Chapter Text
Ilya
It’s a dark and stormy night.
Don’t you love it when a story starts like that? I know I do. My mother used to start every story that way. It doesn’t matter if it’s a scary story or a fairytale; everything starts on a dark and stormy night. So I suppose it’s fitting that we begin there.
The rain comes down in sheets, splashing against the roof like rough seas against a cliffside. The pews are empty, the church is cold. Father Cromwell is back in his house for the night, surely watching sports on TV while his darling wife makes him dinner. I shouldn’t complain about his darling wife, actually. Hillary is really a wonderful woman, and she’s brought me dinner quite a few times.
But I’m especially bitter tonight in the church. Candles flicker on the altar, but the cold of late October seeps through the old stone walls and into my bones. I don’t like the quiet like this. I need interaction, companionship, and connection. And right now, there is nothing keeping me company but the drumming rain and howling wind outside.
So I sit in a pew and watch the hours tick by as I flip through the latest crime novel. I know, you’re expecting the Bible. Believe it or not, we deacons enjoy things besides the Bible. Shocking, I know.
The wood of the pew is hard against my back as I lean against it. Father Cromwell, Roger, prefers to keep this church as traditional as possible. He loves telling people the church dates back to 1856. It’s true, but only somewhat. The original building burned to the ground sometime in 1914 and was rebuilt into the Gothic-style stone building I sit in now.
Still over 100 years old, but not quite as ancient as he likes to make it seem. But sitting here, I can absolutely feel the 100-plus years these pews have endured. The wood is slightly worn, and only slightly is a huge testament to Father Cromwell’s dedication to the place. He and his various seminarians over the years have kept this place in beautiful working order. I should know. I probably spend more time dusting and polishing than I do reading the Bible and praying. And I spend a lot of time doing that.
At first, when the giant oak doors at the front of the church groan and open, I think it’s the wind. And then I see him.
The man who enters the church is completely soaked. Loose casual clothes cling to his body, made obscene by the water. I can’t help the way my eyes take in the hard lines his drenched clothes outline so perfectly.
He has dark hair, made midnight-black by the rain that has soaked into it. His skin is pale like the moon. Smooth and unmarred, except for a handful of freckles that bridge over his nose like a constellation—making the perfect sky, even better rather than taking away from it. To put it mildly, the man is extremely handsome, and also extremely wet. That’s what stirs me from my stupor. The small puddle that accumulates under his feet as he stands in front of the door, waiting, confirms it.
“Hello,” I say, and my Russian accent comes out stronger than I’m ready for. I’ve been in the States for six years now, and most of the time, my English is fairly decent, and my accent is minimal. But it’s been hours since I’ve talked to someone, and it comes out deep and strong.
The man looks at me like he’s surprised I’m here. Walking into a church and getting a priest. That’s kind of how it works. Or at least—a priest in training—but same difference here.
“Hi,” he tentatively responds, “um,” looking incredibly uncomfortable. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, arms crossed protectively over his chest. My eyes briefly flick to the pecs his posture draws attention to, but only briefly, I promise. He’s not wearing a coat, which is odd. It’s late October in New England, and it’s cold outside. Not Russian cold, but cold enough to need a coat. Especially during a storm.
My eyes linger on the puddle on the floor just as he says, “I’m sorry about the... umm... mess, it’s really coming down out there,” and I spring into action. I hold up a finger, indicating he should wait, and dart to a small cleaning closet in the back of the church, grabbing a handful of rags and a roll of paper towels.
I return to him like a dog playing fetch, proud to show off the supplies I’ve retrieved. I hand him the roll of paper towels, and our hands touch. The jolt that travels through my body at his touch cannot be normal. It sets every part of me aware, tingling with electricity. A live wire.
His skin itself is damp and cool to the touch, but I just get a moment of feeling it beneath my hand before he takes the paper towels from me.
“Those are for you, I’ll wipe down the floor,” I say, getting on my knees and focusing on the floor, chasing the errant drops of water away from the cold stone. Getting on my knees is a mistake, though. When I finish wiping away the water with a rag, I glance up at him. He’s standing tall above me, wiping water from his skin with a paper towel. It shouldn’t be a sexy thing to watch—someone cleaning themselves off with a paper towel—but I think it may be one of the most erotic things I’ve ever seen.
When his gaze catches mine, I’m still on my knees on the floor, clutching a damp rag for dear life as I take him in. He gives me a shy smile as I stand and a quiet “thank you” while I take the crumpled paper towels and walk the wet rags and towels back to the cleaning closet. It’ll be my job later to take them back to the rectory, wash the rags, and dispose of the paper towels, but for now, I just put them back in the closet. I take a moment to steady my breath, put on my most priestly face and attitude, and coach myself to be on my best behavior before I walk back to the man.
My footsteps echo through the quiet church as I approach him, stopping a few feet away—a respectable distance, I decide.
“Hi, welcome to St. Michael’s,” I say by way of greeting. I reach my hand out, closing a foot of space to reach him easier—or at least that’s what I tell myself. “Ilya Rosanov.”
He takes my hand and gives it a quick shake; the brief contact isn’t nearly enough. His touch is just as exhilarating as before.
“Shane Hollander,” he answers, and I smile. The name fits him well. Shane, I think to myself, mulling it over. I smile at the new information despite myself.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Father,” he says, avoiding my eyes.
“Just Ilya is fine if you prefer,” I say, my mind still catching on the new title. I only earned my deaconship recently, and the title is still somewhat jarring.
“Sorry, born and raised Catholic—not sure I can call you by your first name,” the man—no, Shane—says with the slightest blush in his cheeks.
“Okay,” I agree. “How can I help you tonight?”
I wait for Shane to answer, his eyes taking in every detail he can. He wants to know everything about this stranger. Wants to know why he’s here after dark in the storm. Where he came from. What his lips taste like. No, wait. Not that one.
Wow, I’m really losing it tonight. One wet, handsome man in my vicinity, and I lose over six years’ worth of seminary training and focus. I still my mind, recite a few favorite Bible verses in my head, and wait for Shane to answer.
“I’m honestly not sure. I’m not from around here, and when I get caught in the storm, this is the first place that looked open. I hope that’s okay,” he says, unsure, nervous. It’s adorable.
“Of course, all are welcome here,” I say. It feels a little corny, but I work hard to make it true. Father Cromwell is a little more old-fashioned than I am, and for the most part, his flock reflects that. Not necessarily bad people, but at times a little judgmental, a little coarse with outsiders. But Father Cromwell is at home tonight, and I’m happy to let in anyone who seeks the church this evening. Especially when they’re as handsome as Shane Hollander.
“Okay,” he says softly, still looking fairly uncomfortable in the space, his weight shifting, hands fidgeting. He mentions he was raised Catholic, but he seems out of place in the church, and I briefly ruminate on it, wanting to know more. It’s a selfish desire—to want to know more about this man—but I can’t help it.
“I could take your confession,” I offer, gesturing at the empty booth. It’s half selfish desire to know more about him, and half a need to put a solid wall between us so I can regain some of my sanity.
“Okay,” he agrees again. His eyes catch mine for a second, and I’m pulled into the dark depths of them. Yes. A wall seems like a good idea.
We enter the booth calmly, and once again, I’m mulling over his history with the church. At times, he looks incredibly uncomfortable in the church, like it’s causing him physical pain. His brows pinched, his fists clenched, his lip worrying between his teeth. And other times, he seems to fall easily into the rhythm, like someone who has gone through these motions a thousand times before. He enters the confessional booth like this, with the ease of someone who has done it many times before.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been—God,” a pause, “years since my last confession,” Shane utters softly. And I want so desperately to ask questions, to dig into why. But I hold back, wanting him to tell it all to me on his own terms.
“Go on,” I say, prompting him to begin.
I hear the wood creak and imagine him shifting his weight back and forth in his seat. I picture him biting that infuriating lip.
“I’ve lied,” he says finally. “Repeatedly.”
That’s usually how they start. Safe ground. I hear his breathing, and I am wrong. It’s not helpful to have him on the other side of the wall. I want to see his eyes, want to watch his brow furrow as he confesses his sins to me.
“Not small lies,” he adds. “Not the kind you tell to spare someone’s feelings. The kind that let you keep living the way you are.” Deep breaths, more creaking. “I never used to lie, but now it seems to be all I do. There was a time when I would have faced the truth, no matter the cost, but now it’s easier to maintain the facade. Easier to let people see the person they expect instead of who I really am.” His voice breaks slightly, and I can hear a new kind of uncertainty. “I never thought it would be like this.”
My fingers tighten around the edge of the screen without my permission. I want to ask more, want to listen as he unwinds the truths from his lips, spills his secrets to me. It’s selfish.
“I let people believe things about me that aren’t true,” he continues. “I don’t correct them. Sometimes I encourage it.”
Encourage it. That’s an interesting word choice. I let him go on. My own hands clench at my sides as I hold back the urge to talk—to offer him support, or guidance, or something entirely different.
“I use people,” he says, quieter now. “I tell myself it’s harmless. That no one’s really hurt by it. But I don’t think that’s true anymore.” A breath. “I want things I believe I shouldn’t want.”
My breath catches in my throat. I can’t be sure what he’s talking about, but I can’t deny the way the air feels charged. The box feels too small. I want to ask him more. Want him to continue. I just…want.
“And I don’t trust my judgment,” he adds. “Not the way I used to.” His breathing sounds more shallow now, like he’s been waiting years to say these things, if only someone would ask. “I don’t know if repentance still applies to me,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m asking for forgiveness… or just permission to keep existing.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. They settle somewhere low in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable. I lean forward slightly, though he can’t see it. “God doesn’t ration grace,” I say. “It isn’t earned by being uncomplicated. Or clean. Or certain.”
“You are not beyond forgiveness,” I continue. “And you are not required to understand everything about yourself before you ask for it.”
Silence grows thicker with each breath he takes.
“Thank you, Father,” he says, and I catch the tremor in his voice. We both wait—him for me to deliver my judgment, to ask for his penitence, and I to decide if it’s even needed.
“I’m not going to give you prayers,” I say. The words leave my mouth before I can overthink them. There’s a pause on the other side of the screen—sharp enough that I know I’ve surprised him. “Instead,” I continue, slower now, “I want you to think about why you’re doing these things. What you’re protecting. What you’re afraid would happen if you stopped.”
“All right,” he says.
I raise my hand. “God, the Father of mercies,” I begin, voice steady even though my pulse isn’t, “through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself—” The words are familiar. Anchoring. “I absolve you of your sins,” I finish, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Amen,” he replies.
The confession is over. It should end there. I push the door open and step out first, my mind already halfway elsewhere—and nearly collide with him as he pulls the curtain aside at the same moment.
We stop short, too close.
He’s tall. His height mirrors mine in a way that’s too satisfying to ignore. I’m close enough that I can see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his eyes flick briefly to my mouth, linger just a moment on my neck, before snapping back up. There’s something restrained about him, like he’s holding himself still by force.
“I should go,” he says. His voice is low. Controlled. Like it costs him something to say it.
I don’t move out of his way.
“If you’re still around,” I hear myself say, “you’re welcome to come back tomorrow.” It’s a reckless request, one that I would make to any patron who seeks solace in the church, but dangerous because it’s him. And I’m not thinking rationally about him. I’m thinking of things that require my own confessions.
His expression shifts. “Tomorrow,” he repeats.
Then he steps past me, careful not to touch, and the space he leaves behind feels colder for it. I watch him walk down the aisle before I remember I’m not supposed to. And I already know—he will come back. The thought brings a smile to my face.
He leaves through the wooden doors, giving me one last look over his shoulder before disappearing into the night. The rain has slowed, falling softly now, almost creating a mist with how fine the droplets are, the wind quiet.
When I close the door behind him, a shudder races through my body that has absolutely nothing to do with the cold evening.
I go about my evening tasks to close the church. It’s nearing ten o’clock, far past our normal closing hours. It’s fairly easy to close out; I’ve done most of my chores for the evening earlier in the quiet hours. I grab the stashed rags from the cleaning closet and grab my discarded book from the front pew, making my way to the rectory where I stay.
I feel every bit of the cold as I hurry across the breezeway, still contemplating Shane’s lack of a coat and him back out on the street in his damp clothing. I hope he is staying close by. I hope he is staying.
The rectory is warmer, the building a newer addition to the church, added in 1957, as Father Cromwell has drilled into me. It’s nothing fancy, but the small addition has a kitchen, bedroom, and small living room. It’s all I really need. I spend most of my time at the church, and living here has been a blessing in many ways.
Father Cromwell, despite his traditional views, is married and lives with his wife about twenty minutes from the church. I’ve visited his home a few times, invited by his wife after a service. It’s a beautiful house, historic in ways New England likes to boast on postcards, a white colonial with large maple trees in the front yard and all surrounded by a picket fence. Yes, a literal picket fence. The American Dream.
So I’m alone in the rectory. Sometimes I don’t mind. I’m so tired from working all day that I simply use it as a place to rest my head. But tonight it echoes a loneliness that feels so incredibly draining.
I start a quick load of laundry with the rags and a few of my long-sleeved black button-ups—I keep my closet full of them. And then it’s time for bed, or it should be, but I opt for a shower instead. My mind is still buzzing with thoughts of him—of Shane. I start the shower hot, going about the motions, trying to let the heat drive the chill of loneliness out of my bones. It does.
However, instead of satiating me, it also draws waves of desire over me in a way I haven’t felt in years. I’m not celibate. In fact, I was a bit—how to phrase this politely—promiscuous in my younger years. I’ve mulled over the idea of embracing celibacy when I enter the priesthood, but I haven’t quite nixed sex from my life. I just haven’t had it in a long time. I haven’t felt the draw to anyone since Svetlana, a gorgeous young postulant with whom I traveled to the US to enter school together.
Svetlana doesn’t end up becoming a nun; in fact, she never actually wants to. She just uses the visa to find a better job and immediately drops out of the program. We are casually sleeping together throughout our schooling, convenient for sating the lust we both feel without worrying about building an attachment that might have to end. It is different with Svetlana; we share an understanding, a comfort in each other’s presence that neither of us wants to lose but both know can’t last forever.
Now, the absence of that easy companionship lingers heavier than I anticipate. The nights feel longer and the solitude more pervasive, a stark contrast to those times when a simple touch or shared joke is all it takes to feel connected.
Then Svetlana moves to Boston to sell luxury cars. Yes, from nun to luxury car salesman. What a path. And I come here to begin my year of service as a deacon under Roger, and the arrangement ends; we still keep in touch, but it’s different. So how am I supposed to combat my baser instincts when a beautiful stranger wanders through my doors, asking me to help him? Fuck.
Something intense stirs within me at the thought of Shane, and my cock jumps to attention. I let the hot water cascade down my body, closing my eyes and picturing his dark eyes. But it’s wrong. It’s so wrong.
If I meet him on the street or in a coffee shop, it is different. But I don’t. He comes to me as a spiritual advisor. As a lost lamb, trying to find his path, I can’t take advantage of that—even in the privacy of my own shower. I turn the dial, and the water turns frigid, the shock of it wrenching away the thoughts of my dripping parishioner.
I go to sleep tossing and turning, mentally and spiritually frustrated, and—despite my frigid shower—physically too. I fall asleep thinking of Shane, not sure if I’m scared he’ll appear in my dreams or if I’m hoping desperately he will.