exorkismos | @success

@success_story

The first thing Andrew says, in front of God and Father Akua and everyone, is, "Marcus — I'm so glad you came, we should talk." So really it's a good thing they brought a bottle of wine, which serves nicely as a diversion. There's just a moment of startled silence from Andrew when Tim smoothly intervenes and hands over the gift, before he breaks into polite thanks, polite welcomes. He vanishes to put it away and, presumably, to collect himself.

Marcus exhales through his nose, and leans to murmur, "Meant to tell you, not that bottle. It's nice, they'll think we're showing off. Plus I wanted it."

The house is bright, neutral, spacious — Andrew's family has money and he has a decent if, according to him, fairly unfulfilling job doing marketing for a chain of flatpack furniture and homeware stores. It's enough to fit a decent number of parishioners, some of whom have brought their children. After having sat patiently through Mass, a few smaller kids are now tearing through the house, repressed energy now uncorked. Marcus looks about with interest, leads Tim a little further in: they're in the entrance hall, and from the babble of voices, most people are in the kitchen or the living room. He's been here before, but not for anything so big as this: coffee after Mass, dropping in when he's in the area, sitting tense and quiet at the kitchen table while Andrew, grimacing, stammered out his suspicions.

In the doorway to the kitchen, Father Akua and Irene Bautista are chatting: Akua notices Marcus, briefly raises his eyebrows at him in greeting, and then returns his attention to Irene.

Marcus nudges Tim. "How charming are you feeling, scale of one to ten?"

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Almost anywhere else, he would have felt remiss for only bringing a bottle—but it’s been a long time since he went anywhere that he wasn’t the highest roller in the room. Before retirement, the Wayne name carried a certain amount of social responsibility with the name. After, Tim’s kept himself more than solvent enough for one to three. He’s used to being the host, the conductor—the curator keeping everything just so.

And now he’s the guest. Not even the guest—a plus-one. A queer plus-one at his older boyfriend’s intense cult gathering. It’s been about fifteen years since he last had difficulty picking out a shirt, but suffice to say that when Marcus will know that he’s on the edge of barfing when he hums coolly, “I’m always at a ten, M. Have you met me?” He checks that the back of his shirt is tucked in, eyes sweeping the house again. Again. “Which of the squirts belongs to Andrew?”

Well aware of the nerves Tim’s hiding, Marcus has to resist the urge to squeeze him to his side and reassure him. It would probably be exactly the wrong thing to try, so he just nudges their shoulders together a moment and says, “Daphne and Meaghan, the twins, they’re eight and incredibly loud. And his eldest Eleanor is fourteen. She’s probably hiding in her room with her laptop.” He gives him a sideways smile that says, very clearly, bet you wish that was you.

Irene glances over into the kitchen, where someone is trying to get her attention. She makes her exit with a pat to Akua’s upper arm, and a nod to Marcus, and then Akua is turning his attention to both of them. It’s a somewhat disarming experience: he has a talent for listening so intensely it can easily trip up the unprepared.

“Hovering on the threshold? Come in. Andrew’s going to get distracted by at least five different people before he makes it back to greet you properly. It’s good to see you, Marcus,” he says, “I thought you might not come. And you must be Tim? Simon Akua. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He’s young for a priest, in his mid-thirties at most, with a handsome smile and neat-trimmed goatee. His melodic low voice is tinged with a Ghanaian accent.

A laptop in a remote room sounds like a dream. He knows from experience that Father Akua is much less intimidating in photo than in person. There's no trace of fear in him, but Tim's pokerface falters when he goes automatically for a handshake (the motion tied inextricably with his host's smile) and ends up stuttering that hand back into his pocket.

"Likewise." He can speak smoothly at least, even if he rocks on the balls of his feet. "Especially with the invite to this--" A glance to Marcus out of want for something to do, what's the word he wants? "--shindig." God. God.

Marcus blinks once, does an incredible job of keeping a straight face otherwise, and without looking takes Tim’s elbow, squeezing a moment to tether him. Akua grins, says, “A shindig. If that’s your speed, can you please tell Marcus to accept my standing invitation to dinner at St Francis House?”

Marcus rolls his eyes, translates: “He wants me to get drunk with other priests he knows. That’ll end well.”

Akua shrugs, eyes Tim and says, “The invite extends to both of you, of course.”

“Are you trying to off Father Bellwether? Early heart attack?”

“It wouldn’t be that early.”

Tight as the hook is in his belly, it warms Tim up significantly to see Marcus--friendly. Nobody being tended to or impressed, nobody to defend against. He raises one hand to wave off the invitation. "Ha! Maybe on my own sometime. But I'll press him for you. He needs to get out of the house. How long have you been at this church, Father? If you don't mind."

Traitor, says the momentary tick of Marcus’ gaze towards Tim before he refocuses on Akua.

“A year and a half,” Akua says smoothly. “I’m not out of the habit of introducing myself as the new priest yet. Parishes have long memories, and the last priest here made an impression.”

“He made a lot of money on insurance fraud,” Marcus says, playing translator again, “and got mysteriously transferred just before it came to public attention.” Akua doesn’t miss a beat:

“Some say.”

“You told me that!”

Grinning, Akua ushers them into the kitchen. “Did I? Now we’re just dawdling. Tim, anyone you know here?”

Mouth still agape at the gossip, Tim lets Akua lead them readily, still caught up in his pockets, still near to Marcus' shoulder. "Uh--I've met the host before. Briefly. We've had--was it Peg and Brian that came over a few weeks ago? I don't know if they're here or--I don't know if you can keep track of everyone."

Entering the kitchen, a hub of activity, he has another moment of nerves crawling under his skin, and he slips more behind Marcus than before to dodge looks--first the ones towards an unfamiliar face, then the ones that trip over him on their way to the Father. "Were you rotated from another parish, or are you still fresh from seminary?"

“It’s my job to keep track of everyone,” Akua says cheerfully. “Oh, no, that sounds like I’m watching for bad behaviour. Brian’s here somewhere, I think Peg is joining later.”

Marcus’ eyes stray to Tim again, less petulant this time, and he keeps his hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, careful not to drag. Can’t not notice that Tim is trying vaguely to hide behind him. He doesn’t comment, though, just flashes a brief and encouraging smile, crooked and sweet.

Akua continues, “Before I came here, I was attached to a Jesuit community college — so I taught more than I preached. Being a parish priest is a lot more...unpredictable. I like it. I’m right in thinking you’re in tech, yes?”

"Tech consulting. Web design, uh--when you're a freelancer, you tend to end up doing a lot of all-purpose consulting. I try to stay busy. Your Facebook page could stand to be revamped, by the way." It's meant to be a joke, not a pitch, but it comes out to dry that Tim actually winces. Marcus keeps looking back at him like he needs his hand held.

He does, which burns him right up. His hand comes out of his pocket to slip into Marcus' palm, plain and only a little prickly.

Oh. Marcus is surprised by the touch, then warmed by it, a little uncertain how it’ll play with this crowd — having a boyfriend is one thing, bringing him to a parish Sunday lunch a step up from that, holding hands there something of a leap — but pleased.

Quite seriously, though, Akua says, “Are you actually offering? I may need you to break into it. The log-ins are a mystery to me.” Just the barest glint in his eye gives away the fact that he’s teasing. Marcus flicks his eyes up to the heavens.

“Alright,” he murmurs: a definite drop-it signal to Akua.

"Well, check in with the Lord. If He needs a book written on social media policy, I'm happy to kick in for the canon." Both the bite-back and Marcus' escape plan for him are grounding. Tim's grip relaxes, though he stays close, stays holding. "Is anyone from St. Francis House in today? Or are we at priest capacity with one an a half?"

"I'll relay your offer and gauge his interest," Akua says, clearly satisfied by the calibre of Tim's retort. Marcus laughs and relaxes. "Father Sullivan is in the living room, would you like an introduction?"

But: "Father Sullivan thinks I'm a cautionary tale," Marcus warns.

"All the more reason for him to get to know you better."

Amused, sharky, Tim bows his mouth to Marcus shoulder. "Oh, let's meet Father Sullivan. We'd love an introduction." Then clearer, head up: "I'd love an introduction."

"Shit-stirring at parish events," Marcus notes. "That's good, that's advanced Catholicism. Well done."

"Come on," Akua says, his smile perfectly innocent and somehow just as sharky as Tim's as he begins to cut a path through the kitchen to the other room, nodding to various parishioners as he does so: "Oh, hello Jean. Michael. Excuse me. Tim, preference on terminology? If you don't mind me asking. Is it boyfriend, partner, other half...? It's not fiancé yet, right?"

"I've always been a fast learner..." Tim hums and follows along. He keeps eyes on Father Akua and on where his gaze travels, comforting himself in the easy, engaging game of memorizing faces, names.

It's comforting enough that when fiancé hits his ears, he forgets to keep cool. His hand in Marcus' doesn't change, but a flush sneaks up on him instantly. Yet, not yet. Not fiancé yet, but eventually. But someday, soon enough that it's a question. Not fiancé, net yet, but--

"Boyfriend." He sputters and shakes his head. "Um--partner. Sorry, I'm--either. M?"

Fiancé startles Marcus, too, just like it's obviously meant to from the unperturbed smile on Akua's face. He just about manages not to splutter you what, shoots Tim a look that's half panicked and half apologetic, and then he sees the colour Tim's gone. That's not a bad reaction, he realises with a start, that's not a scoff or offence, just —

Tim's asking his opinion. It takes him a moment to tune back into the conversation. Blinking, smoothly as he can, he says, "Dunno. Either. Other half is a bit creepy."

"Whatever you like. Ah, Ted..." Akua greets Father Sullivan informally. The other priest is sitting with a middle-aged female parishioner, both of them well-equipped with glasses of red wine despite it being about two in the afternoon. He looks up with a smile, though it visibly slips to see Marcus. He's somewhere in his early sixties, bald save for a few wisps about his ears.

"And Mrs Moone. I have introductions to make. You've met Marcus, of course." Marcus winks, smiling the smile of someone who knows very well that someone else has been talking behind his back, and is excited to make them feel uncomfortable about it. "This is his partner, Tim Jackson. Tim, Father Ted Sullivan. And Dorothy Moone, without whom the parish wouldn't survive."

Tim is still warning Marcus through closed teeth, "If you ever try that other half line..." when the introductions are already starting, and he pours into a little manically. His handshake is as authoritative as ever, right hand free to make a sturdy, agressive impression even while he hangs onto Marcus. "Father. Mrs. Moone. Is that decaf or...?"

Mrs Moone laughs, though her polite expression is edged by a hawkish intensity. Not suspicious exactly, just watchful and interested. "It's a rather nice Cabernet Sauvignon, Mr Jackson. I did my time, and now my son is able to drive me home for a change. Hello, Marcus, it's good to see you. Do you have something in your eye?"

All innocent, and ever so slightly cowed, Marcus says, "Hm?" Butter wouldn't melt.

From the side, someone says, "Oh, Father, how are you doing?" and three heads swivel. Marcus scowls, irritated with himself when he realises he's reacted. But the interrupting guest is only trying to get Akua's attention; Akua indicates he'll be back and peels off to attend to the other conversation.

"Well now," Sullivan says, quiet and faintly exasperated. He has a barely-there Irish twinge to his voice, and an expression of extreme skepticism on his face. He's managing not to linger staring at where Tim is grasping Marcus' hand, but it's evidently a struggle. "Pleasure to meet you, of course. Are you also new to the area?"

"Not at all. Not--to the county, anyway, I've been working in Paucity for a few years now. I hadn't been church-hunting yet, but if I'd realized the joint was jumping like this..." He bumps their entwined hands against his leg, turning in towards Marcus gently. "Hey, do you mind hunting down something for us? I'm good with coffee. Or white. Or red, if these two haven't drained the supply."

Gentle ribbing, paired with slowly letting go to take up station next to Dorothy. She has a kid; if he's polite and funny, that's a good way in. His look asks Marcus for permission, assures that he's ready to jump. We're doing this. So let's do it.

Marcus gives him a careful, appraising look, and then nods, satisfied that he’ll survive a few minutes of exposure alone. “Course, darling,” he murmurs with a smile, squeezing Tim’s hand before he releases him. “Want me to bring the bottle, Dorothy?”

“That sounds perfect,” Dorothy trills, while Sullivan just grunts uncomfortably and takes a swig from his glass. “Well, Tim, it’s lovely to meet you. Can I ask, how on earth did you end up here?”

"I mean, Marcus has been begging me for ages." Cool. Be cool. Voice high in his head, clear and a little flirty the way he rocks to one hip and dips his hands in his pockets. He's got this: cocktail party. "I've forced him through enough client dinners, it seemed like time I returned the favor. He promised me there wouldn't be any catechism to recite, which sweetened the deal. How long have you been running the show here?"

“It sounds like you run a show of your own. I’ve been on the parish council for about eight years now, and for three years of that I’ve been secretary. Before that, I was responsible for our educational initiatives.” She gives him an approving look, clearly not taken in by the flirting but appreciating the effort nonetheless. “I’ve been trying to get Marcus more involved.”

Sullivan says, “In the appropriate capacity,” with a weary sort of sigh. Dorothy’s face flickers, just barely.

Smoothly, she says, “Retirement’s tough. It’s not good to be idle.”

His mouth quirks up at the side, brow bends curiously. "Yeah. Yeah, no doubt, that's...that's what I've been telling him. Sorry--I'm getting the distinctive feeling that you've tried out some inappropriate capacities?"

“No,” Dorothy says. “No, it isn’t that.”

Sullivan huffs and shakes his head. “Only that Marcus seems to prefer giving advice to receiving it. He acts like clergy, not like laity. I don’t blame him, you understand, I’ve known a few laicised priests before. It’s not an easy transition.”

It's an inappropriate moment for a don't I know it, so Tim only laughs, short and flat. "Like clergy. I mean, as far as I've heard, he hasn't been to too many budget meetings, or--teaching any kind of class. What does acting like clergy entail, exactly, Father?"

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full disclosure I’ve had a perfect clear image of Akua in my head for weeks now

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