Dust and Dogma

The air conditioning in Beatrice’s house had died in 1998, and she had never seen fit to fix it.

By noon the next day, the interior of the Victorian farmhouse was an oven. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight that pierced the heavy velvet drapes. The air was thick with the smell of old paper, lavender sachets, and rising tension.

Julian was in the living room, stripping off his shirt.

He tossed the sweat-soaked linen onto a chair and wiped his forehead with his forearm. His torso was a canvas of ink—a flock of birds across his collarbone, geometric lines down his ribs, a serpent winding around his left bicep.

Elias, standing by the china cabinet, froze. He was holding a porcelain shepherdess. His knuckles were white.

"You could take the jacket off, at least," Julian drawled, picking up a box of old doilies. "God won't strike you down for showing elbows, Eli."

Elias didn't turn around. "I’m fine."

"You’re sweating through your shirt," Julian pointed out. "It’s ninety degrees in here. You’re going to have a heatstroke, and then I’ll have to give you mouth-to-mouth. And wouldn't that be a scandal?"

Elias set the shepherdess down with a sharp *clack*. He turned slowly. His gaze dropped to Julian’s chest, lingered on the tattoos, and then snapped back up to Julian’s face. The hunger in his eyes was instant and terrifying, quickly smothered by a heavy blanket of shame.

"Why do you do that?" Elias asked, his voice rough.

"Do what? Exist?"

"Provoke," Elias said. "You parade your... your lifestyle around like a weapon."

"My body is just a body, Elias," Julian said, stepping over a stack of National Geographics. "You’re the one weaponizing it. You’re the one looking at me like I’m a feast and you’re starving."

"I am looking at a man who is lost," Elias countered, straightening his collar. "A man who defiled the temple God gave him with graffiti."

Julian laughed, throwing the box of doilies onto the pile marked *Donation*. "Graffiti? It’s art. But you wouldn't know anything about art, would you? Your world is black and white. Sin and virtue. Heaven and Hell."

Julian walked up to him. He stopped inches away. He could feel the heat radiating off Elias—a nervous, frantic energy.

"Tell me, Reverend," Julian whispered. "Are you happy? In your black and white world?"

Elias held his ground, though his breathing hitched. "Happiness is fleeting. I have peace. I have purpose."

"You have a ulcer," Julian corrected. "I can see it in your face. You look tired, Elias. You look lonely. Do you have anyone? Or do you just go home to that empty rectory and read Psalms until you pass out?"

"My life is none of your concern," Elias snapped. "We are here to work. Focus on the china."

"Screw the china," Julian said. "Why did you stay, Elias? Ten years ago. Why didn't you get in the car?"

Elias closed his eyes. "We were children, Julian. It was a fantasy."

"It was real," Julian said, his voice dropping. "It was the only real thing in this town. And you threw it away because you were scared of what people would say. You chose a book over a life."

"I chose salvation!" Elias shouted. The sudden volume made the dust swirl. He opened his eyes, and they were wet. "I chose to do what was right. To lead a flock. To be a good man."

"You were already a good man," Julian said softly. "Now? You’re just a hollow one."

Elias stared at him, his chest heaving. For a second, Julian thought Elias might hit him. Or kiss him.

Instead, Elias turned and walked out of the room. "I’ll start on the kitchen," he choked out.

Julian watched him go, feeling the familiar burn of hate and desire churning in his gut. It was going to be a long week.