It would be a lie to say that he was eager to confess. The familiar nervousness and shame that had accompanied him since the age of discernment, when he had made his first confession, stirred up once again. But he had learned to cope with it; to not pay too much attention to his nerves, and to see the shame as the appropriate response to his sins. Ultimately it was Christ whom he confessed his sins to and God's forgiveness he sought, and his sins were known already. The priest was just a medium.

... A medium with the power to put him at ease and listen with compassion, or to make his confession very, very uncomfortable. He put a finger behind his Roman collar and tugged to get a little more air.

He genuflected in the direction of the tabernacle when he entered the church. Then his other knee joined and he prayed for a moment for a penitent spirit and for the presence of mind to remember all his sins. Then he made his way to the confessional, knelt again, and waited for Father Brennan to remove the board over the grate.

There was no shame in honest confession.

Not for Malachi, that was. He rather enjoyed the excuse to listen in.

As soon as he heard the rustle of movement on the other side, Malachi lifted a pale hand to pull the board and uncover the grate. Little specks of light filtered through the darkness, catching the meandering of floating dust in their rays.

Gabriel could hear his own breathing in the confined space. When the partition was removed, he made the sign of the cross. "Bless me, father, for I have sinned. It's been seven weeks and two days since my last confession." A long time, especially for a priest, but there hadn't been a priest beside Kemble nearby, and so he had put it off, until his accident had incapacitated him completely. He began with that sin, because it was easier to confess:

"I have shunned the sacrament of penance, for longer than I should have, just because I did not want to confess to the available priest. I..." He knew he really should start with the graver sins, but the smaller ones were easier.

"I have failed to keep a fast I had committed to. And I have hurried through Mass, at least three times in the past week, wanting it to be done, rather than being present and prayerful."

...Oh for God's sake, was that all? Was that the worst of it?

Couldn't be. Malachi blinked and adjusted to sit up properly, no longer leaning his head back against the wood. Sure, it'd been longer than he would have expected since Richards' last confession, but breaking a fast? Rushing through mass? Thank God this man would never hear his confessions.

"It is easy to let ourselves be distracted from our duties, when other things feel more important," he said. It didn't mean really mean shit, but it sounded appropriately neutral. "Has there been something on your mind, distracting you?"

[CW: internalized homophobia, self-punishing attitude and suggestion of self-mortifying practices]

Gabriel nodded in the dark. As he had expected, Father Brennan was the compassionate and understanding kind. And for a moment, he felt a little more at ease. It didn't last long, for his confessor asked on, and Gabriel was once again schoolboy back the minor seminary, tiptoeing around an uncomfortable sin during his weekly confession and the priest wasn't having it.

He felt hot and flustered. "I... yes, father... I was just about to tell you," he said, perhaps a little defensively.

"I eh..." But this time he wasn't tiptoeing around it because of embarrassment and a reluctance to share what felt so private, although shame was part of it now. More than shame, it was overwhelm and disorientation. He didn't know how to express it or where to start. It wasn't just Crane. It was everything. Everything was falling apart. He had thought he had built it all up again during his retreat. It was a house from which all joy had left, yes, a lonely place to inhabit, but at least this one was built on rock rather than sand. But everything was coming apart again, and the second time was worse. How could he ever say everything that needed to be said, when he didn't even understand what was going on anymore?

Perhaps father Brennan would tell him what he himself did not dare to fully consider, though the doubts whispered to him at night, just before he fell asleep or when he woke up in the middle of the night, quietly at first but louder and louder each night: that maybe he had taken the wrong path altogether. That perhaps he had never had a true vocation in the first place, and that this vanity and pride, his need to be seen and be important, had clouded his discernment. That he should never have become a priest. That he was unworthy, and no fast or discipline could replace the burning coal that the Lord seemed to deny his lips.

He was quiet for a long time while the full despair clouded his side of the confessional. Small movements and unsteady breathing, the occasional clearing of his throat and small noises like a syllable that died on his lips, indicated that he was about the speak, all that time, only he didn't. Until at last: "Everything's come falling apart, father." His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. He could feel hot tears running down his face. He hadn't wanted them to fall. He hadn't thought they would. But the full weight of his silent struggles seemed to press on him in that moment and opening his mouth was like breaking under it at last.

"I've given in to the sin of despair. I seem to doubt everything. I have doubted the love and mercy of God and God's power to save me. But it's not been God that's been unfaithful, father, I know it. I was wrong to doubt. It's me that has been closed to God's love... I've been unworthy of my vocation, father. I've struggled with lust, and I've not fought it as hard as I should have. I - God have mercy - I've had lustful thoughts and feelings towards a man in this parish. A good man. He was under my spiritual care. He opened himself to me so freely, and I betrayed his trust and betrayed my office by preying on my own flock. That's why I went on a retreat and Father Kemble replaced me. I mortified my flesh and prayed. I remembered why I became a priest. I learned to control my mind and spirit, my flesh. I thought I was a better man. I had killed what was evil in me. My lust. My disobedient spirit. My pride...

"But my spirit has revolted since, father. Against Father Kemble. Against you. And I have doubted the meaning of my religious service. My heart has been cold to those in my care. I have not loved when I should. And then this man... He came to the presbytery, father. I had no reason to invite him in, but I did. I hugged him, held him close, when I knew what it would do to me. More importantly, I knew what it would do to him. But I did not stop myself. I did, in the end... I have stayed away from him since and I have tried to mortify the flesh, until I would regain my former disposition. Only I didn't. I have had improper thoughts of this man, father, and touched myself inappropriately..." he was ashamed to name the number, it had always been the most embarrassing part, but he knew it belonged to a full confession, despite never demanding it when he had been on the other side. ...eleven times since, father." He felt dizzy for the humiliation. "I have lost control. And it seems the more I hate myself for it and try to gain control over my flesh, the deeper I fall..."

His folded hands were pressing against the wooden separation between them, his forehead was pressed against his wrists, as he cried. "God have mercy."

Malachi was not the kind of man to push.

It did not matter that every part of him, every chemical reaction that sparked into waking life to form his very being, begged him to do just that. Clawed at him, more accurately, with hands of sharpened needles and pins that tore right through his every thought. It was all that he could do to keep them covered and hope that they did not tear through his words too. His was a quiet outward existence, because of it. Low, steady, calm, firm -- he could not silence his own internal dissent, but he could guide someone else through their own.

What was a priest, after all, if not a holy hypocrite?

He was glad to have already straightened up by the time Richards started to speak. Took him a while to get there, but once he did, his admissions tumbled from his mouth and into Malachi's awaiting arms.

There was no interruption from the listening priest. There was hardly a breath's sound from his side of the confessional.

If he needed any more reason to be grateful that Father Richards could not hear his confession, it was the evident shame in his voice as he detailed his sins. His doubt, his despair, his unworthiness; his disobedience and lust most of all. Like there was nothing more evil in the world than his own desires, sated despairingly by his own hand. Eleven times, he said, eleven times he'd touched himself to the thought of that good man he knew was Crane.

God, how many times had Malachi's thoughts wandered away during Mass just this week, and found homes in the inappropriate thoughts about a certain disguise-wearing young man because someone in the pews happened to look like him? How many times had he done far worse than that? Oh it was awful, the way it didn't feel like a sin at all.

Father Richards was worse than Elijah Crane. Crane at least had the desire to be free, if only the world around him would permit it. Richards imprisoned himself willingly and threw away the key. What a devouring monster such fear and hatred formed, that sustained itself with its own blood. He was not even the worst of it -- there were others still that set their teeth upon those just like them, and chewed them down to nothing just to save themselves.

"Your spirit revolts not because you have not worked hard enough to correct it," Malachi started, somber, "but because you try so hard to neglect it."

Something told him that a soft-hearted approach would not be as effective on Richards as it had been on Crane. No, Richards seemed so firmly to believe that these were sins, and Malachi could not hope to change his mind completely with a few caring words.

"The worst sin you have committed is in doubting the love and mercy of God. He does not make mistakes. He fashioned you as he wanted you to be," he insisted, "and in struggling so hard against his design, it is only natural that you would fall. You doubt your service -- tell me, if you were to leave the church, would your issues be resolved?"

His tone made it clear that he was not expecting a 'yes.'

“Wh-,” Father Brennan’s words were hard to understand. But there was more. Gabriel held his tongue. He only wiped his tears with the back of his hand as he listened. He tried to calm his breathing and stop crying. What did the priest mean by his spirit, his nature, his design? Gabriel was working so hard at gaining it back, did Brennan not see that?

“No - no not the church. I could never leave the church. But the priesthood. I -,” Father Brennan did not seem to doubt his vocation, at least. “I doubt I could leave, just that I’ve felt at times I should. It wouldn’t solve my problems, father. And I wouldn’t expect it to. I doubt it would change my… feelings… regarding men. They’ve always been there, though not like this. It’s…” He closed his eyes and shook his head while he searched for the words.

“I haven’t doubted my vocation because I believe I would be happier elsewhere. Only I feel unworthy, and I am beginning to question whether I ever…” Really felt the vocation. “You say I’ve neglected my spirit, my nature. I have tried so hard to gain back the spirit I used to possess, and to be what God designed again.

“I used to be different. Kinder. And patient. I knew what I was doing and why. There was hardships, but my heart was open to God and to the people. I did…! I did possess that fire, that passion,” he affirmed mostly to himself. “A want to be that person again. But its like the fire’s gone out and no matter how hard I pray, it will not be rekindled.” He sighed. Then he added quietly, defeated: “So that now, at times, I wonder if it was really ever there in the first place, or whether I’ve imagined it, and was always this depraved…”

This man was not understanding him at all. Had he expected anything different, though, from a fellow priest?

Malachi did not enjoy it, the way Richards' words set a fire beneath his skin in the most irritatingly itchy way as was possible. Like little insects scurrying through his veins, agitating further with every step of their sticky legs. If he was nothing else, he was patient. He had always tried his hardest to be kind, and even if he could not... relate, in the way that most people did with one another, he could at least understand. That compassion was as essential a trait to Malachi's being as air was essential to his lungs.

But some people needed a firm hand.

A really fucking firm hand, and they needed it hard enough that it left an impression in their skin, to remind them of their own idiocy every time they caught a passing glimpse of their reflection.

Seeing as he could not reach through the grate and assault his poor assistant priest...

"You sound as if you wish to leave the priesthood and are looking for an excuse to do so. You should, if that is the case."

Malachi had never met anyone that could count high enough to number the times he had doubted his own vocation.

"You will not feel any better for it. Do you believe that the way that God made you is depraved? Or do you think yourself powerful enough to twist his creation into depravity?"

A shock went through his system upon hearing the dreaded words. Harsher words. Even Father Morgan, who had counseled him through his retreat and who had been severe, had not spoken this dismissively.

"N-no father..." he protested, but the lecture wasn't done. Gabriel tried to listen, but despair clutched at his throat and seemed to make it hard to breathe. His heart was racing. He gasped for air. Then he realized it was his own hand. He set it back down against the wooden wall between them.

"I don't understand, father..." he said with quivering voice. "Is that not what sin is?" He leaned his forehead against the wood. He was tired.

To say that Malachi was without any sympathy for the man on the other side of the wall... it would be a lie. At many points in his life had he felt doubt, the kind that Richards spoke of; the kind that clawed its way down one's throat and burrowed deep within the pit of one's stomach to wait, to build, to grow until it melded with the lining and flooded every vein and artery with putrid doubt.

But if he was depraved, if he was sinful, as he knew himself to be, it was not because of who he loved.

"I don't understand, father. Is that not what you want me to tell you?"

Why else would he degrade himself so, if he did not expect for everyone else to do the same? Why plead for God's mercy, if he was not expecting punishment? This was masochistic. Seven weeks he'd spent without confession, and now he came willingly to spill his evil deeds and reach for the punishment he apparently wanted and deserved.

"Sin is a part of us as much as anything else. If it were not, we would have no need for confessionals, for penance, for a messiah," Malachi leaned his head back against the wood, eyes fixed on the dark top above. "When you have confessed this sin before, you were forgiven."

At least, he should have been.

"You are destroying yourself by not having faith in that. Do you not see it?"