Chapter Text
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When they met, it was nothing like this.
When they met, they were just two sorrowful children straying from the crowds, staying on the sidelines of every public event they were forced to attend. When they met, Edward had found him alone, stifled sobs slipping through the cracks between his fingertips, sitting as silent as he could on the yellowed porcelain of the church's toilet seats. It had been the day of his parent's funeral, and Bruce had planned out every aspect: from the white lilies with their black vases and the pine coffins, to his mother's tachrichim and his father's suit.
When they met, it was because Bruce couldn't keep it in anymore. It was because he couldn't hide his grief anymore.
And Edward had understood. He had always truly understood such sorrows, more than just what he'd been taught—he understood, on a deeper level than anyone else. Edward had learned not from
what he'd read, but from what he'd been through. So, when they met, Bruce crying as silent as he could in the church’s bathroom, he had taken his hand, finger rubbing on the inverse of his palm, pulling him to his feet. “I know a better place to cry.”
The echoing sound of dress shoes tapping on tiled floor still reminds him of this day, as they rushed together up the stairs, passing by room after empty room while the architecture turned from stone to wood. Bruce, teary-eyed and timid, had said nothing, following him to the bell tower. And Edward still remembers the sight: sunlight filtering onto their faces through colored stained glass windows, a soft warm light pleasant on the face. Bruce had been lit with blue, a mournful Mary behind him, seven swords piercing through her heart. Even now, it's still Edward's favorite window in the entire church.
He had squeezed Bruce's hands tight, letting him wail and wail as they crumpled against the wall—strangers, but closer than Edward had ever been to anyone before. The tears wetted Edward's Cotta vestments, shoulder damp & snotty, Bruce’s face red & puffy. Edward hadn't cared, focusing more on the way their palms touched, their fingers interlocked, Bruce's hand shaky. He remembers feeling Bruce's chest on his side, and the way he breathed in with a shudder, but breathed out with a grief ridden wail of devastation.
They'd only been kids when they first stood face to face with grief. The grief of losing parents was a sword straight through the heart, ripping through skin, tearing flesh apart. It was painful in the most prominent way, the kind of wound that showed itself as a scar to everyone you meet. But the grief of never having known your parents was that of a subtle poison. It was a toxin, a venom seeping into both skin and mind alike, twisting and contorting the flesh until the visage of a human no longer held up.
A wound may heal over time, but the subtle scar on skin will always remain a reminder of the past. Wounds like Bruce's, Edward always knew, hurt more than the mind numbing toxins that seeped into his own body, he knew that they hurt more than the endless feeling that he'd never know his mother or his father, that he may pass them on the street and not blink an eye, that he was unwanted, abandoned with nothing more than a rosary and a piece of paper with two letters on it. Wounds could heal. Venom deforms.
The endless echoing voice of the priest at mass never leaves Edward's ringing head. “A woman, a mother, a mother is a very special thing. Other than the lord Jesus Christ, I think that a mother is one of the most precious gifts that god gives to this world, ’cause a mother is the one who loves and has the warmth and always seems to be there when we need it. A mother is a very special thing. A mother is a very special thing.” His heart had always ached listening to mass, looking at the families with their kids who restlessly kicked their feet, whose parents gave careful reminders instead of harsh beatings. That's how Bruce had lived, he supposed. With kind parents. It was a difficult thing for an eight year old Edward to reconcile, but he did so nonetheless.
Bruce, on the day they had met, had been inconsolable. However, at the bell tower, sobs slowly turned to silent sniffles, shaky fingers to a tight grip, grief no more than a quiet murmur in the back of his mind, as Edward held him.
“Sorry…” He'd murmured, hands rubbing the thin fabric of Edward's vestments.
“It's alright. I get really sad too, sometimes.” Edward's smile had been almost like a grimace. But he tried to be kind. He really did try to be kind.
“I… Ruined your pretty robe—” His tears had started to well up again, chin quivering, inhalations faster and sharper. But Edward's grip tightened. He squeezed Bruce's hand, thumb rubbing the back of his palm in soft, circular motions, all while Bruce quietly muttered out another apology, other hand wiping the remnants of tears from his face.
They made eye contact for the first time, back then, as they turned to face each other, two timid children trying to speak while no words would come out. All Edward could manage was to tuck Bruce’s short, black hair behind his ear, as his sniffles stopped.
“It’s okay.”
…
“What’s your name?”
“Edward.”
“Mine’s Bruce.”
“Are you okay, Bruce?”
“...My parents…”
“Mine too.”
Edward rubs his shoulder. “I live at the orphanage. Even with all my brothers and sisters, I’m lonely most of the time.” Bruce sniffles as Edward slips a silver ring off his pointer finger. “Sister Maggie gave me this for my birthday… She told me that no matter what, even if I'm lonely, she'll be there for me.”
Edward holds his hand out, palm upturned with the small ring placed right in the middle.
“Whenever you feel lonely, rub this ring, and know that I feel just the same way. Then, you won't be lonely anymore.”
—————————————————————
When they met for the first time, it had been exactly like this.
Edward wears his cotta vestments proudly, white cloth draped long and flowy as he hurriedly walks towards the door of the church. It was night, and it was raining outside—the thunder so loud it nearly drowned out the sound of rapid knocks. Inside, it was cool and dark, candles lighting the faces of Mary and Jesus alike, flickering against the darkened stained glass, painting the interior with a soft, warm glow. The church was closed—it was midnight—and still, the knocks were loud and cacophonous, splitting the nonsilence of the busy city at night in two.
Edward's instincts yelled at him to turn away for fear of danger, thinking of Gotham city and its rampant crime, the graffiti he had to scrub off the walls of the church, the troubled addicts shouting at nobody in particular, all the sadness that littered the streets. But God is merciful, and charity is an important part of Edward's faith. Who was he to turn down a man begging for a meal or a woman asking for somewhere to spend the night? Humans are sinful creatures, yes, but it is compassion which saves lives. The key slid in easily, and the two tall, gothic stone doors gave way to the nonstranger who hurriedly shuffled in.
“Bruce.” The word slipped out of his mouth before he knew it. He said it with subtle joy and recognition, a warmth starting in the back of his throat that was clear when he spoke. He reached for the long trench adorned on Bruce's back, feeling the wet black wool between his fingers, neatly folding it into his arms.
There was a melancholy to the way Bruce carried himself. He always walked slouched over, and avoided eye contact like the plague, uncertain of how to carry himself. It was sweet.
“What happened?” That came out wrong. He pauses, before awkwardly trying to explain himself. “I mean, I haven't seen you in a while. And you are drenched.”
“I was just on my way home when the rain hit. It's really good to see you, Edward.”
Edward brought the back of his hand up to the surface of Bruce's forehead.
“It's good to see you too, Bruce. You're burning up, though—c’mere, I'll give you a change of clothing.”
His hand reaches down, palm open. Bruce takes it, and Edward can feel a ring of his index finger.
“It's haunting at night here… Still hard to believe this is where you live.”
“Says the billionaire who lives in the… what, fiftieth floor?” Edward exaggeratedly shudders. “Sometimes I wish I lived in a small town. Those big towers just. Eugh. They freak me out.”
“I get what you mean.” A half-scoff half-laugh slips from out of his mouth. “I used to be terrified of living there, you know. Once we sold the manor, I… Well, let's just say there were lots of nightmares.”
Edward outright laughs, hand half covering his mouth, eyes squinted mostly shut. Bruce blushed.
“That's Gotham’s resident crybaby for you. I remember it though. Those Sundays spent here, sitting together… One day, you cupped your hand around my ear and whispered, during the middle of mass, asking me how to pray, so you could get Alfred to let you move in with me. I was mortified, standing straight as a razor, horrified that father might see and be mad at me.”
Bruce squeezed Edward's hand, after a moment, joining him in laughter. It was contagious—neither of them could stop themselves from feeling what the other felt when they were together.
“Aaalways a rule-follower, you were.” Bruce is a bit less slouched over, now.
“ ‘Were?!’” Edward gasps, faux-scandal playing at the ends of his lips.” What's changed?”
“You're the one who makes the rules now.”
“Oh pleaaase, I'm far from the pope. And besides, let's not pretend like you were there for aaany reason other than to talk to me.”
“You don't know that.”
“You're Jewish.”
“My dad was Catholic!”
“And your mom..?”
“Shush.”
“Oookay, Bruce… I'm sure you always sat next to me, holding my hand, whispering questions into my ear when you thought Father wasn't looking juuuust because…”
“You were my best friend!”
“...Yup, walking me back to the bus stop every day, talking my ears off about whatever the obsession of the week was…”
Bruce scrunched up his features, hand in his face, cringing. “Okaay, I was pretty obsessed with you… but I was eight!”
“So was I.”
“You had your God obsession, I had my you obsession.”
“Had?”
“...Have.”
They made their way to Edward's bedroom, mindlessly chatting through the silent halls. It was almost silent aside from their quiet voices, the sound of rain, and the occasional cracks of thunder making them jump in place. But they liked it that way, subtle and soft, just like their friendship had always been.
Edward's bedroom was no bigger than a walk-in closet. In it, candles and curios littered his desk, all small reminders of his life. Mostly, there were just books. They varied in size, but almost every wall was covered in them. It might've been claustrophobic to Bruce, but to Edward, it was cozy.
“You sure read a lot.”
“Turns out people who don't run mega corporations actually have a pretty decent amount of spare time.”
“Yeah, yeah… I'm just a figurehead. I make decisions, sure, but… I know pretty much nothing about finances.”
“Figured as much, Philosophy major.”
“... You studied theology. They're like, the same thing. Studying a bunch of old books.”
“And artifacts. Greek paintings, Indonesian statues… Much, much more interesting than Plato or Freud or whoever's your favorite.”
“Camus.”
“Hm?”
“Camus was the best. His teachings helped me out of some pretty bad places.”
“So did my God.”
“I know.”
They sat in silence for a few seconds, sitting on the single bed for a moment. Edward turned to look at him, starting to say something, but he stopped. They went back to silence, Edward standing up, blinking, opening his closet.
“I just washed those bedsheets. If they smell like mildew tomorrow, I'll burn down your building.”
“Ouch.”
“Put this on.”
Edward tosses him a simple white button-up, along with a black pair of suit pants. Edward rarely dressed down to the extent Bruce did. Clothing like that made him feel like he was eight again, living off someone's hole-covered hand-me-downs, listening to Bruce as he talked on and on about how annoying his expensive suits were to wear, how tight they felt. Bruce had always been a bit ignorant of just how good he had it, but Edward tried not to let it get to him. He'd always been the more mature one, always more in control of his emotions, always letting his mind-numbing sadness rest on the backburner of their conversations.
Back then, when it came to clothing, the only thing that Edward liked was his cotta. Sister Maggie embroidered it herself, special and unique, and made just for him. He'd always worn it with pride, even if it was substantially oversized, dwarfing his slender frame and going far past the typical ankle-length. But Edward doesn't like thinking about himself back then. He'd been so full of malice, so full of spite and bitterness at the fortune of others, even if he didn't let Bruce know. At the time, he truly believed that everyone wealthy enough to own a home had to be evil to their core—everyone but Bruce.
“It's a bit tight…”
Edward instinctively turned, brows raised in curiosity.
Bruce stood there facing mostly away from Edward, his hips turned to the side, pants just barely squeezing past his thighs. Both his back and his… front were too big for the pair of dress pants. Edward immediately looked away, face bright red, staring back into the closet.
“They're the biggest I had.” He said, delivered at an uncharacteristically rapid pace.
“It's alright. I mean, we've known each other since we were eight—I'm not exactly prudish around you—but I can put back on my pants if you'd prefer.”
“It's fine.” His pace was still fast, and his heart ached with restlessness, but he kept a calm face and turned back around.
Bruce's hands lay between his crossed legs, fidgeting on the bed. He was distracted—Edward could tell by the way he refused to make eye contact. Edward could always tell when it came to Bruce. He could always tell his moods, his thoughts, the things he tried to keep from everyone else. Edward saw the things nobody else noticed—from the way a disheveled collar always signified a hangover, to the way that more eyeliner than usual signified he was excited to go out. He was wearing a lot of eyeliner.
They knew each other. Too well, some might say, peering in on them, disapproving for one reason or another. Back in the orphanage, it was the nuns telling him to be more social, to share Bruce with the other kids, forbidding them from going off and playing alone. In highschool, it was Alfred, well meaning, telling Bruce to talk to more than just Edward, trying to get him to meet new people and do more things. Even now, Edward's monsignor frowns upon their closeness.
After all, Edward got the sense that what they had was more than just an average friendship. They understood each other to a degree that bordered on excessive, even if they hadn't been talking recently.
In childhood, it was hard to keep them from sneaking off somewhere, laughing, peeking around corners as Alfred called out Bruce's name, worried, the sound of his leather shoes tapping on the floor. They loved little pranks like that, inside jokes to relish in together. In later years, where Edward had a heightened autonomy, their relationship was more quiet, more reserved. They'd sit alone in Bruce's small closet, shrouded in total darkness, talking about their day or their favorite book, or something of the sort.
They held hands wherever they went—except for the orphanage—which Bruce had never understood. Edward refused to tell him the names the other kids called them. It made his heart feel heavy.
…
Lightning strikes, and they both jump, the rain pouring harder than most nights in Gotham. Bruce loved the rain. Edward sits down next to him, their knees just barely making contact on the off-white bedsheets.
“It's pretty bad out there.” Edward looked away from him, gazing out the window.
“Rather melodramatic, aren't you?”
“Shut up.” Edward murmured. But then there was a pause. “Will you be able to drive home?”
“Maybe. But visibility on a motorcycle is important, so only if the rain calms a bit.”
“Doesn't look like that'll happen any time soon.”
“...”
“It's fine. You can sleep here for the night. If you can fit.”
“Thanks, Eddie. Too sweet for your own good.”
“You think we'll be able to fit in there, though? It barely fits me.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
And that's how Edward found himself half naked—well, with his bony torso exposed and pajama bottoms on—lying on his side, Bruce's chest against his back. Their breathing mingled, hot and thick in the thin church air.
One of Bruce's hands had wrapped under Edward's torso, the other draped atop his side. He hugged Edward close, breathing near his ear. Edward would've found it annoying, if it was anyone else.
“Sorry for crashing your night.”
“It's okay.”
“...”
Edward heard a slight hesitation in Bruce's breathing. “...Have I ever told you you smell good? …I dunno, there's something I like about it.” He sighs. “I remember running around with you, both of us all sweaty, and… well, it's just like seeing your face or hearing your voice. It just makes me feel warm.”
“Reminds me of the night after you got asked out by Ella Coffman.” Edward softly laughed, barely letting it slip from out of his mouth.
“Out on the roof?”
“When you ranted about how nice you thought I looked.”
“I was drunk!”
“On one can of beer? I'm a priest, not a saint.”
“C’mooon, we were barely sixteen. Besides, I just thought you were jealous...”
Bruce squeezes a tiny bit closer to Edward. “Jealous? You know I didn't care about dating.”
“Yeah, well… People rarely express how they truly feel.” Bruce's legs intertwine with Edward's, hugging him tight. It's just like the times in middle school where Edward was first allowed to sleep over. “Everyone wants to be in love, even if they don't say it.”
“If that's the case then I'm pretty screwed, I guess.”
“I'll love you.”
“...”
Bruce squeezes tight.
Edward opens his mouth to say something, then stops. It's hard to pinpoint why, but there's an ache between his chest and his throat. He feels heavy in Bruce's arms. A part of him feels constricted by arms wrapped around him; another part feels at home.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck.” Edward’s stomach hurts as he whispers it out.
“...”
“I don’t like my life, Bruce. There’s something missing.”
Bruce meets him at the murmur. “I feel the same way.”
There’s a pause, and for a moment, Edward wants to get up and leave. But instead, he turns, shifting to his other side, face only a few inches from Bruce’s. They sit there for a few minutes, unable to make eye contact. Edward glances from his stubbled chin to his reddish lips, then his hair, and the way it cloaks his forehead.
Looking at him, Edward is filled with a strange sadness. A fear of loss, primitive but gentle, sincere in the way it makes his heart sting. He tucks a few stray strands of hair into Bruce’s ear, and they finally look into each other’s eyes.
Edward doesn’t know why he does what he does next.
His lower lip grows heavy, mouth ajar, and he moves closer, until their faces are making contact. They’ve spent so many nights like this, holding each other, hearing their breath, feeling their bodies collide—but it’s the first time anything like this has happened, and it’s certainly his first kiss.
It might’ve felt good, or it might’ve felt bad. Edward can’t tell. What he feels is complex, layers deep, logic and faith obscured in the face of Bruce, who doesn’t pull away. Edward can feel the hands on his back flinch, then grip, sliding up to the back of his head, holding him in a way he’s never felt before. Their noses press together, until Edward tilts his head, and they keep kissing, almost exclusively led by instinct.
Edward doesn’t know what he’s doing. He couldn’t—he’d never do this, he’d never break his vow. He’d never love like this, love so romantically. He’d stick to his love of God, God’s love of man, love of neighbor, even love of self. But love between two humans, romantic love, sexual love, he’d never feel, never touch. So he couldn’t be in control. Otherwise, why would he go against everything he’s ever known, against the life he’s chosen to live?
Maybe the watchful eyes of parishioners and superiors always knew something like this would happen. Maybe they could sense the tension between the two, maybe that’s why Bruce never stopped by during the day anymore. Has he always felt this way? Memories of them as children holding hands and laughing flood through Edward’s head. Maybe he has. Maybe that’s why the shame and the guilt have yet to come, maybe that’s why they’re only flickering at the back of his mind as he struggles to grip Bruce, holding him just as he’s being held, bodies pressing closer than they've ever been before.
Bruce's body is still somewhat cold from outside, damp with rainwater, but they are warm. They are hot as they press together, Edward's tongue slipping through Bruce's saliva soaked lips, eyes shut tight, feeling, not thinking, and touching, not seeing. Edward's thighs rest on Bruce's, and he's hard, achingly hard, shuddering as he feels that Bruce is the same way. He wants to go further. He wants it so bad, from the gnawing of his stomach to the throbbing of his virgin cock, his body wants it bad.
But he thinks of his job.
He thinks of the parishioners.
He thinks of his monseigneur.
And he pulls away.
…
His eyes rest on Bruce as he pants, mouth just barely agape, equal parts frustration and pure need painted across his face—both of which are overshadowed by a pure, unbridled look of joy.
Edward wants to cry.
He wants to cry because he feels the same way, he wants to cry because he knows this could mark the end of everything he's known up to this point, he wants to cry because this is the end of his life. The hair he tucked behind Bruce's ear has fallen by now. Stubborn as always. He tucks it again, looking back at Bruce. The joy's undercut with understanding, sadness. Good. At least, he knows what's coming next.
“I love you, Bruce.”
Edward sighs, and he aches. Every part of his body, heart to hand to lips, wants to reject what he has to say. But he says it anyway.
“But I can't. Not like this.”
Bruce's face is mostly neutral, by now. But Edward recognizes the pain behind his eyes, sees the way he swallows down their shared spit, and hears the shudder in his voice.
“I know.” It cracks as he speaks. Edward stays on his side, as Bruce turns to lay on his back. He nuzzles against his body, arm draped across his chest, breathing in sync.
They've always been close. Everyone knows that. Everyone sees the looks they give each other and the longing in their eyes, but neither of them could put together the pieces of the puzzle until it was too late, until their fate was already set in stone.
No words could express how badly Edward wanted to turn back time and do things differently. With every inch of his body, Edward wished he could've stayed as nothing more than a churchgoer, found some dead-end job to satisfy his restlessness, and be free of all that bound him. How he fantasized about being eight again, collecting a handful of lilies from the church gardens, giving them to Bruce, only this time truly telling him how he felt. He wished he could lay down with Bruce between the bushes of jasmine, holding hands and looking to the sky, content, happy, children, but both in love nevertheless.
But time couldn't be turned back. They were twenty-three and stuck, stuck as a pastor, stuck as a wannabe poet, stuck in their wishes to turn back time.
And the worst part of it? Edward still believed in God. He knew his teachings were correct, and he knew his vow was more than just a statement, it was a promise to himself and a declaration of his path in life. As bad as it hurt, it still held meaning to him.
When he woke up the next morning, Bruce was gone, and tears hard rolled down the sides of his face as he slept.