The chalice rested by itself upon the central altar. Everything else had already been taken up and put into the sacristy, including the more elaborate vestments he was made to wear during service. Those who attended daily mass were more than Malachi had first expected, yet still not as many as he'd hoped. Not as many as he planned, once he settled fully into the seaside community that was his current home. It was an excellent start, though, and his efforts thus far had been well enough received by those in attendance.

Still only late morning, a bright light cast through the windows and illuminated the well-kept sanctuary. The church had mostly emptied out after service, with only an elderly couple remaining behind in one of the back pews, eyes closed in silent prayer. Malachi shut the sacristy door as gently as he could, and his steps were just as quiet as he returned to the altar. With a sideways glance towards the couple, he swiped the chalice and downed the last drop of wine.

Malachi cleared the altar properly then, lips tinted red with the blood of Christ.

The old couple took their leave some minutes after that. He stepped down to offer them farewells, followed to the door, and held it open for them both to pass through. Only then did a sigh escape him. Malachi stood tall in the open doorway, eyes fixed upon the backs of their heads as they left.

After they had renounced their antique gods, the Basque people became staunchly christian and their deep faith has been a strong identity element ever since.

While they had been stripped of most of their own culture by necessity and other men’s greed, Chéri still saw the Church as the ultimate deliverance place. Wherever they went, if they found a church they knew God would be there for them, not only to save and forgive them, but also to comfort them.
Chéri knew nothing of religious differences, here they probably would not have guessed the difference between a catholic and an Anglican church, but somehow they got lucky and could rely on a place where concepts like dear to them their saint protector, the Virgin Mary and repentance passing purely through their heart were accepted.

Chéri wasn’t here for repentance though, not today. They were here for assistance. As they approached the Church’s door, they bumped into the last attendees of the morning mass and into an exceedingly tall priest, sighing to their backs.
Confused, they turned back, turned again to the priest, and then crossed their arms, trying to sign “is the church now closed?”, potentially having given up on bumping into someone who understood them.
They were definitely an oddity to see: average height, Chéri looked light and delicate, even ephebic. They could be twenty yet, fast and light in their movement as they were, blessed with all the energy of the youth and an angelic face that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a sacred painting. Their clothes were splendidly cut but too flamboyant in colour, which easily identified them as a foreigner, no matter how determined they looked as they walk towards anything. They were clutching a bag in their hand, the international sign of the traveler and a pleading look painted on their face that demanded at least a few minutes inside the sacred place.

As foreign to Whitby as the delicate thing that approached him, if not even more so -- Malachi could recognize when someone needed help. He needed it often enough himself, each time he was relocated from one place to the next. For that reason, his confusion with the vague, attempted signs was only brief, and he stepped aside so as not to block the open doorway.

"You're welcome to come inside," offered Malachi, hoping that he had at least caught the gist of what they'd meant. Leaving the door propped open, he turned to enter the nave himself, and gestured for the foreigner to follow him.

"Do you speak English?"

He hadn't heard them speak, nor could he immediately tell if they had any other issue speaking. Whatever the case, he'd make do, if they were seeking something from him. Malachi returned his gaze to them, calm and patient; the antithesis of the youth's colorful and spirited demeanor.

Not having the same amount of experience with the town as Malachi, Chéri did not recognise the priest as their peer, hence they kept a respectful distance, like an animal who is in need of assistance but does not dare fully trust the other creature they have approached. But alas, the priest welcome them and Chéri, made a quick, grateful gesture, exhibiting a non-threatening neutral expression, slowly stepping into the sacred place.

But -surprise!- the priest seemed to have the intention of leading them inside. Chéri’s English was very basic, but the question was clear enough. They shook their head and said “Non, monsieur”, which was per se an answer to a following question. Like a good second violin, Chéri tamed the energy of their movement, their place slowed and their exuberance faded, matching the calmer dignity they saw in the priest.

Probably filled with what Chéri would describe as “appropriately christian respect”, Chéri stated their general intentions. “I am here to ask for advice.” And whether that would be to god or to the man that stood in front of them would be unclear even to a fluent French speaker.

Monsieur. It had been a long time since Malachi had heard that one.

"Père," came his gentle correction. "Père Brennan."

They were French, then; he adjusted as quickly as he could to the realization, feeling suddenly grateful for his father's insistence regarding the learning of other languages. He was not fluent, but he could easily hold a conversation when need be.

Malachi folded his hands, allowing them to rest behind his back in a comfortable hold. After they spoke, he waited a moment, going over the words in his head to make sure he had understood them.

"Advice," repeated Malachi. While his tone sounded unsure, his French was at least correct, if slightly basic. He nodded to the nearest pew.

"Would you like to sit, and tell me what you want advice for?"

“Père Brennan,” Chéri corrected themselves, nodding, offering a light smile. Through a fortuitous combination of youth, a bubbly personality and acute physical self awareness, Chéri’s smile was incredibly warm and intimate, even in its lighter form like in this case. The authenticity of their relief only added to the twinkle once could see in their eyes. Effortlessly, Chéri said with their facial expression what they wouldn’t say with their words: I am grateful to meet someone who understands me and is willing to make themselves understood.

Chéri absolutely notice the very gentlemanly pose the priest took and the time he took to evaluate his words, adding them to what they knew about Malachi.

Chéri nodded. Advice. They moved to a pew, where Chéri rested their luggage and sat with their legs together, the palms on top of heat other, both on one of their lap. They looked in front of them, trying to find the words, then turned to Malachi, their words now measured and clear “I have lost everything. I don’t know where to go. I will make some money, but my old life is over,” they said that with the hardness and the objectivity of someone who found this circumstance less than alien.

Malachi followed them, at a slight delay to ensure he maintained his distance, to the aforementioned pew. Once he was seated, he crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands atop his knee, pale fingers stark against the darkness of his robes. There was a gentle silence as he waited for them to speak, eyes following the delicate profile of their face.

When they turned to him, there were no hints as to the priest's thoughts displayed in any visible fashion. It was his place to listen, and to offer what advice he could, but not to inject anything more.

"Your old life..."

Malachi paused, searching for the right words to ask the question he wanted. He wasn't sure how to be as formal as he usually wished to be, but his casual understanding would have to do.

"Can I ask what happened? Why do you say you've lost everything?"

While the need to confess their situation and their quest for help had put Chéri in a contemplative mood, they couldn't help but notice the priest movements. Always interested in how other humans moved, Chéri followed the flow of Malachi's movement like a play, like music, to undo and redo them in their mind. Encountering his thoughtless expression again, Chéri took it as an invitation to lower his gaze, turning their head once again.

Chéri did not seem to mind waiting for Malachi, and as he next question came, they took extra time to properly formulate, as simply as they could. Once again, they felt the need to not look in his face.

"Someone who... Took care of me requested I came to this land. For this person, I have given up those who took care of me before and I have lost my career. Going back alone is dangerous and the person who brought me here is bad. So bad I cannot go back for my things. I have no money to start again, here or in France, and I am alone." They looked at the cross "I need the Lord's guidance". No pity or repentance in their voice.

Someone who took care of them... Malachi gave a nod as he followed along, catching the majority of what was said. Enough to glean the meaning underneath.

"That must have been very hard," he commented, still sounding somewhat unsure. All the phrases required for his duties as a priest, he knew by heart -- but the rest of it? Malachi was just hoping that he did not say anything strange or inappropriate on accident. Following their light-eyed gaze, he looked to the cross.

"God is always here for you, and I am too, when you need me. I would be glad to..."

A pause.

"...to help you, if you have trouble finding a job or a place to stay. What do you do?"

Malachi did seem to follow, but his face was still a mask of neutrality and Chéri did not know how to take it. They side eyed the priest, hoping to catch him unprepared and guess at least the general direction. No luck.

Chéri sighed. “It was hard,” they confirmed. Chéri looked down again, reflecting on their decision, starting to patch together new ones. And while they were still in the process, Malachi spoke again.

Chéri raised their eyes and stared at him, their eyes so big it was impossible not to guess how young they must be and yet there was something very defensive about them, like a pet that never became properly domesticated and still distrusted humans, probably for good reason. Chéri adjusted their back and, showing now a hint of pride and said “I’m an entertainer.” They left that sink in for a moment, probably giving Malachi the chance to show any potentially horror or morbid interest or anything that could give Chéri I cue on whether they should be running away now. Then they added “I also was a dancer.” Which implied they no longer were “I can sing and I can act while I sing.” They went slow, to make sure they were understandable. The rest of their skills, they left unsaid, it was something that would require a proper confession and this was not it.

Chéri cleared their voice and this time didn’t look away. “I would be grateful even just for a meal,” they finally confessed.

They were so... young.

It was the first thing that clawed at his mind when they turned, eyes as bright and colorful as his were void and dark. They reflected morning light, while he absorbed it. As fine-featured as they were, as prim and proud as they carried themselves, he could not help but think of how desirable a target they must be out in the world. Outside of whatever safety their former caretaker had provided.

Malachi did not look away, though a part of him wanted to.

Whatever reaction they might have been expecting of him, upon hearing their admission, what he offered instead was...

...nothing. Not the slightest indication of surprise or disgust, not even a blink. Instead, a low hum conveyed his acknowledgement.

There were all kinds of entertainers. He knew that as well as anyone else, and whether they meant it as a label of creative pride or of something less appropriate, Malachi had no intention of treating them any differently.

"You must be very talented, if you made a whole career of it," he offered, without any apparent distinction as to which of their talents he meant. It didn't matter. Skill was skill, no matter the medium. Malachi was quiet for a moment after, as he considered their request.

How many hungry people could he feed before Mrs. Higgins said something about it? It wasn't as if he carried around a bunch of money to offer them, to let them buy themselves a proper meal elsewhere. Helping those in need was what the church was supposed to do, and Malachi would not deny someone assistance.

"If that is what you need, I can at least help with that. What is your name?"

Chéri had purposely made an effort not to shock the priest while not lying to him. Their story was not exactly something most priest approved off and if told too openly there tended to be critiques and encouragement that, while not incorrect, were really impractical. But right now, they had the feeling they say much more to Malachi, even here, potentially.

They probably would have done it, had their nature not been so distrustful. All they allowed themselves was an extra twinkle in their eyes, easily readable as partiality. And yes, it seemed that the more ambiguous the other was, the more expressive Chéri became.

And the the next observation came, Chéri didn’t pretend to be humble. “I am. I also look the way people want an entertainer to look. I also have trained almost every day of my life to do what I do,” they were offering a lot of information for their standards and making themselves more known and more ambiguous at the same time.

Malachi needed a little bit of time, but which made Chéri grow nervous, so much so they closed their eyes and bowed their heads forward, praying silently, clutching their bags already, preparing themselves to leave with the mere confort.

Then the father spoke again and Chéri turned in surprise. They wetted their lips, unsure. Their usual shtick was inappropriate for the current situation, as was their name. After long and careful evaluation, Chéri concluded “I don’t have a real one, Père. They call me Chéri.” Darling. That was no name and certainly no name anyone could use in public.

Malachi, despite being a vessel of one of the biggest establishments to disapprove so strongly of pride, was not bothered by the lack of humility in their response. Regardless of his teachings, he thought pride was a good thing to have in one's self and in one's work. It could easily bleed into something bordering arrogance, if left unchecked, but he had always believed that pride was important to have.

Just because they had trained for their whole life to be good at whatever it was they did -- it did not necessarily mean that it was a good thing. There was more to life and living than serving other people, even if... it would have been awfully hypocritical of Malachi to tell them that. They were young, and seemed so full of life despite their efforts to dampen their energy within the church.

It took longer than he would have expected to get a name out of them. Even then, it left him with more questions than answers, but Malachi left them unsaid. He did not want to pry, not yet, not when they still looked wary of his reaction every time they spoke. But could he really call them that? It didn't feel proper, but what else was he to do?

"Alright," Malachi sounded somewhat reluctant. Rising from the pew, he made a gesture for them to follow him away from it, towards the sacristy door.

"Come then, Chéri, and we will at least find a meal for you."

Chéri had accepted that Pére Brennan wasn’t going to share his thoughts with them, positive or negative, but rather stick to their position as a spiritual guide and remain as neutral as they possibly could. It was a good quality in a priest, no doubt, but it was quite unusual. To be fair, there were several things in Pére Brennan that Chéri would have described as “unusual”.

Chéri’s energy, barely tamed, seemed to simmer while awaiting for a response… that never actually came. A subject that tended to be fairly controversial in any relationship and acquaintance Chéri ever had was skimmed over in this particular encounter and this pushed them to express curiosity, openly, by bending their heads to the side.

In another situation, Chéri would have said that any name Malachi saw fit would work for them, but in this particular case they did not want to insult the priest. Not only because they were going to feed them.

Chéri was immediately alarmed by the reluctancy in the other voice, his fingers immediately clutching their luggage, but the gesture said the opposite. They made their eyes foggy and stood completely still, for a moment, mirroring the neutrality they had seen in the other.

Chéri pressed their lips together and in the end they nodded, standing up, almost jumping and then slowed their pace down, to follow Malachi, hat in hand, eyes down, feet so quick and light one could have barely recognised their muffled sounds as steps.

“Please make sure I am no cause of trouble to you,” they added in the end, forgetting to carefully enunciate the words and make themselves clearer.

Ah. This little creature was hesitant too. Malachi watched their careful expression as they remained still, and wondered how long it had been since someone had offered any kindness to them. They looked far from sickly or hurt (they were closer to glowing, in fact), but there were other cruelties beyond the struggles that came with learning to fend for one's self. The world was harsh, and the people within it were harsher.

Their flighty demeanor conjured visions of a frightened deer, ready and willing to run.

(Rarely did the poor things run in the right direction.)

The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly when they stood.

Malachi turned, guiding them easily out of the aisles. At the sound of their voice he turned his head, but did not stop his stride.

"No trouble at all," he assured, hoping that he had understood the phrase correctly. "That is why I am here."

Once he'd made it to the door, he pushed it open, and held it for Chéri to pass through. The sacristy was tidy and clean, but Malachi paid no mind to it, continuing on towards the presbytery.

"Ah- here," Malachi did stop then, and turned to face them with a hand held out. "I can carry that for you, if you like. I'm sure you must be tired."

Chéri had already decided to follow, they just had to decided how. They really didn’t have a choice if they wanted to eat right away and starving any further ought to be considered attentively, but as they did not mask their uncertainty, Père Brennan did something completely unexpected: he smiled. It was an very subtle change, but the meaning was vey clear to Chéri: come, you are welcome.

It was then that they decided to move, really, and follow, even protesting slightly. Chéri smiled with only one side of their mouth and said “even though I am not part of your flock?” They pointed out.

The sacristy looked how Chéri could have pictured it. They didn’t look around, feeling very much like an intruder, but instead kept their eyes on Malachi, involuntarily imitating the way he moved and, more importantly, didn’t move. Malachi offered to take their bag and Chéri blinked a few times.

The priest wasn’t going to rob them, of that they were sure, and he probably wasn’t going to be able to outran them anyway, but it felt wrong, the other man was an authority, while Chéri… Chéri hadn’t eaten in a few days and had been running away for a while. They sighed deeply then handed the bag with a swift, precise move, without admitting it in words.

In handing Malachi the bag, Chéri had handed him all their worldly possession and, inevitably, a certain amount of trust. And since they had made that first step, they allowed themselves to make a second one “Do… ships travel to France from here?” they asked, hesitantly.

Not a part of his flock, they said, but that was where they were wrong. Malachi opted not to say anything, but he did not suppress the subtle widening of his smile. This Chéri might not have been one of his congregants, but they could be -- and even if they chose never to walk through the door of Saint Hilda's again, he would still give them help when needed. Whether they traveled with his flock or someone else's, or even no one's at all, they were still a worthy part of creation.

Malachi led them through, and upon stopping, noticed again the reluctance that kept Chéri from immediately handing the bag over. Surely they understood that he would not steal it, nor take it from them if they wished to carry it on their own... but the added physical weight likely wasn't helping anything. He watched, patient as could be, and the luggage was wordlessly handed over.

As swiftly as he'd turned around, he was on the move again, glancing once to ensure that Chéri was still following him.

"I... could not tell you, I'm afraid."

He had spent as little time at the docks as he could, after all. Malachi carried the bag at his side, light in the strength of his grip.

"Why do you ask, chéri?"

The word sounded less like a proper name on his tongue, and more like the term of endearment it was usually used for.

Père Brennan didn’t respond. Chéri didn’t insist. They were not accustomed to force anyone’s truth out of their mouth, even though normally they read it on their body and found it easy to guess. But whatever Malachi had to show was hidden half by his demeanour and half by his robe.

The priest was patient with them, again and again and Chéri was keenly aware of it, like a prey trying to identify a shadow as a hunter or a casual passer by. Not yet a friend, even though they were testing him for that, in some capacity.

Chéri was following and stopped suddenly when the other turned, making an effort to make some noise, aware of their stealth.

Chéri nodded, taking the answer in. Chéri shook their head “I’m trying to understand what my options are.” And having those two syllables as their name sounded only natural.

“I also need to know if I can easily be reached, here,” they added, still weary of confidence to an extent, but determined to bring themselves to trust Père Brennan at least to some degree with more than what was absolutely essential.

Malachi was not fully confident in his interpretation -- nor in his understanding of what they might have meant. Trying to understand their options, that he caught, but the rest of it... he could not tell from the sentence alone if they wanted to be reached, or if they wished to avoid any potential ships from France.

Determined not to leave Chéri in silence, a low humming sound signaled his acknowledgement of at least having heard. Malachi's free hand went to open the door to the presbytery once they'd reached it, and again held it until the youth had passed through.

"Is it a good thing, to be reached?"

His voice came from behind, from the doorframe. He stepped inside and let the door gently shut.

Pére Brennan did not immediately elaborate further, but this time Chéri did not expect him to. They had learnt that the preist needed time to contemplate -or merely understand french-. The question that was returned to them was no surprise.

"No. It is safer if I cannot be reached easily. Also, it is harder to find me." There was something, back in France, probably someone who should find them.

Upon receiving the invitation, Chéri marched in, this time with no hesitation.

Avoidance, then, sat at the heart of their question. The need to hide away and not be seen. Malachi supposed Whitby was as good a place as any, to hide from the rest of the world and whatever awaited across the sea. There were plenty of tourists and locals alike to deter from looking too closely in any one direction.

He might not have dressed so vibrantly, though, had he been running away himself.

"I hope that you will find the safety that you need here, then," said Malachi, and he set their luggage down against the wall. Easily seen, easily grabbed if they saw fit.

There was no fire burning now, but the room was comfortable, and the chairs were thankfully unoccupied. Malachi motioned toward them, wanting for Chéri to at least feel welcome in the more casual space.

"You're always welcome to come here, if you're ever afraid of someone finding you. Can I ask..."

Malachi turned over the words, pale hands resting over the back of a chair.

"Why did you come to a place like this, Chéri?"

Chéri smiled at Malachi as they heard them hoping for anything. They couldn’t read the priest’s face, but they could see where they had placed their luggage. There was a caring quality to his action that Chéri appreciated. More, admired. It was normally something taught exclusively to women so if a man displayed that, it was an extra merit.

They added a nod, that meant So do I, thank you for your kind words. All of it was readable in their eyes, none of it was spoken.

Chéri moved close to the fire, sitting as close as they could to it, hoping to get some humidity out of their bones.

While they did that, Malachi intelligently offered sanctuary and Chéri studied them from above their shoulders. Were it a different situation, they might have asked something more, but not now. Now they needed to be prudent before anything else. Also, the priest was letting them sit, while he stood.

Chéri had an interpretation for that: service. Malachi saw them as in need and “less fortunate”, hence he put them forward. Chéri looked at the fire with a small moment of sadness that seemed to swallow a good part of their energy, of their light. The shift was impressive. Chéri frowned slightly at the thought. In the end, they supposed, the description was fitting.

Chéri turned and without batting an eye, they said “I was running away. “Away” was enough for me. Whitby was the first “away” I found.” They had taken a train or a carriage, any train or carriage that could bring them sufficiently far away from where they had come. And before that they had walked -actually, they had run- with only what they could carry.

Malachi had not expected anything different from their answer, but still – hearing them admit it for what it was made some part of him grieve the loss they’d faced. Not only the loss of a career that they seemed to take so much pride in, but a loss of their home, of their whole life, too.

He could hardly remember what it felt like anymore, that kind of loss. It dwelled in the corners of his thoughts, ever-present, but such darkness was dulled to the point of mere shade. It could not block out the light – but it could cast its shadows, even still.

“I’m sorry that you were forced into that by someone that should have cared for you.”

Even if that person had been bad, as Chéri had said before. To promise someone that you would take care of them… no matter what the relation might be, or how bad a person they were, it was something that should have been as sacred as anything in the church.

Malachi stepped out from behind the chair, moving towards the fire himself.

“Maybe Whitby can become a home for you,” and maybe, just maybe, it could be a home for him too.

He did not think too long about that.

“Do you have a place to stay, tonight?”

Chéri was unapologetically staring at Malachi, but this time they did not make an effort to try to guess what the man was thinking, but rather let him reflect as long as hard as he wished. They had figured him as the contemplative type.

Chéri fixed their hair in the meantime, staring in the fire, with a slightly melancholic look, while they waited. They turned right away when Malachi talked again. And just nodded. Of course.

Chéri smiled slightly, still somewhat melancholic. The truth was, it was part of that life. Just a risk that existed. “Thank you.” Was all they could say.

Malachi came closer and expressed hope. Chéri closed their eyes slightly and smiled, as if they wanted to join the fire in warming Malachi up, then said “It has been a very long time since I had a place I could call home,” which wasn’t a hopeless statement per se, only a very cautious one, as one could tell by their tone.

And then came the question. Chéri’s eyes open wide again and they looked at the priest. They wetted their lips and reflected “Father, you don’t want me to sleep here. One night of inconvenience is not worth your reputation.” Because let’s face it: even a few weeks here had the potential of making them notorious and a night sleeping rough was nothing new.

It has been a very long time since I had a place I could call home.

Even with the added distance of the statement being in another language, Malachi could feel the weight behind each word. Sorrow transcended such barriers; the desire for a place to call home, to belong, was universal. He set a gentle hand upon Chéri's shoulder, but did not let it linger.

For the first time since the youth had walked into the church, Malachi did not hesitate in his reply.

"My reputation?"

He stepped away from the chair, circling it so that he stood in front of the seated Chéri. Malachi practically had to crouch to meet their eye-level.

"I am not here to build a reputation. If it is either here or on the street, please stay here. Don't worry yourself with me."

Chéri had no idea how much Malachi was sympathising with those feelings. Used as they were to say very sad things, very frank things and accidentally beautiful things, whenever they dropped their truth they did it with a carelessness and a finality that expected no reply. And that was why, when Malachi touched their shoulders they turned and stared with a questioning look at the reserved priest. Nothing came right away, the contact was broken too soon.

And then the response came quickly. Chéri nodded.

Malachi brought himself to Chéri’s eye level and Chéri, without batting an eye, said “No, but you want people’s trust, which is earned via respect, which is exactly what a reputation is.” Chéri bent their head to the side. They had given up on guessing or reading untold truths in Malachi’s body language, but they had comfortably settled to that close neutrality the other man was so good at displaying.

They seemed intent to disagree with him. Malachi had found that plenty of the people he'd met in Whitby thus far were similarly disagreeable; Chéri was not even a local, yet this already seemed to cement in the priest's mind that they'd find a way to fit in soon enough.

Not with those flamboyant clothes, of course, but with their lack of hesitance in regards to saying what they pleased.

They were not entirely wrong, however. A priest did well to earn their congregation's trust. Malachi simply operated differently.

"As I said," he began, and one side of his mouth slightly lifted in a half-smile. "I am not here to build a reputation. I have been a priest for many years, Chéri, and I know how to take care of myself. Having the trust, the respect of the people -- what does any of it matter, if I can't be allowed to help them?"

Chéri wasn’t trying to be contrarian. Sure, they had nothing against contradiction and normally they would have taken whatever was handed to them without thinking much of the consequences, but they felt some form of obligation towards this priest in particular, which was why they were arguing rather than just doing.

They did something unusual for themselves: they stopped and thought. Maybe it was just the uncertainty of the situation mixed with their consistent incapacity of reading under Malachi’s neutrality -an unusual thing for them indeed-, maybe it was… the hope of having the chance to come here again? They saw themselves as someone just passing by, here, but somehow it felt like time was slowing down. Their run was slowly starting to feel over, but it still dragged, probably because, Chéri knew, the chase itself wasn’t.

Malachi smiled a little bit. Chéri pushed their cheek against their palm and stared at it, letting the words soak in their mind, before answering. Think, don’t talk right away. Think before you act. Malachi was a grown man and Chéri was fairly sure he had understood what they, Chéri, were. So his decision was informed. “Alright, if you think that isn’t a problem.”

Chéri realise fairly quickly that wasn’t going to suffice. “Thank you, father.” They rearranged themselves on the chair, incapable of remaining in a single position. They put one hand above the other and inhaled deeply, without ever diverting their eyes.

They were... staring at him. And not for the first time since they had walked into the church, Malachi was reminded of just how young they were.

His smile faltered, but didn't fall.

"Of course," dismissed Malachi, as if the very notion of needing to be grateful to him was unnecessary. There was no need to thank him; it would have been cruel of him to let them sleep on the street (or God knows where else) when the presbytery was warm and available.

Pushing hands against his knees, he straightened back up to his full height and took a step away from the fire.

"I'll find something for you to eat. You're welcome to stay by the fire, unless you'd prefer to eat in the dining room."

Thinking was hard. Thinking long, when they were tired, hungry and at least semi lost was harder. Thinking without acting right away was against their nature, more than a little. Chéri saw their stare narrowing Malachi’s light smile.

They wondered, but didn’t practically do anything else. “Of course” they repeated.

As soon as Malachi stood up, Chéri’s stomach produced a sound, confirming that yes, food was much needed. “That is very generous, thank you.”they finally said, looking away with a little bit of embarrassment. “Wherever it is warmer. If it doesn’t inconvenience you.” Chéri frowned, perplexing themselves: it was uncharacteristic for them to worry about inconveniencing anyone. Normally they were, in fact, A proud inconvenience, intended to cause as much trouble as possible for the benefit of their pockets.

They turned back to Malachi and added, probably at the last possible moment “Are you going to eat with me?”

"Stay here, then," suggested Malachi with a dip of his head. It was far warmer by the fire, and more comfortable too, if that was what the weary youth was worried about. It was no inconvenience to bring whatever food he found here, and he hoped as much was clear.

With a swift pivot, he made to leave the room and find the aforementioned food -- until Chéri's voice suspended him, caught within the open doorway. A few seconds passed as Malachi, suddenly startled, deciphered the question. A few seconds to register that what he had heard--

Are you going to eat with me?

--was not what the youth had actually asked him.

Malachi blinked.

"I can sit with you while you eat, if you would like," but he did not seem to imply that he would actually be eating anything himself.

Chéri didn’t move, following the indication of the priest, who was swallowed by the doorway, then came back.

Chéri did not ask any further questions on the subject, but simply let Malachi go.

While the priest was away, they stood up and took off their jacket. It was getting too warm near the fire and they needed to breathe, they also loosened the cravat a little bit and passed a hand through their hair, definitely looking now less put together than before. They put both their hands against the wall and stared at the fire, letting their troublesome thoughts burn while the fire painted their face and their shirt red.

Chéri sighed deeply and closed their eyes, as if in deep meditation.

The priest disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes passed, and then a few more.

It had been a while since he'd put together any kind of real meal himself, what with Mrs. Higgins' presence in the presbytery, but he was fortunate that one of her soups (one of the better ones, he noted) was still hanging around. Once it was heated, Malachi brought the bowl, along with some bread, into the main room.

"Here," Malachi said in English, offering the food out towards the youth. They seemed to have gotten a bit more comfortable in the space, at least, if the state of their attire said anything. Reminding himself to speak in Chéri's own tongue, he added, "I- ah, I hope this is enough. There is more for later."

Chéri had experience hunger in more than one occasion in their life and because of that they had learn to give a special meaning/value to food.

Hence once Malachi arrived their eyes lit up on pure excitement and they gave another one of those breath-taking smiles, the ones that are so often shared at the turning point of a love story, in this case between Chéri and a bowl of soup.

Measuring their steps with great care, they got to seat and pick an absurdly orderly pose to do so, something that didn't suit them at all. They looked at Malachi expectantly and could not prevent themselves from exclaiming "Marvellous!" Before starting to spoon their dinner, looking elated at every "bite" that reached their lips.

And because of the effect the soup made on then, they look at Malachi with a renewed, deeply rooted gratitude and hope in their voice. And obviously, they were staring again "Thank you."

Once the food was handed over, Malachi stepped aside to allow Chéri to sit and eat it wherever they wished. The dining room was still an option, should the chair prove unsuitable, but a part of him was glad to stay near the fire.

It gave him something else to direct his attention to, for one, when Chéri's stare found him again. He could not say exactly why it bothered him, beyond the fact that it felt like they meant to dissect him, to figure him out. They hardly felt malicious in nature, yet Malachi was unsettled all the same.

"Of course," he said again. There is no need for "thank you."

Malachi held his hands behind his back while he watched the fire, and listened to the occasional clink of the spoon and bowl.

"Do you have a plan?" he asked finally, voice free of judgement. "Now that you're here, that is. What do you want to do?"

Chéri was more comfortable than they had been in a while. Plus, they were eating and everything else seemed to matter way less when there was food they could have.

Not realising how bothersome their stare was, Chéri kept looking. Even if they did realise their stare was bothersome, maybe they wouldn’t have stopped, it was part of them, to look at others as if they were meant to uncover a deeper truth.

Chéri this time nodded and said nothing. No need for “thank you”, they repeated to themselves.

Chéri was quickly halfway through the soup and their focus was not diverted from it until Malachi asked the question.

Chéri stopped for a moment and looked in front of themselves “I will look for a job. There is a lot I can do and I am not afraid to work. Also, I am not stupid.” They said, probably used to be underestimated because of their feminine qualities, their frilly clothes and their less than refined speech. But why they felt the need to let Malachi specifically know was unclear, possibly even to them.

Malachi appeared to be content enough with the answer until the youth added on the last bit.

They were not stupid? They had not thought he was implying that they were, had they? That was far from his intention in asking. His brow furrowed, a very subtle shift in an otherwise neutral expression.

"No, I would not call you stupid," he agreed, though he had plenty of other terms he'd use for it. Malachi knelt down near the fire again, grateful for the distraction from the stare that kept finding him.

"I only ask because I want you to do well, here. I know it's hard having to pick up and move so suddenly."

The movement of his shoulder hinted at a shrug, albeit a very half-hearted one.

"And if you have trouble, then I..." well, he couldn't exactly help them get hired for their services if that was indeed what they meant by 'entertainer,' but he would offer support all the same. "I will do my best to help you establish yourself."

If Chéri had been able to read Malachi, they would have immediately understood the confusion they had caused. Maybe they would have been curious about the other terms, but obviously, they couldn’t know. So they just nodded and finished their soup like they had started it: too quickly and with immense joy.

Chéri smiled very lightly, involuntarily borrowing Malachi’s own light smile and bit back the first, fisty “why” that came up, to say “It is. But It is nothing new.”

The shrugged caught Chéri unprepared, evidently, because their gaze went from Malachi’s shoulder, to their faced, and offered a slightly tilt of the head as a response. Realising that Malachi probably didn’t reaching all his conclusion based on people’s movements, Chéri asked “Was that your case too?”

Then Malachi continued. Chéri put their hand under their chin, very surprised. They had never thought a church could hire a dance or a singer and as far as the rest went, propositions normally looked quite different, so while thinking about the conclusion Malachi was doomed to be stared at once again. And in the end, Chéri concluded with a very warm smile and this time they stayed silent. And instead of answering with a “thank you”, that was going to be rejected, they said “If you put all this thought and effort in all the tramps you meet, you must be exhausted.” Probably thank you would have been a safer answer. Chéri stood up and walked towards Malachi “Still sure I can stay here?” They asked, now just a few feet from him.

Malachi did not seem inclined to answer the first question. He offered an affirmative hum, short and sweet, and said nothing else of it. His own experience, he felt, was neither relevant nor important for them to know, even if the youth's was somewhat similar. He was here to offer guidance, not familiarity.

Chéri's next assumption earned the makings of a laugh from Malachi, who let the sound die off prematurely before he replied.

"I am."

Of course he was exhausted. He always was, but he thought that should have been of no importance to Chéri. So long as the assistance was there, did it really matter who it came from, or how the giver felt about giving it?

They left their chair soon after, but Malachi did not rise from his kneeling position near the fire, nor did he immediately turn away from it.

"Yes, I'm sure," he confirmed. He would not have offered in the first place if he had any reason to take the offer back. Malachi turned his head just slightly, peering up at Chéri for once. "There are many like you, in the bible. God did not turn them away. I would not cast you out either."

Chéri did not actually asked the first question, so an answer, understandably, did not come. Chéri nodded. The man had assured them that he was sure and with confirmation, after they had contradicted Malachi so many times, they could do nothing but comply.

In front of Malachi, looking at him from above, oddly enough, Chéri felt less the need to stare, but was still observing, with the same attitude an animal would look at another sharing the same meadow, once they had concluded not only that the animal wasn’t a predator, but also that there was no competition between them. Chéri was starting to smile again once Malachi mention “many like them.”
“And who are “those like me”?” Chéri asked, suddenly a mask of neutrality, as still as a rock. It was so sudden it could be dizzying, how they suddenly looked like a completely different person, icy and distant.

What a curious creature they were.

Malachi looked fully upon them and considered the question. Had they taken some offense at his words? Malachi did not feel any particular need to correct whatever they might have interpreted from what he'd said, especially when he had probably meant it. He preferred the way they looked at him now, devoid of niceties.

"From the sole of his foot even to the crown of his head, there was no blemish in him," recited Malachi, as he pushed his hands against his knees and straightened up. He looked down again, as he always did, if slightly closer than he had before.

"Absalom."

Malachi did not liken them to Absalom for that reason alone. A hint of a smile curved at his mouth, less polite in its appearance.

"Who did you think, Chéri?"

Chéri tilted their head to the side, once again.

Rather than sly, Chéri was now cold and merciless, over-focused. Had they become taller and stronger? It looked like their frame had changed. It was like multiple people had inhabited their body in the last few minutes and they all had reshaped it to their convenience.

Chéri probably did not understand the word “blemish”, but either they were familiar with the character or they were familiar with the general concept, because their eyes moved again, became thinner, maybe not suspicious, but they started to investigate.

“Absalom,” Chéri repeated that. In another situation, they would have asked if he wanted to use that name for them. Their very own version of this person. Chéri bent their head.

“You are telling me I am beautiful. But I don’t think le Seigneur wants to forgive me for that. I also have not rebelled against my brother. Is my sin being beautiful like He has made me, Father?” Chéri’s voice had gotten deeper and softer, appropriate for prayer.

"Did I mention any sin?"

Malachi lifted a brow at that. He still peered down at the youth, cold as they might have been. A body was only a body, no matter how it moved.

With a click of his tongue, Malachi turned his attention back to the fire.

Chéri was beautiful, he would not deny them that. They were beautiful in the way that clear skies were -- in a way that no one could refute, for it was just a part of what made them what they were. Malachi, however... preferred the gray skies of a storm.

In English, he inquired, "Shall I liken you to someone else instead?"

It was a rhetorical question regardless of the language. There were plenty of more obvious figures he could have mentioned in place of Absalom, but he had chosen him for a reason. Malachi looked back to Chéri with a hum, and returned to his use of French.

"Did you have enough to eat?"

"Who are those who might be afraid to be turned away from God, if not sinners?" Chéri asked, still distant. They then shook their head. They weren't good at this, not at their freshest. And despite their presentation, they were deeply ignorant and deeply aware of it.

And as Malachi placed his eyes to the fire, so did Chéri. In the end, their face ended up looking somewhere between sad and exhausted. Apparently they had given up on trying to keep any emotion or sign of fatigue invisible. It probably wasn't their natural state.

Malachi said something in English and Chéri rose their brows "I'm sorry?" They asked in confusion. Then Malachi went back to more mundane questions. Chéri now seemed so doubtful that they hesitated to answer even this. It took them at least a full minute for a mere "Yes."

There, thought Malachi, there's the heart of you.

The doubt, the fatigue. He observed from the corner of his eye, without fully looking at the youth.

It was not until Chéri had answered his mundane question that Malachi bothered to answer the first. How confident they had seemed for but a moment; many, Malachi had found, believed themselves above the effect of such questions, yet they crumbled before them all the same. All was a matter of phrase.

"We are all sinners, Chéri. It is our nature."

He mirrored the softer tone Chéri had voiced before, quiet in the comfortable space.

"There is nothing that God will not forgive. I would be wrong not to follow in His footsteps."

Chéri had an answer ready, good reasons to have switched to their currently displayed mood and an potentially a lot to say about the first sentence, but they had promised themselves to think long and hard before they answered to this man in primis, and then to the priest.

“We are all sinners,” confirmed Chéri, without the shadow of a doubt.

“And you are telling me… that you forgive me?” Same tone, neutral, soft. Same expression, no movements nor changes of any sort for good measure. Chéri was waiting for something, very clearly.

As quickly as they'd adapted to everything else, Chéri returned to a state of normalcy, neutrality. Malachi waited a moment in silence before he looked at them again, and his hands came to rest behind his back, clasped together.

"I am not telling you anything, really," he admitted with a smile. They seemed so eager to get some sort of definitive answer out of him, like everything he said had a purpose beyond simply winding them around. He was not so eager to tell them if there was.

"If that is what you want from me, then I forgive you. But I don't see anything you've done wrong, apart from being alive like the rest of us. You seem to think that of yourself, if you thought that I would reconsider my offer."

Malachi seemed to have gotten used to Chéri looking at him, so much so that they seemed to look back without so much difficulty. Or maybe he didn’t care. Chéri wondered if they had seen -or not seen- something important.

Chéri had the distinct feeling Malachi was toying with them. It was no new feeling nor an uncommon one -on the contrary- but as tired as Chéri was, mind games looked more troublesome than ever and there was no winning with this priest, they had already decided. And at those last words, Chéri shook their heads. They considered staying quiet for a while, as they had started to consider as dangerous anything that might have left their mouth, but in the end they decided to add “If I am not in the position designed for me, I am often seen as a nuisance at best and I’d rather not prove myself right now,” also, this they didn’t say, strangers could become violent if they had the feeling Chéri was damaging them. They were an easy target and the way they carried themselves was, for some reason, infuriating to many.

"The positioned designed for you?" repeated Malachi, and at first it seemed as if he was merely doing so to understand the words themselves.

A moment later, he inquired, "what position is that?"

Relaxed where he stood, he let his gaze linger on the youth. Mirrored the way Chéri had stared at him, curious and open, in spite of the reluctance he had shown before.

Chéri didn't flinch, but allowed themselves and internal sigh. they didn't believe for a second the man was not going to use that information. And the were right.

Chéri appeared completely in their element when they were observed. Their demeanour did not change. Chéri shrugged "I am the entertainment or the help, depending on the situation." Someone you don't want to think about when off the clock.