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“Are you supposed to have that?” Omega asked.
Papa Emeritus, the third of his title, looked over to his Ghoul. Omega stood with an old, faded book in hand, heading for an armchair by the window. He’d stopped in his tracks, his free hand pointing to a wooden box on the floor.
“Ah, Omega…”
“Well?”
The box was dented and marked from years of use. Its lid was open, held aloft by chains, baring a crushed velvet interior.
In it lay the thurible.
Terzo sighed, wishing he’d had the foresight to put it away. The answer to Omega’s question was, as they both knew, a resounding no.
He looked away from it and met Omega’s eye, whose eyebrows were raised, hand still pointing. Terzo pressed one finger to his lips—don’t tell.
“I won’t,” Omega said. “Obviously. But why do you need it here?”
“Can a Papa not enjoy some, uh… objects, as he pleases…?”
“Cut it out.”
“... without this—this doubt as to his motives—?”
Omega raised both eyebrows. Terzo sighed again. He didn’t have the energy to keep up the tease, and Omega wasn’t having it. He put his hands on his silk-pyjama-ed hips and told the truth.
“I have to practice,” he said.
Satisfied with Terzo’s answer, Omega resumed his trip to the armchair.
“You’ll practice with us,” he replied, then sat down, crossing one leg over his knee and resting the book on his lap.
“And alone.” Terzo gazed at the box. “I have to use it in the sermons, too, you know.”
These sermons would commence as soon as it all became official. He’d addressed the Clergy before, as Cardinal, but what he’d deliver as Papa far surpassed that in grandeur and weight. He would speak to them as a vessel of the Lord below, with words only a Papa was allowed. Terzo hadn’t made a start on his preparations—how could he focus on papers and scripture, when there was so much else going on? Knowing of his ascension in advance had been no help. Not when he had to learn everything all at once.
Omega, ignoring the book, furrowed his eyebrows. “You don’t want us to watch?”
Seeing right through him, as he always did. Terzo pursed his lips.
“I will make a start on it alone. So I do not look a complete fool in front of you lot.”
“Just a little bit of a fool?”
“Just a little bit.”
Terzo looked away from the box. The sight of that thing filled him with nerves so strong that he almost wanted to strangle himself with it. He turned his back on the thurible and Omega, making for the mirror above his dressing table. The sight that met him was no less unsettling.
It was well past his bedtime, and Terzo was practising his paints. In place of what he was used to—black-rimmed eyes, a painted upper lip—was a harsh attempt at what signified his status. The black eyes were sharper at the edges. The face he’d recognise as his own was shrouded in stark white; black markings made him into something new. He had been chiselled; warped. Even the hair that fell across his forehead ceased to feel like his.
He raised his eyebrows; opened his mouth. Closed it again. Flared his nose. Anything to tell his mind that the face he saw in the mirror still belonged to him. He began these movements, but Papa spat them back.
Only his pyjamas—full-sleeved, buttoned, made with purple-grey silk—felt like his own. He looked down from the reflection and gazed at his bare feet, watching where the hem of his trousers bunched up over the top.
Omega’s voice tugged him out of it.
“I can help, if you like,” he said.
Terzo turned in time to see Omega nod towards the box, then keep his head tipped, asking the question like a Ghoul would.
“You can...?” Terzo asked, gesturing to the thurible.
Omega shrugged. “I watched him do it for years. I was there when he got the hang of it, too.”
He did not have to be given a name. Terzo could have gone to his brother—either one, in fact. He should have been able to learn from his predecessors. But Omega knew Terzo’s qualms, and he knew the predecessors too. Theirs was not a family that offered help. And he was still bitter.
Gazing at the box again, Terzo hummed, considering it.
“Why not now?” Omega asked.
“Now?”
“Yeah.” He picked up the book. “Rip the plaster off, if you will.”
Pulling a face, Terzo tried not to sound too defensive. “I’m not afraid of it.”
“Let’s do it, then.”
Terzo didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling.
But he turned anyway, arms aloft, gesturing to the walls of his bedroom. Eyebrows raised, he tossed one hand in the direction of the window, with its curtains still open, framing the night outside.
Before he could point at the clock, Omega leaned forward to put the book on the floor.
“You’re painted up,” he argued. “Might as well.”
And so, Terzo found himself standing in his lamplit bedroom, as far away as he could be from anything that might be knocked over. His oh-so-persuasive Ghoul had pushed a chest of drawers aside. They’d lit the incense inside, just for immersion’s sake. Terzo had struggled for a moment with which fingers went where, and to Omega’s amusement, had started with the wrong hand—but now he stood poised, thurible held up, ready to make a swing.
A twitch of the fingers, a flick of the wrist. A slight flex in the forearm. Every little motion, somewhere along the golden chains, translated to something significant. His fingers refused to cooperate. He swung too much, then too little, and not a tap of the foot or a muttered beat came to much use.
“One, two,” Omega chanted, standing with his hands held out, as if he were the one with the chains. “One, two—”
Grimacing, Terzo snapped, “Is this supposed to be helping?”
“Not when you talk.”
“That is no way to address—shit.”
The swing faltered, chains ringing as they slumped and hit each other. The thurible bounced at their ends. Terzo caught it in his left hand, ending his sigh with a groan.
Omega changed tactics. When Terzo tried again, after an unappreciated pep talk, he swung the thurible to a familiar bassline. Omega’s humming left something to be desired, and gave Terzo more stress than rhythm. He would one day stand onstage with this cursed object, singing that same song, keeping voice and movement hand in hand.
But Omega would be beside him then, too.
He moved behind Terzo now, standing where he could best watch the turns of his arm. He held one hand palm-up to mimic the swing. Terzo, unsure who was supposed to be copying who, held his breath to concentrate. One, two. Three, four. Not too hard, not too gentle—siamo con il nostro…
Omega’s thumb brushed his lower lip. Terzo had been biting the skin there. He let go, ignoring the taste of paint, and trying to ignore how Omega’s thumb lingered.
His hand had begun to cramp; it ached for something other than the delicate twitches of back-and-forth. Surely they had reached that point in the song? With a passing thought of whatever, Terzo lifted one finger on the end of a swing, and the thurible lid cracked open.
A thick cloud of incense smoke billowed out. Terzo didn’t drop his finger in time. Two chains tangled, and at that unfortunate moment, he took a deep breath in.
He threw his arm out and turned away, coughing, almost dropping the thurible in his haste to cover his mouth. It was through the ordeal of hacking up a lung that he felt Omega take it. The rings were tugged from his fingers, and with his eyes streaming, Terzo stumbled away. His sight was blurry and he couldn’t catch his breath—it was on memory alone that he fumbled for the window.
Omega joined him when he’d lifted the latch, and together, they shoved the pane of glass. It creaked out into the night, letting cold, sharp air cut through the smoke. Terzo coughed again and bent over the frame. Pushing his head out as far as it would go, he took slow breaths of the autumn chill, tasting bitter residue at the back of his throat. Beside him, Omega coughed into his elbow.
“Perhaps,” Terzo forced out, “I should take this as a sign.”
Voice ragged and strained, Omega replied, “To put less in there, next–”
He broke off, still choked by the smoke. Terzo waited whilst he leaned further out of the window, then gave him a quick pat on the back, hoping to be of some use. He wasn’t.
When Omega had caught his breath, Terzo turned back to the night.
“That thing won’t cooperate with me,” he told the sky. “Like it does not want me handling it.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
Terzo sighed, allowing that transgression. It was hardly fair to comment on addressing a Papa whilst Omega’s voice was still hoarse. And, with reluctance, he took the advice to heart. A thurible was no more sentient than a mitre or a tub of black paint, or the walls of the nave from which his voice would echo. His hand alone controlled the swing—to believe otherwise would be antithetical to what his voice would teach.
“I think,” Omega added, “It’s something of a you problem.”
Terzo rested his chin on the windowsill and sighed again. “Many things seem to be.”
“Ah, stop it. Don’t be like that.” Omega’s shoulder nudged him. “It’s early days.”
“Early days of a lifelong, uh…”
Ambition? Fate?
“Inevitability,” he said.
Omega cleared his throat but did not speak. He gazed into the dark, and Terzo knew he was turning over those words, trying to find words of his own. He trod carefully, for all his teasing oversteps. Terzo wondered whether, if he hurried to his en-suite and scrubbed the paint from his face, Omega would speak his mind without first biting his lip.
With the air behind him still thick and sharp, Terzo stayed at the window. He shut his eyes as they welled up again. His hand twitched to rub them, but he stopped himself before moving it, and shuddered at the thought of adding smeared paint to the mix. He kept his eyes closed instead. This way, he didn’t have to watch Omega flounder in his peripheral; he didn’t have to see the cogs turn, those grey lips half-open, frozen on the question of whether to confront his Papa.
Terzo almost heard the words he’d say, and saw in his mind’s eye the way his breath would cloud in the night air. What’s with this attitude? Why the worry? You’re not bad enough with a thurible for second thoughts.
Speak your mind, Papa.
But Omega coughed and said, “Water?”
“Please,” Terzo replied, losing the consonants somewhere along his burning throat.
Omega put a hand on his back as he turned away, leaving Terzo alone at the windowsill. He stood on his toes to learn further out and rested his chin on his arms. The wind caught his hair, brisk enough to unstick some strands that had clung to the paint. He took a deep breath, ignoring the sting of cold, and held it with his lungs full, hoping the night air would swirl to the bottom and push away the smoke. Perhaps he could breathe it out again like he would with a cigarette. That would be a neat trick; fresh, avant-garde. His brothers hadn’t taken a hit of thurible incense in their day.
Perhaps the lack of air was getting to him—his lungs were tight and his head felt thick. After a moment to bask in it, Terzo let the breath go, and saw nothing against the stars besides a cold night’s mist.
Omega’s hand fell back to his shoulder just as he started to cough. Under his palm’s direction, Terzo turned to face him, and saw a glass of water through blurry eyes. He reached out, mouth buried in his elbow. Omega steadied the glass even when Terzo’s fingers closed around it.
He drank, paused to cough, then drank again, his lipstick tacky against the glass. When his throat had stopped feeling like the inside of a chimney, he handed the glass to Omega with a swallow and a sigh.
Omega took it, but before drinking, brought the other hand up to Terzo's chin. Fingers curled, he touched his thumb to one side of Terzo's mouth. He dabbed at the paint there, and it was only then that Terzo felt it—a little dribble of water, escaped from his lips, and escaped too from his notice by the layer of paint.
Omega's thumb lingered. He brought up the side of his finger to catch the rest of it.
“There,” he said. His voice was muffled by the wind outside.
Omega turned to look out of the window again, sparing Terzo from giving a reply. Down at his side, his hand fidgeted with the glass, turning it in his grip as if the movement was an absent twitch. His eyes flickered between the stars. Then he brought the glass up, casual as anything, and put the rim to his mouth, now turned so that the black lipstick smudge met his own lips.
Terzo watched, wondering if Omega had noticed it.
His voice arrived without forethought, cutting through the quiet, almost a surprise to himself.
“I will keep at it,” Terzo said.
Omega raised his eyebrows, swallowing before turning to face him.
“Hm?”
Terzo tipped his head back, to where they'd discarded the thurible.
“Oh.” Omega wiped his mouth. “Yeah. Good.”
“Just not right now.”
“Thank the Lord.”
Omega took another drink, gazing ahead again, lost in thought. Terzo gave up trying to draw his attention back. He watched Omega’s expression, studying the slight twitch of his jaw, the press of his mouth. His deep grey tongue caught a drop of water from his bottom lip. Whether or not Omega knew he was being watched, Terzo didn’t care. He would be shameless in his preferences; how his Ghoul prevailed over the view of the stars.
Omega turned, with a decisive clap on the windowsill. He cleared his throat again as he stepped back into the room. He crossed to where he’d deposited his mask, and swapped it for the glass of water, fiddling with the straps before putting it back over his face.
“Ah, come off it,” Terzo groaned. “This is not going to help. You’re being dramatic now.”
Omega shook his head, still adjusting the mask. “There's no helping this. C’mon.”
“Eh?”
“Come. Got an idea.”
When Omega summoned him, Papa would follow. Inappropriateness be damned. He left the window wide open and found his slippers, forgoing a jumper despite the chill from outside. He was more than a little flushed beneath his silk pyjamas. Omega put the thurible back in its box, then tucked the box under one arm, gesturing for Terzo to come to the door; though he didn’t have to look back to trust that Terzo did.
They took the spiral staircase at the end of the corridor. They were less likely to be seen here—not that many of the Clergy would be awake to catch them. Terzo hadn’t bothered to check the time as they left, or worry about what it might be, because the longer this night dragged on, the further away tomorrow would feel. It held no more weight than any other day, but was one more cross on a calendar and one more tick on the clock. All of it building up to the end of this transition period, the release of bated breath. At the culmination stood Papa, with a face Terzo couldn’t see.
The night air bled through uncovered windows, making Terzo shiver, though he didn’t feel the cold. He trod carefully with his eyes fixed on his slippers, all too aware of what would happen if he took these stairs too fast; he had a scar on his chin from racing his brother up here as a child.
The stairs preceded a passage of rough stone, where no candles lined the route. By day, it would be lit by the sunlight through slits in the wall, but too few walked here at night for the Clergy to bother with brasiers. Let alone electricity. Omega reached behind him as they descended the final steps; Terzo took the offered hand without a word, as he had done so many times before. He focused on the stone beneath his slippered feet, the rough skin against his palm, the way Omega’s fingers curled. It didn’t matter that he knew this passage like an old friend—he held tight and let Omega’s nocturnal eyes lead him through the dark.
The passage opened up to a corridor, where the braziers would be lit all night. Their footsteps echoed on marble and tombstones, Omega’s mask caught the flickering light, and Terzo, still half a step behind, indulged himself in admiring it. It was a distraction from the corridor they took, he told himself; a sight to steer his mind away from what lay at the end of it. He knew where Omega was taking him, and the first realisation had been enough to stir up sour nerves.
Omega hadn’t dropped his hand. Terzo didn’t plan to drop Omega’s. From somewhere buried, tucked up in his silk pyjamas, he pushed aside the urge to squeeze it.
As they neared the vestry, Terzo worried at his lip with his teeth, deciding that whatever paint was still left on it couldn’t be made to look much worse. Not that it mattered—the only person who would see it was Omega. Smudged paint and a nervous twitch was nothing compared to what Omega had seen of him before. But still, in all the comforting familiarity of this place they’d found themselves, Terzo could not move his attention from the mess he was making of his face, the measured pressure with which he held Omega’s hand, his racing heart that he knew Omega could hear. He walked with conscious footsteps so he didn’t trip on uneven stone. Months ago, he might not have heeded where he put his feet, and would have laughed if he fell, idling in the arms that Omega would surely catch him with. He would have held Omega back with a grin on his face, making some throwaway excuse about the length of his cassock. He wouldn’t have put any weight to his explanations. He would bask in the strength of calloused fingers, embarrassment giving way to affection before it could set in. It was as if a Cardinal’s cassock had cushioned him from awareness—of himself, of what his body did—and now, with amateur paints sitting heavy on his skin, he found himself exposed, even when walking next to the one creature with whom it should not matter.
Papa cannot trip. Papa cannot falter.
When Terzo took the careful steps up to the vestry, Omega held open the door for them both. Like a blinkered horse, Terzo focused on the path in front of him, through the door and across the room to the smaller door on the other side. He ignored the dressing table to his left, the mitre stand to his right. Even out of sight, those features of the vestry made his guts churn, but none had a worse effect than the door leading out of it. Omega let go of his hand to push back the bolt, and the squeak of metal, along with the cold, clammy skin on his empty palm, made Terzo’s stomach lurch.
If the corridors made him feel small, then the nave reduced him to dust on the pews, a scratch on the flagstones. Pillars soared up to darkened ceilings and swept him off his feet. It was far from an unfamiliar sight, even in the night’s solitude, but the chancel’s carpet under his slippers turned the room dizzying. Every time he stepped on it, Terzo found himself more overwhelmed than the time before, until the nave he’d walked as a child felt like somewhere new. Standing there in his loose pyjamas and stupid paint, he became that child again. But an earlier version, before he had grown into his place as an altar boy—before he had the courage to mess around, prodding his brother whilst his father droned on from the pulpit, playing tag between the transepts as the crowds dispersed. He was a toddler, held on the hip of a Sister he didn’t remember. Dragged along on stumbling legs by his eldest brother’s hand. He chewed on his lip now like he’d chewed on his fingers then, grounding himself in the centre of such grandeur that he thought he might fall to his knees.
He couldn’t see the parts of the nave that were bathed in shadow, too far away and too high up for the light to reach. How could his voice hope to fill what the candlelight couldn’t?
Behind him, Omega had put the box on the floor. Its hinges creaked as he opened it. Here in its rightful home, the thurible became something more poignant than Terzo’s bedroom had made it. The clang and rattle of its chains echoed throughout the nave as Omega lifted it from the box. But before Terzo could clasp his hands to his ears, Omega’s voice softened it.
“This thing isn’t meant for small spaces,” he said, as casual as if he still stood on Terzo’s rug. “Maybe it’ll be easier if you’re not worried about knocking the dresser.”
Terzo hummed, then took a slow breath to find his words. “I was more worried about your balls.”
Through the mask, Omega’s eyes crinkled with a smile. He held the thurible as if it were alive, carrying it to Terzo with careful steps.
“Let’s light it again.”
Terzo reached for it, but pulled a face. “Ah, really?”
“Really. It’ll get you in the mood.” He held up the rings, encouraging Terzo to take them on his fingers. “If you fuck up in here, it’ll be about as strong as your aftershave.”
Holding the chains aloft, Terzo grimaced. “Which is to say…” he prompted.
Omega pulled the chains aside, untangling them, presenting the end to Terzo’s other hand.
“You wear a little too much,” he said. “Sorry.”
“For a Ghoulie nose, maybe.”
Omega tipped his head side to side. “It’s stronger than before.”
“Papa needs to smell good…”
“You’d smell good in a pigsty,” Omega countered, and touched his thumb to Terzo’s cheek, before turning away to find a match.
Under the lingering buzz of the touch, the night seemed to soften. Terzo gazed at Omega’s retreating back, calmed by the guarantee that he would soon turn around again.
With the incense re-lit, Terzo faced the empty pews, and found his hand held up but frozen. The bitter sting returned to his stomach as if it had never faded. The nave stretched ahead of him, cavernous and foreboding. Even his heavy breath seemed to reverberate between the pillars. With his body paralysed, his voice clawed its way forward, finding Omega and the chance to procrastinate.
“I am not very rhythmic,” Terzo said.
Omega huffed a laugh as he stepped closer, his tone saying, that doesn’t bode well. He put a hand on Terzo’s shoulder.
“I am,” he replied. “Let me try?”
With something like shame, Terzo relinquished the chains to rhythm guitar. Despite his embarrassment, he felt no loss when Omega’s fingers found the rings; it was a relief for the weight of the thurible to be lifted, and more of a relief when Omega’s hand brushed his own.
Omega took Terzo’s place at the front of the chancel. He stood with his shoulders back, his head held high, thurible raised as if he was born to wield it. A Ghoul in a Papa’s spot made for an odd sight; it seemed not so long ago that the Ghouls couldn’t speak in the company of men, let alone stand before them. Omega took his position like none of this had applied to him. He held the chains as if his own wrists had never been bound by something heavier. Maybe confidence and change came easy, Terzo mused, when you were fucking Papa Emeritus.
It took Omega a few swings to find his rhythm, swinging the chain with his eyes closed. He nodded his head to music only he could hear. Just a moment after he’d first let it fall, he swung the thurible on a beat, strong enough for Terzo’s mind to join the song. It was with a quirk of the corners of his eyes that Omega twitched his finger. He didn’t open the lid long enough for the incense to spread, but his control spoke louder than the little plume of smoke.
Terzo tried not to fidget. He was feeling a little heated beneath the silk.
“Showoff,” he muttered, knowing Omega would see right through the grumble.
Omega opened his eyes, warm with amusement, and watched the thurible swing for a moment longer, flickering back to Terzo only once.
Then, with his grin obvious beneath the mask, he opened his mouth and took a deep breath in.
Off-key, he belted, “Lucifer—!”
It shocked a laugh out of Terzo. “Oh, Lord, no, don’t sing—”
Chuckling over the echo, Omega grabbed the chains to hold them still. “We all have our strengths,” he said, as he watched it bounce to a stop.
He turned with a gesture that asked, do you want it?, and held out the chains to Terzo’s uncertain hands. Terzo accepted with less reluctance. Omega’s grey skin was warm when he lingered, soft on the sides of his hands, and his fingertips were confident but delicate as he relinquished the rings and passed them on. They stood chest-to-chest, their hands meeting with no haste. When Omega had handed over every ring and every chain, he slipped his fingers under one of Terzo’s hands, then reached up to push his mask back—just enough to free his chin. He bent down and brought Terzo’s hand up. In the gap between his mask and his mouth, he kissed Terzo’s fingers, his lips warming the thurible rings and pausing for a soft breath.
“Keep at it, love,” he said.
He lowered Terzo’s hand and let it go, then tugged his mask back down.
As the final glimpse of grey skin vanished, Terzo took a sharp breath, opening his mouth before he could gather his voice.
“And how… what do I do, that I have not already—”
He broke off with a pang in his chest. Who was he supposed to be, standing in his pyjamas in the dead of night, asking a Ghoul, what do I do? The thurible was heavier in his hands than ever before, but Terzo felt only the ghost of a kiss. He blinked, and a voice in the back of his mind asked him why he was here; why now, when he could take his Ghoul back to bed, and try again in the morning?
He took one look at Omega’s eyes, and knew they would not leave until something clicked.
“Face the congregation,” Omega said. His hand fell to rest on Terzo’s waist. “Lead your people, Papa.”
He chuckled at Terzo’s grimace, then steered him by the waist. Terzo allowed himself to be turned until he faced the nave, staring down at the sprawling expanse of empty pews, framed by stone archways and the curve of the roof.
Even such a familiar sight took his breath. It was as if the carved gargoyles spoke to him from the shadows, reminding him of what he would have to do, and finally, with their black grins and curling tongues, they made the gravity of his duty sink in. The knot of nerves grew solid and thick. Terzo breathed around it, glaring back into the cavernous gloom.
Omega’s hands circled round to his front, resting over his stomach, his thumb circling the edge of a button.
“Hold it,” Omega said from behind.
He lifted the chains, both arms aloft. He forced his shoulders to fall, feigning a confident stance, and Omega’s answering stroke told Terzo he approved.
Omega reached up and put his hand beneath Terzo’s, his fingertips meeting the thurible rings. He could cup Terzo’s whole hand in his palm. He pressed upwards, and the gentle pressure alone seemed to hold Terzo up; with every moment that passed under Omega’s touch, he felt less like he would fall from the chancel and plummet into the shadows of the nave. Now, the grandeur fell upon him and eased him into a trance, and it was as if he could hear the music he would soon lead—rich and decadent, spilling between the pillars and into another world, holding out a hand to their Lord that He would meet.
“Go,” Omega said.
Terzo began the swing halfway down the chains. Omega’s other hand came up to his forearm, and his palm rocked with the motion of the swing, guiding Terzo’s arm to stay on beat. He was calm as a ripple on water, but sturdy in his guidance. He shifted forward without Terzo’s notice, until his chest pressed against Terzo’s back, and when he followed the rise and fall of Omega’s stomach, they breathed as one.
He dropped the chain, letting the thurible swing at its full length. Omega responded without a hitch. His arm rested beneath Terzo’s, and when his finger twitched, Terzo let his own lift up. Where a drop of the chain would have once made his rhythm falter, it stayed steady this time. The rhythm settled into his chest; he felt the ghost of the music hum in his throat, as if he was already singing. As if it already flooded the nave and curved up into the ceiling, filling the room with his worship—he saw the faces that would sprawl below him and become engulfed by his song.
Omega lifted both of their first fingers. The lid of the thurible cracked open, and incense bloomed out. This time, the smoke diffused across the chancel before it became dense, leaving just a warm, heavy scent that made Terzo’s stomach throb. Behind him, Omega took a deep breath. He leaned in with his whole body until his crotch was resting against Terzo’s lower back. He seemed closer than ever, even whilst his arm relaxed, and his fingers gave just the smallest nudge to the rings.
Terzo’s view of the nave grew a little hazy. With distant amusement, he wondered whether that was from the incense, or if all his blood had just rushed elsewhere.
“Good,” Omega murmured.
It was only then that Terzo realised he was moving the chains alone. Omega’s hand still cradled his, but the swing came from his own hands, his own forearm, all the way up to his shoulder, anchored against his braced middle, his feet apart and steady on the floor. His whole body commanded the swing. It went on, far longer than the duration of a song; he was transfixed by his own control, at peace with each swish of the chain.
And he didn’t falter—not even when Omega leaned in with his hips.
Terzo laughed, enjoying the pressure at his back. “You like this, Ghoul?”
Omega hummed, breathy at the end of it. “You have no idea.”
“I have a little idea.”
If Terzo hadn’t been focused on the thurible, he would have pressed back to meet Omega’s crotch, teasing the bulge he felt there. It would be far from the first time.
Omega ducked his head to speak at Terzo’s neck, his words warm. “Can you blame me?” he asked, with the slightest roll of his hips.
Terzo pressed his mouth, focusing on keeping the swings steady. Omega’s closeness made focus difficult, as it always had, but Terzo’s body had settled into it. The chains became an extension of his hand, just as the paint he wore would soon become his face.
“Hardly a porno,” he replied.
“Au contraire,” Omega smiled, “with you doing this so well.”
Chuckling, he laced his words with irony. “Thank you for your help, Omega.”
Omega’s sincerity would not be dampened. His fingers splayed around Terzo’s arm, held just below one silk sleeve, as if it were something precious to behold.
“All of this is you,” he said.
Terzo’s eyes grew strangely warm. “It is the—the moral support, then.”
“Perhaps.” Omega pressed a kiss to his neck, light and brief. “But I think you’ve got it without me.”
Slowly, so he did not disrupt even the air, Omega lowered his hand. Both palms fell to Terzo’s waist, caressing through his pyjamas, then stroked down his belly, coming to rest at his hips. He stood as close as he had always done. Although his touch was gone, and no finger twitched to guide the thurible, Terzo did not feel detached from him. They still swung the thurible together.
But at the same time, his control was his alone.
“So it seems,” Terzo breathed.
Omega’s thumb stroked a circle at his hip. “Carry on,” he whispered. Then, with a growl behind his words—”Don’t stop for anything.”
Heart in his throat, Terzo fixed his eyes on the nave, drinking in the size of it. He kept his free hand up; in his palm, he would hold the music that filled this room and the attention of those who basked in it. A thrill ran through his chest when he saw, through the candlelit haze, the how many eyes would be fixed back on him.
The thrill plummeted down when Omega grabbed his cock through his trousers.
“Fuck—”
“Keep it going.” Omega’s hand tightened, his fingers curling into the silk. He chuckled against Terzo’s ear. “Halfway there, hm?” he teased.
“How can I not—mmngh.”
Fresh pressure sent a wave of arousal through him, but Terzo stood firm, keeping his focus on the thurible even as his legs tensed up. He didn’t know what game Omega had begun; he played it regardless, so easily pulled along under his Ghoul’s touch.
He expected a retort—how can you not what, hm? What has you so worked up this time?—but Omega held his tongue, and the touch loosened. Terzo almost canted his hips to chase it. He held his ground, matching the swish of the thurible with his open-mouthed breaths. Omega’s thumb slipped under his pyjama shirt, then teased at his waistband, pulling the elastic forward before dipping beneath it. The rest of his hand followed; his toughened fingertips met wiry hair. He pushed lower, confident and commanding, until he grasped Terzo’s cock with nothing in between.
Terzo’s hips jerked of their own accord. He made a choked-off noise, but by some miracle, his hand kept up the rhythm. He braced himself for the first stroke and moaned when it came.
Omega’s huff of laughter brushed over his ear, and his stomach twitched against Terzo’s back. His strokes were on beat; so perfectly in time with the thurible swing that Terzo could have laughed. Instead, he gasped through pangs of desire, losing himself in their game.
In the midst of their trance, Omega spoke.
“I cannot wait to see you sing.”
His voice was heavy, serious. A far cry from his earlier amusement, and also his playful commands.
Terzo, caught off guard, didn’t match it. “You already do.”
Omega wasn’t discouraged by his confusion; he pressed on, stroking Terzo with a firmer touch, working him to up to full arousal. His free hand grasped Terzo’s hip to hold him close.
“I cannot wait to see you standing here,” he continued, his voice more breathy than before, but no less fervent. “Shining in the light of the candles, swinging this in prayer.”
If Terzo concentrated, he could feel Omega’s heart at his shoulder. The strokes at his cock began to speed up, losing the thurible as their metronome, but the chains did not falter.
“One day I will see you here from below the pulpit. I’ll worship you, as I worship Him. One and the same.”
Omega rested his chin on Terzo’s shoulder. His hand left his hip, stroking down to his upper thigh, as if Omega was lowering himself to his Papa, a prostration in increments, whilst he still towered behind Terzo with his cock in his hand.
“It will be an honour to sit at your feet; a joy to follow your words.”
Arousal pulsed through him, stronger with every stroke. Terzo began to feel damp, but he didn’t care what might show through his trousers; nobody was here to see them. Nobody, besides the imagined eyes of thousands.
“It will be enough to see the shadow you cast.”
Omega’s words were thick with reverence. Terzo’s throat grew tight. Heat swirled in his cheeks then plunged to his stomach, and above it all rose desperation; to come, to weep, to sink into the body behind him until he and his Ghoul were one.
“You will be beautiful,” Omega said.
When he came, his cry resounded through the nave, the echoes just as strong and sharp as the hand on his cock and the thrill of release. He threw his arm up high so the thurible didn’t hit the floor; he clenched the chains and rings in his fist, his other hand grasping for Omega’s arm, but though his legs shook, they did not falter. Omega stroked him through it, firm until the very end.
Trousers damp and chest heaving, Terzo basked in the afterglow, in Omega’s embrace, in the clang of the chains that joined his resonant gasps. Though he held it in a firm, unmoving fist, the turible kept on swinging. They both watched as it rose less and less on each ascent, then settled to a gentle sway in Terzo’s grip. Loose; peaceful. Like something tamed. Its slow chime still rang out in the swathes of cold, high stone.
“Papa,” Omega moaned.
For the first time, Terzo believed it.
(It was much later on, when Papa Emeritus the Third picked up his thurible to address the gathered Clergy for the first time, that he realised he’d been played.
He’d forgotten how easy it was to condition himself; Omega clearly hadn’t. Blood rushed downward as he shifted his weight on the chancel, praying to Lucifer below that nobody would see a tent in his vestments, or the sweat prickling at his neck with every swing of the chain. He cleared his throat, began to speak his rehearsed words in praise of their Lord, and brainstormed ways to make Omega pay for his crimes that night.)