Archive of Our Own

Adam opened the side door and led Tommy into the church .

“You can’t fuck me in here,” Tommy said.

“Why not? It has everything we could possibly want. An altar. A confession box.” He pointed. “Empty pews. Rose tinted windows.”

Tommy was tired. He let go of Adam’s hand and slid into one the pews. Adam continued walking to the front of the church. He went up the steps and placed his hands on the altar. He smoothed the starched white altar cloth as he looked up at the almost life-sized image of Christ hanging on his cross. It was heavily varnished, yellowing with age, and the blood oozing from the wound in his side shone like congealed wax. He stared at Christ’s face, noting it wore an oddly aggrieved expression that looked more fed up than pensive, - as though the model for the carving had been sick to death of the modelling commission.  Or as though Christ himself, were it a true facsimile of his crucifixion, was wearily wondering how much longer the pain was going to last, how far off death was, and wishing it would hurry the fuck up.

He went back and sat next to Tommy. He put his arm around him.

“I’m going to fuck you behind the altar,” he said serenely. He squeezed Tommy’s shoulder.

“I know you are,” Tommy said. He sighed audibly. Adam looked at him. “What’s wrong?”

Tommy leant on him for answer. Adam held him more closely. He didn’t repeat his question. He looked up at the stained glass window above the altar. He remembered the windows in a church he had visited overseas somewhere. The glass was so old that it was thick at the bottom, thin at the top. Apparently the molecules in glass are as susceptible to gravity as anything else that starts tall and ends small. Remembering this made him put his other arm around Tommy. They sat like that for some time. Then Adam pulled away and pushed Tommy away from him. He reached out to cup his face with his hands. “Let us pray,” he said. He bent forward and solemnly, taking his time, kissed Tommy’s bottom lip. He did the same to his top lip then opened his mouth so that he could cover Tommy’s lips completely and own them. He liked to be a masterful kisser. “Thank you for the sad and pretty lips of the man I am kissing,” he whispered. Tommy smiled inside the kiss. Adam closed his mouth over Tommy’s nose, then said “Thank you for this perfect nose that sniffs out the bullshit and prefers flowers.” He stuck his tongue up each nostril. “He especially likes the miniscule flowers that grow in the pores of my skin.” Tommy suddenly put his arms around Adam but wasn’t yet capable of returning any kisses. Adam gently kissed each of his eyes in turn. “Thank you for these eyes which are so cool and unflustered when I leave, so velvety brown when I return.”

“You are the most self-centred fucker I know,” Tommy mumbled.

“That’s very true,” Adam said, smoothing Tommy’s hair back as a matter of that fact. He similarly, in benedictory fashion, kissed his brow, his chin, and then each cheek. He was wondering if he could carry Tommy without staggering. He was feeling strong but he relied on adrenalin rather than exercise as the motivator and extractor of his physical strength. He needed to undo something to get started. He kissed Tommy on the lips again, ignoring the lassitude in his response, and began to fiddle around unbuckling his belt. He liked not being wanted back. It meant he could concentrate on expressing his love.

“There,” he said, discovering the crumpled contents of Tommy’s underpants. They felt as soft and sad as his lips.

Tommy shook his head. “Fuck you,” he said. He looped his arms around Adam’s neck and clasped his hands together as though joining the clasp of a chain. “Fuck you,” he said again, as Adam pulled him onto his lap, then stood up and carried him easily, manfully, up to the front of the church. Adam laid him down on the thick red carpet of the narrow aisle behind the altar. He looked down at him. Tommy’s eyes were closed. He looked up at the face on the figure of Christ.

“I don’t know why,” he thought to himself, “but lilies, the ones that have a smell, smell like snow. I mean, I know they don’t smell anything like snow. But they do.”

He got down and laid himself on top of Tommy’s body, pinning him beneath the force of his favour, and love and self-interest. Tommy drank it all up. There was perhaps no other person on earth who understood him as Adam did.

The eyes of Christ, the eyes of the lace border adorning the white altar cloth, the eyes of the molecules in the diamond shaped panes, the eyes of the ceiling immersed in the empty splendour of its curves, the eyes on the tips of the lilies’ yellow stamens, - they all watched as Adam and Tommy fucked one another. It made a nice change from the graceful but boring liturgical ceremonies they were accustomed to witnessing. The lovers fucked the way animals do, unselfconsciously heaving and grunting in a peaceful field.

“Bless,” the statue of Christ said silently, his eyes, momentarily, forgetting his pain.