Costumes - Chapter 1: Nerves
Fuck, I'm nervous.
The Priest sat at a small desk in his bedroom, an expression on his face that would have made him cringe had he caught it in the mirror. His knee bounced up and down repetitively.
Shifting his weight in his chair, he fidgeted with the invitation he had been half-ignoring for weeks.
Fuck, fuck.
He told himself that he would feel like an arsehole if he didn't attend, but The Priest knew that wasn't really why he was toying with the idea of going.
I want to see her. I want her to see me. No one sees me the way she sees me. But it's not fair to her. I'm still a priest, and she is still the woman I love. Nothing has changed.
Right?
There was always a part of him that waited for God himself to chime in and interrupt thoughts like these. He looked up from the invitation and took a quick inventory of the paintings hanging on the walls around him. None of them fell in protest.
He shrugged and took a drink of tequila as if to cheers the paintings for staying firmly in place.
God is quiet tonight.
The Priest knew he shouldn't drink too much, not with just an hour and a half left before the party started.
I get all emotional about her when I drink.
He took another deep sip, peering down at the glass in his hand. He stood up decidedly and opened a cupboard, setting the glass on a high shelf as if he wouldn't be able to reach it should he become tempted. No more tequila for him, at least not until he was dressed in his costume.
Maybe I'll take one more swig before heading out for courage.
His costume was the one thing he felt able to get excited about. He couldn't celebrate any specific pagan holidays, sure, but this was just a costume party. There was no rule against dressing up. Even though he had let himself believe he was on the fence about attending, he'd gone out straight away after receiving the invitation and purchased his costume.
FUCK. I am bloody terrified.
The Priest stopped bustling about his bedroom and sat back down. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, then abruptly set it down on the table with an air of finality, crossing his arms.
I'm not going to text her.
He eyed the phone warily.
Should I text her?
Maybe it would be best if I texted her and at least gave her the chance to ask me to not come.
Uncrossing his arms, he picked up his phone and scrolled to find their text message thread. He stopped and stared for a moment at the time stamp of the last few texts between the two of them. Three months ago.
"Which one? The first one or the second one?" The text from him was accompanied by photos of two sets of priest chasubles.
"Definitely the third one…" Fleabag had responded.
"Fuck you, then!" He had said back with a middle finger emoji.
The conversation had taken place about a week before her Dad's wedding. Their friendship had been blooming during that time. The sexual tension was on a path to boiling over.
I miss her. She gets me. I ruined everything the moment I kissed her.
His stomach did a familiar flip, and a pang of guilt and apprehension struck him as he thought about the night in the confessional. When he allowed himself to think about it, he worried he had somehow taken advantage of her vulnerability during the confession he had coaxed from her. It had been the first time Fleabag had truly opened up to him, and he had been moved by her authenticity and raw outpouring of emotion.
I did. I did take advantage. I was being so selfish. She was crying, for Christ's sake, and I kissed her.
He groaned at himself and started to type a new message.
"Hi, do you have a moment? Is it okay that I text you?"
After sending the message, he slammed his phone down as if it had controlled his actions and made him text her. Starting to feel sick with nerves, he moved to go retrieve the poorly hidden glass from the cupboard but sat back down as he saw three little dots pop up on the text message screen, indicating she was responding.
The dots disappeared. He frowned. He sighed. He retrieved the glass.
When his phone buzzed a few moments later, he was pouring himself another drink and nearly spilt all over himself.
"Hi. You okay?"
Taking note of how short her response was, he frowned. She didn't explicitly say it was okay to text her outside of answering her question and confirming his safety. His mind reeled with what this brief response could mean.
"I'm fine, thanks. Hey, your sister invited me to the party tonight."
His stomach was in knots.
"So it's best I not go then? I wouldn't want you to have to endure seeing me."
Sighing, he stared at her message. He knew her. He knew these words came from a place of hurt and perceived rejection, even if it was thinly veiled as a joke. He tried to think of something witty and neutral to say but fell short. Deciding to just be honest, he typed a new message.
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to see you. I'm not the lying type."
He put his phone back down for a moment and took a deep breath.
I shouldn't have said that. It's not fair of me. And, not the lying type? What does that even mean?
His phone buzzed sooner than he had anticipated.
"Come if you want. But we aren't having sex. Celibacy is a lot less complicated than romantic relationships, and nothing good would come of it."
He smiled sadly, an eyebrow raised. She was trying to be funny, but there was so much truth in her words.
"A bit late for that, honestly—" he began typing but deleted the message frantically before sending it.
I'd better not joke about sex right now; it's a bit much. I'm the one who fucked everything up for both of us.
He knew she was trying to lighten the mood, as was her way. But he also knew this hurt them both. He started a new message.
"If you don't want me to come, I won't. I just need you to tell me."
The bubble with the three dots appeared immediately, and his phone buzzed.
"I've always been in favour of both of us coming. You're the one determined not to."
He blinked. He swallowed. He swore. He took a sip.
Wow, she really said that.
Staring down at his phone, he considered how he could possibly respond to that. His palms were sweating. He decided not to respond. If she didn't want him there, she'd have time to let him know.
He was wrong about potentially feeling less nervous after texting her. Instead, he felt the familiar sexual tension building all over again - not that it had ever dissipated. He did at least feel better about not ambushing her at her sister's party after dumping her at the bus stop.
He cringed.
I am such a dick for doing that. I should have at least waited with her until her bus arrived or walked her home.
He dragged his hands across his cheeks and lightly slapped his face a few times.
All right. Time to get my shit together.
He looked down at his phone. He felt bad about leaving their conversation that way, knowing she was probably a little anxious after sending her last message. He grinned and typed a message.
"Just wait until you see my costume. You're going to lose your fucking mind."
"I lost my mind months ago, thanks."
He frowned.
Oof. I'm such a dick.
A/N:
Hello, and thank you for reading! I have eight more chapters of this fic written already. Please let me know if you like it!