crack taken seriously

 The sound of gravel crunching underneath the tires as they entered the parking lot signaled Patrick to their arrival. The church was a modest size but sported gorgeous stained glass windows depicting various scenes from the bible. At least Patrick assumed he never read the thing. His family attempted to sneak in quietly, but the creaking of the large oak double doors alerted the entire congregation of about fifty people to their presence. Suddenly, all eyes were on Patrick and his family. The priest, a tall old man with kind eyes, broke the silence, gesturing for them to come in. 

“Well, here are some faces I don’t think I’ve seen before.” 

His father spoke up. “We just moved here. I’m Callen Zweig; this is my wife Lauren, my eldest Julia, my son Patrick—”

As his father introduced him, Patrick locked eyes with a boy who appeared to be the same age as him, sporting a head of unruly blond curls. Patrick offered a crooked smile, and the boy gave him a small wave.

“—and our youngest Madeline. She's just shy of six months.” 

“What a beautiful family you have. Please sit wherever you like; all are welcome here.” 

The back row was mostly empty, with only the blonde boy Patrick had noticed earlier and an older woman who he shared an uncanny resemblance to. His mother noticed they were close in age and whispered for Patrick to sit next to him. He slid down the pew with the boy on his left and Julia on his right. 

“Hi, I’m Patrick,” he whispered.

“Art. Nice to meet you.” They smiled shyly at one another before settling into their seats as the priest resumed his sermon. 

“What are the moral virtues? The moral virtues are acquired by human effort. They are the fruit and seed of morally good acts; they dispose of all the powers of the human being for communion with divine love.”

Patrick nodded solemnly, though he wasn't praying. He had stayed up ridiculously late last night downloading a ton of new songs onto his iPod and was currently bopping his head to the beat. He was so engrossed by the song, in fact, that he hadn't noticed everyone around him had begun to kneel. It was only when Art tapped his shoulder that he started to move. After a few minutes, Patrick became bored and cracked an eye open to look around. Art's eyes were closed, and his hands were clasped firmly in contrition. He appeared to be taking everything so seriously, and Patrick couldn't help but snicker quietly at how into it he was. Though it must have been louder than he thought, because suddenly a pair of blue eyes were scowling directly at him.

“Patrick, take those out. You're supposed to be paying attention.” Art whispered with an air of superiority. 

“Or what? Is God gonna strike me down for listening to Kanye in his house?” 

“Don't joke about that,” he said under his breath before turning away. 

Patrick ignored him and went back to his music, feeling victorious, but then he felt the headphones being ripped out of his ears. Art smirked at him triumphantly, but the look soon morphed into horror when Patrick's iPod started to blast the song he had been listening to.

♫ Her bittersweet taste made his gold teeth ache, uh ♫

♫ Make her knees shake, make a priest faint, uh ♫

♫ Make a nun cum, make her cremate, uh ♫

The entire congregation turned to look at them. Patrick felt his ears burn, and the pair had turned matching shades of red. He managed to mute the damn thing, but the damage had been done. The priest’s once kind and friendly countenance was nowhere to be found. He was seething and staring right at them. Patrick swallowed audibly and didn't dare turn to face his mother. He spent the rest of the sermon on his best behavior, and when the virtue of temperance came up, the priest locked eyes with only him. He hadn't the foggiest why.

After the service was finished, Patrick tried his best to sneak away, and he noticed Art attempting to do the same, but they were promptly called over by the priest. 

“Yes, Father?”

“That was quite the stunt you pulled today, Zweig.” 

“Father, it wasn't his fa-” Art tried to explain, but before he could finish, Patrick cut him off. 

“Sorry, Father, I just felt like the sermon was lacking some music. And don't get me wrong, Gloria is great, but the organ wasn't really doing it for me.”

“Well, I hope your little prank was worth it because you aren't leaving here until this place is spotless.” 

“Yes, Father,” Patrick sighed internally as he waved farewell to his Sunday. 

“Now run off to Sunday school, both of you.  And Patrick, why don't you try to take a page out of Art's book? You could learn a thing or two.” 

Art looked at his feet sheepishly and refused to meet Patrick's stare. The two of them walked down to the church's classroom for their lessons. And on the way, Art leaned in close to whisper. 

“Thanks. You didn't have to do that.”

“It was nothing.” Patrick turned to meet his smile, the sight leaving him feeling strangely winded. 

“I'll stay and help.”

“Damn right you will.”

“Patrick! You can't say that. We are literally in a church.” And the genuine fear with which he said the words made Patrick crack up. He dissolved into a fit of giggles and ran to the classroom with Art chasing right after him. 

***

Their Sunday school teacher was an old nun named Sister Catherine. She spoke in a very sophisticated manner and had zero tolerance for nonsense. Naturally, she and Patrick did not get along. Unsurprisingly, Art was her star pupil, and he wore the Noah’s ark-themed stickers she gave him like a badge of honor. What a dork, Patrick thought as he smiled to himself and shook his head. 

“Is something amusing, Patrick?” Her stern voice clipped his ears and brought him back to the lesson he was trying very hard to ignore. 

“No, Sister.” He cleared his throat, deciding he had already gotten into enough trouble for today. After a hellish sixty minutes, Patrick all but flew out the door, but was blocked by a worn wooden handle. Sister Catherine handed him a mop and a beat-up metal pail with a humorous expression on her face. 

“Certainly you haven’t forgotten the consequence of the little stunt you pulled today?” 

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“Thought so. You can leave when the floors and windows are spotless. Find me when you’re done.” 

He resigned himself to his fate and accepted the outstretched items. “Where should I-?” He began gesturing to the pail. 

“There's a water pump in the garden. Run along now.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and Patrick went off in search of the garden. 

The main room, despite its magnificent windows, was nothing special. The pews were a glossy, rich brown color and the red carpeted aisle led up to a small altar decorated only with the depiction of Christ nailed to the cross. Patrick continued to wander until he found another pair of large oak double doors, similar to those at the front entrance. He pushed them open and was briefly taken aback by the scenery in front of him. In the center of the church resided a small square garden littered with red roses. The greenery was lush and climbed up the stone walls encasing it. And in the center of it all was Our Lady of Sorrows, the Virgin Mary carved out of a marble so pure it could be mistaken for ivory. One palm was outstretched, and a rosary hung limply in the other. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” The voice startled him, and he turned to find Art watching him from the corner. 

“Yeah—it’s—wow.” Artwork had never really captured Patrick's attention. His parents had tried to take him and his sister to the Met a couple of times for “culture” purposes, though he found himself bored to death. But for whatever reason, he found this simple scene heartbreakingly beautiful. Patrick treaded lightly on the worn stone path. The pump was clearly old and needed a considerable amount of effort to push down the handle, but the two of them managed. With matching pails full of sloshing water, they reentered the church and got to work. Patrick couldn’t remember the last time he did manual labor, if ever. His mother always said, “There were people for that.” But he found he didn’t mind it all that much. Especially when the easy conversation with Art made the time pass by much quicker. There was always a joy in making a new friend and learning the intricacies of their personality. Art, he found, was so earnest it hurt, a goody-two-shoes—but you could probably tell that from just looking at him—and surprisingly funny. He always had a witty comeback for Patrick's remarks while still somehow managing to keep it PG-13, no matter how crass Patrick got. It was the middle of the afternoon when they finished. Their cheeks were flushed, and the back of their necks slightly damp with sweat, but the windows were sparkling, and the floors were practically reflective. Even Sister Catherine gave him a hum of approval. Freedom at last. Patrick practically rejoiced as he pondered what to do with the rest of his Sunday.

“Patrick?” 

“What’s up?”

“I’ve been wondering. Why did you take the fall for me? We hadn’t even met.” 

He exhaled and made a face like he was thinking, “Well, it’s honestly really simple, Art. I just thought to myself-” he paused for effect to put his hand over his heart and wistfully look up “-what would Jesus do?” For a moment, Art’s eyes lit up, but his face fell when Patrick started to crack up. 

“Oh. You’re being sarcastic.” 

“Nothing gets past you, huh? I’ll see you around, Art.” He turned to leave, stopping to wave before getting into an awaiting car. 

Art walked home later feeling light as a feather. He made a friend! His grandma was going to be so happy. 

*** 

It wasn’t long before they became virtually inseparable. It was always easy between them, never forced. It reminded Patrick of how, in kindergarten, you could just walk up to anyone, ask to be their friend, and that was that. With Art, it really was that simple. At school, Patrick had the new-kid advantage, making him instantly interesting and therefore popular. Art, throughout his years at school, had gone largely unnoticed despite being a stellar student and athlete. He wasn’t bullied, but he didn’t have many friends either. That was another perk about being friends with Patrick; he became cool by association. But he honestly couldn’t care less about all that stuff. It was just nice to know that Patrick was his best friend, and he was his. Though throughout the years, there were times when the lines blurred, and guilt gnawed away at him until he said hundreds of Hail Marys. Things happened that Art was sure normal best friends didn’t do together. Granted, his frame of reference wasn't very large; he had never had a best friend before. 

When things happened between them, Art preferred not to think about it. The only reason he began to reminisce was because of an upcoming milestone. His eighteenth birthday. And all the memories from when he first met Patrick to the present came flooding back. When he was younger, he loved hanging out at Patrick's house because it felt like he was experiencing a different side of life. Patrick's parents didn’t care what they watched on TV, what music they listened to, or the things they talked about behind closed doors. Art knew that Patrick also got some enjoyment out of this, too. It was clear he liked being the first to see Art’s reaction to a song, a movie, or where babies came from. So at first it wasn’t even that weird when one night at Patrick's house he asked him, “Hey Art, do you know what porn is?” They were freshman, and Art’s grandma may have tried her best to shelter him, but he had gone to public high school after all. He rolled his eyes at the question.

“Yeah, Pat. I haven’t spent the last fifteen years living under a rock.”

“Ok, but…have you ever seen it?” 

Art paused what he was doing to look up. They had been taking turns on Patrick's 3DS, trying to beat a stupidly hard level in Super Mario, the “lose life” sound breaking the silence between them. Art slowly shook his head.

“No. ‘Course not. Have you?” 

“Well, yeah...” he replied with something like pride in his voice. 

“But you like…confessed your sins and everything, right?” Nervousness edged its way into Art’s tone. 

Patrick scoffed. “Jerking off is not a sin, Art.”

Art's jaw went slack, and his voice dropped to a whisper even though it was just the two of them, “Wait, y-you masturbated too?”  

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal—? Patrick, the sixth commandment! You can’t just— you need to pray right now.” Art started frantically digging through the overnight bag his grandma packed for him.

“Art, relax. What are you even looking for anyway?” 

“My rosary.” The moment his fingers clasped around the beads, Patrick grabbed his arm to still him. 

“Art, trust me. It’s not a sin. It’s perfectly natural; Ms. Jones said so herself.” 

“When did she say that?”

“In health class. You needed a permission slip to go.” 

There was an awkward silence between them, and Art’s eyes went to the hand around his wrist. Patrick noticed but didn’t let go. 

“Ok, but- but the bible still says-” 

“The bible also says it’s ok to buy slaves,” Patrick interjected. Art didn’t really have an argument for that one. 

“How about I show you? And then you can decide for yourself.” 

“Show me what?” 

Patrick made a crude gesture with his hand, and Art’s eyes went wide like saucers. A beat. Then, to both of their surprise, he nodded. 

***

That night, Art couldn’t sleep. 

The shame he felt from the act he had committed plagued him. The moments leading up to it had been nothing like he'd ever felt; it was blissful, almost euphoric. But the comedown had been one of the worst feelings he’s ever felt. Even worse, he had enjoyed the way Patrick guided his movements and told him what he was doing well, when to slow down or speed up. He had always been a good listener. His stomach coiled and twisted in sickening knots.

He rolled over and looked at Patrick, who was sprawled across the bed, snoring softly and completely unaware of Art's panic. Art squeezed his rosary until the beads indented his palm. He tried praying. Then he tried praying harder. Then he tried reciting every prayer he knew by memory.

Nothing worked. His thoughts only seemed to get louder. 

“I can hear you freaking out.” Patrick's voice was muffled through his pillow, thick with sleep.

Art winced. “Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.” 

“You’re not gonna go to hell.” Patrick groaned and turned to face him in the dark. “You are literally the closest thing to a wingless cherub.” 

“Shut up,” but Art giggled softly anyway. 

Patrick smiled sleepily. “See? You’re fine.”

Once their laughter fizzled out, the silence felt somehow heavier than before. 

“Pat?”

“Yeah?”

Art hesitated. “Will you pray with me?” 

Patrick let out a long sigh. “Art, come on. You know I don’t believe in any of that stuff.” 

“I know.”

“So why do you keep asking me?” 

Because you’re the only person who makes me feel less alone, Art almost said. 

Instead, he whispered, “Please?” 

Patrick stared at him for a moment, then let out a sigh of defeat. “If I do this, will you go to sleep?”

Art nodded, his curls reflecting slivers of the pale moonlight. Under the covers, Patrick reached for Art's hand and wove their fingers together. The words tumbled from their mouths easily; it was like muscle memory at this point. Something they had repeated so many times in childhood that neither of them needed to think about the words anymore.

"Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen." 

Again.

And again. 

And again. 

Eventually, Art's breathing began to slow. The tightness in his chest loosened; the awful knot of guilt was still there, but it no longer felt like it was consuming him. His grip on Patrick’s hand remained firm long after the prayers stopped.  They awoke the next morning still clinging to one another, awkwardly shuffling to untangle their limbs. Neither commented on it as they got ready for church. Yet, by the time Sunday school had finished, it was like nothing ever happened at all. 

***

The next moment that stuck out in Art's memory occurred the following year, when they were sixteen. It was their first fight. Sure, they had disagreed a lot, but it was always good-natured and never serious. Even when they were wrestling or on the court, things never got too heated. But this was a full-on screaming, throwing-plates-in-the-kitchen type of fight. And to this day, Art still doesn’t really know what it was all about. He remembers when Patrick started to act… weird. Timmy Reed, their designated altar boy, had just moved away with his family to the West Coast, so Art, ever the problem solver, decided to volunteer. He was a bit old for the job, but their priest didn't seem to mind and appreciated his enthusiasm regardless. When he told Patrick the news, he didn’t seem to think anything of it, but that was to be expected. It wasn’t until the first service when Art had to perform his godly duties that he sensed a change in Patrick's demeanor.

***

Sunday was supposedly the day of rest, so Patrick could not figure out for the life of him why his parents insisted on dragging him out of bed at 8 am, forcing him into a suit to go sit on a very uncomfortable bench for an hour and a half. Yet here he was, tie and everything, bored out of his mind. Usually, it wasn’t so bad since he had Art right next to him, but since he had so gallantly volunteered to be the next altar boy (Hunger Games style), he was alone. Friendless and iPodless (after the incident, he was forced to turn out his pockets each Sunday). So there he remained in between his mother and Julia. He slouched slightly, eyes drifting up toward the ceiling, where painted saints stared down judgementally. His thoughts wandered far from anything resembling prayer. Then the doors at the back of the church shifted. No one batted an eye as the altar servers began the entrance procession; this was nothing out of the ordinary except for one thing. This time it was Art carrying the processional cross, and for a second Patrick forgot how to breathe. The cross caught the light from the stained glass windows, and Art—serious-faced, dressed in his white robe—looked ethereal in the soft color spilling across him. The scene was vaguely picturesque like a still from an old film or a painting. 

Patrick sat up straighter without meaning to. 

The procession moved slowly down the aisle. Other altar servers followed in pairs, hands folded, faces carefully composed. Art led them, brows slightly pinched in that expression Patrick knew meant he was concentrating. Patrick's face began to warm at the realization he was staring. 

Then the service began—readings, responses, the priest speaking from the altar. Patrick didn't catch most of it. His attention remained on the front of the church where Art moved through his tasks with practiced precision—holding books, helping prepare the altar, and assisting as the chalice and cruets were brought forward. Then came communion. Patrick lined up with the rest of the congregation, moving mostly on muscle memory. The altar servers helped guide, standing at either side quiet as mice. Art stood near the altar now, ready to assist the priest. When the chalice was prepared, Patrick watched without meaning to, tracking every small, careful movement. The wafer was lifted. The words were spoken. People stepped forward one by one. 

Art received communion too; when it was his turn, he accepted the small white host, paused for a brief moment, then placed it in his mouth. He moved gracefully, with a practiced ease, the white robe adding to his perfect picture of innocence. Patrick didn’t know why he was watching so closely, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene. Then the chalice came around, with a careful tilt. Art drank from it, just a small sip, as was required. When he pulled back, a small drop of wine spilled from the corner of his lips and dripped down onto his chin before he wiped it away with the back of his hand like it was nothing. Something in Patrick's brain short-circuited. He had a completely unhelpful, immediately regrettable thought—sharp and confusing and gone almost as soon as it appeared. He wanted to lick it. His stomach flipped in a way he did not want to think about. He inhaled a sharp breath. That was not a thought one should have in church. Or anywhere, really… 

Abruptly, he looked down at his hands, anything to end the dangerous train of thought he was having. The service continued, the congregation kept moving. Nothing had changed, except Patrick's whole world had been flipped on its axis all because of Art and his ridiculous robe, and stupidly curly hair that framed his face like a blond halo. Across the aisle, Art returned to his place among the altar servers, looking borderline angelic, completely unaware of Patrick's internal turmoil. Patrick stared straight ahead, trying very hard to think about literally anything else—nuns, dying polar bears, the quadratic formula, whatever it took. But his ears were still a little too warm.

***

Later that night Patrick tossed and turned, and he sighed dramatically as sleep evaded him once more. Turning to look at the alarm clock on the bedside table, he groaned internally, knowing he had just a couple of hours before he had to wake and navigate the zoo known as high school. Slowly, his hand drifted south underneath the waistband of his boxers. There was always one thing that tired him out… Categorically, he drifted through the pornographic scenarios his mind conjured up. 

First he tried Vanessa. She was a girl in his biology class who he could tell liked him; she was very pretty and always had her hair up in a bun so the slender, tan expanse of her neck showed. Patrick had given up on teasing and fully took himself in hand as he tried to imagine what she looked like under her blouse. His favorite was the white one. He liked the way it complemented her bronzed skin and fit snugly around her waist. He began to find a rhythm, and steadily his movements sped up. But eventually he became bored, and subconsciously the elements of his fantasy morphed into something radically different.

 The white blouse was no longer tapered and form-fitting, but rather a long and flowing robe. Her skin changed from a rich brown to lightly sun-kissed and freckled. And her long, sleek brown hair turned into short blond curls. And suddenly it was no longer Vanessa at all. He tried to will the image away, but his brain clung to it, and he could feel himself nearing the edge. And for one brief, sinful moment he imagined what it would be like to be under the robe in between his best friend's legs. His orgasm startled him, and he came with a choked-off grunt. He cleaned himself off quickly, before he had to face the realization of what he had just done. It would all seem like a dream in the morning anyway.

***

Monday was awkward to say the least. Patrick tried to act like everything was normal and he totally hadn't jacked off to his best friend in an altar boy uniform, but there was a reason Patrick was in tennis and not theatre. After number five, he stopped counting how many times Art asked if he was ok and gave some pathetic excuse about familial stress. It was well known that Patrick was very shameless. Almost famously so. He would charm and flirt his way out of or into any situation, but for the first time he couldn’t look Art in the eye. He felt as if he had defiled him in some way and couldn’t help but feel guilty about it. His mind was clouded with so many confusing thoughts, and if there was one thing he figured he needed, it was a distraction. So when he started going out with Vanessa, his mind felt a bit more at ease, like this was what he was supposed to be doing. He knew Art didn’t like her; he had told Patrick as much. Despite all her apparent beauty, she was actually quite mean, but he figured that was why she was so popular. She, like most of the kids at his school, was Catholic and liked to present herself as the perfect picture of innocence. Sparkling diamond cross necklace and a promise to wait until marriage.

But as Patrick came to find out, there were many loopholes (not like he was complaining). Apparently, God sees everything unless there’s a technicality. Though as their relationship progressed, his friendship with Art started to feel more and more like a ticking time bomb. And the look of dejection Art gave him every time he blew him off to see Vanessa chipped away at his heart. But the fear he felt of looking Art in the eye and facing what he had done was far scarier. After a couple of months, the newness that once made the relationship feel fun and exhilarating faded, leaving only their jarring flaws and distinct lack of common interests. Art seemed to have, unfortunately, “taken the hint” and was keeping his distance from Patrick, except for the occasional small smile that had his stomach doing aerials. It was crushing to watch Art retreat further into himself; so many times Patrick had wanted to apologize and face the music, but the sad truth was that under all that bravado, he was a coward. 

***

“Grandma, I’m home.” Art called from the entryway. His grandmother turned from her usual spot on the couch, a half-finished sweater draped across her lap.

“Hey Arthur.” The smile she gave him was warm enough to make his chest ache. “How was school?” She put down the sweater she had been crocheting and beckoned for him to come over. He sat down next to her and let himself sink into the cushions. They were almost too soft, and as a kid he worried they would swallow him whole, but now he wanted nothing but. 

His grandmother studied him for a moment. “What’s wrong, dear?”

“What makes you think something’s wrong?”

“Oh, Arthur.” She reached over and smoothed a curl from his forehead. “I feel like it's been weeks since I’ve seen you smile.” Art almost teared up at the softness of her words.

“It’s Patrick.”

Her brows furrowed a bit in confusion. Understandably, in all their time of being friends, they had never fought. Not like this. 

“What about Patrick?”

“I don’t know what’s going on with him, and I don’t know if I did something wrong, and I’ve asked him about it like a bunch of times, but he always tells me he’s fine. And he got this girlfriend, and it feels like…” He swallowed. “Like he doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Oh, sweetie.” She opened her arms and wrapped him in a hug. He went easily, allowing himself to be coddled like a child. The familiar scent of French perfume and peppermint enveloped him. He felt ridiculous for how much it comforted him.  “You know how stubborn Patrick can be.”

Art chucked weakly against her shoulder, “That’s kind of the problem.”

“I know.” She rubbed slow circles across his back. “But if something’s bothering him, don't let him shut you down. Keep trying.”

“But-but what if I can’t fix it?”

“The friendship you two have is hard to come by. If Patrick knows what it’s worth, he’ll fix it.”

He nodded and sniffled against her sweater, trying his best to blink away the tears that were starting to form. Even though nothing was resolved, he felt a bit better. Sometimes it just helped to get things off his chest. Art always got in his own head; it was like that for as long as he could remember. Before, he would pray to quiet the noise, and that would bring him a bit of solace. And then Patrick came along, with his charm, and understanding, and the way his eyes lit up whenever he saw Art across the room. The noise was still there, not as deafening; it had faded into a murmur. He knew it would never be fully gone, but the company helped, more than he realized. 

***

A few days had passed since the conversation with his Grandma. He knew he had to talk to Patrick sooner or later, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. Sure, Patrick actively avoiding him didn’t help, but it seemed like he was putting extra effort into ensuring their paths didn’t cross. So when Art spotted him crossing the parking lot after school on Friday, he took off running. 

“Patrick!” he called. Patrick stopped and turned to look unnecessarily. He could recognize that voice anywhere. Heard it in his dreams, in his fantasies, in his memories. 

“Hey Art. What’s up?” He grasped his backpack handles and shifted on his feet a bit awkwardly. 

“We need to talk.” 

“I've already told you, Art; nothing is wro—”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Art stepped closer. “Patrick, please, will you just be honest with me for once?” The words had more bite than he intended. And Patrick looked away shamefully. But Art pressed on.

 “You’ve been acting like a total stranger for no reason. Did I do something?”

“No, you didn't do anything; it's just…”

“Just what?”

“Nothing.”

Art groaned in frustration. “Stop saying that.”

“It's the truth.”

“You’re lying.”

Patrick sighed heavily. “Art— “

“You barely talk to me anymore.”

“We see each other every day.”

“At practice.” Art threw his hands up. “That's it.”

Patrick's silence was enough. 

"We never hang out anymore," Art continued. "Every time we make plans, you cancel."

Patrick's jaw tightened.

"Sometimes people get busy."

“Busy with Vanessa?”

“There it is.”

Art stared at him. “There, what is?”

“This is about Vanessa. This is why you’re being so pissy.” 

“No, Patrick, stop trying to change the subject. I couldn't care less about your girlfriend. I just want my best friend back.” 

“Look, Art, can we talk about this later?”

“Do you hear yourself? You are such a coward, man. You need to grow up.” 

 Patrick scoffed, looked like he was about to walk away, then thought better of it. “I need to grow up? Do you hear yourself? Whining about me not giving you enough attention. This is what grown-ups do, Art. They get girlfriends, they have sex, and they don’t freak out and say a hundred Hail Marys about it.” The anger in his voice felt forced, like he was trying to convince himself as much as Art.

“You know it isn’t about that.”

“I have a life, Art.”

“So do I.”

“Then act like it.” 

Art just stared. Patrick was being cruel. Patrick was an asshole; he teased, and pushed Art’s buttons, and annoyed him to no end. But he was never cruel. Patrick finally met his eyes, and the look on his face awakened memories Art thought he had long repressed. It wasn't anger; it was fear. Raw and desperate and ugly. Almost apologetic, akin to pity. Somehow that hurt even more. 

“It’s like you’re obsessed with me or something.” The words hit harder than a slap; Art felt like he had been winded. Immediately, Patrick's face filled with regret, yet he didn't take back the words. 

“Goodbye, Patrick.”

“Art— “

But he was already turning away. And finally, with his back turned, he could allow the tears he had been holding back so fiercely to flow freely. 

***

Art had always been a shy kid, but what he lacked in personality he made up in friends. Usually drifting towards the loudest person in the room. Before Art transferred to public high school, he went to a small Catholic Private School called St. Hedwig. It was his seventh-grade year, and he wanted to make at least one friend so his grandma would be happy. She would always ask him if he felt lonely, and the answer was no because he had her, and that was enough.

 But that was before he met Daniel. Daniel was an eighth grader and, in Arts' eyes, the coolest person he’d ever met. He was tall and charismatic, good at sports, and there was never a shortage of Valentine's in his shoebox. So when Daniel saw him play and asked if he wanted to be his doubles partner, he was over the moon. 

And for whatever reason, Daniel really liked Art, and took him wherever he went. He got to eat at his table at lunch and sit on his fancy countertop while his mom made them sandwiches. He got to sleep in his room and know him. Art also liked that Daniel was popular. He liked basking in its rays and hovering his fingertips over greatness. Art liked Daniel. He was funny, kind, and generous. Art really liked Daniel more than he’d ever liked a friend. Art knew what he was. Knew it was wrong in the eyes of god, and he punished himself enough for it. But when Daniel held his hand under the covers at sleepovers and knocked their knees beneath the kitchen counter, or smiled at him from across the locker room. Things didn't feel so wrong anymore.

 He thought Daniel might be different too, and it brought them closer. He knew he couldn't tell anyone, but it didn't matter because the one person he could tell this secret already knew. But things got complicated. Even Daniel's rays couldn't cast away the darkest shadows. Names Art hadn’t heard before but could figure out the meaning well enough were slung his way countless times. But he could deal; he had Daniel, his lifeboat, his savior, his warmth. But Art wasn't enough for Daniel. He needed his friends, and thrived off the acceptance of others; he wanted to be something desirable, unachievable. 

“Why are you always hanging out with Art, dude?”

“It’s not like I want to; it’s so annoying. He follows me around like a baby duck; it's pathetic. I just don't know how to shake him. It's like he’s obsessed with me or something. 

Art didn’t stick around to hear the hilarious jokes (he's sure) at his expense. When he came to school the next day, despite all promises, that he really was sick, and looked up during first period to meet Daniel's eyes; a look was shared. It carried the weight of so many unspoken words. “I'm sorry, but what can I do? It’s out of my hands.” Apologetic, pitying, maybe even a bit sincere, like he really did care.  Then the friendship was gone. Merely a blip in time, and nothing had ever changed. Well, except for the following week when Daniel's parents found his playgirls and sent him to conversion camp. Art hasn't seen him since, but he heard he was cured, has a girlfriend now, and everything.

***

Art hadn’t left his room since Friday afternoon. His grandma must have known something really bad happened, since she never lets him skip church. She had tried, bless her, so many times to talk. But every time Art thought about the fight, the noise roared in his ears once again, and he couldn't calm himself down. He prayed countless times and worried the rosary beads between his fingers till they started to cramp, but the knot in his stomach wouldn’t release, and the pain in his chest only got tighter.

 He was madder than he'd ever been before. He felt like he hated Patrick. He had cared about him so much and felt cared for in return, and for Patrick to just snatch it away for no discernible reason stung. But more than anything, he just felt sad, like he was in mourning for something that technically wasn’t dead yet, staying alive via chest compressions and shallow puffs of shared air. 

However, even Art had his limits, and physically it was either eat something or pass out, so he joined his grandma at the dinner table. He looked a mess; he hadn't changed clothes or showered or brushed his hair. He was so tired, barely slept; it was too loud. She had made lasagna, one of his favorites, and he was starving, wanting nothing more than to enjoy his meal in blissful silence before he would return to his wallowing when there was a knock on the door. 

“I'll get it.”

Even in this state, Art's manners couldn't escape him.

“Patrick.” A familiar pair of green-blue eyes stared down at him.

“Hey, Art.” He tried to smile, but it fell flat. “You didn't come to church today; I was really worried.”

“Oh yeah, I was sick.”

“You look alright to me.”

“...”

“Why are you here?”

“I'm really sorry. I said so many horrible things to you, and I swear to God I didn't mean any of it. You are my best friend, and I need you, and I'm sorry I'm really sorry, man.”

Art breathed a sigh of relief that turned into a laugh. I think that might be the first time I've heard you apologize.

Patrick chuckled, but it sounded a little wet, like there was a sob queued up. “F you, man. I apologize all the time.”

“I forgive you, Patrick.” It was a whisper, but it was enough, and then Patrick was pulling him into a crushing hug on his porch, and Art hugged him back so tightly. The fight had barely lasted two days, but it was single-handedly the worst 48 hours of Art's life. 

“I missed you, man. God, I was such a dick.”

“I missed you too.”

“Art, who is it?”

“It’s Patrick.”

“Art, come here.”

“Give me one second.”

He shut the door and went back into the dining room

“What happened?”

“He came to apologize.”

“I told you he'd fix things. Now mind your manners; invite the boy in for dinner.”

“Do you want to, um, have dinner with us?”

“Sure, I’d ike that.” he smiled. 

Patrick joined them at the small round table and sat across from Art in his usual seat. There was already a steaming pile of lasagna on his plate in front of him, and he looked up to smile shyly at Art's grandmother. 

“I'm glad you boys worked out whatever it was. It's hard for me to imagine you two not as a pair. Now Art, how about you say grace.”

 When their hands touch, it's familiar. They've held hands before during church, during grace, but now it feels like there’s new meaning. That this is more like when their bodies align during the night, and they wake up with their fingers intertwined. Art stumbled through grace even though he's said the same exact words a million times before. It's a lot harder when Patrick's palm feels like a red poker fresh from the fire, currently pressed against his hand. When it feels like every hair on his body is standing at attention and each callus, groove, and divot on Patrick's hands is unconsciously being committed to his memory. The food is delicious, but Art hasn't had much time to contemplate its flavor profile. He's too focused on the teasing smile Patrick is now wearing after quivering on his porch begging for forgiveness only thirty minutes ago. 

He's snapped from his thoughts when a socked foot starts to rub against his ankle. He looks up, but Patrick doesn't meet his gaze. He keeps his eyes cast down, at his plate as he nods along to some story his grandma is telling, probably the current standings of Jeopardy or whatever show she's always watching. Then the foot goes higher, touching behind Art's calf, where the back of his knee is. His jean cuffs raise, and the pressure of Patrick's socked foot against his skin causes him to shiver. It’s barely visible, but Patrick's watching him now, trying to gauge any reaction

“Art? Art? Earth to Art?”

“Could you pass me the salt please, dear?”

“Yeah, sorry, Grandma. I was just lost in thought.”

“What were you thinking about, Donnie?” Patrick asks, his tone dripping with faux innocence. 

“Don't call me that. And nothing important.”

Patrick's foot raises higher, approaching the bottom of his thigh. And Art feels something foreign stir in his gut. He feels so mortified, and his grandma, his poor grandma, is a foot away while Patrick just smiles at him like he is really interested in what he has to say.

“Really? Is nothing on your mind?”

The foot brushed higher, borderline dangerous, and Art stands likes he's been zapped. 

“I need to use the bathroom. Really badly, may I be excused…please?”

“Yes, you may,” his grandmother replied, a bit concerned. Patrick just laughs into his fork. 

After dinner, they stick around to watch TV on the couch. It feels so familiar that Art physically aches. His grandma is already starting to doze off, and normally he would too, but he's so wired from the flurry of adrenaline and emotions that he can’t even think about sleep. So he throws his feet in Patrick's lap, and maybe if they really tried right now they could pretend like nothing ever happened—a blip in reality.

When Patrick leaves, he tells Art something that genuinely surprises him.

“I broke up with Vanessa.”

“Oh no, Pat, I'm sorry.”  Art can't even bring himself to try and make it halfway convincing. At least he held back the smile threatening to split his face.

Patrick chuckled at his weak attempt, “A Huh. Sure. Don't worry. She doesn't hold a candle to you, altar boy.” 

Art rolls his eyes at the uninspired wordplay, but in truth he's never felt so endeared. He still doesn't know what the root cause of the fight was and is sure that Patrick will never tell him. But he has what he used to from Patrick, maybe a bit more. He's been a lot clingier; like, after he knows what it's like, he's even more scared of losing Art. Though it's not like Art is complaining; he'll never admit it, but maybe he likes the extra attention. 

***

The following year, Art was turning seventeen, and he feared another fight would occur. Ever since the incident, their friendship had been stronger than ever, which was why it was weird to Art that Patrick seemed to have forgotten his birthday. The day of, Patrick picked him up in his fancy new car he had gotten for his seventeenth birthday and drove the two of them to school with a complete air of indifference. 

“Why are you sulking?” Patrick asked with mirth in his voice.

“I’m not. Just tired.” 

Art hoped that maybe Patrick was just winding him up, but as the day progressed and he said nothing, Art's hope began to dim. Ever since they met, Patrick had never once forgotten his birthday, and every year he would have some fantastical thing planned that never went right, but nonetheless was always fun. Even a couple guys from the team remembered and wished him well. After practice, Art was refusing to speak to Patrick and shot down any attempt at conversation. He only spoke up once he realized that Patrick had long since passed his house. 

“Hey, where are we going?” 

“Oh yeah I forgot to tell you. Josh needs to move his couch and I said we would help. My bad.”

Art just huffed in annoyance as they pulled up to the quiet street and parked along the curb. Patrick didn’t even wait and was already half way to the door before he called out to Art.

“Hey are you coming or not, it's freezing out here.”

“Patrick. Do you seriously not know what day it is?”

“...Friday?” 

Art felt like there was a lump in his throat. He shook his head and joined Patrick at the door. When he pushed it open, the entire house was dark, and it seemed like there was nobody home. 

“SURPRISE!”

Suddenly the room was filled with light and various party decorations. All the guys from the team were there as well as the rest of Patrick and Art’s friends. He was in a complete state of shock, and a grin spread across his face. 

“You didn’t really think I forgot about your birthday, Donnie.” Patrick wore the smuggest grin as he stared down at him. Somehow he already had a party hat on his head. 

Art rolled his eyes but couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

“Now let’s get this party started!” The room erupted in cheers, and soon enough music was blaring, and more people started to arrive. Art was under the impression that this was going to be a small get-together, but when someone brought an entire cooler filled with punch, he realized what kind of night this was turning into. Not like he was complaining, though. He had never been thrown a surprise party and was honored that Patrick had gone through all the trouble. He was having a great time; everyone was so friendly towards him, wishing him a happy birthday, the copious alcohol influencing their behavior. And while he chose not to partake, it was still fun to watch everyone enjoy themselves, especially Patrick, since the more he drank, the more inclined he was to the dance floor. But eventually things started to become a bit too much for him, and he needed a little peace and quiet to recenter himself. So Art went in search of an empty bathroom. He made his way up the stairs where it was quieter and opened the first door he saw. But rather than a toilet, he found a group of people sitting in a circle in a room that was probably Josh’s. 

“Hey, birthday boy! We’re playing spin the bottle, wanna join?” One of the girls asked him. He’s pretty sure her name was Allie. 

“Oh sorry I was just-” his excuse was cut off though when a hand slung itself around his shoulders, and a familiar face leaned in next to him. 

“Art! There you are, I was looking all over for you. You're not running away from your own party, right?” At this distance, Art could smell the beer and his nose wrinkled a bit. 

“Do you guys wanna play or not?” The girl asked again, growing impatient. 

“Yeah, we’re in. Come on Donnie.” Patrick dragged him into the circle, and he sighed as he resigned himself to his fate. The circle opened to accommodate them and Art rubbed his hands on his jeans nervously. 

“Birthday boy goes first.” Allie smiled as she handed him the empty beer bottle. 

He placed it on the carpet and watched as the glass spun round and round. When it stopped, he looked up to see who it had landed on. It was a girl he knew but never really talked to. They had some classes together, but their paths never crossed. Her name was Annabelle. She had straight blond hair, but tonight it was curled; the main thing Art noticed was the glitter on her eyelids, and how it shimmered in the low light of the bedroom. She was really pretty. She smiled shyly at him, and this was the point Art realized he was the one who was supposed to make the first move. He had never kissed a girl before, and this is not at all how he imagined it would be. He figured the first time would be with a girlfriend on a romantic night out. But he couldn't say no now cause then he’d look like a loser or gay. Both of which were not good options. So he got up onto his knees, and she did the same. She closed her eyes, so he did the same and leaned in. The kiss was only for a few seconds, and the press of her lips was soft and firm. When he pulled away, he could physically feel how much he was blushing. 

“Was that good?” he whispered. 

She nodded, and they both laughed a little awkwardly. 

Then it was Patrick's turn, and the kiss was different… If you could even call it that because, in Art's opinion, it seemed like they were trying to eat each other's faces. The bottle landed on Allie; she had purple hair and jet black makeup smeared around her eyes, a stark contrast to her vampirically pale skin. Art's jaw dropped in shock when he saw her cheek bulge out from Pat's tongue. The room started to cheer, but Art stayed silent. It seemed like ages before they pulled away, but when it was finally over, the girl had a dazed look in her eyes, and Patrick's upper lip was shiny with spit. He felt himself swallow. 

After a few more rounds, it was Art’s turn again. He hadn’t been kissed since the first spin and wasn't particularly inclined to do it again. The fear of it landing on one of the guys in the circle was also very apparent. But at that moment one of the girls spoke out and said she was bored. Art let out a sigh of internal relief. He could finally leave. 

“Why don’t we play 7 minutes in heaven?” she suggested instead. The group nodded in murmurs of agreement and passed around a bottle of liquor of mysterious origins. 

“Um-” Art tried to excuse himself.

“Go on, Art. It’s your turn.” 

He took a deep breath and spun the bottle, though this time it didn't land on a pretty girl. He looked up to meet Patrick's unreadable gaze before the circle burst out into raucous “oohs” and cheers. The two of them were pushed into a small built-in closet on the other side of the room. Art could hear the girls giggling as they slid the door shut. Patrick is drunk enough to find the entire ordeal amusing, but for whatever reason Art is terrified of being perceived and a little flustered as well. They are both so tall that even though they are sitting on opposite sides pushed far against the wall, their legs are bent up but intertwined. The air in the closet feels stale, and as their knees knock against each other, Art looks up to try and get a read on Patrick. His face is flushed, but that's probably from the alcohol, and a few unruly curls are sticking to the sweat on his temple. He drops his head onto his shoulder and gives Art a lopsided smile. His eyes are half lidded and a bit droopy like he wants to fall asleep but he's fighting for consciousness. 

“How are you enjoying your birthday party?” 

“It’s ok..I guess.” He smiles

“Just ok?” Patrick teases back.

“No, no, it's good. Thank you. I guess I’m not just a big party person.”

Patrick frowns a little at that. “Next year we’ll do something small. Just you and me. Ok?”

“Ok.” Art says more to the carpet, as something in his stomach flutters a bit. 

A few moments of tense silence pass before it gets to be too much and Art needs to say anything just to fill the void. 

“So…Why do they call it seven minutes in heaven? Like, are we just supposed to sit here?” He laughs nervously. 

Patrick grins suggestively, showing the top row of his teeth, “Not unless you have any better ideas.” Art blushes a bit, but he does his best to laugh it off. He leans his head back and closes his eyes, determined to wait out the remaining few minutes. Unbeknownst to him, the hand that Patrick had on the floor slowly starts to creep up and wrap around Art's ankle. His thumb brushes against the little ball there and dips slightly below his sock. Art cracks an eye open but doesn't say anything. He figures Pat's just doing it absentmindedly; he's always been touchy, even when he's sober. 

But then the hand keeps drifting higher. And now it's brushing the back of his calf, Patrick's index finger dipping behind Art's knee. He sits up straighter now, eyes fully open, and looks at Patrick. But Patrick holds his gaze, almost like he's challenging him to say something. Leave it to Patrick to turn Seven Minutes in Heaven into a game of chicken. But of course Art was never one to back down from a challenge; it simply wasn’t in his nature. So he holds his stare and tries his best not to flinch when Patrick leans forward onto his knees, letting his hand drift over his jeans and onto his thigh. Art is pressed as far back against the wall as he can muster, and its solidity is a grounding reminder of the position he’s currently in. Slowly, tentatively, skittishly, Art reaches out for Patrick's shoulder and clings onto his worn t-shirt. He has no idea what’s happening right now or if anything is happening. Is something going to happen? 

He kind of feels like panicking, so instead he just tightens his grip on Patrick’s shoulder. Now the hand is on his inner thigh, rubbing closer and closer to somewhere it definitely shouldn't be. Art breathes through his nose and hears Patrick swear under his breath. The chatter from the bedroom seems to have quieted, or maybe their breathing has just gotten heavier. It's dark in the closet, but enough light shines in from under the door to illuminate Patrick's trembling hands. The one not on his thigh goes for Art’s waist, and he feels the cold tips of his fingers where his shirt has ridden up.  Patrick has slowly been scooting closer and is now practically kneeling between Art's legs. His thumb brushes centimeters away from where no one has ever touched Art before, and his whole abdomen tenses as he lets out a shaky breath. 

“Pat, I think-” a loud knock on the door scares them so badly, and Patrick shoots backwards like he’s been shocked. 

“Ok, lovebirds, seven minutes are up!”

Arts the first to stand on shaky knees, and he slides open the door, letting in a stream of light. Patrick scrubs his face with his hands, and Art helps him up before the two rejoin the party. 

When it was time to go, Patrick had relatively sobered up, but Art insisted that he drive. When they had settled into Patrick's car, he reached into his pocket and pulled out something shiny. 

“What’s that?” Patrick asked curiously. 

Art held it out to him, and he looked into his open palm to find a simple gold cross necklace. 

“My grandma gave me one for my birthday. She bought you one too. I didn’t give it to you earlier cause I thought you were being a jerk and forgot...” Art rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

“It’s not your fault ‘m a pretty good actor.”

“I know you don’t like- believe, but she still thinks you're a good Catholic boy and you don't have to wear it. I just-”

“Art,” he interjected. “Thank you. I love it. But I think she should have gotten one of those that splits down the middle that clicks when you stick them together. Then we could have real bestie necklaces.” He said the last part with a funny lisp and a crooked grin. 

“Shut up,” Art returned his smile before starting the car. The ride back to his house was quiet since Patrick had fallen asleep the minute Art started to drive. He looked over at his friend and blushed at the memory of recent events. Whatever he thought, it would all seem like a dream in the morning anyway. But that night, even after he had said his Hail Marys, his skin itched like when you haven’t showered for a couple of days, and the layers of dirt start to accumulate and irritate. He turned to stare at his nightstand, eyes boring into where he knew the rosary lay. Unable to stomp down the guilt he pulled open the drawer and clasped the worn beads. 

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee... “ The way Patrick's breaths reverberated against the wooden walls.

“I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more…” How every touch felt hotter than the sixth circle of hell.

“And to avoid the near occasion of sin. Amen.” How he wanted, needed to relive that moment over and over again. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his mind drove him back to that closet. To the way his body reacted to his touch and the way he looked at Art. God help him.

***

Art felt as if there were a caged bird lodged inside of his thoracic cavity. It was the night before his eighteenth birthday and as he lay awake in bed reminiscing about all his past memories with Patrick. All the firsts they shared. First kisses, girlfriends, questionable sexual experiences. They did it all together. Though this year Art was curious as to what Patrick had in store.. 

The next morning his grandma made him his favorite crepes for breakfast and Patrick picked him up blasting happy birthday from the radio and singing miles off key. Art grinned and plugged his ears before begging Patrick to turn it off. 

“Hey birthday boy. How’s it feel to finally be legal?” 

Art slid into the passenger's side and shut the door behind him. “Dunno I guess I sort of just feel old.” When Art turned back around Patrick was looking at him with a crazed sort of smile. 

“What?” Art laughed. 

“Nothing..” he trailed. “Just excited for later.”

“Speaking of, what is this year's surprise?” 

“I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” 

For the rest of the school day Art was antsy. He had so many burning questions and Patrick refused to answer any of them. Even though he was officially an adult Patrick always brought out his more boyish qualities. By the time the last bell rang he was practically buzzing with excitement. Turns out what Patrick had planned was an entire day centered around Art. They went to his favorite restaurant and got milkshakes. Visited the arcade they used to frequent all the time as kids. And ended the day at a record store. Since Art grew up with his grandma she only owned a record player and he came to love old music. They were in a quaint spot in the city that looked like something out of a college town. The shop was tucked into a corner between coffee spots and bookstores. Under the warm, yellow light they moved down the narrow aisles, flipping through records and talking about music. Patrick took in his surroundings and noticed they weren’t the only patrons. But they did seem to be the only pair who weren't on a date. 

“I don’t know if I want The Beatles one or The Smiths one?” Art frowned as he held both albums. 

“Get ‘em both.” 

“Yeah but I only have enough for one.” 

“Well good thing you’re not buying them.”

“Patrick-”

“The birthday boy doesn’t pay.” He cut him off swiftly before taking the records to the cashier. 

***

By the time they got to Patrick's house the sun had almost completely set leaving behind hazy orange trails along the horizon. When they got inside everything was dark and an unnatural silence hung in the air. The house was empty, his sister already gone to college and his other sister was with his grandparents. Both his parents were either at work or out of the country. Either was usually a safe bet. When they entered Patrick's room he put on Art's favorite record(The Velvet Underground) which he only had for when he came over, and dug around under his bed. 

“Patrick, what are you doing?” 

“I’m getting your final surprise. So close your eyes.”  The words were muffled but loud enough for Art to hear, so he complied and covered his eyes with his hands. After some more rooting around he heard Patrick get up and could sense when he came to stand in front of him. 

“Ok you can look now. “

What he was looking at appeared to be a wine bottle with no markings.

“you got me wine?” he asked confused

“ Not just any old wine. This is the lord's wine. “

 The realization dawned on him and his horrified expression met Patrick's gleeful one. “You did not steal the communion wine.“

Patrick nodded slowly, a smile growing on his face. “They always water this stuff down. Aren’t you curious to know what the source tastes like?”

Art stared at him incredulously. “Are you out of your mind?” 

“Come on Art. You only turn eighteen once. This is as good a reason to celebrate as any. Just one glass?” Patrick held up the bottle and shook it enticingly. 

Art chewed on his lip nervously. His moral compass was pointing dead on at NO but one glass couldn't hurt…

They both got cups from the kitchen downstairs because if they were going to do this Art wanted to at least pretend like they were civilized. Patrick poured them both generous glasses and they sat on the carpet facing one another. After the first glass Art felt himself relax, it was as if all the tension in his shoulders pooled to a little pile at his feet. He felt happier too, giggling at every joke or comment Patrick made.  He had never been drunk before, never drank more than the smallest sips at communion. He thought he would hate the taste but when the wine touched his tongue he found that he enjoyed its paradoxes. It was bitter yet sweet, and despite being a liquid left his mouth feeling dry, making him want to drink more to satiate the feeling. He liked the slight burn it caused as it traveled down his esophagus and warmed his stomach.   They drank in companionable silence, as “I Found a Reason” began to play and they swayed to the music, shoulders knocking occasionally. After his second glass Art couldn't believe he’d never done this before.The whole world seemed to have a hazy glow and his usually unsilenceable mind felt light and airy. Art held the bottle by the neck and his head was resting on Patrick's shoulder. The pair were sitting against the bed close enough to feel the heat from the press of each other's bodies. Patrick was so warm and he chased the feeling, trying to nuzzle further into the other boy’s chest. 

Patrick reached his hand out for the bottle, “Should have known you’d be a clingy drunk.” His words were slurred slightly but still held a certain fondness.

Art gave him the bottle, their fingers brushing at the exchange. “Oh yeah? How come?” Art suppressed a hiccup and shuddered. 

“Cause you’re so repressed man. All that stuff comes out when you drink.” 

Art scoffed, “M’ not.” He snatched the bottle back from Patrick, frowning when he found it almost completely empty. As he brought the bottle to his lips and drained the final dregs of wine, some of it spilled from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto his chin. 

Patrick watched the motion and was suddenly reminded of Art's first day as an altar boy, and his fleeting impure thoughts, which he would never act upon but in his inebriated state it seemed that all rationale had abandoned him. They are sitting so close that he doesn't have to lean in very far, but he does so regardless, turning his head into the crook of Art’s neck and darting out his tongue to lap the spilled wine on his chin. Patrick savours the taste—sharp, sweet, with an undercurrent of salt. Art makes a sound like he's wounded. 

“Pat, why did you do that?" he giggles. 

“Dunno. Wanted to.” he shrugs back with a smile of his own. 

When he pulls away he takes in Art’s complexion. His lips are stained a deep berry color and his cheeks are flushed from the wine. It almost looks like he's wearing makeup. Pretty, Patrick thinks. Art's tongue darts out to lick his lips. The silence grew like a void between them. 

“Chapped?” comes his dumb response. 

“Yeah.” but it has a breathier quality.

Tentatively he leans forward again before licking across Art’s bottom lip, copying his previous motion. Art's mouth opened in a small “o” and his eyes fluttered closed. Ever so softly he connected their mouths, fearing that every brush of their lips would send Art into a spiral. He broke the kiss and could taste Art's shuddering exhale. It was devastatingly quiet, each second felt like a different nail in the coffin of their friendship.  

The shift was electric, like a switch had flipped in Art. He felt consumed by greed, after having a taste he couldn’t help but want more, and more. He twisted Patrick's t-shirt roughly and crashed their mouths together.  He had never kissed anyone before so he moved on instinct alone. The desire to taste became a need so he explored the crevices of Patrick's mouth, tracing his tongue along his gumline, and in between his teeth. It felt so right that it hurt, when Patrick enveloped his tongue with his own and swapped their saliva like secrets. And when Patrick's hand came up to cradle his face he leaned into the touch, because it soothed the burn. But Art still felt like he was on fire. He was desperate, he needed, he needed—he didn’t know what he needed. He ran his fingers through Patrick's curls and tugged harshly to convey the urgency that this situation demanded. Patrick shuddered as he released a hot puff of air through his nose and retaliated by biting Art’s lip and pulling slightly. Which resulted in a stifled moan from the other. But Patrick seemed to get the message because his hands began to find purchase on every part of Art. He mapped the expanse of his shoulders, the planes of his chest, down to the tapered line of his waist. He ran his hands along Art's sides and dug his nails ever so slightly into the flesh to feel him shiver. He sucked wet kisses into the sides of his neck and left bruises on his carotid.  Biting directly on the artery just to hear Art whine. He only broke the kiss to guide Art onto his back, he went so easily. Patrick hovered over him marveling at the site. His necklace dangled between them, Art's eyes instantly going to the gold cross. His stomach twisted into that familiar knot of guilt but Patrick soothed it with kisses along his jawline and behind his ear. 

And when he saw Art thrusting his hips into the air with nothing to grind back against he reached out to touch him. Something hot ran up Art’s spine and he closed his eyes tight arching into the touch. Patrick continued to palm him through his jeans, taking hold of Art’s length through the fabric and grabbing tightly. He groaned and let his head fall back against the plush carpet. 

“Pat, please do something.” he babbled as he writhed on the floor. 

“What do you want me to do?”

“No, no—I can’t say it.”

“Come on Donnie. It’s your birthday. You can have whatever you want.”

Art sobbed. “Can you touch me?” The words were said more into the carpet than to Patrick. 

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“I don’t know where Art. I’m not a mindreader.” He whispered into Art's ear, while squeezing the bulge in his jeans harder. 

“Jesus Christ. On my dick Patrick.”

“Woah Art. Taking the lord's name in vain now?”

“No, no sorry I just—” Patrick cut him off with a chuckle and placated him with a kiss. 

“I know.” Art felt the words more than he heard them.

With shaky hands he unbuttoned Arts jeans and wrapped a calloused hand around him. It was clumsy and a little too dry but Art bucked into the touch all the same, greedy for more. Patrick leaned down to kiss him once again, though this one was messier than the last. He was aggressive now, his confidence growing with each whine, and moan he pulled out of Art. The kiss was sloppy and desperate. On each up stroke he tightened his grasp and rubbed his thumb just below the head of Art's cock. Their kisses devolved into breathing each other's air. 

Art couldn’t believe how good he was feeling. His breath started to stutter and he could only exhale in wet choked sobs. He felt tears prickling in the corners of his eyes and hid his face away into the carpet to hide them. Patrick was holding him so tenderly, yet also touched him like a man starved. The juxtaposition made his head spin. Then a sobering thought entered Art's head. But Patrick is a boy. He suddenly felt the power in his arms,in his thighs, in the hand gripping tightly onto his shoulder. The power and mystery of his body made him afraid. He felt so good, too good. He shouldn’t be feeling this good. What was wrong with him? The walls were closing in and his thoughts started to spiral. The drinking, the touching, this kissing, the wanting. The wanting was the worst of them all. He couldn’t breathe, it felt all consuming. Why did he want this? He shouldn’t want this. Patrick noticed his freakout and pulled off immediately. His hands shooting into his lap like he’d been burned. 

“Hey, hey you ok?” Patrick reached out to soothe him. 

Art couldn’t scoot away fast enough. “I should go.” he kept his eyes trained on the floor. 

“Art tell me what happened. Did I do something you didn’t like? Did I hurt you?”

“No it’s not that. I just—I can’t do this Patrick. I’m drunk, we’re drunk this was—” he sighed. “I’m gonna go.” 

Patrick looked away as Art put himself back in his jeans. Even though he had been touching him moments ago, the sudden shift left him feeling off balance. Art stood before straightening his jeans and putting his shoes back on, preparing to leave. For a moment Patrick didn’t say anything. He just let the rejection, hurt, and worry wash over him. Then something within him snapped. 

“They’ll never accept you, y’ know.” 

“What?” 

“The church Art. What you are, what we are.” 

“We aren’t anything Patrick.” The anger in his voice felt forced.

He let out a tired sigh. “Happy Birthday Art.” Patrick heard his hand still on the doorknob, but no reply came. He was met only with the growing silence of his empty bedroom.  When he left the sun had already set and Patrick felt at a loss. He didn’t want to leave things like this. His relationship with Art had always been complicated but for the first time it felt like they were finally doing the thing they both had wanted but were always too afraid to do. And then Art had to freak out about it. Patrick knew it wasn’t his fault really. All those years of repression and self hate really fucks up a persons psyche. And when you’re full of self loathing and guilt what’s the one place wayward sinners turn? 

***

Once again Patrick was face to face with those large oak double doors. He hadn’t been here voluntarily since well ever—but he figured that if Art felt like he needed to repent this is the one place he would be. The church was closed and the clergy had long gone home but there were still many ways in, especially if you knew where to look. After retrieving the spare key he unlocked the doors and pushed them open. The loud creaking noise startled him and he waited for the other shoe to drop. When nothing happened he walked through the entrance and was going to look for Art but was captivated by the sight in front of him. He had never been to church at night, not even for midnight mass so the difference in the light reflecting through the stained glass windows via the moon rather than the sun was awing. Both were beautiful but at night the pictures had a more haunting quality. Like you were viewing the scenes in the reflection of a pond. He walked down the long aisle and didn’t find Art kneeling at any of the pews, figuring that if he wasn't inside he must be in the garden.  When he opened the second pair of double oak doors the sight that greeted him left his mouth dry. 

Beneath the pale moonlight was Art alone standing in front of the virgin mary, smatterings of red roses framed the scene.  His eyes were shut tight and he had a vice like grip on his rosary as his mouth moved almost imperceptibly. Patrick could hear the prayers as his inner voice. Our lady of sorrows, immortalized in marble, presided over him. The highly polished surface of the stone was like a mirror for the lunar light giving off a pearlescent, almost otherworldly glow. Art too looked statuesque. He was so concentrated that he was barely moving and his pale skin reflected a similar glow. He didn't even notice Patrick's presence, that's how zeroed in he was. Only when Patrick's footsteps grew nearer did he look up. 

“What are you doing here?” He sounded tired more than anything. 

“Looking for you. What are you praying for?”

“Forgiveness.” 

“What about what we did was so bad that you need to be forgiven for it?”

“We aren’t having this conversation again.”

“You liked it didn’t you?” 

Art refused to face him, his head cast downward. The nod was minute but Patrick caught it all the same. 

“Did it feel good?” 

“...Yes but that’s not the point Patrick. We shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

“Why not?”

“Why? Because it was wrong.” 

Patrick continues to get closer, invading Art’s space. The younger bristles and squares his shoulders, trying to assert control over the situation. 

“What about it was wrong?” 

“Are you being intentionally dense?”

“I’m not joking Art. I want you to tell me. Was it the way I licked into your mouth? The way I pinned you down against my carpet? Or maybe it was the way I grinded the heel of my palm into your dick until you were leaking all over your boxers?” Patrick pressed on, trying his best to get any sort of reaction from Art. 

He continued to back him into corners. Metaphorically through his dissonant desires and beliefs, as well as physically into the cool marble of the Virgin Mary. Patrick could see the internal war raging behind Art’s eyes yet he stood firm and when Patrick leaned in to kiss him he turned away grazing the side of his mouth instead. But the rejection only spurred him on. He needed Art to feel like he couldn’t live without this, without him. Because for every waking moment of Patrick's life that's how he felt, and he couldn't bear the thought of Art not feeling the same. 

Art was his closest friend, his confidant, the one he looked for in a crowded room. But they both knew it was more than that. That their intimacy blurred the lines of friendship. He was sick of the ambiguity of not knowing. Of the in between space they so often found themselves in. Everything could be chalked up to hormones, lack of girls, or a joke. Something that seemed like a dream and wasn't worth talking about the next day. Patrick wanted something that they couldn't take back. Even if they drifted apart one day and never saw each other again. He wanted to take a piece of Art with him. 

Slowly without warning he sank onto his knees in front of him, in prayer, in worship. His hands resided on Arts hips keeping him pressed against the cold marble statue, Arts rosary hung limply in his hand and the wooden beads knocked softly against one another as he trembled. Patrick couldn't help but be reminded of The Liturgy of the Eucharist. Here he was at his temple of worship displaying his humility, adoration, and repentance for his angel. 

“Patrick, what are you doing?” His voice was shaky but Patrick didn't miss the way he leaned into whatever touch he would give. 

Patrick remained silent, in favor of pressing wet kisses just above Art's waistline, He dragged his tongue along the muscles that shaped his adonis belt and bit tenderly where his pelvic bone jutted out slightly. Art pressed himself further back into the statue to try and find a reprieve from the unrelenting force between his legs. He felt Patrick's mouth contort into a smile as his abs jumped and contracted under his kisses. The hands which had been devoting themselves to Arts waistline now wandered lower.  He swallowed thickly when they reached his belt and flinched at the sound of leather sliding against denim. Patrick's hands rested on the waistband of Art's jeans and after a beat Art opened his eyes to see why he had stopped. But Patrick was waiting, staring right back at him. He wanted him to watch, to see him in all his glory, he would be damned if he allowed Art to forget anything about this moment. When he was sure that Art couldn’t tear his gaze away he slowly undid the top button and unzipped his jeans. The bulge in his briefs was prominent and Patrick slid the jeans down just enough to gain access. Then without warning Patrick took the clothed head of Art’s cock into his mouth and sucked. 

“Oh god.” Art's head hit back against the statue and he started to mutter to himself.

“What are you praying for now?”

“Strength.” Came his shaky reply. 

“Well don’t be shy. I wanna hear it.”  Patrick continued to lick and tease Art through the cotton of his briefs. Making sure to take note whenever he heard Art's breath pick up, or a small moan managed to climb its way out of his throat. Art bit his lip in an attempt to stay silent and clenched the beads in his hand tighter. 

“I'm serious Art. Pray for me.”

“Patrick no—no I can’t.”

Unsatisfied with this answer Patrick opened his mouth wider and with a barely there, featherlight touch he scraped his teeth along the head of Art’s cock. He practically shouted in response. 

“Ok. Ok. H-Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. “ He was stunned into silence as Patrick’s hands gripped the waistband of his briefs and pulled. The sight that greeted Patrick could only be described as obscene. The tip was red and shiny from where Patrick had been mouthing at it through the fabric and precum was spread in a thin layer across the head. Then just like he would at communion Patrick took the head of Arts dick into his mouth as if it were the host for the body of Christ and let it sit on his tongue. The sensation was unlike anything Art had ever felt before and he groaned as Patrick's warm mouth enveloped him. 

“Blessed art t-thou against women.” 

He let out a full body shudder as Patrick took him deeper, his knees buckling under the weight of insurmountable pleasure. He scrambled to stand up straight knowing that if he took his eyes off of Patrick for even a second then everything would stop. He reached behind himself blindly for anything to balance his trembling body, ultimately gripping the chiseled and polished hand of our lady of sorrows.  He was positioned so that his body fit in between her outstretched palms, his head resting right beneath her chin. 

Patrick continued to swallow him down, inch by agonizing inch until the freckled tip of his nose brushed against the blonde curly hairs adorning Art’s pelvis.

“And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, J-Jesus. Jesus Patrick—” Art moaned as Patrick tongued the single pronounced vein that ran along the underside of his cock. He pulled off fully gagging a bit as he did so and replaced his mouth with a firm hand, using his own saliva as lube.

“You call that praying Donnie? Come on. I know you can do better than that. Really make me believe. K?” His voice was scratchier, it reminded Art of when Patrick would sleepover and the first thing he would hear upon rejoining the land of the living was ‘good morning sunshine’ in that raspy, condescending tone.  Or when he would call Art while he was smoking and after half a pack Art could hear the change of his voice, and imagine how was darting his tongue out every couple of seconds to wet his cracked lips. 

“Holy Mary—” Patrick sped up his hand and Art choked on his words, his grip on the statue and his rosary tightening. “Mother of G-God.” Patrick took him back into his mouth and began to bob his head, not bothering to ease Art into it. Art's lip was bleeding from how hard he had been biting it yet it did nothing to muffle the noises he was making. Each whimper, moan, and curse flowed freely from his mouth, into Patricks awaiting ears, every sound carving out its own place in his memory. The feeling was so good, so overwhelmingly pleasant he began to sob. His body needed release, like a caged bird needs to sing.  He shut his eyes and tried to blink away the tears, his head falling limply in shame. But of course Patrick pulled off and Art felt a sudden chill along his length. Through bleary vision he met Patrick's gaze and held his stare before uttering the next part of the prayer, 

“Pray for us sinners.” It was barely above a whisper and Patrick couldn’t help but smile tauntingly at the irony of the situation. He took Art in hand again, bending down to lick along the full length of his cock before pressing a kiss to the head. He laved his tongue around the tip, experimentally dipping it into the opening. Art writhed and Patrick watched as his knuckles turned white, and his jaw tensed. All of his muscles were straining with the effort of remaining upright , and the physical exertion showed in his expressions, his trembles, the way a sheen of sweat covered his entire body.

“Now, and out the hour of our death. Amen” He was getting close, Patrick could tell. He felt it in Art’s heartbeat against his tongue, and the rush of blood coursing through his veins. He could hear it in his erratic breathing, and the little uh uh uh noises he always made right before he came. He saw it in the way his brows knitted and and his fingers flexed. And he tasted it in the drops of precum Art that had been leaking ever since they started. 

“Ah Patrick—I’m gonna—” He arched into Patrick's mouth as his entire body tensed.  He groaned, twitched, and squirmed under Patrick's mouth but he didn't let up. Only stopping when Art was tugging at his hair and whimpering from overstimulation. He made a big show of swallowing everything.  Art still boneless against the virgin mary didn't resist as Patrick stood to grab his face and connect their mouths once more. He didn't even have the energy to grimace at the bitter taste of himself on Patrick's tongue. They lost themselves in the kiss and had to pull away fiercely for air, breathing heavily against each other's necks, cradled in one another's arms. Art laughed dryly against Patrick. 

“What?”

"Christ Patrick—you make me…” Art sighed and shook his head, unable to translate all the ineffable thoughts and feelings he had into words. Patrick waited patiently as Art continued to start a sentence only to give up moments after. He met his eyes and looked close to tears, “I can’t—I-I don’t…” 

“Come on, I have an idea.” He didn’t even wait for Art’s response before taking him by the hand and dragging him back inside the church. Tucked into the back corner was an inconspicuous wooden structure. It was a standard confession booth with some ornate carvings along the edge and while Patrick had seen it every week for years he'd never been inside. 

“Bit on the nose don’t you think?” Art commented with mirth.  

“Well this might help you get out of your head a bit. So then we can really talk.” 

“I don’t know Pat…” 

“Just try it Donnie. Please?” 

Art nodded and entered the left side, kneeling like a picture perfect penitent while Patrick stepped into the central compartment, reserved for their priest. 

Art took a deep breath, “Ok so-”

“Aren’t you gonna say it?” 

“Patrick, that is sacrilegious.” 

“I just sucked you off against The Virgin Mary.” 

Art let out an annoyed huff of air, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned. Can I talk now?”

“Yeah sorry. Go ahead.” He had the decency to sound slightly ashamed. 

“Sometimes I want you so badly that it hurts. And you don't know how many times I've prayed and wished and begged for this feeling to go away but I can't stop it no matter what I do. And it eats at me because I crave it. Being with you feels sickenly good, I don't think I could stand to be apart from you. Like when we had that fight I missed you so much my stomach hurt. And I’m scared Patrick, I'm really scared but I think that I love you. And it pains me so much because why can’t I just be normal like everyone else? Marry a nice girl, have kids, live a cookie cutter life then die in my sleep. ” At some point he started to cry. Patrick could tell by the way his voice wavered and his words sounded heavy in his mouth. After a beat, a heavy silence wormed into the booth, still and suffocating. 

“Nobody can stay in the Garden of Eden Art. You of all people should know that.”