(un)lucky

three.

I ALWAYS HATED MY NAME. BUT I LOVE THE WAY YOU SAY IT//
♪

03: call my name

SUNDAYS MEANT HUNCHED shoulders, heavy limbs, the eyes of the repentant doing all but repenting. It meant holy water dripping from the cracked roof, down his forehead. Fat drops of anointing soaking his epidermis. It meant the smell of burnt donuts and sloppy joes wafting in from outside the church. Tempting the congregation the way Jesus was tempted in the wilderness. Sundays meant trying.

Trying to listen as Pastor Ben talks about intimacy with God. Trying not to devise strategies to avoid Timothy, the youth leader. Trying not to think about how the bible that Jun bought for him is at home, crinkled and worn out, not from use but carelessness. Trying not to think about how good Mel's legs look in her yellow skirt.

The keyword is trying.

When the service ends it's not his imagination, he is the first one out of his seat. Jamming his wrinkly bible under his armpit Mamés walks briskly. Trying again. Trying. Trying. Trying. Trying to convince himself he is not fleeing. Timothy has been trying to get him to join the choir for a while, ever since Mel accidentally let it slip that he's a decent singer.

Accidentally my foot, he thinks. Decent my foot.

He doesn't realize he is suffocating until he is outside behind the peeling church building swallowing warm bursts of air, loosening the noose—fuck, the tie, loosening the tie around his neck and falling back on the grass like a bag of potatoes.

That's where Jun finds him roughly fifteen minutes later watching cotton clouds gulp the sun.

Jun stares down at him bemusedly, but worry folds like origami in the creases of his eyes.  "You okay? You took off faster than usual."

Mamés stares back. What was usual? A light jog? A quick sprint? Why was this even usual? There was a time he didn't feel much like escaping. A time when he'd be the last to leave waiting for a chance to play on the big piano. His legs weren't even long enough to reach the pedals but Father Mike was there ready to be the extra stretch of limbs he needed. So he could play and bask in the warm shafts of sunlight spilling from the stained glass. While his mahogany fingers danced on the ivory stage as he made music. Made magic.

The magic is gone now and all that's left is a hollow cavity that throbs. It's harder to feel empty when you know what it's like to be full.

His jaw is tight, a steel trap. He doesn't want to burden anyone with his problems. But Jun may be the only one he felt comfortable telling. The worry in his eyes prises open Mamés' jaws of silence.

"It's just hard to be there sometimes," he says quietly, after a stretch of silence.

"You know you don't have to keep coming here." Jun's eyes are too big, almost childlike, full of sympathy and kindness. The same kindness that adopted a black child into his Asian family. The same kindness that gave him a roof over his head when Lulu was struggling to keep her head afloat. The same kindness that allowed him to call him, dad.

God. He can feel the back of his eyes beginning to burn. His throat contracting.

"I know," his voice is a mere whisper, anything louder and the damp will crumple. "But if I stop it means he wins. I don't want him to hold any kind of power over me."

Jun bends, taking hold of his wrist he plucks Mamés off the ground like gravity and mass are meaningless before his glorious hugs. The type that echoes even after it's over. "He has no power over you," he whispers fervently into the skin of his neck.