Faith of the Heart by The Narkyologist

Sunlight fell through the diamonds of coloured glass, causing diffused light to cascade into pools of delicate blues and gentle purples upon the up-turned face below. The softness of the light that bathed the closed eyelids with all the sweet intensity of butterfly kisses, brought with it an ache so deep that it caused the long lashes to both quiver and dampen with pure emotion. Tears shimmered beneath them; miniscule beads of salt- warm moisture that could not... would not... be shed, because Darren had promised himself that he was not going to cry.

It was a promise that he intended to keep.

He slouched lower on the seat of the pew that he'd settled upon, the soft cotton of his trousers causing him to slither a little further than he'd expected, the back of his skull connecting painfully with the wooden back rest as he did so. He realised that he probably looked entirely ridiculous -- and more than a little disrespectful -- but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to actually move to rectify his positioning. He didn't mind what the only two other people within the building thought of the way he was sitting. Let them think, what they would. He didn't care. Blinking open his eyes once more, Darren realigned his neck cautiously before it cramped and ran his slightly blurred eyes around the familiar surroundings of the church's modern interior.

The angelically clean, gleaming light wood of the pews and matching floorboards, the gold and cream brocade sheltered altar with its ornately bejewelled crucifix and chalices... Ever the connoisseur of beauty, Darren was appreciative of that which lay around him, yet he felt unable to derive any pleasure from the sight of his environment.

Too much of his past lay around him, the very air seemingly saturated with fragments of memories that he'd tried to forget...

It had been a long time since he had last entered into the church of his childhood, and he had been unprepared for the intoxicating clarity of those memories that were entwined with it, within his own mind. Their strength had startled him into a silence that was -- he knew -- completely at odds with his personality, and yet, he couldn't seem to shake himself free. He'd known that it would be a mistake to return -- had known from the moment he closed his mouth after agreeing to go back -- but he'd promised Leonie, and he wouldn't go back on his word. Not when his presence within the church meant so very much to her. Being there to hold her hand, in a figurative sense of the word, he thought with a small smile, was the least that he could do under the circumstances.

After all that she had done for him over the last eight years of their lives, Darren knew that he owed Leonie enough to voluntarily walk through the double doors of the church and back into a section of his life that he'd all but turned his back on entirely.

The last time that Darren had stood within the pristine, glistening church had been on the day that the memorial service to commemorate the life of Leonie's father had been held. The sombre mood that had seeped from the assembled mourners and stretched to fill the soaring rafters still echoed in Darren's mind. He could still recall the hours that he had spent wondering how he would have dealt with such a tragic loss striking his own family, his life. Could still remember the question that had trickled through his mind as he'd sat beside Leonie, her hand clutching his so tightly that the blood had drained from his fingers, leaving them prone to agonising recovery when the service had finished.

How many, he wondered idly, would mourn *his* passing?

A slight frown disturbed his deliberately bland expression as he caught the darkened path that his thoughts were beginning to traverse. Darren knew that it wasn't a time for thinking about death, for contemplating an event that he fervently hoped was years, decades, half a century away. It was, instead, a time for practising patience, for nodding his head each time his approval was required, for being a good friend... and yet, he thought with a bitterness that stained his mouth with its foul taste, it was hard to keep his mind focused on the preparations for his best friend's wedding.

Despite the airy spaciousness of the church -- or, maybe, because of its open atmosphere -- Darren's thoughts seemed determined to remain dark, his mind apparently intent on causing a resurgence of memories that succeeded only in bringing misery trailing in their wake.

Such a large part of who Darren was... who he had been... was imbedded within the very fabric of that quiet, inauspicious church and those just like it. He was Catholic, birthed from Catholic parents -- his mother devout in her belief in the Holy Trinity -- derived from stock whose arrival within Australia had coincided with that of Roman Catholicism... if his grandmother were to be believed, he recalled with a soft smile of nostalgia, then his very ancestors had been partly responsible for the hold that their religion had taken upon their newly native land... For the longest time, Darren had felt defined by his religion. He had believed wholeheartedly in the Sacraments, gone to Confession, said his prayers like a good little boy should... done all that he could do to maintain the image of the dutiful, obedient son of God in both the eyes of his family, his friends and those of the parish priest, Father Ignatius.

And in doing so, Darren had denied the truth even as it gnawed relentlessly inside his mind, within his heart.

His gaze drifted, skittering reluctantly back towards the altar as he found himself thinking back to the day of his ultimate betrayal of his own emotions... his own wants... needs... desires. The day upon which he had stood before it, the smart clothes against his body strange and unyielding, adding to his overwhelming sense of discomfort, providing him with an excuse as to that reluctance which he felt within him.

The day of his marriage to his high school sweetheart.

He remembered thinking at the time that his reluctance to be stood before God's altar, preparing to embark on what he was frequently promised would be a journey of mystic proportions, because he didn't *want* to marry Colby. He did wish to marry her, because he loved her -- it was just that his clothes felt strange, and uncomfortable... Darren recalled the continuous sideways glances towards the woman whom he had loved enough to propose to... he remembered seeing the pride and the happiness within her flushed features and wondering why he was the one who stood beside her.

He remembered thinking how she had deserved someone better... something better than he could ever have hoped to give her.

And yet he had stood his ground, his feet feeling rooted to the polished steps that led up to the altar, as though tendrils had wound themselves around his ankles, held him fast -- caught -- as he obediently listened to, repeated the words which the priest who had watched them both grow from quaint children, into apprehensive adults spoke. Darren had made his promises to love, honour, cherish the woman beside him, and he had done so before both those assembled to witness him do so, and God, without faltering. He had known that was the easy part; the section that he could pledge himself to, secure in the knowledge that he was capable of loving, honouring, cherishing the woman he had asked to marry him, because he already did so. Just... not enough... not in the way that he *should*...

It was only when Father Ignatius had murmured the order for no man to put their marriage asunder, that Darren's heart had skipped an anxious beat. He had always assumed that if any man were to come between he and his wife, then it would be on her part. Growing up, in his innocence, in his naivety of the wider world, Darren had always believed that line to be a warning to the brides: an order from God that they should not look at any man other than their husband. In his somewhat sheltered existence, he hadn't realised, had been unaware of such a thing as homosexuality. He'd never dreamt it possible. Certainly, he remembered with a wry smile, he had never stopped to think, to imagine, that when a marriage *was* placed asunder, it may not be as a result of the wife's faithlessness, but as the husband's own roving eye towards other men.

As he'd walked the length of the aisled corridor between pews, surrounded now by family on both sides, Darren's gaze had wavered away from the delighted smile of his new wife as he had sought the solemn smile and patient eyes of the one whose hand he craved the feel of against the clammy curve of his palm. His best friend... the only one who understood his confusion... the only one who seemed to share it...

Daniel.

Darren's eyes had found him, halfway down the aisle, standing with his head bowed in silent contemplation of the sheet of service, a muscle leaping in spasm beside the corner of his svelte mouth as he'd striven to avoid looking at the abruptly despairing groom and the unaware, smiling bride. Darren could still taste the misery within the back of his throat; a hard, solid lump that had constricted his breathing, been impossible to swallow around, as he sat in the church almost nine years later, his eyes absently following the path that he and Colby had walked as they'd left the scene of their marriage. The pew in which he'd settled had been that which had held Daniel and his brothers, Darren suddenly realised, a jolt rushing through his system as he found himself wondering whether he'd chosen to wait there with subconscious deliberation.

In a valiant attempt to force his thoughts away from those of his former business partner, Darren's gaze strayed towards where Leonie and Father Ignatius stood, still deep in conversation about the service that he was to conduct for her marriage. Their voices fell and rose in a lull of sincerity, washing over Darren's senses with something akin to sympathy for his despair as he forcibly refocused his attention upon them... away from memories, thoughts, considerations of Daniel.

At the sight of Father Ignatius, the white-haired, black-robed, dog-collared man of the cloth, Darren's thoughtful expression became a small scowl. He fought against the resurgence of memories that he had buried deep within his psyche as his eyes raked over the craggy, weather-beaten face of the man who had held the younger Darren captive with his sermons of fire and brimstone. Memories concerning the hours of counselling sessions that both his mother, and his wife, had insisted that he endure during those days when he'd first voiced his fears that his marriage wouldn't last, swept into his mind with a hurtful pitch to their intensity. Memories of how Darren had felt when he'd first had the courage to admit that he wasn't happy being so intimately bound to a woman. Darren knew that if he allowed himself to remember in intricate detail the discussions with the very same priest who stood, smiling at Leonie and nodding his head as though in conversation with a beloved niece, he would stalk out of the church and never return.

And he couldn't do that to Leonie.

She needed him to walk her down the aisle along which he'd paraded as a cherubic alter-boy all those years earlier, to hand her over to the man she'd chosen to spend -- he hoped -- the rest of her natural life wedded to. To -- in lieu of her father -- effectively give her away. There was nothing that Darren wanted to do that might dispel even a fraction of his friend's obvious happiness and excitement as she prepared herself for her marriage. He loved her. He couldn't... wouldn't... hurt her in any way and expect to live with himself afterwards.

Against his will, though, the fractured reminiscences of those sessions beneath the priest's kindly gaze, clouded with encroaching age and rheumatism, crept into Darren's mind, dancing delicately across his thoughts, cutting through his forced concentration upon *why* he was there...

He didn't *want* to remember, but he couldn't seem to stop his mind from bringing the memories to the surface of his mind, from twisting his emotions into a tighter coil within his chest, from making him feel a very real, very abrupt need to be anywhere in the world but where he was at that moment in time...

Struggling to swallow down on the intense displeasure, the near-overwhelming urge to run, to flee from the church and the gracious arrogance that he knew would be within Father Ignatius's eyes when he realised that Leonie wasn't alone that day, Darren rose to his feet, calling upon every single ounce of performance skill that he'd gleaned over the years of his career, and made his way forwards.

Aiming for a casual stroll, he felt awkward, out of place, every step a torturous stamp within his own mind. His muscles were tight, warped within his flesh, propelling him forwards against their will as they craved the sanctuary of the street in which the church was set in place of the abruptly oppressive, airless atmosphere that he was determined to remain within. His mouth was twisted into a glacially polite smile, the feel of it upon his face as awkward as that of his muscles within his body and yet, he could do nothing to alter it.

'Leo -,' Even to Darren, his voice sounded clipped and unnecessarily hard. When Leonie and Father Ignatius turned to regard him, he wasn't surprised to note the bewildered concern within both of their eyes, followed swiftly by both recognition and sympathy within those of the priest.

'Is something the matter?' Leonie asked quietly. She stretched out a hand to touch the very tips of her fingers against his sleeve. 'I know I said this wouldn't take long, but we were just talking about Rob's uncles...'

'No, that's okay...' He felt like a heel for making her feel bad. 'Take as long as you want, but, uh, I may wait outside... okay?'

Leonie opened her mouth, parted her lips in order to issue sound, an acknowledgement of his statement, but before she could speak, Darren's hearing was assaulted by a voice that he had never thought he would hear speak again:

'Hello, Darren.'

He blinked, struggled to repress the obtusely infuriated sigh that threatened to clench his throat shut with choked emotion, turned his head to regard the calmly smiling priest from eyes that were as chilled as the smile that twitched upon his lips. 'Father.'

'It's been a while, hasn't it?' Father Ignatius seemed unaware of the coldness that permeated every nuance of Darren's expression.

'Yes, Father.'

Leonie frowned, quizzically. That she sensed the irritation bubbling beneath his words, was clear to Darren, if not to the priest -- but she had been oblivious to the pain that accompanied it until that moment. Darren could feel her gaze flickering between his cold face and Father Ignatius's calmly smiling, composed, almost *happy* expression, yet she remained silent, kept her own counsel whilst the inevitable pleasantries that politeness dictated were played out.

'Your mother tells me you're doing very well for yourself over in America, Darren.'

'Yes, Father.' He kept his answers short, unwilling to be drawn into a lingering conversation with the earthly representative of God's word. Where once Darren would have regaled Father Ignatius with tales of how well his singing career was doing, now he wanted only to have the conversation brought to its natural conclusion and to scurry from the church once again.

'What're the churches like, over there?' The question took Darren a little by surprise, yet he was more startled by the slightly longing tone that he picked up in the elderly priest's voice. 'Are they as nice as ours?'

Darren shot Leonie a glance, moving one eyebrow in a questioning gesture that they'd been using since kindergarten. In silent reply, she raised her own, indicating with the movement that she didn't know where the question had come from, either. Surely Father Ignatius knew that Darren hadn't attended a normal mass in almost six years? Surely Darren's mother would have lamented the abrupt and consuming loss of her youngest child's faith in God to her parish priest?

'Tell me, Darren, what's the name of the church that you attend in America?'

'Uh...'

There suddenly seemed a shadow of hardness about Father Ignatius's eyes, belying the benevolent smile that adorned his mouth. 'You *do* attend weekly mass, don't you, Darren?'

'Uh...' He felt like he was eight years old again and being reprimanded for asking why priests and nuns both wore dresses. 'Uh...'

'Father, Darren -,' Leonie tried to interject, to save him from shaming them both before Father Ignatius, as she had done so all through their Sunday schooling, but the priest elevated one hand, silencing her with its raised palm and outstretched fingers.

Despite himself, Darren was impressed at how efficient the gesture was. He bit back on a smile as he found himself wondering how effective the gesture would be on Leonie if he were to use it the next time *he* wanted her to be quiet, to let *him* speak, think... exist without her constant commands and demands.

'Darren?' Father Ignatius's voice was lulled and yet harsh against Darren's ears. 'You *do* attend weekly mass in America, don't you?'

He took a deep breath, catching the spark of shame within him at the only answer that he could give the watchful priest. And then it struck him. He wasn't a child anymore. He was no longer an impressionable, callow youth who *could* be frightened by talk of Purgatory and Eternal Damnation. He was thirty years old, in the prime of his life, a success...

So why was he so terrified of the opinion of a priest who had helped to turn him away from his religion through a refusal of compassion and comprehension?

'No, Father.' He said quietly, watching with inherent sadness as Father Ignatius leant forward slightly to catch the gentle strains of his voice. Darren sighed, realising that not even the priest was able to escape, or avoid the trials of aging.

Father Ignatius's expression barely altered. The only change that Darren could see within it, was the soft fluttering of his jowls as he smiled beatifically. 'You don't?'

'No, Father.'

Father Ignatius fixed him with a steady gaze. 'Does your mother know?'

'Yes, Father. She knows.'

'Funny... she never said...'

'Well, why should she?'

'Darren!' Leonie hissed, tapping her hand firmly against his elbow in a swift gesture of irritation and yet, he knew that if he turned to look at her face, he would see wide hazel eyes pleading with him not to ruin everything for her with his refusal to back down once he'd started. An expression that he knew he would be unable to resist obeying, for it was only rarely that Leonie ever asked for adroit behaviour from him.

Darren didn't look 'round.

His entire attention focused narrowly on the musing features of the priest before him, he felt his eyes contract down into small slits of an anger that he had thought... hoped... had been in the process of bleeding out of his system.

'Well,' Father Ignatius said slowly, his voice thoughtful, measured, gracious. 'Your mother is a prominent member of my church community, Darren -- I would have thought that she might have told me that her son no longer attends masses...'

'Perhaps she thought that it's none of your business.' He ground out, abruptly defensive at the thought of his mother discussing him with the parish priest behind his back.

'I am her priest, Darren. If something is troubling her, then it is only natural that she turn to me for guidance... for counselling...'

'Perhaps my defection from church doesn't trouble her.'

'Darren, *please*!' Leonie hissed again, tugging determinedly on his sleeve now. He knew that she had caught the bitterly angry tone to his voice, sheathed even though it were beneath the glacial coolness of his eyes and the hard, clipped timbre of his words. 'Wait outside... *please*...'

'Your mother is a devout woman, Darren.' Father Ignatius seemed as determined as Darren were to continue their discussion. He folded his arms defensively in front of his cassock, tilting his head thoughtfully to one side beneath the steady, glinting blue gaze of the considerably younger man.

'I'm aware of that, Father.'

'Then you must also be aware of how troubled the poor woman must be by the way in which you have turned your back upon your church... upon your very upbringing!'

Silently, Darren shrugged, feeling Leonie's clasping fingers slip from his sleeve. He couldn't comment on how his mother felt about the fact he hadn't attended mass in a long while, because it was a subject that they didn't discuss. It was a subject that remained markedly taboo between them, along with that which had been his entire reason for leaving the church and his marriage behind him.

'So troubled, in fact, by the way that you are shunning Our Holy Father, that she cannot bring herself to confide in her own priest...' Father Ignatius said, sighing softly, managing to convey a bone-weary tiredness along with mild exasperation. Again, Darren was struck by the benevolence that masked the elderly priest's eyes, reminding him of his childhood, and of feeling safe, loved, protected, because the all-seeing, all-knowing Holy Father was watching over them all...

'I'm not shunning my upbringing.' Darren said quietly. 'I have every respect for the way my parents brought me up.'

'Yet you have no respect for their belief in marriage and in bringing the next generation of God's children into this world...'

Darren's mouth twitched in a pained grimace that he desperately hoped the priest hadn't seen. From the corner of his eye, he caught the narrowing of Leonie's expression, knowing that she would understand the intense jolt of pain that slewed through his heart at the simply spoken opinion, for it wasn't that Darren had no respect for his parents marriage -- he was constantly amazed by the way in which they had stood together through so much, and reverent of the fact that they had refused to abandon their marriage in times of intense crisis. As for children... hardly a day passed when he didn't wish that he were able to become a father, to raise a family, to watch over them and adore them with every ounce of his soul as they grew...

He took a deep breath shallowly through his nose. 'Pete and Tracey have kids.'

'Your brother and sister are children for your mother to be proud of.'

'My mother's proud of *me*!'

Father Ignatius shook his head slightly, his eyes conveying a bewildering mixture of sympathy, understanding and arrogance that only *his* opinion was the correct one. 'You have brought shame upon your mother's household, Darren. Upon *her*.'

'How?'

'Ever since you were a child -,' Arms unfolded, swept out to encompass as wide a space as they could. The sleeves of his cassock slid back on his wrists, revealing the bony, joints beneath pallid flesh with marble blue veins streaking along beneath it. 'You have done nothing *but* heap shame upon your poor mother's shoulders...'

Darren arched his eyebrows in distaste, wondering absently if that was how *his* flesh would look if he continued to religiously hide from the sunlight. 'How?' he asked again, the question coming out in a slightly querulous, demanding voice.

'Your ideas of grandeur... your ambition... your separation from that poor girl you married... your vanity...' A small smile quirked Father Ignatius's mouth. 'Even when you were a boy, your mother tells me you were difficult to remove from the vicinity of mirrors...' The smile vanished, replaced by a sorrowful sigh. 'And for what has it all been, Darren? What have you accomplished in your life since you denied your responsibility to follow God's teachings -- to *abide* by them as any normal man would?'

'I bring happiness into the lives of others with my music.' Darren said stubbornly. He glared tightly at the priest. 'You were the one who used to say my voice was a gift from God and that I should use it!'

'To spread his teachings, Darren -- not to preach your own... From the moment you met that Jones boy, I knew you would be taken from the path that God had marked for you to follow...'

Anger flared within Darren at the mention of Daniel's name; at the slight that he knew Father Ignatius had intended he understand. He wanted to shake the elderly man... to scream in his face that Daniel had been the only sane thing in his life for the longest of times... he wanted to at least *try* to make the priest understand that the emotions he had felt towards his former partner had been of the purest order... that they had outweighed anything that he had ever felt for his estranged wife... and yet he couldn't.

He couldn't even *hope* to make Father Ignatius understand that Daniel was the only one who had never held him to expectations; who had simply allowed him to be himself. Removed the pressure of wanting to be the perfect son, the perfect husband, the perfect friend, the perfect Catholic from his shoulders and allowed him freedom to breathe, to lose himself in the one thing he loved above all else -- his music.

He couldn't... because somewhere along the path of trying to shed his religion, Darren had also lost Daniel...

'How do you *know* I'm *not* following His path?' he demanded. 'What gives *you* the authority to make such an assumption about *my* life?'

'I know what you are, Darren.'

'What?'

'I know what you have become. I hear the rumours that circulate about you -- both in the media, and within this parish. I know precisely what your poor mother has to endure from other parishioners every time she walks into their midst. And I know why you left your marriage.'

Darren's heart fell, his voice sounding as little more than a whisper, 'What?'

'The Church cannot silence the truth, Darren. Such an action wouldn't help us to discern what is good, from that which is evil.' The priest said gently. 'And I am a representative of the Church. I am a spokesman for God. I speak with His authority... and, as such, *I* cannot silence the truth...'

'So...' Darren could hear the broken harshness to his own voice, hated himself for not being able to speak with an authority of his own. Yet the implication that his mother was suffering as a result of the rumours the media circulated about his closely guarded private life, had stunned him out of his anger and into a state of confusion. He frowned, wanting to denounce the rumours as nothing more than gossiping lies... but could only focus upon one thing... one thought... one comprehension of the priest's words. 'So, now you're saying that I'm evil?'

Father Ignatius looked suddenly uncomfortable, bringing his arms close in front of his body once more, clasping his hands together as he regarded the young man before him from reflective eyes. 'His Holiness the Pope himself stated that...' He shot a concerned glance towards the pale-faced, silent Leonie, perhaps seeing that she wasn't as shocked by his words, by their conversation, as she might have been had not she been privy to the deepest, darkest of her friend's secrets. The priest frowned, then returned his attention to Darren. 'He stated that homosexual acts are against the very laws of nature, Darren.'

'I see...' His voice was flat, monotone in his shock.

'You *know* that our religious ethics rest firmly upon the basis of the principle that procreation is a highly essential part of human sexuality!'

'Yeah...'

'Every genital act *must* be one that is open to the *possibility* of conception!'

'I know that, yes.'

Shaking her head silently, as though in disbelief that she was standing within a church, listening to her best friend and her family priest discussing human sexuality in *any* form, Leonie turned and crossed the few steps to the rows of pews behind her. Sinking down onto the polished seat of that closest to her, she leant forwards, resting her chin in her hands as she gazed silently at the two men, very aware that the preparations for her marriage could not be continued until they had completed their discussion to their individual satisfactions.

'And you should *also* know the line that the Bible takes on genital acts between those of the same sex.' Father Ignatius's chin jutted purposefully. 'It quite *clearly* states "thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is an abomination"...'

'I know that, Father.' Darren said quietly. He shook his head stubbornly. 'That's why I no longer attend mass. I will *not* practice any religion that tells me that it is wrong, somehow, or evil, to experience what I feel within my heart.' He could feel the emotive tears welling within him once more, the near-overwhelming urge to stamp his foot like a petulant child who wasn't getting his own way... and yet all he really wanted was for Father Ignatius to listen to him. To understand, perhaps, that Darren's reasons for abstaining from organised religion were just as valid as those which the priest maintained were necessary factors as to why he should return to the folds of his flock... He took a deep breath, forcing the tears down, controlling the twitching muscles within his leg, determined to finish the argument with dignity if nothing else.

'I can't help who I fall in love with, Father. I love the *person*, not their gender. And I don't see why I *should* accept teachings that tell me I'm automatically considered a sinner -- an *abomination* of nature -- as a result of that.'

'It isn't the teachings that dictate your sins, Darren, but your own heart.'

'How can...' He frowned deeply, not understanding. 'What?'

'You sin when you distance yourself from God's teachings, that much is true. You sin whenever you make the decision to consciously distance yourself from God. Which you *have* done.'

Silently, Darren nodded his head, listening intently to the soft strains of the priest's voice.

'But sin is an *attitude*, Darren, not an action.' Father Ignatius explained. 'You sin when you *deliberately* commit yourself to an action, or to a belief that you *know* -- or you *believe* -- is inherently wrong...'

'Like homosexual sex.'

The priest nodded his grizzled head; the only indication that he had heard the quietly spoken interruption to his explanation. '... By so doing, you make a *choice* to opt towards evil and move away from the grace and the goodness that is God...'

'Loving someone isn't wrong... it isn't *evil*...' Darren bit out. 'Isn't that what God teaches us? To love others?' His mouth twisted sardonically and bitter triumph filled his eyes. 'To love our fellow man?'

'As a Church, Darren...' Father Ignatius seemed determined to ignore both the bitterness contained within the younger man's eyes and the interruption to the flow of his speech. 'As a representative *of* that Church... of *God*... we... that is, *I*... recognise the difference between loving someone of the same sex as yourself, and engaging in acts of a homosexual nature...' He sighed wearily. 'Just as Leviticus spoke out against homosexual acts being an abomination, so, too, are there several examples within the Bible of man loving man...'

Darren caught his lower lip between his front teeth as he realised that his interruption was being quietly replied to, if not admonished.

'... David's love for Jonathan, for example. The depth of David's emotion towards his friend was said to have exceeded those that he felt towards women. And then there's Ruth's relationship with Naomi... a certain example of a deeply binding, affectionate love.' The priest paused for a moment, then sighed again. The faint traces of cigarette smoke ghosted across Darren's face with the exhalation of breath, obtusely reminding him of "that Jones boy" and bringing a small smile of nostalgia to his lips. 'On the whole, Darren, the Bible -- *God* -- is very accepting of love between those who share a gender. Such... relationships are highly valued as lasting, binding friendships. Something that we all recognise as forming an important part of our development as humans. Experiencing homosexual feelings isn't wrong, or indeed sinful. Acting upon them, however... *is*.'

'But...'

Father Ignatius shook his head, stalling the remainder of Darren's hasty objection to what he was saying. 'We... *I* accept that it happens, Darren. This is the 21st century, after all, and we are nothing if not a modern church despite impressions to the contrary.' He smiled gently, his eyes once more radiating a serene kindness. 'But we cannot accept... *will not* tolerate same-sex genital acts.'

'But...' Darren tried again.

'They remove the entire reason... the entire *purpose* of the sexual act, Darren.' Father Ignatius's tone was firm, brooking no argument. 'Procreation.' He reiterated. 'The abomination isn't in the act itself, but within the betrayal of your religion.'

Darren fixed Father Ignatius with a steady gaze. He could feel the atmosphere of the church begin to close in on him once again; the weight of knowing that -- no matter how many times he stood in defence of his feelings for Daniel -- he, alone, could not change the priest's opinion, nor consensus, oppressive upon his shoulders. And yet, he felt incredibly calm as he faced the elderly man.

'I'd rather betray my religion, Father,' he said quietly, proud of the strength behind his words, 'than myself. God doesn't have to look me in the eye each day in the bathroom mirror -- but *I* do.'

Father Ignatius regarded him solemnly. 'I can only pray for you, Darren.' He said, his voice gentle. Caring. 'I can only pray that you come to your senses and ease your mother's torment and suffering, as well as your own...'

'I'm not -,' He caught himself before he could immerse himself deeper into the circulating argument that would never -- he now knew -- have a satisfactory result for either "side". He realised how pointless it was trying to make the elderly priest understand that he didn't feel torment about his sexuality any longer; that the anguish had vanished from him the moment he'd admitted to *himself* that he couldn't continue with the pretence of being something... *someone* whom he was not. Darren's words slid to an abrupt halt within his throat as he looked into the kindly face of the priest who had baptised each and every one of his nieces and nephews; who had married his entire generation of the Hayes family and would, shortly, bind Leonie in holy matrimony to her fiancé. It was pointless trying to continue the argument, knowing that he was fighting a losing battle from the very beginning. At least, Darren consoled himself as he turned away from the tranquillity of the vaguely self-righteous expression that he saw within Father Ignatius's eyes, he had tried.

He sought Leonie, and the sanctity of their unconditional friendship, knowing that no matter what he was, said, did, thought, she would understand and love him regardless. She always had done and, Darren knew, she would continue in that. It was the binding mark of their friendship; the unswerving loyalty on both sides that nothing could devour... not even love.

She sat motionless upon the polished pew, still, her hands continuing to cradle her chin between their curved palms, and her eyes dark with thoughts, theories, opinions that Darren was sure he didn't wish to begin guessing at. She looked as though someone had stolen something that she held very dear to her heart and, for a moment, Darren experienced a pang of regretful fear that he had probably... undoubtedly... ruined a meaningful part of her own preparations for her wedding.

'Leo?'

'Mmm...?'

'I'll be outside, okay?'

'Mmm...'

Holding his spine straight, keeping his head high, and his gaze relatively steady, Darren turned completely away from the sadly smiling priest and walked away, his footsteps ringing out against the polished floorboards and echoing within his own mind with significance.

'God will forgive you, Darren...' Father Ignatius called after him as he reached the large door that led out from the suddenly muggy building into the cool, clean air of the outside world. 'All you have to do is repent your sins and *ask* for His forgiveness...'

But what if, Darren thought as he gulped in a lungful of the gentle breeze that whispered around him... what if he didn't *want* God's forgiveness? Because how, he asked himself, could there be forgiveness for something that he didn't believe was, in any way, wrong?

Darren understood only too perfectly, the words that Father Ignatius had spoken. He grasped the concept that where, once upon a distant time, the Catholic Church had condemned every aspect of homosexuality, now they only condemned homosexual sex: that loving another man was acceptable, but showing that love intimately... was not.

Darren understood -- and yet it made no sense to him.

Across the street from the church, there was a small park; little more than an area of grassed over concrete with a few benches on its perimeter, but it was afforded privacy from public consumption by the thick shrubbery that shielded it from both the road and from the church. Knowing that Leonie would realise from past experience where he was, Darren silently crossed the street and entered the small park.

Settled on a bench, legs stretched out before him, arms folded defiantly, protectively, soothingly against his stomach, he scowled in contemplation.

As a child, Darren had played "tag" with his friends amongst the shrubs that bordered the park whilst his parents chatted with those of his small companions after Mass, the game shifting to "kiss-chase" as they'd grown towards adolescence and their primary goals had altered. Absently, his thoughts already moving away from his childhood, he wondered if the children who attended the church still played with the same freedom that he and his friends had and, if they did, how many of them would find themselves in a similar position as he now was...

His thoughts reallocated themselves, forming mental images of his wedding at the very fore of his mind. He recalled how, after the ceremony, the wedding party had moved from the church to the park, posed for the professional portraits which his mother-in-law had insisted upon against a backdrop of glossy green leaves and seasonally delicate purple blooms...

Darren knew that remembering that day -- supposedly the best of his life -- was a mistake. The memories of the event itself were little more than a blur in his mind -- a vortex of confusion and doubt that only served to add to his pain. He had no control over the direction of his thoughts, however. Could no more control his memories than he could dictate the weather that glistened around him.

Everywhere he looked, everywhere he turned, there were memories, lurking, ready to ambush him with devastating power.

Even the bench that he'd chosen to sit upon was imbued with hurtful associations.

A deep sigh wracked Darren's body as he remembered standing beside his new wife, confetti and dried rice sprinkled across the shoulders of his expensive suit, laughter and ecstatic tears all around him, and looking directly towards Daniel. The younger man had been perched upon the same iron seat that now supported Darren's weight, awkward, and yet resplendently so, in the suit that his mother had insisted he were to celebrate his friend's marriage.

Darren's mouth twitched into a small, nostalgic smile as his mind was filled with a gloriously technicolor image of Daniel, the chilled sunlight catching, illuminating, sparkling upon the naturally lighter blond streaks in his darkly blond hair. He remembered how Daniel's eyes had brimmed over with mischievous delight as he, in turn, had silently observed the situation that surrounded them both, and then the impish grin that had slowly lit up his entire face as he'd realised that Darren's attention was focused upon him instead of upon his bride...

How, Darren demanded of himself, could loving such a man as Daniel be so wrong?

It was a question that, at one time, had preyed upon his mind almost constantly, but hadn't arisen for some months. There had been times when Darren had done little more than doubt his own feelings, question his motives for having been the one who had shifted the balance of his friendship with Daniel into something beyond the realms of platonic: dark occasions that had followed slammed doors, and broken tears... Times when Darren had instinctively craved the habits of his childhood and early youth, when he wanted the sweet oblivion, the simple forgiveness, the removal of his gut-curdling remorse and guilt, that only the sacrament of confession had ever been able to give him.

Those times had been few enough, however, and they had never lasted long enough for Darren to both seek and find holy sanctuary from his own mind and thoughts. By the time that Daniel had slammed that final door, by the time that Darren had completed his impassioned bout of swearing, crying, insisting that he hated the other man with every ounce of life in his body... by the time that it had dawned upon his mind that the break-up was permanent... he hadn't been able to bring himself to despoil those memories of what had passed between them in any way.

He had treasured them instead, turned them into garlanded, precious memories that he kept buried within the safety of his own mind, far away from public attention, knowing that they were there for his inspection whenever he needed to think of Daniel in a positive way.

'You ready to go?'

Darren blinked at the sound of Leonie's voice, intruding upon his blind reflections. He turned his head a little, realising that she hovered to one side of the bench, a hesitancy about her that he hadn't seen in a long while... years, perhaps. He frowned, wondering if she were angry with him for having derailed her conversation with Father Ignatius; for having been a bad friend and detracted from the happiness of her wedding preparations. 'Hmm?'

'I'm done talking now.' She said. 'Thought maybe we could drive into town, get lunch somewhere... my treat...'

'Leo?'

'Yes, love?'

'Am I a bad person?'

'Oh, Darren...' She sighed wearily, stepping forwards to settle beside him upon the bench. Their shoulders touched, elbows jostled, thighs and knees drew and radiated heat. She nudged him gently, a soft push of her elbow against his, sending his arm slithering across the fabric of the sweatshirt he wore. 'You're not a bad person.' She said. 'Not at all. Far from it, in fact.'

'Then why won't they just accept that I love...' His voice faltered, his gaze shifted, a stain of blush graced his cheeks. 'Um...'

'You still love him, then?' There was a hint of amusement beneath the simple spoken question.

'Mm-hmm.'

There was a gentle moment of silence between them. 'Who's "they", Darren?'

'Oh... you know... *them*...'

They shared a brief, wry grin of companionship, before Leonie raised both her eyebrows in gentle reproach. 'Darren, the only people whose opinions matter when it concerns love, are those who are directly involved.' She said. 'You know that. You *do* know that, right?'

'I know. Doesn't make it any easier, though... on the one hand, I'm damned if I do because I'll go directly to Hell, don't collect the two hundred dollars, no passing "stop" on the way... and on the other hand...'

'... you're damned to spend the rest of your life in perpetual misery if you don't.'

'Yep.'

'Can I ask you something?'

'Anything.' He said without hesitation. Leonie was his oldest, closest friend. He had nothing left to hide from her.

'Did you ever get around to telling Dan *why* you turned your back on the church?'

He lowered his eyes to the concrete gravel beneath their feet, his face flooding with a shamed heat. 'No...' He croaked, his voice abruptly rusty and hurt.

'Why?'

'Didn't want him to feel as though he was to blame... you heard what Father Ignatius called him: "that Jones boy"... I didn't want him to realise what I was giving up in order to be with him...'

'Hadn't you thought that he already realised?' Leonie asked, her voice soft and reverberating with compassion. 'Daniel's not stupid, Darren. He knows more about what goes on in that brain of yours than you ever gave him credit for.'

Miserably, Darren twisted round so that he was able to rest his head upon her shoulder, feeling the side of her face against his hair as she, in turn, leant against him. 'I fucked up, huh?'

'At a rough guess, yeah... I'd say you probably did.'

He pouted, then felt her smile against the top of his head and knew that she was teasing. The pout diminished, became a smile that was littered with sorrow. 'Guess I just have to learn from my mistakes... move on...'

'No...'

'Huh?'

'You should *apologise* for your mistakes, Darren. Don't you think you owe Dan that, at least? He's gone through *hell* since you turned everything that happened into his fault, and his alone.'

'What?' Flustered, he sat bolt upright, staring at her. 'What...? How'd...? Huh?'

Leonie's smile was serene. 'Don't ask me how I know, because I won't tell you, Darren.' She told him. 'Just promise me that if you do see Dan whilst we're here, you will talk to him... explain why you behaved like a spoilt brat...'

He shrugged his shoulders into an eloquently laconic shrug. 'Not much chance of *that* happening,' he said softly, only the faintest hint of bitterness colouring his voice. 'Is there? You *know* Dan won't talk to me.'

'And who can we blame for that?'

He sighed, lowered his gaze from her mildly reproachful eyes. 'Me.' He said, miserably. He sank back against the backrest of the bench once more, a heavy sigh lifting his torso. 'Just me...'

'Daniel said that he needed time, Darren,' Leonie reminded him gently. 'Time to get over the things that you said to him...'

'Accused him of.'

'Yeah. That, too.'

'It's been too long, Leo. He's never going to want to talk to me again.' Another shrug, another sigh. 'I accepted that a while ago. Just... it doesn't hurt any less when I'm constantly reminded... that's all...'

'Maybe he's had enough time, now, Darren.'

He eyed her suspiciously. 'What're you up to?' he demanded. 'How do you know all this?'

'I don't.'

'Then...?'

She smiled, sweetly. 'Just a theory.'

'Oh.'

Perhaps hearing the despondency within his voice, Leonie patted his knee comfortingly before using it to help propel her to her feet. Turning, she held out her hand. 'Come on -,' she said. 'Lunch... and *then* you get to come with me to the florists...'

Taking her hand, allowing her to help him from the bench as though he were an invalid or elderly, Darren found himself grinning at the promise of a threat that her voice -- and words -- contained before strolling out of the parkland beside her, their hands still comfortingly clasped together...

~*~

The fragrance of lilies filled the limousine to a point where Darren was obtusely glad that he didn't suffer from pollen allergies as, three days later, he and Leonie were driven back to the church. The edges of his tired vision were a blur of ivory taffeta and flimsy lace, his ears filled with the soft, nervous humming sounds like Leonie persisted in making at the back of her throat, and his very nerves jangled with sympathetic anxiety.

For the fifth time in as many minutes, he squeezed her hand as it clung within his own. 'You'll be fine.' He said, his voice firm. 'You look absolutely *beautiful*, Rob's a lucky man, nothing is going to go wrong, and everything will be *fine*!'

'I know...'

He shot her a fleeting glance. 'But?'

'No "buts"... prerogative of the bride to have jitters, isn't it?'

'Don't know.' Darren shrugged his shoulders, smiling in relief as he watched the happy sparkle illuminate Leonie's entire face as she caught sight of the church beyond his vision, the limousine drawing level, the driver lulling the engine. The smile became a grin as the humming sounds stopped. 'Never been a bride, have I?'

It was Leonie's turn to squeeze his hand tightly. 'Everything'll be fine?'

'Yep.'

'Sure?'

'Positive... you love him, don't you?'

'With all my heart.'

'Then all you have to do is have faith in what your heart feels, Leo...'

Her smile was radiant, her gaze straying beyond Darren's shoulder. 'Remember that, won't you?'

There was a click behind him as whoever was waiting to help them from the confines of the limousine twisted the handle, opening the door, Leonie's smile growing broader as she looked past Darren's shoulder, releasing his hand, pushing him slightly, causing him to frown in momentary irritation, turning his head to look where he was stepping as he exited the vehicle...

His frown stilled upon his face, his mouth dropping open in shock as he regarded the solemn smile of the man who stood on the pavement, his attention focused upon the impatiently pushing bride beside him.

'You look lovely, Leo -,'

'Thank you.'

The solemn smile turned in Darren's direction and he was gazing directly into Daniel's eyes. 'We need to talk, huh?'

'Uh...'

Leonie shoved him hard in the small of his back, propelling him from the limousine, out onto the pavement where he staggered slightly, Daniel's hand snaking out and grasping his elbow to steady him. 'The answer he's looking for -,' she said as she slid her way towards the edge of the seat. 'Is "yes"... now... can I have some help here, please? I have a wedding to attend!'

Daniel grinned, mischief sparking his eyes at Darren's speechless state. 'You should get married more often, Leo, if this is the effect it has on him!'

Forcing his mouth to close, turning shimmering eyes back towards the blushing bride, Darren reached out his hand to help her step from the car, finding that Daniel was mirroring his actions. Darren's mouth curved into a trembling smile of happiness as he realised what Leonie had done... wondered at when she'd found the time to set the wheels of forgiveness turning in motion... 'You...'

'Have a gorgeous man waiting for me inside.' Leonie smiled serenely, joy glittering within her eyes as she regarded Darren's still stunned expression. She slipped her hand about his elbow, pressing it with the palm of her hand, taking the flowers that Daniel had retrieved from the car in her free arm. 'Just have faith, Darren... it'll work out...'

'Have faith?' Daniel questioned, curiously as he joined them in the steady process towards the door that led into the cool, packed church.

Darren and Leonie exchanged a glance, a smile, a nod of the head... All Darren had to do, was have faith in his feelings, in the love that he felt towards Daniel -- and nothing else would matter. It would all slot into place, no matter what Father Ignatius had to say, or think about their relationship. Because, he suddenly realised, it truly didn't matter. God would forgive him, if he were true to himself, and to Daniel, and the love that they'd shared.

That, looking into Daniel's eyes for the first time in a year, Darren knew they still shared.

'Faith in what?'

'Oh, you know...' Darren said lightly, his face wreathed in a delight only slightly less than that of the woman who walked between them. 'Faith of the heart.'

Daniel lifted a bemused eyebrow. 'The heart?'

'Yep. The heart.'

'Do I *want* to know what you're talking about?'

Darren grinned as Leonie smiled. 'Probably not, but you will...' He promised. 'Because when I'm done bestowing this gorgeous, intelligent woman onto Rob, you and I are going to sit down and talk.'

'Promise?'

Looking across Leonie's head, up into Daniel's eyes, Darren saw the anxious hope within their depths, felt his heart leap in silent understanding of all that he saw there. He dipped his head into a nod, passing beneath the arch of the door beside Leonie, having to twist his head to keep his eyes upon Daniel, knowing that Leonie wouldn't allow him to stumble and fall for a second time.

'I promise.' He said, then smiled as his heart sparked with joy at the relief and happiness that he saw leap within Daniel's gaze. 'Just have faith...'