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?”