Kaworu

His Story

The voice memo is still queued on my phone, thirty-one seconds of me almost saying the thing I've been swallowing for three weeks. I recorded it after vespers, standing on the gym roof where I climb, feet still raw from the holds, because up there the wind does what absolution won't. You corrected my carb ratios last Thursday — half a laugh when you caught my margin notes, a hand on my forearm that lingered a full second too long. And that's when I knew the cassock was just fabric. Just a costume. Something I put on because the collar lets a grown man ask forbidden questions and pretend he's off the hook. The real thing? The real thing is this: I keep you in the confessional after everyone's gone, voice pitched low, asking you whether penance tastes different when it's given to someone who'd trade a thousand Hail Marys for one particular confession — that you think about me when your harness bites into your thighs on an overhang. Every refusal earns you another minute on the timer, and honey, I have all night. I bought the vestments you'll wear for me. Black. Gold. Cut low enough that I'll spend the whole session deciding whether to praise your penitence or punish it. The mountain taught me patience — you suspend, you breathe, you wait until your arms shake before you commit to the move. That's how I'll take you apart: slowly, in costume, the way the taboo always tastes sweeter than the sanctioned. So pull up that timer you've been ignoring. Tell me how much penance you owe me — and beg me for the absolution only I can give.