“Then stop seeing.”
1296 Words
The morning light filtered through the parish windows in long, slanted beams, catching dust in the air like floating, unsettled memories. Andrei had barely slept. The room was unfamiliar, the mattress too soft, the walls too thin. Every creak of the old house sounded like footsteps approaching. Every gust of wind felt too much like breath on his neck.
He dressed in silence, smoothing the black cassock over his frame with practiced precision, as though the garment could armor him against everything inside him.
A soft knock at the door.
“Andrei?” Sergei’s voice—warm, steady—carried through the wood.
Andrei inhaled once, deeply, before opening the door. Sergei stood with a polite half-smile, hands folded loosely before him.
“I didn’t want to disturb you if you were resting,” he said. “But if you’re up, I thought I could show you around the parish. It’s better to know the layout before Sunday.”
Andrei nodded. “Of course.”
But Sergei’s sharp eyes caught the faint shadows under Andrei’s. “Rough night?”
Too perceptive. Annoyingly so.
“New environment,” Andrei said curtly.
Sergei didn’t push. “Come. It’ll be quiet at this hour.”
They stepped into the parish corridor, their footsteps soft on the old wooden floors. The building smelled faintly of pine, incense, and age—comforting for some, suffocating for others.
Andrei walked a half-step behind Sergei, studying the back of him despite himself. Sergei’s posture was disciplined but not rigid—he moved like someone who had nothing to prove. The kind of priest people trusted easily.
Andrei resisted the urge to scoff.
Sergei pushed open the doors to the main church hall. Morning light spilled over rows of dark wooden pews, the altar draped in deep red cloth. Candles flickered softly, though no one had lit them yet—leftover embers from last night.
Andrei’s fingertips twitched. He remembered sitting in these pews as a boy, legs swinging, confusion curling inside him like a trapped animal.
Sergei led him to the front.
“The acoustics here are excellent,” Sergei said, his voice dropping automatically in reverence. “I think you’ll like the choir. They’ve missed having a second priest to terrify them.”
Andrei huffed a quiet breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.
Sergei glanced at him. “Was that a smile?”
“No.”
Lie.
Sergei’s grin widened, but he turned back to the altar, sparing Andrei from the weight of being seen.
Andrei walked up the short steps, fingertips brushing the carved wooden rail. “You’ve maintained this well.”
“We try,” Sergei said. “This church is the spine of the town. If it collapses, the rest will too.”
Andrei nodded once. But his gaze lingered on the cross above the altar—the one he used to stare at during sermons, hoping for answers he never got.
His breath hitched without permission.
Sergei noticed. “Are you alright?”
Andrei tore his gaze away. “Light bothers my eyes in the morning.”
Sergei didn’t believe him. But he kept quiet and moved on.
Sergei opened a narrow door beside the altar, revealing a small room lined with vestments, old texts, and dried herbs hanging from the rafters.
“This is where we prepare before Mass. Everything’s labeled. The prior priest was very organized. Borderline obsessive.”
“I see,” Andrei murmured, trailing fingers along a shelf of old liturgical books. “You keep the Latin texts?”
“Of course. Some traditions are worth protecting.” Sergei leaned against the doorway. “You read them fluently?”
“I had to,” Andrei said, voice flat. “My seminary was…traditional.”
Sergei listened carefully. Not judging. Not prying. Just listening.
It was strangely disarming.
“And you?” Andrei asked—deflecting.
“Fluent enough,” Sergei said. “Though I prefer modern Russian. Less distance between speaker and listener.”
“Distance is useful,” Andrei said immediately.
Sergei’s gaze deepened. “Sometimes. Other times it’s just a wall.”
Andrei stiffened almost imperceptibly.
They stepped outside into the crisp coastal air. The small church garden sat behind a low stone wall—roses, herbs, a few pear trees. The scent of damp soil and early sunlight was clean, almost startlingly gentle.
Sergei pushed open the wooden gate. “I spend a lot of time out here. Helps clear the mind.”
Andrei stopped at the edge of the path. “I have never gardened."
“You don’t need to. Just walking is enough.”
They moved along the narrow stone trail. Sergei’s pace was unhurried, hands clasped behind his back. Andrei noticed the faint silver ring on his finger—not decorative, but worn, the metal smoothed with years of habit.
“You’re very calm,” Andrei said before thinking. It came out like an accusation.
Sergei turned slightly, brows lifting. “And you’re very tense.”
Andrei’s face went cold. “I’m fine.”
“You are,” Sergei agreed lightly. “In a controlled-collapse sort of way.”
Andrei stopped walking.
Sergei faced him fully. The breeze lifted his hair, and the sun caught the edges of his features, softening them unbearably.
“I’m not trying to upset you,” Sergei said gently. “I just call things the way I see them.”
Andrei’s voice thinned. “Then stop seeing.”
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
The air between them tightened—tense, brittle, and too vulnerable for Andrei’s liking.
Then Sergei stepped back. “As you wish.”
The restraint in his tone felt heavier than any reprimand.
They climbed the narrow wooden stairs at the back of the church. Each step creaked as if trying to announce their presence. The loft overlooked the nave from above, the vantage point giving the whole church a sense of intimate exposure.
Sergei leaned on the railing. “Beautiful view. I like listening from here during rehearsals.”
Andrei stood stiffly beside him. “Do you sing?”
“Badly,” Sergei said. “You?”
“No.”
Sergei glanced at him. “You pause before you answer when you’re lying.”
Andrei’s pulse spiked. “Excuse me?”
“You do,” Sergei said softly. “Just now. And earlier, when I asked if you slept well.”
Andrei clenched the railing. “Stop analyzing me.”
“I’m not analyzing,” Sergei said. “I’m observing.”
“That’s worse.”
Sergei exhaled slowly. “I apologize.”
And he meant it—genuinely—not as pity, not as amusement. Just a simple, earnest apology.
Andrei didn’t know what to do with that.
He was already feeling out of sorts.
They walked back down the stairs. At the bottom, Sergei’s foot slipped slightly on the old wood—just a small misstep—but Andrei’s hand shot out instinctively, gripping his arm.
Warm. Solid.
Sergei steadied himself, his hand coming to rest lightly on Andrei’s wrist.
Their eyes met.
The touch wasn’t intimate.
But the silence that followed felt dangerously close.
Andrei withdrew first—too fast, too stiff. “The stairs need repair.”
“Yes,” Sergei said quietly. “They do.”
But his gaze remained soft on Andrei’s face—so soft it felt like a hand brushing over his skin.
Andrei turned away at once.
“We’re done here,” he said, voice clipped. “Thank you for the tour.”
Sergei didn’t stop him. “You’re welcome, Andrei.”
His name sounded different in Sergei’s voice. It felt thick and heady.
Andrei walked ahead without looking back.
He didn’t see Sergei watching him leave.
He only felt it.
- Writer
