Chapter Text
“But God is telling you and I that there is death for all of us.”
The priest’s voice rings through the church like a dull bell, his eyes dipping down to the lectern as the nods of many ripple the crowd in the pews with agreement.
Minho’s eyes sparkle with the sunlight that beams through the symmetrically carved windows, casting patterns across his skin as he watches the priest with an air of fascination. It twinkles in his eyes like a distant flame of interest, a warmth that he’s held for the priest since his early childhood. Oh, to be the man he has become. Watch the way he proffers ideas and hope to the crowded church pews, and watch how they fall beneath every word with blind faith and trust. The influence he carries over a room — the weight of his words and the trust the Lord bestows within him and the way he delivers the message with pure intent.
“But then we find that the scriptures also tell us that we have great promise, that there is a better place for those who believe in the Lord Jesus Christ.”
The Father. Minho’s father.
A man who leads with an iron fist and a golden word. Holds the confessions of many, confesses to few. He thinks in strong shapes — squares and rectangles. The rectangle of the confessional, the squares of the windows. The box he remains in of certainty, of sureness, of a stable idea of the future.
Minho wants to think like his father. Son of the preacher and his runaway dame who found love in a rundown town out east from home. The well mannered priest and his darling wife who fell head over heels for him — the hero who she found solace in while on the run with nothing but another man’s child in her womb. What a love story, what a show. Settled down and painted a pretty little boy to hold their pride. What artists! What a joy!
And here he is, painted into the pews like the stained glass of richer church windows. Dark eyes drawn to the image of his father preaching across the crowd, his expression stern as his voice dances across the church walls. His fingers tapping a patient beat into the flesh of his thigh, his father’s words all drawn in clear tones across the forefront of his mind. Every word warming the innards of his chest, his voice barely warming for their final “Amen” before the church goers twist into messy crowds to mingle.
“Andy.”
“Father.” Minho’s features fall into something of stoic calmness as he turns his attention to his father. His father insists on using the English name he gifted him when they met, but it’s not exactly how Minho recognises himself.
“I’m glad you made it to service today.” He says with a soft tone. It’s warm, typical and a repetition of a phrase Minho hears regularly these days.
“I would never miss it.” Minho gives him the same answer he always does. “You know that.”
The skin near his eyes pinches into wrinkles as he spares Minho a smile. “Ah, you never change, do you?”
“I know what I want in life, you made sure of that.” Minho follows as his father crosses the floor, passing through conversations. Brief thanks are given, the typical praise. Thank you, Father. Well done, Father. Incredibly well said today, Father.
Minho’s words seem to blend into every other voice like a whisper.
Minho follows him across the church floors, his father’s expression twisting into a smile as he spreads his attention across the churchgoers. It’s not something Minho isn’t accustomed to — his father would give him his attention within time. Patience is within the teachings of becoming a preacher, after all.
He can hear his father’s voice reassuring the relieved man who thanks him for his insight, being hurriedly ushered out of the church by his impatient daughter. She’s clinging to his arm, whining loud and desperate, calling for anything, really. Church is over, dad! Hurry up! I need to get to ballet! Minho watches her with an eerie calm of fascination at the way she drags him, the way she whines and groans. He frowns. Undisciplined. Rude. Spoiled.
Minho watches his father glide from person to person — tired mother to eager child, workaholic father to alcoholic teen seeking refuge. And there’s no judgement, not a word of ill intent. He speaks to them with the mercy of the Lord — the understanding mercy of nature’s gentle jaws.
“Father!”
A woman Minho’s never seen, her hair painted in shades of blonde and pale gold. Her features drawn gently over with the grace of gentle aging, the pale blue of her dress catching the early morning sun through the stained glass windows. His father turns to her with a smile, the creases of his smile burning under her attention as Minho cautiously follows behind him. “Good morning, Miss.”
“Good morning, father.” She bows her head briefly, the thick, bouncy curls of her hair dancing with every gentle movement. She offers the priest her hand, a smile tugging her lips as she waits patiently for his response. “Lynn Han. My family and I just joined the church.”
“Ah, the Hans!” Minho’s father notes cheerily. “I must be honest, ma’am, your last name did take me by surprise.”
“Oh, we both know it’s not my maiden name, Father.” Lynn waves dismissively with a laugh. “I took my husband’s name.”
“Of course.” Minho observes the way his father nods slowly, eyes flickering in a way Minho recognises. His father turns to him, a hand ghosting on the small of his back. “This is my son, Andy. He’ll be taking over the church once I retire or get sent up to the Lord. Whichever comes first, of course.” He chuckles lightheartedly.
“Oh, please, Father, you don’t look a day over forty!” Lynn comments through a scoff of laughter. It’s typical early morning church chatter that Minho has grown accustomed to — exaggerated, cheesy laughter and words he expects to be followed by a laugh track.
“Ah, please, Mrs. Han, I’m flattered.” His father bows his head.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Minho says softly, weary of interrupting, but wearier of coming off as rude or ignorant.
Lynn beams at him. “Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart. Where about'chya from, huh? Don’t look like you’re from these parts!”
“My wife is Korean. I’m technically his stepfather, but…” His father slings an arm around his son’s shoulders, holding him tightly. “Family isn’t just blood, hm?”
“Aw, of course. The Lord brought him to you for a reason, gotta make sure you make him proud!” Lynn exclaims with cheery enthusiasm that sours on Minho’s tongue slightly.
“Yes, of course.” Minho’s father detaches from him, signaling to Minho that his involvement is over. He nods in silence, observing the conversation once more.
“You know, my husband’s Korean!” Lynn exclaims excitedly, tucking a bouncy blonde curl behind her ear. She beams toward Minho, who spares her a sort of half there smile into his cheek. “Oh, just what are the chances, huh?!”
“I did wonder about your last name.” His father replies with a slow nod. “Where is your husband, Mrs. Han?”
“Ah, the children aren’t feeling so well, so he’s taking care of them at home.” She explains, triggering a nod of understanding. “But trust, we will all be attending church next Sunday!"
“I will pray for their steady recovery.” His father tells her, clasping her hand within his own.
“Oh, Father, you’re too kind.” Lynn’s voice is gentle. “I’ll be sure to tell them you and the Lord are watching over them.”
Minho’s eyes draw across where his father’s hands clasp over hers, before his attention shifts across the church to a painting hung near the corner. The walls are fairly bare besides this painting and it makes it look eerily stark — a dark wooden frame against pale wearing walls of cream. It’s curled intricately, warmed around a painting of Jesus Christ that seems to glow in Minho’s vision.
It’s made from delicate colours that warm into the canvas like a pleasant memory, drawing Minho closer as he takes a few steps beyond his father’s reach.
“Andy.”
Minho looks back at his father, his shoulders jumping slightly at the shocking pull back to reality. He swallows, gesturing toward the painting as he faces his father’s confused expression and the curve of his questioning brow. Lynn’s watching him in interest, curiosity colouring her features as she watches Minho tumble over his words. “I’m just… going to look at the painting.”
His father’s expression warms and he can hear his words turn appreciative as he turns back to Lynn, mutters of how Minho will make him a proud father someday. The fact of his words lies in the floorboards that Minho treads over softly — some day. Not yet, not ‘ he will make me even more proud’. He will.
There’s a bitter sense of hope woven through the words — threaded, loosely stitched. Minho has to prove himself.
He admires the painting of Christ. It’s warm, stroked through with his signature shade of blue that drapes cautiously over his figure. Wraps him like a mother’s hold as his gaze holds with something beyond the canvas — his eyes to the Lord, innocent, pleading yet knowing. All knowing, or so the preachers claim. So his father claims. Who is he to deny the knowledge of his father? Of the preachers? Of Christ himself?
“You’ve prayed to him since you were very young.”
Minho turns to the sound of the voice. His mother, standing just beyond his shoulder. Her hair is drawn straight, her features aged in such a way that he can see his childhood written into the wrinkles that dip her skin. They dent with the smile she proffers him, remarks her words like it’s some sort of miracle. “I thought we’d have to convince you, you know. I should have known you would know which way to go from the moment you saw the cross. You knew.”
He smiles, nodding slowly. Pinches the cuff of his sleeve, adjusts it with a weak twist as he turns to face her fully. “God has a plan for us all. Clearly, I just knew mine.”
He has this conversation every Sunday, he’s sure. Every Sunday the voice of his father rings through the church walls like a bell, and every Sunday morning he follows his preach with a half compliment in Minho’s direction, gives Minho hope for some sort of future where his father actually maintains his belief in his promises. Every Sunday morning the crane of Minho’s neck to see if his father’s perception of him changes.
“You’re still young.” His mother reasons. Draws a hand down his arm and makes Minho tumble head first from his climbing thoughts. “He’s changed a lot since he was your age. He’s just worried you’ll do the same, that’s all. You’re doing well, my little dove.”
My little dove. The nickname tastes sweet on his tongue, twists his lips into a smile more forgiving.
No one sees his father’s doubt the way he does. Maybe his mother is right. Maybe it’s no more than fear for a continuous cycle of promise breakers. He would break that cycle.
Every evening paints the same picture — his mother’s cooking on the table, a small, crystalled glass of beer between him and his father. The drilling of the news in the left ear, his father’s muttering against the stream of words in his right as he turns to the tableside window.
“Oh dear, that’s Martha’s boy.” His mother’s voice breaks through Minho’s shallow dissociation as she presses a dish onto the table between them.
Minho turns toward the jittering voice of the news anchor on the television, a picture of the neighbour’s son drowned in the blue milk of the television light. Youth Found Dead In Local River .
You can only catch his name if you latch onto the dreary tone of the anchor, blink past the blurred images of the miserable river and his neighbours sobbing through lace handkerchiefs. Look past the haunting images of the boy’s childhood and find his name in the rubble.
“I saw him in the dairy aisle.” Minho says matter-of-factly. “He was on a milk carton.”
His mother’s expression twitches in shock, her gaze shifting to her husband. “I thought they stopped putting kids on milk cartons years ago!”
Minho meets his mother’s eyes once more. “I think the local factories still do it, just not the big-shot expensive ones.”
“I always thought it was such a dreary way to start your morning.” Her voice drags gently against the wall of her throat as she shakes her head. “It was always such a dark thing to see.”
“Sometimes you have to face reality, Monica.” Minho’s father says, drawing a harsh sip of his whiskey. He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “As tough as it is, we have to be weary of what’s happening around us.”
Minho watches his mother’s features twist into a scowl. She nods, returning to the kitchen without a word.
“Father?”
“Andy?”
Minho swallows harshly. “Would you be alright with me heading downtown today? My friends have invited me out, and I’d like to join them.”
His father frowns. “Where are they going?”
“The theatre.”
“What are you watching?”
“Beauty and the Beast.” He swallows harshly. “It premiered on Friday.”
His father considers the movie, taking a mouthful of his food. “When will you be home?”
“The movie should end before nine.”
“Nine.” He echoes gruffly, wiping his mouth. “Have you done your devotions today?”
“Yes, father.”
“Alright.” He nods slowly, dragging his napkin from his mouth. “Be home before ten. If you aren’t, I’ll be calling the Sheriff. Are we clear?”
“Yes father. Thank you.” Minho nods, taking a few more gracious mouthfuls of his food.
Minho is not one to miss a curfew. He’s always within the door a minimum of ten minutes before he’s due to be home, thanking the small painting of the Lord that hangs on the wall near the front door. The streets aren’t kind past nightfall, Shady Grove’s streetlights barely painting a spot of glow on the footpath. It was not a safe way home. There is no safe way home.
♱
“Is God scared of the dark?”
Minho looks up at the boy beside him. The blonde buzz of his hair sits close to his head as he stares Minho’s absent eyes down over the rim of his sunglasses. A shirt of bright, obnoxious colours sits tight to his chest, the small black sleeves barely covering his shoulders. His jeans pool around his sneakers, patched with doodles and stitching of his own designs.
“Hyunjin!” The boy next to him hisses. “Don’t make fun of him!”
“I’m not!” Hyunjin turns with wide eyes. “It was a genuine question!”
“What do you mean, Hyunjin?” Minho asks, patience colouring his tone into something cold. The boy next to Hyunjin, Jeongin, seems to shrink in on himself, zipping his hoodie up to his neck.
Hyunjin takes a cigarette from the pack clutched in his ringed hand, pinching it between his lips as he sparks his lighter against the tip of it. “Bart, Meg…” He starts as he takes a puff, pulling the cigarette from his mouth as he lets the smoke dance on the careful breeze. “Jamie, Jason. All disappear without a fucking trace in the middle of the night. Then Connor comes home in a box. All followers of the church. Not saying it’s His fault, I just— Thought it was His job to look after His kids. Little confused why we’re losing every kid on the street the second the sun sets.”
“Sometimes tragedy is in God’s will.” Minho explains quietly. “As horrible as it is, I guess we have to move forward.”
Hyunjin looks at Minho doubtfully, grinning over a tscht as he shakes his head. “God’s will , huh?”
“Hyunjin…” Jeongin nibbles on his lip as he watches frustration bubble in Hyunjin’s gut.
“So kids are turning up on missing posters or with a bullet in their skull and you come out here and tell me it’s ‘ God’s will’, huh?” Hyunjin sneers, getting to his feet as he bares his teeth slightly at Minho. “And what, you willingly follow Him? Knowing he’s letting fucking kids die?”
“Death is an integral part of life.” Minho argues, his voice tainted slightly with a graze of anger. He stands behind Hyunjin, gesturing vaguely toward the town. “Look, we can’t pretend we’re above death. We can’t pretend death isn’t a natural thing! He lets people die when it’s their time—”
“No, you know what that excuse is for?” Hyunjin’s voice raises as he spins on his heel, coming face to face with Minho. “That excuse is for natural causes. For old people who’ve lived a full life, who got to see their kids outlive them and are waiting to meet their old friends again. You know who that excuse isn’t for?!” Hyunjin pauses abruptly, pointing west toward the river. His voice drops to a low tremble, his words shaking as they balance on the lining of tears in his eyes. “My best friend with a fucking bullet in his head, alright?”
“You think I’m His messenger, Hyunjin?!” Minho shouts against Hyunjin’s stuttering breath that fans over the point of his nose.
“No, but your daddy is.” Hyunjin spits. “If God Is real, and He’s enacting His grand plan on our shitass town, why don’t you get your daddy to ask him to stop killing half the town’s next generation?”
“Hyunjin!” Jeongin stands up, grabbing Hyunjin by his shoulders as he yanks him out of Minho’s space.
“Grieve how you want, Hyunjin, but don’t blame Minho.” Seungmin breaks his silence, standing up with a puff of smoke from his lips. “Look, I know Connor’s gone, but we can’t go pointing fingers at people who just want something to believe in. Blame God all you want, but Minho’s right. He’s not a messenger.”
Hyunjin’s gaze flits across Minho’s cold expression, toying with the metal in his lower lip.
“Whatever.” He grunts, dropping his cigarette on the concrete. He screws it into the pavement with the ball of his foot. “I’m taking a walk. Don’t follow me.”
Seungmin draws an arm around Minho’s shoulders as they watch Hyunjin walk off, disappearing around the corner in the shallow evening light. Minho draws his tongue between his lips as Jeongin looks pitifully back at him, sighing deeply.
“Don’t worry about what he’s saying, Minho.” He reassures gently. “He’s just grieving a lot. He and Connor went way back, you know?”
“Hard to find people here that don’t see you for your eye shape.” Seungmin scoffs, crashing his weight back down onto the log beside the concrete pad. He pulls out another cigarette and his own lighter, sticking the cigarette between his lips as he sparks his lighter against the tip of it.
Minho looks to where Hyunjin had stepped away from them, swallowing over the guilt that melts against the walls of his throat. Jeongin looks at his looking, smoothing a hand over Minho’s shoulder as he lets his gaze move back to the pity and guilt that mixes in Minho’s expression. “Should I apologize?”
“No.” Seungmin grunts around his cigarette. “You need to stand your ground. You did nothing wrong.”
“I’d rather just get it over with.” Minho’s tone is gentle.
“Minho.” Seungmin’s voice is sharp. The smoke trails from his dry lips as he looks up at where Minho stands on the spray paint that lines the court. “You need to learn to live without forgiveness. Reality is he’s mad at you for nothing. It’s just grief. It colours us all differently.”
Minho shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, frowning into the distance. He doesn’t like the unsureness within the lack of forgiveness, this awkward space where he pads through glass littered fields and hopes the grass is greener on the other side. Hopes they can talk about it.
Jeongin puts a hand on Minho’s shoulder, his thumb drawing gentle patterns just below his collar against his skin. “Hyunnie just needs time, Minho. Him and Connor were really close, okay? Just… let him take his time. He’ll apologise within his own time. You’re not responsible for Connor, or for any of the other kids. He asked you a pretty tough question to answer in your position.”
“Why doesn’t he believe in Him?”
Seungmin lets out this sort of entitled scoff. Pinches his cigarette between two knuckles and releases a huff of smoke. “In God?”
Minho tenses — holds his posture and bites his tongue. Do not say the Lord’s name in vain. His father would have grounded him. Jeongin notices Minho’s stiffness, sparing Seungmin a sharp glare.
Seungmin catches Jeongin’s eye, drops his cigarette to the concrete and stubs it out with the screwing of his foot into the court. He swings his feet and considers Minho’s question. “Hyunjin just never attached to Him like you did, I guess.”
Jeongin releases this breath of relief, turning to Minho with an awkward smile. “Not everyone really feels the connection with the Lord that you and your family do, Minho. It’s… it’s just not for everyone.”
The secret between Jeongin’s gaze and Seungmin’s dismissive glances floats deviously out of reach for Minho as he listens to them fall into the rhythm of another conversation, chatter blurring around the edges as Minho examines the surrounds of the park. He drags the toe of his worn down shoes against the damaged yellow lining of the court, resting on Seungmin’s words.
♱
It’s nine when Minho tracks through the damp reeds that sway along the riverbed, drowning in the darkness as he finds his way to the wooden cross that protrudes from the mud. His flashlight leaks over the wood, highlighting the dreary dents and cracks from the nails that keep it pinned together.
Connor K. Beloved.
Beloved. Not son, brother, partner. Just beloved.
Cigarette burns cover the wood of the cross like little stars of ash, the body of the crushed cigarette drowning in the mud below the cross’ arms. A half empty pack of Marlboro reds is planted in the mud beside the cross, a gift of sorts. There’s a bracelet around the neck of the cross, beaded in bright colours that gleam beneath the cone of light that Minho’s flashlight vomits across the riverbed. Minho hooks his fingers under the bracelet, examining the beading.
Connor’s name is beaded with mismatched letters along the wiring, threaded clumsily between beads of bright colours that scream in Minho’s eyes as they welcome the light.
Threaded with love.
There’s honeysuckles pinned to the cross like a harsh yet grieving reminder. Minho kneels, comparing the flowers pinned to the cross to the flowers in his fist. Carnations — blooming blue pinched beside blossoms of white, suggested to him by his mother’s friend who works down at the flower shop.
He takes the twine he’d brought down with him, winding it around the base of the cross in order to secure his flowers there. Minho’s voice finds him in a low whisper, a soft hum in his mouth giving a murmur of volume. “I’m sorry they couldn’t protect you. I hope you’ve found your way.”
Minho ties the twine tightly around the cross’ body, squeezing the flowers against it. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. Hyunjin was upset, and I guess it scared me. I don’t know how to answer questions like that.”
Minho toys with the ends of the twine, twisting the leftover length around his finger as he begins knitting the string on his finger into a shape that feels more alive to him. “You didn’t deserve to go. You were too young. But I can’t change what happened. That was all I meant.”
He crouches there in the mud for a little longer, taking one last look at the memorabilia that decorates the cross. The bracelet, the flowers, the cigarette burns and the Marlboro reds.
“I hope your journey to Heaven is easy.”
Beloved.
Minho stands before the cross, turning his attention back to the parting in the trees toward the open street. He takes one glance toward the memorial cross with a pitiful stare, before trudging through the mud towards the main road.