Salvation
He always came to pray.
Whether it was early in the mornings or late in the evenings, Tom found Harry kneeling at the altar, hands clasped together.
The same stance, the same pose, the same request.
Please save them. Please.
Over and over again, he prayed for the safe return of his friends. It was pitiful, just how much the boy cared, felt for a pair that weren’t even related to him.
It was complete nonsense. A waste.
Tom didn’t say as much, however.
Instead, Tom chose to stand beside him as Harry prayed and pressed a comforting hand to the boy’s shoulders, an encouraging smile on his lips. It was what the boy wanted, no, craved, so Tom gave it to him.
It was what priests did.
It was what he did, as unfortunate as that was.
Tom hated the collar, hated the way they all sniveled and pled for mercy from some unknown god. It was painful to witness, to have to listen to them weep during confessionals for their pathetic souls.
What was the point of it all?
What was the point of praying to a god that would never hear you?
He despised it, and yet—
Tom remained.
There was nothing else for him, nothing that could compare to the look of absolute adoration, of true worship in the depths of their eyes when they all looked upon him.
That was irreplaceable, indescribable.
To them, Tom was the centre of their world—their guiding light, their salvation. He sneered at the mere idea of being anyone’s saving grace, but to be admired, to a certain degree, not even Tom could resist that allure.
He could admit as much.
The boy shifted beneath Tom’s grip, and Tom’s focus splintered, his attention shifting landing on the bright green eyes of a young man that was both too young and old to be suffering this much.
A boy, even if Harry was just shy of twenty.
Harry’s eyes were red, cheeks streaked with dried tears. When he’d started to cry, Tom couldn’t begin to guess, but that wasn’t important. It was the glint beneath the tears, the sheen of something else that piqued Tom’s interest.
It was worship and a glimmer of something darker, less pure.
Richer. Something—
Oh.
I see.
Tom smiled at the same time he tried to rein in the cruel and bestial sensation writhing in his ribcage, roaring for a way out.
The boy stood up from his knees, and Tom had to restrain the urge to push him back to the floor, down to where the boy truly belonged.
Harry’s eyes flashed at the same his mouth parted, that curious little emotion growing more pronounced with each passing moment. The boy’s jaw was tensing and relaxing, tensing and relaxing, lips curling and uncurling, making obvious how indecisive he was about saying what Tom anticipated the boy would say.
Go on, Harry.
Tom extricated his arm from the boy’s shoulder and waited. Something like anticipation, like excitement, now swimming through his veins.
Say it.
It was unexpected, how invested Tom now was, how much he wanted to have his suspicions confirmed. He shouldn’t be, given his choice of career, and yet—
Tom was curious all the same, was more than curious if he were being honest with himself.
“I—“ the boy began, but stopped. There was a question in the boy’s gaze now swimming with that worship, with that want. It was sickening, absolutely disgusting and unacceptable, but Tom couldn’t look away.
Say it.
“I’m sorry, I—“ the voice was now a whisper, as if the boy couldn’t bear to say the words aloud. Tom’s lip twitched, unable to repress the reaction when the boy tilted his head down. It was further evidence of his shame, of how humiliated and embarrassed Harry must have been.
A submissive gesture, and one, Tom couldn’t recall Harry ever doing before.
Not even on his knees did Harry seem weak.
Interesting.
“Harry—“ Tom began, delighted when he lifted his head up and looked him in the eyes. The worship was still there, but that sparkle of darkness, it had become stronger. More passionate.
All it would take was a push.
“What is it? You know that you can tell me anything.”
Tom stepped forward, a thrill running up his spine when the Harry’s mouth opened and didn’t close, when his eyes flashed with something hungry, ravenous. There was no containing it now, Tom knew. There was no fighting, no resisting the want, even if it was a sin, even if—
Oh, Harry.
“Go on. There’s no need to be afraid. Tell me, Harry.”
There was a moment where neither said a word. It was nothing but their breaths, but the crackling of the hearth at the opposite end of the empty church, and then—
Harry closed the distance between them, his hand reaching to grip the back of Tom’s head at the same time as his lips pressed against Tom’s mouth. It all happened in a matter of seconds.
It was like the brush of a butterfly’s wings, the way in which Harry’s lips touched his. If Tom hadn’t been watching it unfold, Tom wouldn’t have believed Harry had kissed him at all.
Tom relished it all the same, savoured the brief warmth on his skin.
Then, it was over.
From one moment to the next, Harry had pushed him away and was running. Tom’s hands curled into fists, but he made no move to stop Harry from leaving.
Tom only followed Harry’s movements with his eyes, only watched as Harry burst through the entrance to the church and slipped into the night. Tom touched his mouth, and it came away wet.
Tom grinned, unable to contain himself any longer, and laughed.
Oh, Harry.
This was going to be fun.