maybe making it into an epic hairstyle reveal? Like, ball cap for a quarter of the song then BOOM, epic braid.. or something.", Rumi starts brainstorming, and, oops.

She was kidding, but those two are really the greatest, seeing as they don't sound too dubious about her silly idea. (Or they're simply as crazy as her. That theory is as plausible, if not more likely, and this is probably why she likes them so much: they're never scared or following her in her crazy ideas, in her very much spontaneous and sometimes stupid decisions)

"Nooo, I was joking, don't hide your pretty hairfull heads"

"Hah, okay, phew. Because I was gonna say, we have no songs that would fit this, sooo", Mira says.

"Songs that'd fit what?", Rumi asks.

"Like, you know, hiding shit until the final dramatic reveal", Mira says. Zoey focusing back on her tiny braid. She's almost done, she can't mess up in the final moments, can she? She's almost to the point of just having to tie her masterpiece it with a small hair-tie.

"Yeah. Right.", Rumi says.

There's a blank, suddenly, a silence that's almost absolute except for the sounds from the show.

The previous pressure seems to be back, somehow, like Rumi is starting to stress again from nothing. Everything has been so tense, in between the release of golden, and those pricks of saja boys, and their songs fighting in the charts, and- Everything has been lowkey awful, even between them. She doesn't know why, but Rumi has been stand-offish, and it's affected Mira aswell, and her, too.

And, since they don't usually share those things, Zoey has been hesitating to speak up about it. Wich is why their hanging out session turning into an impromptu sleepover had been so much more nice than usual. A break from the tense (and too hushed) space settling between them.

"Right." Mira turns back towards the screen.

The silence keeps going, for a good minute. It's a different one than the one that sometimes come during their conversations and, yeah, no. Zoey's not a fan of confrontation, but she doesn't like letting things being tense, either. She doesnt think the girls are going to acknowledge the heart of the problem. And she doesn't know how to, but what she can do is..

She straightens up, and- "Tadaaaa! I'm done!"

"Oh?" Rumi slowly straighten up as well, stretching then twisting to see the braid. If she hadn't been wearing sweatpants and a long hoodie, Zoey would have most likely been able to see her stomach, seeing as Rumi is very flexible and currently very much extending herself to try and get a glimpse of what she's just done. "That's not a regular braid", she says, so carefully feeling it Zoey kinda want to guh about the gentleness of the action.

"Nope, I wanted to try something new"

"Zoey, that's gorgeous as fuck. You got the idea yourself?", Mira asks, and she can see that she's turned back around toward them.

"Yeah! I was trying to make it looks like lavender, or something like that", she grins.

"Can't believe you, you stole the idea from pinterest, not taking any other explanations", Mira jests.

"Excuuuse me, I'll let you know , I'm the aesthetic pinterest inspiration person", she jest back, smile clearly present on her face.

"You two are making me wants to get a mirror to see but I'm way too comfortable there to do it, stop ittt", Rumi says, still trying to break her spine to see the braid, which she.. cannot possibly do. Unless she were to break her spine.

She snorts. Rumi hears. "You had to do it right in the middle of my hair where I can't see", she says so grumpily that Mira immediately joins her in the laughing.

"Cruel, you two are cruel. I'm going to miss the next reveal and you're laughing.", she says, which is the absolute truth, which is reality as it stands.

"Yeah. We're evil and cruel.", Zoey answers while organising her hair stuff or rather putting every one of her hair ties together in a single box despite their various colour), attempting to stay serious, because that always is the best way to get Rumi to keep being dramatic, which is very much peak entertainment.

It works. "Nooooo, why would you do this to meee, I'll never get to see my glorious Youngrong Kim's design??", Rumi dramatically weeps, hand on her chest and the other down the side of the bed, like she's a drama heroine dying.

"oh my god you are such a drama queen ", Mira snorts. "It's not that hard, you can just go"

"You're next by the way", Zoey decides to announce right this moment.

The way Mira's face loses her smirk so drastically at this is absolutely hilarious. Drama queen, yeah, indeed.

"Nevermind, Rumi, don't you dare leave, she won't let me speak to her while she's focused, I won't be able to ramble"

"I thought it wasn't "that hard"?"

"I never said that. I definitely never said that. Rumi, have mercy on me"

Zoey snorts the antics of her friends. Boy is she glad to hear them back to their usual self. She'll deal with Mira's yapping if it means no more of the chilling silence, the loneliness, gladly. She knows very well it's in their nature not to speak about what bother them, but, really, it bothers her that they won't talk to her about it, and really, she'd rather be distracted than have to be sad about it.

"You know you can take a picture of the back of your head with your phone right?" , Mira's been adding, trying to convince Rumi to stay in Zoey's room (despite the fact Rumi is making no move to actually leave, apparently fine with sticking on the bed next to Zoey).

"Hmm, I don't knoww. . .", Rumi says.

"Rumi. Rumiiii- Don't leave me alone with her, she's going to spend hours brushing my hair"

Zoey snorts, again, dragging Mira to the middle of the bed, even if that means she can't really see much of the screen anymore with the tall girl in front of her .

Long, pink, soft hair, here she comes.

" I missed it, did Gvan reveal her outfit already?", she asks, gently dragging her fingers through Mira's hair, exactly like she had done with Rumi's earlier.

"Oh my god, you missed it? " Comes Rumi's answer, said girl taking her phone out and shifting even closer to them. "You've got to see, it wasn't the most original but, still, wow. Glorious."

And there they go, yapping away about the show and design decisions. It's fun. It's nice. It's the warmth Zoey feels when thinking about their relationship coming back again, this time metaphorically and quite literally, with the blankets of her bed and the shared warmth of Rumi's and her tights next to eachother, of Mira's shoulder she's leaned over to see Rumi's phone.

It's what makes her totally forget about her previous hair colour brainstorming, her questioning over the reasons why they hide things that seems so simple, temporaryly.

It's moments like this that she prefers over the sheer rush she feels when on stage.

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I have this fun little head-canon that "unnatural" hair colour is actually natural, if not common in kpdh's universe, (because, for rumi, for example: I think it doesn't make much sense that she'd feel comfortable with her hair being purple and very obvious if that was something she inherited from her father's side, from being a demon, given how she's always been hiding her patterns. I think Celine would have made her that hide aswell if it had been a telltale sign of her being inhuman ?) so here's a fanfic that stemmed from this idea!

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—

Paul met him in the Holy land and had been the one to stop him from walking off into the desert on his own. He helped the older man wake up from his haze and then led him back to their hotel, and they began talking. Monsignor Pruitt told him about all the good people in his town, all with a smile on his face and kind words to say about every single one of them. But there always came a point in their conversations when John Pruitt stopped talking. His eyes became unfocused and he looked around himself in near panic. He suddenly didn’t recognise him, didn’t know where he was and kept muttering two names. Millie. Sarah.

Paul knew the signs, unfortunately. He remembered coming to visit his elderly grandfather, reading to him, helping to feed him, and bringing him tea. Sometimes they shared long talks until old Phillip Hill became too tired, sometimes he stared at his grandson like he was a stranger. By the end, he was in too deep, his mind slipping into memories and disregarding the outer world entirely. By the end… by the end it was a relief when he left to join his wife up above. For him, surely. For Paul… Well, he was glad his grandfather was no longer in any pain, but he did miss him terribly.

So each time he lost the Monsignor completely, he knew what to do. He’d bring him to his room, sometimes even helped him get ready for bed, if John Pruitt was too far gone. He’d order melissa tea from the hotel service and wait until the elderly priest fell asleep. Then he’d sneak out and go to his own bed, saying a quick prayer for his new friend before falling asleep. Monsignor’s mind worked better in the mornings and he usually had no recollection of how he got to bed in the first place. But he seemed more jovial and quite excited to tell Paul more stories.

When the day of their departure came, Paul decided he couldn’t let Monsignor go by himself with a clear conscience. The younger man himself wasn’t needed anywhere. Before coming to this journey, he served as a substitute at a small parish near Boston, but seeing as their priest returned from his mission, Paul was currently jobless. The Monsignor was surprised that the younger man decided to tag along with him, but he seemed delighted and promised to introduce him to everyone on Crockett Island. But there was something wrong… The young priest couldn’t tell how, but he felt something was wrong indeed.

That little something was unfortunately proven right. During their first transit flight, John Pruitt still shared stories of people of his parish. ‘Ed and Annie Flynn, they are amazing people, Annie is a saint, and both of their sons are such clever, nice boys!’ Or ‘Bev Keane, she’s very zealous, knows the Bible by heart, every single word.’ and ‘A young woman recently started coming in. I don’t think she’s from the island, because I don’t know her and she sits back during communion, but she seems very lovely!’ . John Pruitt told stories of Erin Greene, who came to bring new life to the little town, ‘such a dear girl!’ , poor Leeza Scarborough, who despite being bound to a wheelchair never missed a single sermon, and Joe Collie, whom he wished he could help but didn’t know how.

Paul tried covertly asking about the women John mentioned during one of his episodes. “You did say something about, um, Millie, I think?” The elderly priest stayed quiet, a strange look appearing in his eyes. Paul decided not to pry and they talked of other people once more. However, an hour before the plane was supposed to land, Pruitt got quiet again. Paul thought perhaps he fell asleep, or maybe his mind wandered off. Looking at him though, he discovered not only was Monsignor awake, he also looked very aware. But also quite ill. Something was definitely wrong.

“Monsignor Pruitt? Are you feeling well?” Paul asked, concerned. The old man didn’t reply, but he shook his head no and continued staring in front of him. He stayed this quiet during the entirety of their second flight, looking worse by the second. And as they left the aeroplane, John Pruitt grabbed at Paul’s shoulder, steadying himself. His hand was warm, way too warm. “Monsignor?” was the last thing the old priest heard before he lost consciousness.

—

It was a rough few days. Monsignor Pruitt was promptly taken to a hospital, where he was diagnosed with gastroenteritis, most likely caused by faulty food. Which wouldn’t be that serious really, but with the priest’s old age and the health problems that went hand in hand with it, the doctors insisted it’d be better for him to stay in the hospital to recover. Paul agreed. The monsignor did too, to some extent, but he didn’t want to leave his parish without a priest for such a long time, as he'd been 'gone too long already' . Paul Hill didn’t know why he said what he said next, didn’t know why an idea so spontaneous felt so absolutely right. He’d grown fond of the old priest, and wanted him to recover in peace, without him having to worry about his congregation. It all came down to why he even became a priest in the first place - he just wanted to help.

“I will stand in for you.”

—

And so here he was. It was all rather rushed, but it could've been much worse. He explained Monsignor's and his situation to the dioceses under which Crockett Island fell, phoned his family to send more of his clothes, personal objects and anything else he could need while standing in for the old priest, seeing as he travelled to Israel rather lightly. He found the correct dock from which the ferry to Crockett left and managed to go all the way to the rectory without alerting anyone. He spoke to Monsignor Pruitt on the phone, assuring him he'll take care of his flock and explain what happened. It all went down so quickly, but as he finally sat down on the tiny (and rather uncomfortable) sofa in Pruitt’s little house, he felt he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

That is not to say the last few days didn’t take their toll on the young priest. As he stood on the porch of the rectory, watching the clouds becoming darker and darker by the second, he felt that familiar uncomfortable tingle in his stomach. He was nervous. Paul usually didn’t mind storms, in fact, he often enjoyed them. Sometimes though, mainly when he was going through some stressful times, the comfort he normally felt, when raindrops hammered against his window and a deep thunder roared through the sky, turned into utter terror. Some stormy nights he’d be able to sit outside under some shelter and keep watch for lightning bolts, contently breathing in the smell of earth mixed with rain, other nights he’d press his hands to his ears, painfully hard, trying not to scream each time the thunder almost shook the very ground he was cowering on. Trying not to weep in fear and embarrassment. It was like the chaos of the tempest could latch itself onto his inner turmoil, and when it did, it shook Paul to his core.

He let out a long breath, trying to calm down. Paul went inside intent on distracting himself from the ever nearing storm. He changed from his priestly attire during the day into a pair of washed out jeans, a simple grey t-shirt and a very warm and comfortable blue bomber cardigan. The priest made a cup of tea and sat down, opening a well read old Bible and trying to drown out the loud sounds of rain entirely, which was quite difficult, considering it was the only thing he could actually hear. The many lights in the rectory calmed him somewhat, so, of course, they went out not five minutes after Paul’s heartbeat started slowing down.

The man was plunged into absolute darkness, panic immediately rising within him. Between cursing himself for not preparing any candles beforehand and wincing as the entire room was suddenly illuminated by a different kind of light, he bent his legs to place his sock clad feet in front of himself and hugged his knees with his arms. Paul closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on his breathing and steadying the little tremors that started coursing through his hands. Suddenly though, his ears perked up. There was a new sound among the booming thunder and the loud noise of millions of raindrops falling all around. A pitter-patter of feet hitting wet gravel, slowly getting closer.

He opened his eyes and saw a different kind of light in one of the windows, light blue, like the thunder, but much smaller and moving erratically. His curiosity managed to outweigh his discomfort and he crept to the window. It was hard to actually see anything in the dark, especially through the thick curtain of rain, but Paul saw the light, clear as day, and the sound of footsteps grew louder. There was a person, running through the storm, a flashlight in their hand to light their way, wherever they were going. ‘Are they mad?!’ thought Paul and, without thinking, he ran to the door. He opened it wide and stepped out onto the porch, immediately getting drenched by the rain which was flying in all directions because of the wind.

“Hey!” he called, as loud as he could, but another thunder rolled through the skies at the exact same moment, drowning out his voice and making him gasp and cringe. “Heey!” he called again and this time, the person, who was now some 40 yards away from him, nearly by the church. They stopped and shone their light in his direction. “Come inside, quick!” he called again, managing to do so before another giant flash of light illuminated the entire sky and more roaring came, making his already trembling hands shake violently. The person stood still but for one second, before they made a dash towards his door. They both ran inside and Paul threw the door closed with a bang. His unexpected visitor put their light (which turned out to be a mobile phone flashlight) onto a little side table close to the door, and it helped illuminate their face.

Father Paul instantly recognised it as belonging to the girl he saw in church earlier that day, the newcomer who sat back during communion.

—

You were an idiot. You were an idiot and got yourself caught in this horrid storm. Originally, you had been taking an afternoon stroll, hoping to get some writing inspiration and secretly thinking about your interaction with the charming new priest in the morning. You liked strolling through the Uppards. Most of the stray cats were quite feral and ran away as soon as they caught your scent through the tall bushes, however, every now and then, a few of them would get curious and investigate, even let you pet them.

You thought you had enough time to get back home before the storm began, but the first few little drops that fell on your head soon turned into a full blown shower and the sky got dark fast. You started running as fast as you could, using your phone’s flashlight to guide your way through the shrubs, careful not to step on any cat that could suddenly appear in front of you. You were soaked to the bone and well aware that you’ll soon be freezing, even though you were running. You basically jumped right over the little bridge leading from the marshes back towards the town and carried on, the quickest route back to your home leading around the church.

But only, as you neared the church itself, gravel rustling under your feet, you heard something other than just rain and thunder. It almost sounded like… a voice? A distressed one, too. “Heey!” You turned towards it. It was the new priest, you could barely see him, standing on the porch of the rectory. “Come inside, quick!” A lightning bolt tore through the sky and you wasted no time in running towards him. He shut the door behind the both of you once you finally stepped over the threshold, rather hard, too. You set your phone down onto the first flat surface you saw and stopped to catch your breath.

In the light of your flashlight, you finally got a good look at his face and blinked in confusion. There was an expression of fear there, his eyes were wild and when yet another cracking louder sounded around you, nearly shaking the ground with its intensity, the charming priest’s entire body visibly jerked and his eyes screwed shut. You were at a loss for words. You were standing in a house you’ve never been to before with a man you only met today and who was an absolute stranger to you. It was obvious the storm was making him feel panicked and miserable, terrified even, and you wanted to provide comfort, seeing as he saved you from the rain and most likely from a nasty cold as well, but you had no idea how.

If you knew him a little better, if he was your friend, you’d probably wrap your arms around him, whisper gentle words of consolation, perhaps pet his hair. But not only was he a stranger, he was also a priest, and you didn’t want to make him even more uncomfortable than he already was.

So instead, you slowly reached a single cold, wet hand out, and put it on his shoulder. He flinched slightly, but made no move to shake your hand away. “Hey,” you said softly, getting his attention, “how about you sit down?” His breathing was shallow and his eyes still wide, but then he blinked, once, twice and stiffly nodded his head. He walked to the sofa and sat down on it, hands gripping his knees. “Okay,” you whispered, more to yourself, than to him and began untying your sopping wet shoes to take them off. Your socks were equally drenched, but at least they weren’t muddy. Next to go was your jumper, the wet wool was heavy and freezing and you thought for a moment, before you just opened the door and threw the garment out on the porch. No use having it drip all around the floor here and making you freeze to death.

You made your way over to the priest, whose entire body radiated tension. There was no point in asking him if he was alright, because even in the near darkness you could tell he was definitely not. You kneeled in front of him and once more reached out a hand, putting in on his own which seemed intent on crushing his knee. He looked at you and his large soulful eyes were literally screaming. “Do you know where the candles are?” you asked, your voice only loud enough for him to hear over the rain and wind outside. He shut his eyes again and shook his head. “Alright. Do you mind if I go look for them?” Paul opened his eyes again, a tiniest hint of gratitude hidden behind the panic in the nearly black orbs. You went to fetch your phone and put it next to him on the sofa, so he wouldn’t have to sit in the dark while you were searching the rectory for candles. And after a bit of thought, you took a hold of the blanket that was haphazardly thrown over the back of the little couch and draped it over the priest’s lightly trembling shoulders. His hands left his knees to grab at the blanket and wrap it tightly around himself.

You spent several minutes looking around the room to see if you could perhaps spot the candles hiding somewhere in plain sight. You didn’t. Erin kept her candles in the kitchen cabinets, you remembered, and perhaps Monsignor Pruitt did too. The first one you checked only contained mugs and glasses, good thing to remember, maybe you could make some tea for the priest later. The next cabinet had various plates in it, and the one next to it had various durable foods stored inside, pasta, rice, canned goods, etcetera. Only one cabinet remained. You took a deep breath and opened it. You were wet, cold, a bit miserable, and worried for the priest, so you grinned in victory at the various candles of all shapes and sizes, complete with a large pack of matches.

There was no coffee table, so you pulled a chair from a dining table nearby and began lighting up a candle after candle. You left one large one and several smaller ones on the chair itself, but then started putting the little lit candles on every flat surface, making sure nothing flammable was nearby. Soon enough, the rectory was bathed in a pleasant warm orange glow. It wasn’t exactly bright, but you saw father Paul’s face clearly now. He stared into the flames of the candles placed on the chair, still trembling a bit and flinching at every loud boom of a thunder. Acting on instinct, you pulled close curtains on all the windows. Tea, you remembered, that could help him calm down.

Well, this idea left as quickly as it arrived. The rectory’s stove was an electric one, therefore useless in the current situation. Damn, you could have sworn it was a gas one, at least it looked to you as such before you lit the candles. However, on one of the burners stood a kettle and when you touched it, told to do so purely by your own subconsciousness you supposed, you were quite delighted to feel the little sting on your fingers. There was hot water inside, and while not boiling anymore, it’d be enough for tea to steep in. Remembering you saw some earl grey in the third cabinet you opened, you fetched two random mugs and put a teabag in each, before pouring the hot water over them.

You carried the tea back towards the sofa and, without a word, father Paul moved to sit a little closer to the edge of the sofa, prompting you to take the now empty seat beside him. You did and held out one of the mugs for him to take. He appeared to be a little calmer, the thunder ‘only’ making him tense up now, instead of full on flinching. He still stared into the flames, his expression less panicked, but still unhappy and now also appearing tired. “A little better?” you asked softly, blowing on your tea. He nodded and started biting on the inside of his cheek. “It’s not…” he began, sadness in his rich voice, “it’s not always this bad… Almost never, really. I actually even like storms, it's just-” he broke off after another loud crash from the skies.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped out, “you haven’t known me for a day and you already have to… comfort me, because I got-... spooked by a stupid storm... That’s some first impression as a priest I gotta be making now.” Yes, he was still a stranger, but you hated how self-deprecating and ashamed he sounded. Without thinking, you took a hold of his free hand. Paul gave you a surprised look. “Don’t…” you whispered, looking into his eyes, “don’t. We all get spooked sometimes. And many people are terrified of much smaller things than this hell of a nasty storm. Besides,” your thumb stroked over the priest’s large hand, “I don’t think it’s really just the storm that made you so wound up. You said it yourself, you usually like them. Perhaps you’re just… under a lot of stress. Which of course you are, I mean, you stood before total strangers today, talking to them from a position of authority, I mean, I’d be sweating bullets. But you weren’t. You were awesome. You were charming and kind and knowledgeable and approachable. Just like a good priest should be. That’s my first impression of you. As for the second,” you scooted just a tad closer to him, “my second impression is that you are a man who went out of his way to give me shelter from an abominable storm. The storm terrifies you, and you still went out and got yourself drenched, just to help me. And I think that’s pretty awesome, too.”

Paul’s expression softened and he gave you a small, but honest smile. And you were so glad your face was only illuminated by the candlelight, because it hid the fact you blushed seeing that smile. It made his face look so open, and little crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes, in which you saw pure gratitude written. “Thank you,” he said, and squeezed your hand, but didn’t let go of it. He turned his head away. “You’re right,” he spoke then, “these last few days… have been quite stressful.” You waited for him to elaborate. Another thunder - the priest’s hand squeezed your own again. “Let’s talk some more,” you said, trying to get him to focus on you instead of the tempest raging outside.

“You can talk to me about what’s been bothering you, if only to get it out of your system. Or, if you don’t want to talk about it, you can tell me something about yourself.”

So Paul talked. He told you everything that happened from first meeting the Monsignor in Israel up until today, holding your hand the entire time, and the more he talked, the less he tensed up each time the ground underneath trembled with the storm’s intensity. Gradually, his body relaxed and once he was done with his story he seemed nearly as calm as he was when you first spoke to him in front of the church. “No wonder this monstrous cloudburst got you so worked up, this is enough pressure to throw anyone out of their element. Especially so suddenly… Your first storm here is always the worst. It gets better after that,” you said then.

He looked at you with a slight smile: “How about you, then?” You frowned at the question. “What about me?” you asked. He chuckled lightly: “How come you got stranded in the storm? I mean, Monsignor Pruitt told me a little about you, but he never mentioned you're fond of going for jogs in thunderbolts and lightning, which I think is rather peculiar.” You giggled and rolled your eyes. You supposed it was your turn to talk.

And so you did. You took turns talking about your lives, what was before Crockett Island, and you talked long, long into the night. So long actually, that neither of you noticed that the storm slowly fading away until there were no other sounds than your voices, and while many of the candles died, the rectory wasn’t as dark as it had been before. And the entire time, you held each other’s hand.

Father Paul suddenly stopped talking, excused himself, held a free hand in front of his mouth and yawned. You chuckled and, letting go of him, stood up to walk to the window.

“The rain has moved on,

And left a new day,

Nothing seems to move,

Everything is still.

It’s just a perfect day.”

You sang quietly and pulled the curtains on the window apart, revealing first rays of sunshine appearing on the horizon, stars still visible on the west. “You should get some sleep, father,” you turned towards him, your own eyes feeling quite heavy. He observed you with such fondness, anyone would’ve guessed he’d known you for years, not less than 24 hours. “Thank you,” he spoke in a whisper, which you heard perfectly in the absolute silence of the room, “you’ve done so much for me, a man you barely know. I don’t know how I could ever repay you.” You smiled and shook your head, walking back to the sofa and stopping right in front of him. You put your hands on his shoulders and looked into his eyes: “There is nothing to repay. I mean that. I’m glad to have helped ease your unrest, father. And don’t forget, you saved me from the storm.”

You went to put your shoes back on at the door. They were still wet, but they’d get you home just fine. Your jumper though, that was a different case entirely. Seeing as it spent the entire night out on the porch and was not only soaked but also utterly filthy, you could pretty much throw it away. “Wait,” Paul said as got up and disappeared to, what you presumed, was the bedroom. He came back a few moments later, holding a warm looking cable knit cardigan. “Please, take it, I- I wouldn’t want you catching a cold because of me.”

You gratefully accepted and let him help you put it on. You were right, it truly was very warm, but also soft and it smelled really nice. “Go get some sleep, father Paul, you could really use it after the last few days. I mean, I know you’re supposed to be serving mass in a few hours, but after that, I think you earned yourself a nice long day of rest,”  you said, standing at the door. He gave you that soft smile again, and you tried your hardest to keep blood from rushing into your cheeks. “Perhaps. Hopefully.” he replied. “You too should rest.” “I will,” you agreed and smiled at him in return, “Good night, then.”

You walked down the few steps leading from the rectory’s porch and made your way around the little graveyard by the church. But then you turned around: “Also,” you called to him, stopping him from closing the door, “we know each other now.” Your voice, while tired, held cheer within. “I guess we do,” replied the priest, his voice matching yours, “good night, (F/N). Sleep well.”

Father Paul shut the door only after you rounded a corner and disappeared from his view. He blew out the last few remaining candles and walked slowly into the bedroom. As he got rid of his own cardigan and changed into some sleeping trousers, he kept thinking about you, the sound of your voice, your very presence. The moment you stepped over his threshold last night, something inside of him happened, and with each passing moment you spent sitting together on that ghastly sofa, he felt more and more at ease. And he felt so very grateful. He lied down and got comfortable, looking at the ceiling.

His mind kept replaying the song, sung in your voice. He didn’t know it, but it was lovely. And it sounded lovely when you were singing it. Maybe someday you'll sing it in its entirety for him. Father Paul Hill didn’t even realise he closed his eyes, still hearing your soft voice in his head, your tones gently lulling him to restful sleep.

Hello, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed <3 You can check this story and the entire series on AO3. I love your guys’ feedback :)