Chapter Text
Sundays you spend on your knees. Hands tucked together, dainty cross falling gracefully between your collarbones, you recite the prayers diligently. The priest’s monotonous voice resonates against the vault, sloping across the arches. Beside you, your father mouths the words.
You hear some sort of muffled laugh. Peeved, you open your eyes, turning just slightly to catch a peek of him. Matty Healy, black hair falling over his forehead, face drenched in the blue and red and green of the stained glass. He sits on the pew when everyone kneels, biting back a laugh. He looks utterly sinful; dark and half in shadow, spitting in the face of God.
You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips. You don’t know why he even bothers to show up if it’s just to cause a ruckus.
As if he could hear your thoughts louder than the organ ringing through the room, Matty’s eyes snap to you. You stifle a jump; your stomach dipping in sheer surprise. His eyes are dark like him, piercing. He sees through you, underneath your flesh and blood, seeping through your bones. You don’t know what he sees. It unsettles you, how deeply he watches, how baring it feels on your covered skin.
Your crossed hands clench, digging your poor heart ring in your skin. Muted pain spreads down your palm, but you barely feel it. You stare back at him, unwilling to let him win.
The priest praises the Lord. Matty smirks. You shift your knees on the cushion.
“Pay attention,” your mother hisses, reaching two fingers to your side and pinching in warning. You startle, turning back towards the pulpit dutifully.
Somewhere behind you, another quiet laugh, much more taunting, much more pleased. It slitters under the pews, climbing up your straight spine. You tighten your hands into fist you wish you could use. There’s some unspoken anger living inside of you, something unfit for a good girl, a dutiful daughter, a pious person. You let it breathe with you because you cannot smother it; you’ve tried.
Still, you exhale loudly, unclenching your hands, shaking your shoulders to relax them. You plaster a smile over your face. You recite the right words, echoing the pastor.
When he calls for the eucharist, you stand up, following in line between your two parents. You feel a pair of eyes on your back, itching under your modest cardigan, tickling the ends of your hair. You try to ignore it, but you can’t stop yourself from throwing a look Matty’s way. He catches you, of course, smiling like he got you. You hurry to look away.
In front of the preacher, you open your mouth. Gently, he places the sacramental bread on your tongue. You don’t let it dissolve; you bite, swallowing the body of Christ. Again, you open your mouth, taking a holy sip of wine.
Turning around, you lick your red lips clean. You give yourself another self-indulgent glance towards Matty. He’s distracted by your mouth, it seems, but it snaps back to you. He smiles shamelessly. He’s stayed perfectly seated throughout the eucharist, of course. You scowl to yourself, although you can’t quite pinpoint why it bothers you so.
“Don’t make that face,” your mother warns beside you. You smoothen your features, schooling a complacent smile again. You sit back on your pew while your mother mutters to your dad exasperatedly, “Such a pretty face. I don’t know why she frowns like this.” Still, you smile, staring straight ahead.
It was a lovely sermon. Sundays leave you clean.
—
Everyone gathers after the service in the Fellowship Hall. Although most people do it to gossip, there is a table of snacks against the wall. There’s watery coffee, but your parents don’t like when you drink it. You take a paper cup, pouring yourself some orange juice instead. You turn around to make sure your mother is busy chatting Mrs. Finley over some recent neighborhood drama and grab yourself a cookie.
You scarf it down in two bites before anyone sees.
“That looked like the single most delicious biscuit ever made.”
Of course, one person had to have seen, and it had to be him. You look up, stopping yourself from cursing the higher above for his sick game. You flip to Matty with a crisp grin, something utterly stuck in your cheeks. “It was.” You don’t manage to make it sound cheery. Condescension drips on your tongue.
Matty laughs through the bite. “Do you have something to tell me?”
You clench your jaw. Refusing to give him an inch of ground, you grind through your teeth, “No.”
“No?” He says, and he makes it even more condescending, practically pouting at you. “You sound a little upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Mmh. That’s not how you’re coming across.”
You huff, impatient, crossing your arms. “I’ve said five words.”
“Six.” Matty smiles cheekily. “More, now.”
Enough, you can’t stop yourself from snapping. “You know what?” Rage twists in your belly, something uncontrollable, unreasonable, unexplainable. “I don’t know why you bother to come if you’re just going to be a—”
“A what?” Matty asks, and he looks thrilled, something childishly gleeful in his taunting smile.
“Nothing. Just— Nevermind.” Clutching your arms, you twist around, trampling away from him.
He’s quick to follow, hot on your trail as you trudge out of the Fellowship Hall. “It seemed like you were about to curse.”
“I wasn’t.” You hiss. He’s beside you now, shoulders knocking against yours. You scowl, walking faster.
“No, I’m pretty sure you were. What was it gonna be? Dickhead? Asshole? Little shit?”
“Can you shut up?”
“Can I? Yes. Will I? Now, I think you can figure out the answer to that, smart girl.”
“Gosh,” you roll your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
He prances beside you, careless, carefree. His hands dig into his jeans pockets. “It’s for my mom, if you must know.” You throw him a look, arching an eyebrow. “Why I come here. Personally, I couldn’t care less about church, seeing as I’m an atheist.”
The word grinds your ears. You knew, in a broad, immaterial way, that he didn’t believe in God. But to hear it spoken so plainly, so brazenly is another thing. You’ve tried to be open, but there is something so off-putting, so wrong about the sheer idea of a faithless life. Where does he go? How does he trust the path he’s on?
You stop in your tracks, staring at him. “Does it not scare you?”
He snorts, as though that was a silly question, as though he wasn’t slapping away God’s merciful hand. “No.”
“But you’re— you’re alone.”
“Everyone is. You’ve just deluded yourself into thinking you weren’t.”
You clutch your cross, furrowing your eyebrows. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it worse, inventing some grander thing just to sleep at night? Speaking to the sky like there’s anyone listening?”
“You’re being mean.”
He clicks his tongue. “Maybe. It’s still the truth.”
This whirlpool of anger, uncouth for a nice girl, a devout Christian. You clench your fists. “It’s not. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re speaking like you— like you understand any of this. But you’re never listening. Not to the sermons, or the prayers, or the voice of God.”
“The voice of God?” He says, and it sounds derogatory coming from his mouth; small, ridiculous. You huff air from your nostrils.
“Yes, Matty. He’s— He’s there, he’s with you, and you’re not listening.”
“Well, tell him to give up. He’s wasting his time.”
“Oh, my Gosh.” You roll your eyes, continuing to walk. Again, he follows you. “You’re not getting it. You’re miserable and you don’t even know why.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I’m miserable?”
You stop, twisting to him. “Yes!”
“That’s presumptuous.”
“So is saying I’m deluding myself!” Your heart races. Your stomach knits together. “You— You just shit on everything I believe in because, why, you think you’re better than me? Smarter than me? Is that it? Because I’m not a cynic? Because I’m trying? Who are you to judge? You are not God, you’re not even his opposition. You’re just some guy laughing in church, being a fucking dickhead.” You yell, throwing your arms up, “And, yes, I can fucking swear!”
You pant. Matty’s eyes darken, dipping to your lips. Whirlwind coiling in your belly, spreading its rapacious fingers through your limbs. You breathe harder, quicker. A curl streaks across his forehead, tickling his brow. His jaw clenches. He’s beautiful. You curse to yourself, tightening your fists into weapons you’ll never use. Your eyes flick to his mouth.
Jeremiah, prophet of doom, circles you like prey. You fall into it face first, crashing your lips against sin itself.
It’s a harsh kiss; it’s your first kiss. Two hands grasp his jaw, like you could shatter it, like you could own it. Matty does not even seem scared of the boundless possibilities existing between your fingers. He grins, cocky, satisfied.
“Don’t say anything,” you warn, frustrated, because he would, because he was about to.
To make sure of it, you open your mouth, coaxing your tongue in his. He welcomes it easily, a groan falling into your wanton lips. You lick it up greedily, then sneak a hand in the mess of his curls, tugging to trick new ones from him. He offers them willingly; you take and take.
Euphoria hikes up your head. You’ve never been drunk, but this must be it. You let go of his hair, finding the warmth of his waist, the firmness. He’s so real against you, something tangible, something breakable. You sigh as he licks your lip. Your eyelids flutter, as does something lower.
Matty’s hands find your back, digging in your red cardigan. He clutches, stretching the material, then lets go. Fingers climb up to the back of your neck, playing with the chain of your cross necklace. You push the realization away, his proximity to the clasp.
He could undo it if he pleased. He could undo you.
He adventures his other fingers down, grabbing a handful of your ass, and it feels like he does. Need throbs in unspeakable places. You clench your thighs. You shouldn't let him undo you. You shouldn’t even give him the opportunity, dancing with fire, with the devil itself. You moan into his open mouth.
Matty breaks away from you, breathing heavily. He stares in one eye, then the other, falling to your swollen lips, to your heaving chest, cross rising with it. His look darkens. “I understand why fools believe in angels.”
You pant, “Shut up.” You drag him back to you, diving into your downfall.
When you bite his lip, tugging it to hear the resounding groan slip from his swollen mouth, you bite into something sacred, something hidden. You shouldn’t have. Still, you lick his tongue, gripping the cotton of his shirt, the warm skin of his waist. He tastes like apples and cigarettes.
His stomach is tense, rippling underneath your silk hands as you climb them higher and higher. You discover his skin, smoother than you’d have thought, stumbling on a few scars and drawing them over and over like your new prayer. He breathes quicker, harsher. Maybe he’s discovering new religions, too.
Eve was just a girl. You don’t eat; you devour.
There’s an endless pit inside of you. You store the aggregation of your stifled, festering sins: all the rage, all the envy, all the pride, all the lust. It grows, swallowing you whole. You want and want, desperate, greedy.
You want to pop him like a balloon between two heavy hands. You want to be all the girls he’s seen before you. You want to be his best. You want him, hot and hard and alive and twirling a thumb around your peaked breast.
Reverbs of pleasure. You let go of his lips just to moan in galactic shock, face scrunched. You taste the infinity on your tongue, the greatness of the universe; splinters of light. Why must you contain it inside your skin? Why must you smother it, kill it? You want him. You want him.
“Are you gonna pray for my soul?” Matty whispers, low and hoarse, half-broken out of his throat. You moan again as he twists two fingers around your nipple. “Get on your knees?”
Clarity is a bucket of cold water. You come out of the deep end, gasping for air. Your eyes snap open. Matty is watching you with black eyes. You feel him against all parts of you; under your palms, on your breast, on your hip, still burning on your lips.
You step away, letting go of him. He reaches a hand for you, trying to coax you back to him with a shrewd smirk.
You want to spit the taste of him out of you. Want to scrub your skin where his touch still lingers. He’s marked you, you can feel it. You want to scrape yourself clean. (You want him.)
“You disgust me.” You say, even if your belly still swirls at the sight of him, even if you’re still dripping down your thighs, even if your lips are viciously red from a head-twisting kiss.
Matty gives you a onceover purposefully, clearly considering all the reasons he doesn’t disgust you. “Yeah, darling. I felt that.” You blush, digging your nails in your palms in punishment.
“Don’t talk to me again.” You say, even if you’re still out of breath. “You’re— You’re a bad influence.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Me? You practically mauled me.”
You frown, gasping in offense. “I didn’t—”
“I think my lip is bleeding.” Matty holds it, slurring his speech to prove his point.
You snap, “Good.” You turn around, walking back to the Fellowship Hall without looking back.
Your mother spots you, smiling as she beckons you over. She has her coat on, but she talks with Mr. Collins still. “There you are, honey.” She frowns, bringing a hand to your forehead. “You look a little flushed.”
“Yeah,” you mumble. “I’m not feeling very well.”
“Oh, no. Are you sick?”
You lick your lips. Apples and cigarettes. “Maybe.”