Chapter Text
Jongwoo isn’t a church guy.
No, Jongwoo isn’t a God guy. He’s not religious. He’s never been.
It’s not that he doesn’t believe in a higher power… it’s just that he doesn’t care enough. There’s something restrictive about adhering to so many rules by believing a single thing. Jongwoo doesn’t like being restricted.
That might, ironically, be the reason he ends up at church.
For some reason, today his small basement house felt like a coffin made for a body much smaller than his. It was damp and humid from the nonstop rain, and Jongwoo was starting to find difficulty breathing.
It was almost midnight when he stepped out. Most diners and cafes had closed up in fear of a flood, and the piss-poor excuse for a motel he usually resorts to when he’s not feeling too well was fully booked by those who are passing through Busan but got caught up in the storm.
Jongwoo finds himself at the mouth of the local church for the first time in years.
He considers going back home, but the idea of white lighting and no sound but the patter of rain doesn’t sit well with him. The flickering orange candle-light shining through the cathedral glass is beyond welcoming.
He tries to talk himself out of it in the name of consistency, but ends up sitting in the middle pew, five rows away from the altar, with his hands loose on his lap.
Sitting here alone, he thinks maybe his hate for church has more to do with the congregants than the building itself. Back then, when he would come here with his parents and brother, there was always someone to glare, someone to whisper behind a curled hand, someone to pass on rumors with a bit more spice to the person next to them, hypocritical gossipers looking for a way to kill time.
None of the anger or discomfort that usually came with all that is present now.
There’s a man standing at the candles, replacing some and lighting others.
He’s the new priest, Jongwoo figures. People have been talking about him, and news travels fast in this neighborhood.
He’s as young as they say. That’s the first thing Jongwoo notes as he takes the man in. Not young young, but too young to be a priest. The last priest — the one who was laicized — was much older, verging on seventy. Jongwoo had only seen him a handful of times before he stopped attending. He heard he was driven out of Busan by condign verbal hate for his misconduct.
This one’s younger, his posture straight, his hands working meticulously. He has elegant fingers; a large ecclesiastical ring cradles one of them well as he uses a candle to light another.
Jongwoo sniffles, and the man stills. It’s the type of stillness that makes Jongwoo want to sink down in his seat and disappear.
Slowly, the priest turns around, his eyes combing through the pews to finally settle on Jongwoo.
Jongwoo sits upright, clearing his throat and glancing away, at the crucifix above the altar, at the windows streaked with rain, at anything else.
“I didn’t notice you coming in,” the priest greets.
It’s light, but the way his voice carries through the room, bouncing off marble walls, makes it sound like Jongwoo’s unwelcome. An inconvenience, perhaps.
Jongwoo’s throat bobs, eyes wavering for a beat before they seek out the older man again. “Yeah, I—” he stops to take a breath. “Shall I go?”
“If you’d like,” the priest acquiesces, turning back to the candles. “Although it’s storming out, and the house of God is open to anyone at any hour.”
Jongwoo exhales slowly and tucks his hands under his thighs.
“You’re— You’re new here, right?” He asks, for a lack of anything else to say. He thinks he’s trying to buy time. “To church, I mean.”
“I am.”
And,
“If I’m not mistaken, you are too.”
Jongwoo pinches his brows together. “Uh— yeah. I’m—” he pulls a hand out from under the warmth of his leg to scratch his forehead awkwardly. “I’m not really religious.”
“I see,” the man murmurs, his soft voice ringing loud over the rain thundering against the stained glass of the windows. “A non-believer?”
“What? Will you shun me? Stone me?”
Perhaps it comes off as a little too prickly, but Jongwoo can’t help it. He’s always been too impulsive. Living here, surrounded by people who aren’t too fond of him, he’s growing to realize nothing said to him is ever good-natured.
A quiet laugh from the other man’s throat rumbles into Jongwoo’s reflection.
He tucks an incense stick into the wax of a dying candle and turns to face Jongwoo from a good distance.
Jongwoo swallows under the stretch of silence, heeding the other man’s looks. His deep-set eyes and long hair. The slope of his cheekbones and the tilt of his mouth.
He looks ungodly. Devilish. The cassock he’s wearing is the only mark of religion on him.
“Wouldn’t that be typical?” The priest asks, rupturing the silence with a voice too soft. “I heard the one before me was a cruel man of God.”
“Aren’t you?” Jongwoo asks back, a bit more defensive than he means to be. “Isn’t anyone who’s given that much authority?”
“It would be biased to rebut the accusation and self-proclaim kindness,” the priest smiles. “I’m not mine to judge.”
Jongwoo feels like he’s in the company of a pretender.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“I’m Father Seo Moonjo,” the man responds. “I recently moved here from Seoul.”
“Good luck with that,” Jongwoo half scoffs. With more confidence, he gestures around him vaguely. “Anyway… am I allowed to be here at this time?”
“You’re allowed to be here as long as the doors are unlocked,” Father Seo replies.
“Oh,” Jongwoo’s throat bobs. He picks at his thumb quietly. “Even if I don’t believe?”
“Especially if you don’t believe,” Father Seo parries. “I’m not only here to strengthen people’s faith; I’d like to put it in others as well.”
For a few moments, Jongwoo doesn’t say anything back. It’s uncomfortable. A bit demeaning. Jongwoo might’ve preferred Father Seo Moonjo telling him that yes, he would shun him, and yes, he would stone him. Although the latter seems a little too extreme for their time. It’s just hyperbolical. Jongwoo should stop letting his interest in literature interfere with his daily dialog.
“I’m good,” he eventually breathes. “I just didn’t know where else to go. My place might be flooding right now, actually.”
He stands to his feet. “Shit. My work—” he manages to sidestep his way out of the pews before he bows his respect at Father Seo and rushes out.
...
He manages to salvage his laptop just under the wire.
He spends the whole night drying his floors and walls. He closes up all the visible cracks with a sealant gun and spends a ridiculously long time trying to figure out how the fuck he can replace a sump pump without the assistance of a plumber.
Thankful it’s the weekend, he gets into bed at around seven in the morning and sleeps through the day and wakes up somewhere between four and five o’clock in the evening.
His fridge’s empty. It’s been empty for a while.
His mother would throw a fit if she saw his state right now. He tries to play it cool whenever she calls to check in on him. He doesn’t want her to worry. She has her own burdens to bear.
A sigh drops from his mouth as he slams the fridge shut.
Ramen it is.
...
Another hand reaches for the last pack of noodles, and Jongwoo can’t help the way he snatches it. It’s done with the aggression of a schoolkid, and when he looks up to apologize, his words fade in his throat.
“Father Seo,”
Father Seo’s looking back at him.
Up-close, Jongwoo notes, he looks…
Jongwoo tries pinpointing the right word to describe him, but nothing occurs. Not yet.
Father Seo’s eyes are a heavy weight on him, picking him apart. There’s something very priestly about the way he’s looking for a single speck of religion in him, a loose thread to pull at; even though he’s donned in a white shirt tucked into black pants, his cassock nowhere in sight. “You can have it,” Jongwoo says, just to sever the silence.
He hands the pack of noodles over and Father Seo shakes his head.
“It’s no problem,” he dismisses. “You can have it.”
Jongwoo doesn’t argue. He waves a hand awkwardly. “I uh. Sorry,” he flinches at his own words, dropping his hand to drum his fingers rhythmically against his thigh. “I mean… for just walking out like that.”
It’s the right thing to say, right? That’s what his mother would tell him anyway.
“Is everything okay?” Father Seo questions. “I hope nothing was damaged.”
Jongwoo’s mouth opens. Closes. He huffs. “Oh,” he mutters. “It’s— fine. It’s fine. I cleaned up and fixed what needed fixing.”
Father Seo nods slowly, still assessing. Jongwoo looks down at the pack of noodles, holds it with both hands before he presses his lips together and dips his head with a quiet, then. He turns away without waiting for a response to his farewell.
“I’ll see you next Sunday.”
“Eh?” Jongwoo spins around. “What? No. I’m not,” he shakes his head. “I’m not religious.”
“I can change that,” Father Seo deflects. “Or rather…” he takes a step, and Jongwoo wants to step back. “We can talk about it if you’d like. The Lord’s arms are always open.”
Jongwoo hopes his feelings aren’t clear on his face. They might offend the older man. What a fucking cliché thing to say.
“As are mine.”
That—
Doesn’t sound right. Jongwoo draws his brows together, and he makes to ask him what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but–
“If you’d like to visit the confessional, I’m always present. It’s nice to get things off your chest.”
“Yeah. Ok. Thanks, I guess.”
Jongwoo stands at the register, a beer in one hand and his pack of ramen in the other.
He gently puts them down on the till and pulls his wallet out.
“Noona! Can you help me back here?!”
The lady behind the register glances over at the storage room before looking back at Jongwoo. “One moment,” she holds her pointer up regretfully. “He’s new.”
She scurries out of sight, and Jongwoo shifts his weight to one leg, fingers drumming on the surface in front of him.
“He’s still around?”
It’s whispered. Stage whispered. Whispered to be heard.
“I heard his mom took his brother and disappeared.”
“I mean, anyone would do the same. He ruined…”
Jongwoo shakes his leg, heat raging in his gut as he tries turning a deaf ear to the pair behind him.
“Eomma says that the last time she saw her, she was..” the rest is too low for Jongwoo to hear.
He turns around, hand starting to tremble at his side.
“Yah.”
One of the guys stands at least 4 inches taller than Jongwoo, and he seems to enjoy the leverage that gives him as he squares his shoulders and looks down at Jongwoo. “What?”
“If you have something to say, say it to my face,” Jongwoo’s words are hissed through clenched teeth.
They make the pair laugh. Like they’re being threatened by a schoolboy rather than a grown man. They’re the ones in their uniforms.
“Respect your elders. Tell your eomma to pay more attention to raising you than what other people are doing.”
It would be a lie to say he wasn’t expecting the punch he gets.
He stumbles, barely able to regain footing with his head spinning so much.
He lifts a hand to his nose. Blood leaks onto his fingers. He hasn’t seen blood in… a while. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and looks at the offender.
“At least my mom isn’t selling her body!”
Jongwoo doesn’t have the time or energy to even try controlling himself.
He charges at the boy and topples him over. And he sees red. That of anger, that of blood, then that of police sirens.
At the station, he sits quietly, thumb kneading into his opposite palm. There’s still so much rage in his chest, demanding it be let out.
He takes a breath to tamp it down and turns his hand to look at his ripped knuckles.
“I’m pressing charges. Nothing you say will change my mind,” the woman’s voice booms louder once the door opens.
“Ma’am. Your son—”
“—is sixteen!” She yells. “That delinquent is over twenty-five! Don’t you have laws to protect minors?”
“Jongwoo-ssi isn’t the only one who said your son provoked him,” the officer tries to reason patiently.
“He should hold his anger! My son’s a child! He can’t even drink!”
The police officer sighs. “Ma’am, please lower your voice.”
“Where do I fill a form?”
“There’s no need for that.”
The new voice makes Jongwoo look up.
He swallows as Father Seo lets the door swing shut behind him.
“Father Seo,” the officer bows and tucks her hair behind her ear.
“Good evening,” Father Seo greets her before he turns to face the bellowing lady with a smile. “Good evening, Ms. Nam.”
“Father Seo,” she greets, noticeably gentler, and pats her hair down. Her voice sounds hoarse from all the yelling.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Father Seo starts. “But I’d like you to reconsider.”
“What?”
Jongwoo rubs his nose with a knuckle, face contorting at the dull ache that lances through him.
“Can you consider settling?” Father Seo rephrases. “I’ll give you as much as you’d like.”
An incredulous sound bursts out of Ms. Nam. “Yah! What do you take me for? I don’t— I’m not after money. He just—” she points at Jongwoo vaguely, without looking his way.
It makes him feel smaller. Makes the anger in him bigger.
“He needs help.”
“Yah!” Jongwoo yells.
Ms. Nam turns to glare at him. “Yah?!” She echoes. “You insolent—”
“I’ll offer help,” Father Seo interrupts before she starts another commotion. “I think a few sessions with me will placate him, and I’ll pay for your son’s hospital bills. How does that sound?”
Ms. Nam purses her lips and looks at Father Seo.
“The form’s ready!” An officer exclaims from the front desk.
Ms. Nam sighs. “Don’t bother,” she throws over her shoulder. “I’ll let this one pass. Only because Father Seo asked.”
She adjusts the fur collar around her neck and pushes her hair to one side before she gives Jongwoo one last dirty look and leaves.
...
Officer Junghwa looks at Jongwoo, a smile small on her mouth.
Jongwoo adjusts his shirt, movements a bit clumsy. His joints hurt. “Thanks,” he utters. “For trying to calm things.”
“No worries, Jongwoo-ssi. Her son’s always causing trouble.”
Jongwoo forces a smile and takes the proffered ID from her. “Good night.”
Outside, Father Seo greets him with a bow of his head.
Jongwoo’s stride lags for just a moment before he hesitantly inclines his head. “Thanks.”
“It’s no problem,” Father Seo holds out a plastic bag, waving it minutely when Jongwoo does nothing more than eye it.
Jongwoo slowly takes it from him and peers inside at the ramen and beer. “Oh,” he mumbles. “Thanks.”
The handles of the plastic bag fall into place around his wrist as he starts fidgeting, thumb rubbing into the opposite palm. He holds back a hiss when he pulls back the ripped skin on his knuckles.
“Good night, Jongwoo-ssi.”
Jongwoo was expecting him to broach the subject of a few sessions to placate him. He’s thankful Father Seo doesn’t.
“Ah. Yeah. Good night.”
…
The second he’s home, Jongwoo slides his backpack off his shoulder and drops it onto the couch with a sigh.
He follows it a moment later, tilting his head back over its backrest tiredly.
“Aish,” he breathes.
He doesn’t feel like having ramen anymore. He’s not hungry at all thanks to that teenage punk and his shrew of a mother.
His phone rings and he reaches for it with his eyes shut. Blindly swipes his thumb across it and blindly lifts it to his ear.
“Yes, eomma?”
“Jongwoo-yah,” his mother greets, a habitual concern in her voice. “Are you okay?”
“Mm. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Are you sure?” She asks back. “I’m here for you, son. I’ll come back if you—”
“Stay where you are,” Jongwoo interrupts, drawling the words through a sigh. “I’m okay. I’m just tired.”
She’s always had a gut-feeling when it comes to her children. Jongwoo hates it. It makes it infinitely harder to lie to her when she can sense his struggles from miles away.
“If you need anything, son—”
“I don’t,” Jongwoo cuts in. “Eomma, stop worrying about me. Worry about yourself and hyung. How is he? How is everyone? Is Hyunwoo hyung okay?”
“They’re okay,” his mother hurries out with. “Jongwoo-yah—”
“I’m going to hang up. I’m tired,” Jongwoo says before she has the chance to revoice her worries. “Good night.”
He doesn’t sleep right away. He throws his dirty clothes in the sink and gets in the shower to rinse himself clean. The hot water, albeit soothing to his muscles, burns the torn skin on his knuckles, reminding him of his slip in control.
The whole scuffle fucked his joints up. His jaw aches. His head feels like his skull’s been dented by the punch that that little brat landed to his temple.
“Piece of shit,” he mutters to himself, turning his hand over to let the hot water fill his cupped palm.
He dries himself off and slips into a set of pajamas that’s still a little wet from last night’s rainfall, but sitting next to his heater neutralizes the temperature.
He spends an especially long time wrapping his injured hand up. The use of his non-dominant hand isn’t enough, so he uses his teeth to pull the bandage tight. It’s all crumpled by the time it’s secured in place.
His laptop sits on the table tantalizingly still. It reminds him of the pent-up violence in his head, begging for some sort of outlet.
He shouldn’t have snapped today. He should’ve pretended he couldn’t hear what was being spoken about his mother.
She always told him that people who speak behind others’ backs are too cowardly to say those things to their faces. She’d probably scold him if she were here.
She’ll probably scold him tomorrow, after she finds out from someone here who’s still in contact with her. Probably the market owner down the street.
He can’t type on his laptop right now. His fingers hurt too much.
He feels like he’s suffocating.
…
Blood stains his sleep that night, sneaking in with a memory on its tail. A boiling teapot pouring metallic red from its spout. A cry. The rasp of a knife being pulled out of its block.
He jerks awake with the desperation of water-filled lungs rising to the surface. A breath bursts out of him, then another.
His pajama top’s drenched at the collar, his hair stuck to his temples with sweat as he heaves for oxygen.
“Shit,” he mutters, chest rising and falling.
He rolls onto his belly and reaches for the floor, patting around to get his hand on his phone.
His thumbs are shaky when they hover over the screen. It doesn’t take long to get to the contact he wants.
It’s a little past eight am. He’s sure the guy’s awake.
“It’s been a while! Last time we spoke you said you’re quitting.”
The voice is obnoxious. It grates on Jongwoo’s nerves, clenching his jaw tight until he barely has the ability to say anything back.
“Are you in Busan?”
“Not even a hello,” the guy sighs, breath crackling into Jongwoo’s ear. “You’re so cold, you know.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Hold on,” any trace of levity is gone from the man’s voice. “Alright. Straight to business. What do you want?”
Jongwoo sniffles. “Same— Same as last time.”
“Ah~ well, the price has gone up since we last dealt,” the man muses. He’s insinuating. Jongwoo purses his lips and opens his mouth to demand he stops fucking around. “But since you’re a dear customer… I’ll give it to you twenty percent off.”
Jongwoo furrows his brow. “How much?”
“How much do you want?”
“Just—” Jongwoo gulps, looking around aimlessly with parted lips. “Just a hit. One.”
“Twenty-one thousand won.”
“Yeah—” Jongwoo nods. “Ok. I’ll— I’ll see you at the abandoned warehouse.”
He hangs up before the other man says anything else and gets up to change.
…
The vial sits on the table, empty and mocking.
Jongwoo would mock himself too if he were in its place. He’d quit smoking not long ago. He’d promised himself not to resort to illicit drugs ever again.
But he’s losing himself. He thinks he’ll go insane if he doesn’t lean on something.
He can’t afford another outburst.
Without thinking too much, he gulps down a cup of water and reaches for a bandage. He hangs his arm, spreads his fingers, and curls them back inwards.
He wraps the bandage around his lower bicep and tightens it until he’s sure he’ll find a vein.
He lifts his arm back up and grabs the syringe off the table.
The tip of the needle touches the throbbing vein. He takes a breath. Can already taste euphoria. He starts to push.
The door rings. The needle swerves. He groans.
“Aish.”
Officer Junghwa’s at the door.
Jongwoo looks at her, hand tight on the handle. His fingers tingle, a bit sensitive from the lack of blood flow.
“Hi,” he utters.
“Good morning, Jongwoo-ssi.”
Jongwoo sniffles and stays in place. He sees the way the policewoman looks over his shoulder, an awkward smile on her face.
“Sorry, I—” Jongwoo throws a glance over his shoulder. “The place is a mess. I can’t—”
“Ah… It’s okay…” Junghwa’s eyes smile with her lips. “I’m not staying for long.”
She’s a nice woman. Jongwoo hasn’t known her for long, but she’s never been against him. She’s never disrespected him nor looked down on him, and that’s enough to earn his respect.
Jongwoo can’t bring himself to resent her the way he resents everyone else.
“You see… You signed a form,” Junghwa begins. “Father Seo paid for Ms. Nam’s son’s treatment. But,”
“How much was it?”
“That’s confidential information. I can’t tell you, I’m sorry.”
Jongwoo nods stiffly.
“You have a session today.”
“What?”
“A session,” Junghwa repeats. “The settlement…”
Jongwoo blinks at her. Then his eyebrows inch upwards and he scruffs the front of his hair. “He meant that?”
“Yeah,” Junghwa’s laugh carries only half her characteristic awkwardness. “You have to go to Eden Church at four.”
“Oh.”
Jongwoo looks at her arm, at the watch wrapped around it. “What time is it now?”
“It’s early. Just past nine.”
“Oh.”
His shoulders sag.
“Jongwoo-ssi…”
“Yes?” Jongwoo rushes out with.
“Are you okay?”
His nose stings with the question. He forces a smile. Nods once.
Answers the way he always does.
…
He’s looking at the altarpieces when Father Seo steps out of his office, the beads of his rosary rolling softly beneath his thumb.
To be frank, Jongwoo has no idea what to think of him. There’s the part where he is as kind as people claim him to be. Where he’s seemingly devoid of judgment and arrogance. But there’s also the part where he’s a priest, a man of God who should think he’s superior to others.
He doesn’t want to form an opinion about Father Seo. He’d rather just not be in contact with him enough to see him from all angles.
“We meet again,” Father Seo greets.
“Not by choice,” Jongwoo responds. “Just a part of my punishment.”
Father Seo sounds amused with the honesty when he says, “Shall we?”
Jongwoo puts the lighter he’d been fidgeting with for distraction down and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Do we have to go into the confessional?” he asks. “I mean, isn’t that for… secrecy or whatever? No one’s here and you know my face.”
Father Seo smiles patiently. “The confessional provides more comfort. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you strike me as someone who prefers as little interaction as possible.”
Jongwoo sighs out his nose and nods.
He sits down in his part of the booth, fingers drumming against his thigh as he waits for Father Seo to get comfortable on the other side. “Alright. Let’s speak.”
“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. It’s been–”
“No, no,” Father Seo interrupts, laughing under his breath
Hearing his laughter without looking at him is… harrowing. He sounds,
Deceptive.
The laugh comes to a throaty stop before Father Seo continues into his next line.
“I’m not here to… relay your pleas for forgiveness.”
Jongwoo goes silent.
“If I’m being honest with you, I saw what happened,” Father Seo explains. “And I fail to see why you’re being punished at all.”
Jongwoo cocks a brow. “Is this what you’re going to do?” he asks, blowing a laugh out of his nostrils as his mouth twists into something wry. “Humor me to guide me onto the right path? Coax me?”
Father Seo doesn’t respond for some time, but then he shifts, and he says, “Have I perhaps done anything to offend you?”
“No,” Jongwoo replies. “No. I just don’t want to be here. I let my anger get the best of me, but I’ve learnt my lesson and I don’t need you or anyone looking down on me for— for putting that piece of shit in his place.”
He huffs a breath right after and rubs at his neck until it burns against the friction.
“Do you feel better now?”
“Shut your mouth.”
He gets up, needing to leave before he causes more damage.
“He deserved it.”
Jongwoo stops in his tracks.
“I wouldn’t have settled with them if I was only here to show you the way of God,” Father Seo continues. “I wouldn’t have stopped you amidst your confession if I wanted to play intercessor.
“I know what it’s like to feel like nobody understands you.”
A derisive laugh falls from Jongwoo’s mouth unchecked. “Must be real tough,” he doesn’t let him reply. “I’ll pay you back.”
He doesn’t give him time to respond to that either.
…
He goes back eventually. On a Friday night when the talkative altar boy is sent home.
“Are you leaving?”
Father Seo looks up from the candles he’s lighting. “No,” he answers, as gentle as everything else he’s said since Jongwoo met him.
“I wanted to…” Jongwoo steps forward and hands him an envelope. “I’m not sure how much. But thanks. For settling.”
Father Seo takes it without preamble. He takes it not out of need, but like he doesn’t want to offend Jongwoo by not taking it. “It’s no problem.”
“And sorry for snapping at you,” Jongwoo adds. “Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. It tends to evil or whatever. Right?”
Father Seo’s mouth tilts upwards, a smile that wobbles into a quiet chuckle. “You told me you’re a non-believer.”
“I’m—” Jongwoo shakes his head and looks away, over the priest’s shoulder. “I don’t care enough honestly.”
He says it like that’s any better in the eyes of God or his people.
“Anyway… It’s getting late. Dinner–” he pauses. “Do you… Are you married?”
Wrong wording. Priests are sworn to celibacy.
“I mean do you have. Y’know. Dinner?”
“Habitually, actually. Thank you for asking.”
“I mean—” Jongwoo huffs indignantly. “Right. Right, yeah. Sorry. Then,” Jongwoo inclines his head politely. “Thanks again.”
“You’re most welcome. Have a good night.”
Jongwoo nods.
“And I’ll see you soon. For our next session.”
Father Seo bows, lashes fluttering low with the drop of his head.
Jongwoo feels his eyes on him until the church doors fall shut behind him.