P r a y e r

by Lily M.

What is the Nightray boy doing at the church?

His breathing was loud in the small room. He felt uncomfortable. Exposed. There was a set of eyes on him – he wasn't sure if it was the priest's or something else altogether. But people came there for guidance. Yes. People sought help in there. They told their fears to God, they prayed to God, and God helped them. God answered. Or so they said.

His mother once explained to him how this started. It was something like…

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned."

There was no answer from the other side. But there was someone listening, he knew, he knew, so he continued. Or tried. He tried to think of the words.

What is the Nightray boy doing outside?

He thought back to some other time. Some other day, a sunnier day, a brighter day. A day in which the boy came, laughter loud and clear, and all eyes were on him, and he didn't seem to mind. Unlike him, unlike Gilbert Nightray, the boy greeted everyone and waved and smiled and laughed.

He looked young, but there was no adult accompanying him. For days, all talks in the village were the wheres, the whos and the hows of the boy who came about. No one really had the courage to ask up front, so they whispered behind his back. Gilbert was whispered to by his neighbors once, indirectly, when he happened to be by the window of his home. And he looked in the direction of the square and saw him. Looking right back, straight at him.

Gilbert rarely made eye contact, but it was hard to look away. It seemed to last for a long time, and in some part of his head, he could hear his mother telling him that it was not nice to stare, but he wasn't the one staring, no, the other had started, he looked his way first. It was a powerful gaze to look into, like his eyes shone a different shade every second, and it was eerie because he was a few feet away, but still…

Gilbert Nightray looked away. The boy, didn't.

Who is the Nightray boy talking to?

His room was on the second floor. His bed was by the window, and he liked looking down at all the people he didn't talk to and who didn't bother to look back. On certain nights, the moon would cast its pale light right on his face. And on a night just like that, someone else cast their light on him.

Gilbert didn't know how the boy had done it. It was not an easy climb. He had that figured because no one had bothered before. So that must have been the reason, right? Or not. He had nobody to ask. Until that night.

The boy tilted his head to the side, a smile on his face. Gilbert tilted his head to the same side in mimicry, and the boy seemed to laugh silently. He tapped gently on the glass, and Gilbert opened the window without question – he figured that was the thing to do.

"Hey, you," the boy said, green eyes as bright as day on that cloudless night. "You haven't come to greet me yet. So I came to greet you."

Gilbert felt nervous. He hadn't talked to someone in a while.

"I… don't leave the house."

"Oh?" His lips curled in a pout, and Gilbert felt like apologizing already. "Why's that?"

"I- really… Shouldn't talk to people."

The boy made an incredulous sound. Sitting on the window frame, he said, "That's stupid." Sitting on his bed, Gilbert merely looked down. His hands clasped on his lap, he could feel the other's eyes burning on his skin. It felt awkward.

"I'm Oz," the boy said, flopping down on Gilbert's haven, face ridiculously close to his. It was different and odd and he had no idea how to deal with it. He whispered something, and Oz could hear the little words from where he stood.

"Gil?"

Gilbert nodded. His mother called him that. He liked being called that.

Oz backed away just a little, index finger in his chin, saying the name over and over again. Gilbert couldn't look at him, but his voice was gradually entering his ears, his mind. Gil. With a long "i".

"Hey, hey, Gil?"

Gilbert looked up, stray bangs covering his view only a bit. Oz took hold of his hands.

"Want to be my friend?"

Gilbert almost shook his head. His hands must have been shaking, because Oz's grip became firmer. He was close again, invading breathing space.

"Can I visit again?"

When he smiled, his eyes became tiny slits with that constant green glimmer. Gilbert wondered if other people's eyes shone as much. He wouldn't know. He didn't remember the color of his mother's eyes.

Without hearing the answer Oz nodded, stood up, and flew out the window as suddenly as came. Gilbert was still unusually hot, embarrassed, confused.

In his mind, he could still hear it.

Gil. Hey, hey, Gil?

Inside the confessionary room, Gilbert Nightray hung his head low and tried to mouth his words. The room was so small, he could barely breathe.

"Is… is it true…"

He looked up, trying to see the person on the other side.

"Is it true that everyone's already dead?"

Hey, hey, Gil? Want to be my friend?

Oz got mad when Gilbert told him how his family prevented him from leaving the house and how everyone in town was afraid of him. He told him that a long time ago, there was an incident, and that people don't forget incidents. That's what his parents said. And so he doesn't leave the house.

Oz takes hold of his face.

"There's nothing wrong with you," he says then. Gilbert looks down. He knows there is. His brother Vincent was dead because of it. They were both sick. Really, really sick. Oz should stay away, or else he'd get sick too. That's what he meant to say. That's what he opened his mouth to say.

But Oz buried his face on his neck, circling his arms around him.

There's nothing wrong with you, Gil.

"I don't get sick. I'm immune to you."

Oz's lips moved against his skin. Gilbert's eyes were wide and scared. He knew there was something wrong with this – because people didn't get close to him, because people shouldn't touch him, and Oz was, he was…

So young and small and…

"I'll take care of you."

And Oz's lips brushed against his ear in sloppy kiss.

"You don't have to hide anymore. I'll take care of you, Gil."

And he took hold of Gil's face, forehead-to-forehead. Gilbert's blood circulation was wild, he could feel it, his head hurt. He was nervous, so nervous.

You'll be okay, Gilbert. There's nothing wrong with you.

Gilbert's head started when the door to the confessionary slowly opened, and there he stood. The smile on his face. Eyes bright in the dim light.

"It's okay to come out now," Oz said, crouching to be on Gilbert's eyelevel while he sat on the ground, hopeless. "It's over."

"It is?" He asked, fear slowly melting away. Oz nodded.

"No one's going to come after you now. There's no one to look at you, to point at you, to whisper around you."

There's nothing wrong with you. They are wrong.

"…Am I forgiven by God?" He looked at his hands in wonder. Oz took hold of them.

"Yes, Gil. You're forgiven."

But they're nothing, Gil. They're already dead inside.

Gilbert smiled for the first time in his life – in pure relief. Tears came down his eyes without him noticing, and Oz reached out for him, hushing him, hands brushing through his hair comfortingly.

They're all dead.

The skin on his neck was sensible to the touch, so smooth and pale to the eye. And when Oz pierced through it, it was sharp and it hurt. Gilbert gasped, and the hold he had on Oz's middle tightened. He felt light-headed, chest panting painfully. But in his mind, he could still hear it.

Hey, hey, Gil?

And it made him smile. The sensation was different from everything he felt in his life, the fears, the eyes, the whispers, the laughs, all around him, surrounding him, suffocating him. And the image from that little boy screaming in the town's square, asking for his brother, crying for his help, saying that he was right, he had been so right, they were looking for him, and he had to run, he had to...

It disappeared.

Oz's lips left his neck, an affectionate brush of his fingers on the fresh wound before those lips were on his own. He moved slowly, calmly, and so inviting despite how cold he was, but Gilbert never noticed it. Gilbert never seemed to mind. He responded without knowing what to do, but he responded, still a bit light-headed. But soon there was something warm on his tongue, and it tasted so good, and he held Oz's face closer, devouring every last sensation of that taste that could only have belonged to him.

Beside them, on the other side of the confessionary, a shiny cross slowly faded away from view as the floor was flooded with blood.

But it was okay.

It's okay now. I'll take care of you, Gil.