Chapter Text
When Sunday cums in the privacy of his bedroom, he cums alone.
There are no fingers to draw him further along the edge of his release, no lips to press fervently against his own. There are no hushed words exchanged, no bodily warmth to bury himself into, no waist to hold tight, and his fingers itch to touch as they scrabble for purchase against the sheets.
No, he is alone and needy and - more than anything — frustrated.
This morning is no different.
Sunday’s shallow pants are slow to subside in the uncomfortable quiet of the apartment, silken sheets caught between his fingers in a tight first. He tugs his lower lip between his teeth, nose scrunched as a dizzying sensation licks down his spine, and he winces at that familiar warmth as he spills over his knuckles, needy and wet and cock caught in a vice grip.
His thighs tremble atop the mattress, winding down from the high. It takes a moment for the pleasure to cease its course, relief dulling as those golden eyes flutter open to peek at the mess that cools atop his belly.
Flushed cheeks grow cold as his lips quirk downward, as if in disappointment, and Sunday notes the stains on the sheets with a look of dissatisfaction. The simmering heat in his gut comes to a lukewarm halt at the relative silence of the bedroom, the only sound a shaky exhale, and his lower lip pops from between his teeth, a mark lining the curve of it from where he’s bitten too hard.
His fantasy - much like any other he’d allowed himself to partake in - was nauseatingly dull, enough so that he’d nearly struggled to reach that divine peak. Sunday had always grappled with that, his thoughts only ever enough to barely get the job done, to rid the silver-haired man of the sinful reality that was morning wood.
Such a nuisance, Sunday snorts silently to himself as he stirs from the sweaty nest of blankets to clean up, brows furrowed.
Sunday had always attempted to be rather careful when such licentious thoughts clouded his judgement. His sinful fantasies were faceless, nameless, and always reined in lest they drift too far past what he might deem as ‘acceptable.’ It was easier that way, he’d decided, never daring to conjure up a visage of whom might be on the receiving end of his desires.
Such a thing was impossible given the crucifix mounted to the opposing wall, glaring from a distance at his bed. Its gaze was a weighty, unyielding thing, even in the small shadows of the early morning. Sunday hated to admit it, but every now and then the desire to toss a sheet over it and hide it away was tempting enough that he almost conceded.
Perhaps then he’d experience a modicum of relief, a moment of bliss after jerking off instead of the hefty pressure of guilt that bubbled at the back of his throat.
Because the nameless company Sunday Oak craved was the kind that he could have, and what little indulgence he did allow himself in such moments was always controlled, censored, a taut string to be played but never broken. A melodic harmony had always been preferable, structured; even if his insides screamed with something more akin to a cacophony, Sunday would carefully rectify any discordant tone until it bloomed into something more manageable.
Release in its most basic form, Sunday supposed, but it would have to do.
Sunday slips from the bed, stretches and scrutinizes the stains on his sheets with a grimace. He gathers them up quickly, strips the bed and slips into the bathroom. A cold shower should suffice, should be enough to cool his cheeks and ease the want that still seems to roil in his belly, unsatisfied. He looses a sigh and cards a hand through silver hair before ducking into the shower, white tile pristine and meticulously scrubbed clean weekly.
The water is an icy sting, sinks into his sink and soothes the burning beneath, and he shudders under the spray of the shower head. That static hum in the back of his mind ceases, lulled to sleep, and any discomfort bleeds into nothingness beneath the numbing chill.
Sunday cups his hands beneath the stream, splashes handfuls of it over the expanse of his chest. He’s always blushed all over, and this time was no exception, he notes with a grimace. The water helps the color fade, shoulders no longer pink and the brilliant red of his ears subsiding. A hum works its way up his throat as Sunday showers, cleans himself twice over until his skin is aching, and water drums against the glass of the shower door.
His forehead rests along the tile, relishes the grounding bite of where its edges meet. Sunday is - regrettably - empty. Not-quite-satisfied and ringing as hollow as an evening prayer, he thinks with a shiver of irritation.
Crystalline droplets cling to his silver locks, drip past his periphery; eyes of gold narrow and watch as they travel down the length of his bangs to gather at the silver tips, dripping fat and heavy against his toes. Try as he might to unwind, that tension lingers in his shoulders. It’s difficult to combat, the muscle and tissue drawn taut, and Sunday can feel his shoulders draw up along his ears as a single though rings through his mind, a moment of clarity:
It is Saturday.
Pursed lips draw back, loose an wary groan over the brilliant white of his teeth.
Saturday means a plethora of things. The first full day of a weekend, a day of rest and leisure, a night out to enjoy others’ company. But not for him, he thinks, and he cannot help but feel guilty at the resentment that bubbles in his chest.
It’s ill-founded, illogical. He has many things to be grateful for, many things to occupy his time that should bring him a modicum of pleasure or a sense of fulfillment. But Sunday has been struggling with that incessant itch for more for some time now, has carefully examined it, and only recently did he finally come to the conclusion it stems from what once brought him a great deal of joy and a sense of purpose:
The Cathedral.
Sunday is not faltering in his faith, per se. But, as of late, things have…well.
They have become harder to work through, duller. The taste of accomplishment never amounts to anything other than ash on his tongue, and his eyes have dulled during his time spent with the congregation he and Father Gopherwood have worked so very hard to cultivate.
Today is Saturday, Sunday thinks with a shudder, and the weight of the impending evening Mass and the duties that accompany it have his shoulders no longer drawn to his ears, but sagging beneath an invisible weight.
If anyone had asked a year or two ago if Sunday Oak enjoyed his position as one of the most promising clergymen at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, he might’ve said undoubtedly. But things had changed like the turn of a season; a twinge in his gut, a sudden shift. That fervor had dissipated eerily quick, like they’d all but evaporated overnight, and Sunday was left a husk devoid of that verve that once possessed him to go further, to pursue more.
Perhaps it was Father Gopherwood’s relentless support and guidance, or perhaps it was the needs of the clergy. Though he was loath to admit it at first, it was more taxing than he cared to admit, and Sunday’d found his patience a bit thinner than before. Acts of kindness and charity were never lost on him, but it’d begun to ring a bit hollow.
Like the kindness preached did not amount to enough; like the teachings of selfless love were not reciprocated by those in the pews, even if they claimed otherwise.
Sunday reaches up with hands that border on numb, fingertips wrinkled and thumbs practically blue. He runs them over his face, tries to urge his attentions elsewhere as a cough wracks his frame.
It won’t do him well to sit in the cold, he thinks, and Robin would be upset with him if he were to get sick again.
He shirks such troublesome thoughts aside, envisions a dandelion seed blown from its stem and carried off somewhere where he cannot see. Sunday thinks of many harmonious, positive things to quell the ache as he steps from the shower and quickly runs a towel along his limbs.
Sunday wraps it about the lean curve of his waist and shivers as he shuffles to his bedroom, gaze lingering on the soiled sheets in the laundry bin. Something tickles the back of his throat and has his stomach roiling, and he considers that perhaps it’s guilt, maybe even a twinge of paranoia as those eyes flicker to the crucifix mounted on the wall. It peers from the shadows of the poorly lit bedroom and looms at his back as he slides his closet open to retrieve his freshly-pressed clothing.
Sunday considers for a moment that - should that disgruntled sensation that lurks beneath his skin linger much longer - then he’ll find himself on the receiving end of a fantastically well-earned smiting. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, but even that thought has his teeth on edge. His insides twist and he swallows against the dry patch on his tongue, and as Sunday tugs his clothing on he’s quick to pray.
At least a handful of Hail Mary’s are uttered under his breath, both as a penance for his…early morning activities, and as an insurance policy.
One can never be too careful, of course.
Nimble fingers work up the buttons of his shirt and vest, arrange it carefully so it lays flat against his chest. Every crease is smoothed over, every layer arranged, the pristine white of his suit meticulously ordered so as not to appear even fractionally off-center or out-of-place.
Sunday pulls the closet door shut, glances at himself in the mirror as he checks his suit for any imperfections. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and toys with his collar, and all he can think about is the bed at his back that’s been stripped of his sins and the cross that glints bronze in the glow of the sun as it peeks into his bedroom.
Sunday is aware that he is as righteous of a man as he is a fraud; he also knows that acknowledging it without seeking to rectify it will do little for him in the way of salvation.
The most painfully comical part, however, is that no one besides himself seems to know it. Not a single one of the countless souls that filtered in and out of the Cathedral every weekend to hear him deliver Scriptures and announcements knows it, not any of those who regularly attended his prayer groups and youth ministry sessions know it.
Not even Father Gopherwood is aware; Sunday can only imagine that encouraging smile of his being tainted something foul at the thought of the man he sought to guide in the faith so determinedly being not just a failure, but a liar.
Sunday swallows down what he thinks is bile - sour and thick on his tongue - and his thoughts flicker to periwinkle curls and eyes of cerulean blue.
No, not even Robin - as lovingly supportive and doting as she is - knew.
She would attend Saturday service just to see him, just to visit and spend even a moment with him with a veil woven into the gentle curls of her hair. But things had changed as of late, and her schedule had grown busier. Where Sunday longed to reach out and demand more of her time, he always found that the words dried up on his tongue before he could speak them.
Robin was - is - faultless. She is kind and considerate and compassionate, and Sunday has admired her growing musical career from afar. It would do her no good to fraternize with him given his recent change of heart, too stuck in the tangles of thistles and thorns to wrench himself free of them entirely.
No, Sunday thinks as he swallows hard and tacks a placating smile on his face, checking his hair in the mirror. He and Robin must maintain this distance, lest he soil her with his own filth, even if it’s something he’s only come to discover recently.
Funnily enough, Sunday had been less demanding of himself as a child, at least at first. He had been a curious boy, inquisitive and desperate to understand those around him, and such curiosity bred questions that not even Father Gopherwood seemed able to answer in a way that satisfied him:
Why do people have to go to Hell? If life is so trying, then why isn’t there a place where things are easier for them? Isn’t it better to determine who’s deserving of salvation that way instead of like this?
But what if…what if they love each other? In the same way other people do?
If conditions X, Y, and Z are met, do they still go to Hell? Do they have to?
Why do they have to?
What if they still do everything else right, is that really all it takes? But if it’s really all up to God to decide, then why…why do you preach it l-like you know —
Clipped nails card through damp waves of silver and tug enough to burn. Sunday lets them tear along his scalp, shakes the ends to flick the droplets that linger there.
Sunday has heard of the ‘sunk cost fallacy.’ It makes logical sense, at least to a degree, but it neglects the proper and valid emotions of those involved within it.
Even after dedicating so many years of his life to such a righteously flawed cause, Sunday will not — cannot — sever himself from it. He has come too far, and the roots that spring from his heels have dug themselves deep within halls of marble and hymns and scriptures.
All people go through a rough patch, he considers as he clears his throat. After all, it is a necessary part of the faith to be tested, and those who persevere are rewarded handsomely and welcomed into the loving embrace of the Church with open arms.
Even so, Sunday thinks, faults and flaws must be kept hidden away. He cannot fathom what would happen to him if the so-called ‘Angel of the Cathedral’ fell beneath the weight of it all, and a sigh of surrender flits between his teeth.
It’s Saturday, after all, and there’s much to do. Ruminating on such trivial matters won’t breed anything fruitful, and there is always work needing to be done at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception. He’d gone as far as to sleep in and indulge himself, and the clock ticking away via the watch on his wrist is enough to make it glaringly apparent that running late is the price to be paid for it.
Sunday tucks his keys and wallet into his pockets, checks himself in the mirror one final time to ensure his appearance is in order, and it’s with his phone in hand and the church bulletin open on the screen that he slips from his meager apartment to head to the Cathedral.
*———*———*———* ———*———*———*———*———*———*
When Sunday arrives at the steps of the Cathedral an hour before service to partake in the rosary, he arrives alone. The breeze that ruffles his silver hair is mild, a late spring wind that promises the chill of an early autumn.
He didn’t always used to arrive alone, but since Robin had moved out, Sunday has found that his commute to the Cathedral - and, oftentimes, his time spent before the service - have both grown a bit dull.
Robin doesn’t tend to arrive all that early of her own accord, and she usually runs late due to her roommate having a harrowing early morning marketing class on the weekends. Both Robin and Serval have been focusing most of their energy on Robin’s new demo album, and Sunday cannot help but feel a twinge of admiration for them both.
Up until a year ago, Robin had still lived with Sunday in his quaint one-bedroom apartment while she’d spent time getting her financials in order to dedicate her attentions to music. She’d excelled in the Cathedral choir - always had since she was young - but it appeared that his sister was moving on to bigger and brighter things on the horizon.
Robin was pushing herself forward, a self-fulfilling prophecy. If she had a dream, it would become reality. Sunday could never bring himself to doubt her nor her convictions, even if he felt her optimism a bit misplaced at times.
No, Robin would soar until not even her own brother could distinguish her from the clouds; she’d move on and forget all about him and that little 900-square-foot apartment, and Sunday…well, he supposed he’d likely still be living alone in with only a congregation to appease and Bible verses to keep him company.
The thought urges a wince, and it’s with gloved hands that Sunday rests his palms against the carved wood of the doors to the Cathedral to push them open. They groan as they part, afternoon birdsong drowned out as the weight of the Church threatens to swallow him, and Sunday steps inside.
A bird in a cage who holds the key isn’t really caged at all, not unless they adhere to human principles as fickle as ‘bars’ and ‘limitations.’ The issue with such lines of thinking is that Sunday - whether willingly or not - had tossed the key from between the bars of his own accord a long time ago.
To suffer as a result of ones own actions is to suffer alone, and Sunday swallows as his tongue grows dry at the sight of the altar, the brilliant marble, the stained glass that filters the sunlight and casts a myriad of color over the pews.
The heels of his dress shoes click against the marble, old oak doors groaning to a close behind him. The Cathedral is deafeningly silent, and that comes as no surprise. Sunday is used to arriving well before most parishioners and the organist, and the pipes overhead in the choir loft are quiet as he strides down the center aisle to take stock of how many older members of the clergy have arrived early to pray, hands clasped tightly together.
Sunday lets his fingers slip from where they linger at his sides to run over the ridges of the rosary tucked into his pocket, a source of something as akin to comfort as it is a painful reminder. He straightens his spine, swallows down his worries, the white of his suit a perfect fit for a place so pure and unblemished.
For a heartbeat, his thoughts slip to that soiled set of sheets, and the dry patch on his tongue worsens. It feels wrong, to put on such an immaculate facade when he’d woken to a raging hard-on and spent far too long panting into his pillow, imaging that nameless being warm and pliant beneath his fingers. It’s all fleeting touches and whispers of words, a heady heat as that faceless person opens themselves up to him, murmurs in his ear things he can’t quite imagine, desperate for the pace to quicken already —
“Ah, Sunday. I see you’ve arrived early today.” A withered tone wrenches him from his thoughts, words spoken as though such a practice is not customary by now, and a bead of sweat lingers at Sunday’s brow as his gaze snaps from the altar to the pastor in front of him.
“Father Gopherwood, it is a pleasure to see you.” Those teeth flash brilliant bright in a faux smile, words warm and gentle as Sunday takes the older man’s hand in his own. “How have you been?”
“We’ve been doing well lately, lots of donations coming in. The attendance has only been growing since you stepped up to the plate, of course.” Father Gopherwood chuckles, the lines at the edges of his eyes crinkling, and Sunday finds such a statement is far from pleasant.
Sunday’s placating grin remains in place as the starting notes of an organ begin overhead, expression tacked onto his features, and eyes of ichor drink in the older man before him.
Father Gopherwood is not unkind, but he is…kindly demanding. Perhaps - in light of recent events - Sunday might consider him a bit dull in his mantra and routines, and most of their conversations revolve around the needs of the Cathedral and matters of faith. There is not much to serve as a binding thread between them, at least not anymore, and it’s progressed to the point that Sunday had found himself actively avoiding his senior when it can be helped. There is only so much he can parrot back about the readings, the upcoming fundraisers, the collections and service attendance.
Two years ago, and perhaps Sunday would’ve matched his vigor. But it has since waned, a piteous thing, and he finds that apprehension roils in his gut as the other man takes a step closer.
Again, that familiar pang of paranoia twists his insides into a fearsome series of knots, and Sunday winces as Father Gopherwood takes up residence at his side and begins to drone on about the freshly-arrived organist and their song choices.
If Sunday Oak cannot even manage to get along with someone as placating as a priest of all people, just how hopeless is he, exactly?
“ — even so, you know how that goes.” Sunday does, indeed, not know how it goes. “But that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you today. I wanted to thank you again for your help with last week’s food drive, as well as your management of both the congregation and this diocese. Even the Bishop has taken notice of our attendance and the rapport you’ve helped cultivate.”
“Think nothing of it, Father Gopherwood.” Sunday allows the priest to meander past him as they stride past pews and parishioners, following obediently as those heavy robes swirl about the other’s ankles. They swish against the marble in a most-dissatisfying way, the faintest bit of wrinkles crawling up from the hem, and Sunday cannot tear his gaze away as he wonders how on earth they remain so free of dirt or stains.
“On the contrary, it’s more than nothing.” Father Gopherwood’s hand is warm and weighty when he reaches back and pauses, settling atop Sunday’s shoulder with a sense of support and an echo of urgency.
“Actually, the diocese has taken notice of you. They wished to extend an invitation to come speak with the Bishop, perhaps even some of the seminarians. We’re a dying race, you see” - a chuckle of mildly-repressed annoyance, one that has Sunday’s insides in shambles - “and you’ve shown such immense support for the Church, as well as an unwavering dedication and love for Christ. We would like to give back to you as much as you have given us.”
Sunday wasn’t quite sure when he’d stopped breathing, but his shoulders are tense beneath Father Gopherwood’s palm and he notes that he’s a bit too dizzy. They linger at the corner of the pews, preparing to round them and proceed to the rear entryway to greet more of the clergy, and Sunday cannot bring himself to take another step as the older man’s words ring in his head.
Father Gopherwood turns to face him fully after a beat of silence, regards him with a curious look as raven brows knit together.
“Sunday? Are you alright?”
Sunday can only manage to nod, lips pressed tightly together as an icy thorn cleaves his insides apart. He’s slow to move, urges his feet to take a step or two, and the white cuffs of his shirt and the rigid fold of his collar suddenly feel a bit too suffocating beneath the priest’s stare.
“I assure you, it’s only an invitation. But I’ve seen firsthand how deeply you care for both the Church’s messages and teachings in these trying times; it’s not often I’d find a young person so aware of what it means to be faithful in this day and age. You inspire our congregation more than anyone else, I think it might be a wonderful experience — ”
“I agree, and I will consider it.” A pleasant smile tugs at stoic features as golden eyes flash bright, and even Sunday can hardly hear his own response over the thundering of his pulse in his ears. “I-I just realized that I forgot to check if the Gospels are set out for the altar servers, and I suppose I should also ensure the Eucharist has been properly stored. You know how those children can be at times.”
If Father Gopherwood laughs, it’s a politely disingenuous thing. Sunday gives a gentle nod, desperate to find a place to breathe as his lungs tighten.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll see to it before more parishioners arrive.”
Father Gopherwood is quiet, seemingly considering Sunday’s words, and he’s slow to nod.
“Yes, please check on that for me. If you decide you’d like to arrange something with my superior, do not hesitate to ask, yes? Your Church is here to support you and lift you up, and we deeply appreciate your dedication and hard work, Sunday.”
There is another firm pat on his shoulder, and as Sunday turns on his heel to flee into the rear halls of the Cathedral, he cannot help the chorus of “Your Church” that taints his thoughts. It rings between his ears in time with the Cathedral’s bells high overhead, a constant beat forcing him to remain aware of how much time is passing, and his collar grows inexplicably tight.
The itch of cotton is hot and unyielding against the column of Sunday’s throat, heels clicking against the marble faster than before. The white-clad figure wastes little time as he slinks away from the prying eyes and friendly smiles of the clergy he sees nearly every day, hiccups on a gasp. He rounds the corner of one of the halls and notes one of the numerous storage rooms, and Sunday spins promptly on his heel to force the wooden door shut after he ducks inside, eyes of ichor unfocused and drifting from his feet to the palms pressed flat against the textured wood, fingers trembling.
It’s childish, a temper tantrum at most. But no matter how much he chides himself for it, Sunday is quick to tug his collar open to heave a weighty sigh as a shudder of panic licks up his spine. Loosing his collar does little to soothe to knocking of his knees or the shallowness of his breath, and Sunday squeezes his eyes shut as a bead of sweat rolls down the curve of his spine.
What this is, he isn’t sure, but Sunday is painfully aware of how frail he is as he reaches down to turn the lock of the door; he’s ashamed as he hears the sounds of the service starting ringing through the halls, and the trembling does not cease even when he realizes that he must face the congregation and complete his duties.
Robin is in attendance, after all.
When the bird finally flutters free from the closet he’d locked itself into and steps into that gilded cage of marble and incense and Sunday-best, he is far more collected. His heels click against the marble as he slips into one of the many the flooded pews with fingers clasped firmly together in prayer, the procession finishing with the hollow chime of an organ key.
His reaction is a bit shameful, yes, even childish.
But all Sunday can focus on as he steps up to the pulpit and pries open the weighty Gospel to the pre-determined page - little words wavering beneath his fingertips - is that he so dearly wishes to never hear the words “Your Church” ever again.