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.