Chapter 5: A Reprieve Before Ruin
The dawn light, when it came, felt accusatory. It was too bright, too normal, painting the bedroom in a cheerful gold that clashed violently with the shadows still clinging to the corners of Riley’s mind. He hadn’t so much slept as drifted in a shallow, troubled pool of consciousness, always aware of the weight and warmth of Paul beside him, the man’s breathing a fragile rhythm he feared might stop.
Paul was already awake, eyes open and fixed on the water-stained ceiling. Riley could feel the tense silence radiating from him.
“Coffee,” Riley mumbled, his voice gravel. It was a thing to say, a step to take. He extracted himself from the tangle of sheets and Paul’s limbs, feeling the chill of the room immediately bite at his skin. He pulled on his boxers and found Paul’s robe, the worn wool smelling of him—incense and old paper and something uniquely, tragically Paul.
In the small galley kitchen, he moved on autopilot. The scrape of the pan, the crack of eggs, the hiss of butter. Normal sounds for a world that had ceased to be normal. He made two plates, plain scrambled eggs, toast. A peace offering to a day that held no peace.
Back in the main room, Paul had moved to the dining chair. He was dressed only in his own underwear, sitting with a stiff, formal posture that looked absurd and heart-breaking. He stared at the plate Riley set before him as if it were a complex theological puzzle.
Riley sat across from him, poking at his own food. The eggs were fine, but they tasted like ash. The quiet was a physical thing, thick and suffocating. Outside, a gull cried, and the sound was unbearably lonely.
Paul picked up his fork, set it down. His knuckles were white. He didn’t look up.
“You should go,” he said finally, the words so quiet they were almost lost in the rustle of the curtain.
“We’ve been over this,” Riley said, not looking up from his plate.
“No, I mean it.” Paul’s voice cracked. “You stayed the night. You heard it all. You’ve seen… me. In the light. You understand now.” He finally lifted his gaze, and his eyes were pools of pure, undiluted terror. Not of Riley, but for him. “You should walk out that door and get on the first ferry and never think of this place again. Of me. I’m… I’m not a man, Riley. I’m a parasite in a stolen skin. I’ve damned every soul in that pew. I poisoned them. I poisoned you.”
A single tear escaped, tracing a swift path down his cheek. Then another. He made no sound, but his shoulders began to shake with the effort of containing it.
Riley shoved his chair back, the legs screeching on the floorboards. He was around the table in two strides, kneeling, his hands cupping Paul’s face. “Stop it.”
“I’m a monster,” Paul choked out, the dam breaking. Sobs wracked him, ugly and raw. “A freak. A thing. You can’t love a thing. You shouldn’t. You have to leave. Please, just leave me. It’s what I deserve. It’s the only right thing left.”
Riley kissed him. Hard. On the mouth, salty with tears. Then on his temple, his cheek, his closed eyelids. He held Paul’s face like it was the only sacred object left in the world. “Shut up. Just shut up for a second.”
Paul tried to turn away, but Riley held him fast. “Let me go.”
“No.” The word was final, absolute. It carried the weight of a cell door closing, but on the inside, with both of them locked in together. “You don’t get to decide what I do. You don’t get to martyr yourself and send me away. I’m not leaving.”
“You have to.”
“I don’t.” Riley’s thumbs brushed away the tears. “Like it or not, Paul Hill or John Pruitt or whoever the hell you are… I’m in love with you. All of you. The preacher, the liar, the scared man who thought he found an angel. The mess. My mess.” He gave a weak, shaky smile. “Christ, think of the book rights. ‘My Lover the Vampire Priest.’ We’d make a fortune. Subtitle: ‘And the Alcoholic Who Loved Him.’ Has a ring to it.”
A wet, hiccupping sound escaped Paul. It was trapped between a sob and a laugh, utterly undignified. He stared at Riley, his expression one of bewildered devastation. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.” Riley leaned in, pressing his forehead against Paul’s. “But I’m your insanity. And you’re mine. There’s no leaving now. You’re stuck with me.”
He felt the resistance drain from Paul’s body. The priest crumpled forward, his head falling onto Riley’s shoulder, his arms coming up to clutch at Riley’s back with a desperate, drowning strength. The sobs continued, but they were quieter now, edged with a giddy, hysterical relief.
“I love you so much,” Riley whispered into his hair, the words a vow and a lifeline. “So we fix it. We fix it together. But first,” he glanced at the untouched eggs, the cold coffee, the too-bright morning, “first, we get ten more minutes.”
In one smooth motion, he stood, pulling Paul up with him. He slid an arm under Paul’s knees, the other around his back, and lifted him. Paul was solid, but Riley’s strength, born of labor and a stubborn, furious love, didn’t falter. Paul gasped, then buried his face in Riley’s neck, clinging.
Riley carried him the few steps back to the unmade bed and laid him down in the nest of warm sheets. He slid in beside him, pulling the blanket over them both, enveloping them in a dim, wool-scented cave. The world, with its poisoned miracles and impending horror, was locked out.
Paul curled into him, his breathing slowly easing into something resembling calm. Riley held him, stroking his hair, watching the dust motes dance in a single sunbeam that sliced through the gloom. He had a traumatized and scared lover to soothe. The reckoning could wait. For ten more minutes, they could just be. Two broken men, holding onto the only good, complicated thing they had left. Then they would get to work.