Horatio stumbled into the church unable to see where he was going because of the tears flowing unchecked down his face. He crashed to his knees in front of the altar.
Physical pain was a secondary concern to him. His heart had been shattered to pieces. His lover had been taken from him. His soul cried in anguish; begging to be released from this living Hell.
He roughly wiped away his tears on his coat sleeve. He looked up and stared beseechingly at the figure nailed to the cross.
"Why?'" he asked in a harsh whisper.
No answer came.
"Why?" he asked again, but in a louder voice.
No answer came.
"Why?" he shouted.
The sound echoed in the cavernous sanctuary.
Still, no answer came.
He pulled his gun. He drew back the hammer and pointed it at his temple.
One squeeze of the trigger and it would be over.
And the answer came.
"No, my son," said a soft voice beside him.
A firm hand removed the gun from his weak grasp.
"Would you do to your friends what has been done to you?" the soft voice asked.
He tore his gaze from the cruxfix. He looked his savior in the eyes; blue met brown, and he finally understood.
Tim was where God needed him to be.
Understanding was not acceptance, but he never took the easy road and knew that was why Tim loved him.
"No, Father," he replied.
"Then come, my son."
He allowed the priest to help him to his feet and escort him from the sanctuary. He paused for a second. He looked back over his shoulder at the cruxfix. He mouthed a silent thank you to the angel hovering over Christ's shoulder.
The angel smiled. "You are welcome, Horatio."
The End