Chapter Text
Nicky Hemmick was the perfect student, the perfect son. That should have been enough for his parents, but Nicky was supposed to be the perfect Christian, too.
He wanted to be so badly he felt it like a constant ache in his chest. The ache grew every time their priest conducted his sermon from his raised pulpit, a mosaic of stained glass behind him. It grew every time his family bowed their heads over the dinner table in prayer, their food growing cold in front of them.
And it grew every time they got ready for church, the solemn anticipation of it all heavy in the air.
This morning, his mother smoothed the lapels of Nicky's blazer with careful hands, offering him a timid smile. Just like him, she wore her Sunday best. Today’s dress was a soft beige, one long swath of fabric from neck to ankle. The veil was lace, and already covered the thick dark hair both she and Nicky shared.
Sometimes he wished she wouldn’t wear it. Every time she fastened it around her neck he could see the weight of it settling over her shoulders, heavy as a yolk.
His father appeared in the doorway, his hands making quick work of the tie at his throat in smooth, practiced motions.
Nicky’s tie wasn’t right. He couldn’t stand the feel of it constricting him, but he hoped his father wouldn’t tighten it. His father’s eyes narrowed on him. Nicky held his breath, and waited.
“Alright,” Luther Hemmick finally said.
Nicky exhaled.
***
Church that day was boring. The men wore their suits, the women wore their plain dresses and lace veils, and the pastor preached with his back to the crowd.
That part had always bothered Nicky. The assumption that Nicky wasn’t important enough to be acknowledged always stung. Maybe it was because it was true. Nicky didn’t deserve to be acknowledged. Not when he had the horrible, terrible secret.
It would rip apart his family if they knew. It would rip apart the church. They didn’t tolerate people like him—they were true traditionalists, resisting the Vatican II change from the 60s and 70s. Their values were old. Unchangeable. Nicky had tried to bend the will of his parents before, but it hadn’t taken much time for him to realize how fruitless of an effort that was. There were only so many nights without dinner he could suffer through before he cracked.
The priest finished his spiel, something about how non-traditionalists were going to burn in hell for all eternity. Nicky was familiar with the concept, since all his dreams featured a familiar scene of fire and brimstone.
In almost a complete reversal of the atmosphere, brunch after church was a festive affair, full of laughter and food. His mother brought a lemon meringue pie just like she did every week. Sometimes Nicky wished she would bring her sopapillas, just once. The familiarity would be a comfort, here.
Nicky hung to the edges of the park with the other children. He was quiet, careful not to say anything that might get back to his father. There were no secrets in the congregation. He only spoke up once, to ask “Where’s John?”
The familiar head of sandy brown hair had been missing from this Sunday’s mass. And no one missed church, not even for being sick.
Timothy shook his head quickly, his orange freckles a blur. “He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
Timothy’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “I don’t know, but my mom says he’s not coming back. Not until he’s better.”
Anger flashed through Nicky, white hot. “There’s nothing wrong with him.”
Timothy shrugged. “There must have been, or they wouldn’t have sent him away.”
Nicky thought of a kiss behind the pulpit when everyone else was outside with the food. Sweetly illicit, both in the action itself and its location. Both of them together and hidden in the very church that condemned them.
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Nicky repeated, a little harsher than normal.
“Alright,” said Timothy easily, hefting his exy racket. “Wanna play?”
The anger left Nicky in a rush. Timothy didn’t know any better, even if Nicky did. John wasn't wrong. John was quiet, like him, and kind. He showed Nicky where the bird house in the back rafters of the church was, and the little birds that he checked on from time to time.
It was where they’d kissed, the first time.
“Okay,” Nicky said at last. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore, anyway. He grabbed his racket from where he’d stashed it behind a tree and followed John.
Exy was the only thing Nicky could be himself in. The only time he felt real. None of the other parts of Nicky’s life were ones he could show his parents, but this…this was allowed. He was allowed to just be.
It was a relief for the boy made of secrets and lies, a mere shadow of truth in his personality.
Nicky didn’t know what his parents would do to him if they knew the terrible horrible secret, but he knew it would be bad. He knew it might not be recoverable. But he was a boy already condemned to an eternity of fire and brimstone, as his nightmares so often predicted. What else did he have to lose?
The answer, it turned out, was everything.