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The cathedral bells tolled like they always did. Measured, patient, deafening in their constancy. Sunday kept his head bowed, pale hair glinting faintly under the long shafts of stained-glass light. Incense clung to his skin like a second breath, heavy with ritual. Every gesture he made pressing his hand to his chest, folding his fingers in prayer was careful, holy even.
And still, he felt him.
Anaxa leaned like a shadow against the furthest pillar, the scholar’s frame half-swallowed by the dimness of the nave. His robes were not the white of purity nor the crimson of devotion, but the dark-inked hues of those who dug too deep into knowledge better left untouched. He did not kneel. He did not bow. His eyes sharp, restless, mocking fixed only on Sunday.
The air between them was both thread and knife.
Sunday closed his eyes, finishing the prayer. His lips formed the old words by instinct, but his chest felt hollow. Because his soul, the thing he had pledged entirely to Ena, burned uncomfortably whenever Anaxa was near.
He wished it was hate. He prayed for it to be hate. But the curse of it all was that it wasn’t.
The silence after the bells was thin as paper. Sunday rose. He did not look at Anaxa as he stepped outside into the gardens, but of course Anaxa followed. Always half a step behind, always moving as though the rules of the world could not possibly bind him.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Sunday said softly, voice carrying more weight than sound.
Anaxa’s laugh was quiet, irreverent. “And yet I am. Strange, isn’t it? For all their supposed wrath, I remain unstruck.” He tilted his head, studying Sunday as if he were a text to be unraveled. “Tell me, does that not bother you?”
Sunday stopped walking. He turned, finally, and those pale eyes trembled as they met Anaxa’s. “Everything about you bothers me.” His voice was nearly a whisper. “You speak blasphemy as easily as others breathe. You question divinity as though you’re above it. You…” His throat tightened. “…you tempt me.”
Anaxa smiled faintly. It wasn’t cruel. It was almost sad. “Then you already know.”
Sunday’s chest ached. “Know what?”
“That we are bound. That the threads in your veins sing to the threads in mine. That no matter how you kneel or how I defy, we were made to find each other.” His voice lowered, softer than Sunday had ever heard it. “Soulmates.”
The word hit like lightning. Sunday flinched, his nails digging into his palm. “No.”
“Yes.”
“It’s forbidden.”
“Of course it is.” Anaxa stepped closer now, close enough that Sunday could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. “What greater irony for the faithful than to be tied to the heretic? What greater cruelty for the heretic than to be tethered to holiness?” His voice carried a dangerous tenderness. “And yet here we stand.”
Sunday wanted to step back, but his body betrayed him. His soul betrayed him. His breath shivered as Anaxa’s hand rose not to touch, not quite, but to hover just shy of brushing his jaw. The heat of it was unbearable.
“I cannot,” Sunday whispered, though his heart cracked like glass. “If I yield, if I allow this I betray everything I swore.”
Anaxa’s gaze softened, though his smile remained faint and wry. “And if you don’t… you betray yourself.”
The words lodged like a thorn in Sunday’s chest. He pressed his lips together, trembling faintly. The rain had begun outside, tapping the cloister roof, steady and endless.
“You’ll damn me,” Sunday said at last. It was not an accusation, but a plea.
Anaxa’s expression faltered for the briefest moment, grief flickering under all the irony. “…No,” he said quietly. “I’ll damn myself a thousand times if it means you won’t have to. But I can’t…” His voice broke slightly. “…I can’t stop loving you, Sunday. Even if it ruins me. Even if it ruins you.”
Sunday’s throat closed. His soul ached, thrumming with the undeniable truth of it. They were bound. He could feel it like a chain made of light and shadow both. And though his prayers begged for distance, for purity, he could not take a step away.
The rain fell harder yet neither moved.
Finally, Sunday raised his hand, trembling, and brushed Anaxa’s cheek with his fingertips. It was the smallest rebellion. The quietest confession.
“Then,” Sunday whispered, almost breaking, “let Ena strike us both.”
And Anaxa the heretic, scholar, blasphemer closed his eyes, leaning into that fragile touch as though it were salvation.
The rain had quieted by the time Sunday pulled away, his palm lingering on Anaxa’s cheek like he hadn’t yet realized he’d touched him. As if the skin of the scholar burned beneath his fingers. As if holding him was already fire.
He staggered back, breath catching like confession. “Anaxa…” His voice cracked, half-whisper, half-prayer. “Do you realize what this is? Do you realize what I’ve done?”
Anaxa tilted his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes were softer than any blade could ever be. “Touched my face? Whispered my name? The last I checked, neither left blood on the altar.”
But Sunday wasn’t smiling. His chest rose and fell too quickly, his wings twitching like they could carry him far from this sin if only he moved. “It is enough,” he said, trembling. “Even that is enough. Ena—” His throat closed on the name, reverent and fearful all at once. “Ena will see. They see everything. And I… I…”
“You what?” Anaxa asked quietly. He did not reach for him, though his fingers itched to. The distance between them felt like a blade’s edge, and he had always been reckless enough to balance on it. “You’ll tell me you’re devoted? That I am a temptation? That your god will condemn me, and worse, you?”
Sunday shut his eyes, as though seeing Anaxa’s face alone was blasphemy. “Yes,” he whispered, and the word felt like shattered glass in his throat. “Yes. And still I cannot stop.”
That was the truth bleeding out, no matter how he wanted to stitch it back.
Anaxa’s expression faltered, then softened into something that was almost unbearably tender. “If loving me is a sin,” he murmured, “then let me be the altar you break yourself upon.”
Sunday’s eyes snapped open, wide with something that was neither faith nor fear, but both tangled. “Don’t say that.” His voice shook like a child’s. “You make it sound as if I could choose you over them.”
“Couldn’t you?” Anaxa pressed, stepping forward until there was no space left to breathe. His forehead almost touched Sunday’s, close enough to feel the tremor of his wings. “If Ena demands balance, obedience, sacrifice what of your heart? Does it not count as part of that balance? Do they not see what they created inside you? Or do you think they want you to cut it out?”
The words were knives. Sunday reeled from them like wounds he could not hide.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered. Rain clung to his lashes, his jaw, shining like holy water and tears. “Ena is order. They are the Aeon who keeps this world from collapsing into chaos. And you—you are chaos, Anaxa. You are question upon question, tearing down every law, every boundary, every sacred thing. You would unmake everything they built.”
“And still,” Anaxa said, softer now, almost mournful, “you love me.”
The silence was unbearable.
Sunday’s breath hitched, shuddering. His hand lifted again before he realized it, hovering over Anaxa’s chest as though some tether bound him. He looked as if he wanted to tear his own fingers away but couldn’t. His lips parted, trembling, and he said the words like confession, like damnation, like a psalm twisted into something forbidden.
“Yes.”
For a moment, Anaxa closed his eyes. His shoulders loosened, and for once, he didn’t argue, didn’t smile, didn’t tempt. He only whispered: “Then what will you choose, Sunday? Your god, or me?”
Sunday’s heart clenched so hard he thought it might break through his bones. Ena’s name trembled on his lips. Anaxa’s face trembled before his eyes. The balance Ena wove into the world demanded one path, one truth. But his own trembling soul longed for another.
The rain began again, soft, like the world was weeping with him.
Sunday finally let his hand fall from Anaxa’s face, retreating like he had touched fire and been burned. His wings folded in close, trembling with restraint. “If I choose you,” he said hoarsely, “I betray them. And if I choose them… I betray myself.”
“And me,” Anaxa added gently.
“And you,” Sunday whispered.
The ache between them swelled until it was almost holy.
Anaxa leaned closer, not touching, not daring, not yet. His voice was low, like heresy disguised as prayer. “Then perhaps the greatest sin is believing you cannot have both.”
Sunday closed his eyes, breaking, trembling, as though even the weight of breath was too much. “If loving you is sin,” he whispered again, “then let me be damned.”
And yet he pulled away once more, as though he could outrun the inevitability of his own heart.
Because love was a knife, and Ena had asked him to bleed for balance.
The rain had since ended, leaving the air damp and heavy, the scent of earth and stone clinging to every breath. Sunday sat in the shadow of the temple, hands pressed against his face, his chest heaving as though the very weight of choice had hollowed him out from within. The marble beneath him was cold, unforgiving, yet it was nothing compared to the firestorm tearing through his heart.
“I betrayed them,” he whispered, the words fractured. “I chose you.”
Anaxa, standing a few paces away, did not move at first. His robes were still damp, his hair a tangle, his eyes sharper than the rain itself. He had heard Sunday’s breaking voice countless times in debate, in prayer, in fervor but never like this. Never cracked open. Never so unguarded.
Finally, he stepped forward, kneeling in front of Sunday though his scholar’s pride screamed at him not to. His hand hovered near Sunday’s arm but did not touch.
“You chose me,” Anaxa said softly, as though testing the weight of those words himself. “And yet here you are collapsing beneath the guilt, as if the sky itself demands you return what you’ve stolen.”
Sunday lowered his hands, tears streaking down his cheeks, his wings those fragile head-feathers, trembling as though even they shared in his torment. His eyes found Anaxa’s, wide with sorrow, pupils blown like a child caught in the act of sacrilege.
“Ena trusted me,” Sunday choked. “They— they gave me order, light, faith. And I defiled it. For you.”
The words struck like knives, but Anaxa did not flinch. He had been called worse, by priests and kings alike, but never by Sunday. And yet, he saw the truth laced between the agony. Sunday wasn’t damning him. He was damning himself.
Anaxa’s lips curved into something that was not quite a smile, not quite grief. He leaned closer, finally brushing his fingers over Sunday’s hand, grounding him in the smallest touch.
“If you leave me for your god,” Anaxa murmured, voice trembling despite its conviction, “I will still love you.”
Sunday’s head snapped up, eyes searching, desperate.
“I will love you,” Anaxa continued, softer now, “even if you never say my name again. Even if you fall to your knees in prayer and curse me for all I am. Even if your precious Ena strikes me down with fire for standing beside you. Even then, Sunday, I will love you.”
The silence that followed was unbearable, broken only by Sunday’s hitched breaths. His trembling hand rose, almost without meaning to, until it cupped Anaxa’s cheek, the very touch that had started this spiral. His thumb brushed against his scholar’s skin, fragile, reverent, the kind of touch that would be condemned in every temple hymn.
“It feels like a sin,” Sunday whispered. “Even this. Just touching you.”
“Then let it be a sin,” Anaxa replied, leaning into the hand as though it were his salvation. His voice steadied, iron beneath silk. “If love itself damns us, then damnation is holier than any order could ever be.”
Sunday broke then shoulders folding, head pressing forward until it rested against Anaxa’s. His tears soaked into the scholar’s shoulder, and still he clung, still he did not pull away. Every sob was an apology to Ena, every heartbeat a vow to Anaxa.
“I don’t know how to choose,” Sunday admitted. “I want to give them everything. And I want to give you everything. I can’t—”
“You don’t need to choose,” Anaxa interrupted gently. “Not now. Not tonight. If you must kneel before Ena tomorrow, then do so. If you must walk away from me, then do so. But tonight—” his hand finally lifted, brushing Sunday’s hair, careful not to startle the trembling wings on his head. “Tonight, I am here. And I will not leave.”
The words struck something deep, something beyond the fear, beyond the faith, beyond the years of order Sunday had lived under. He exhaled, shaky, and finally allowed himself to collapse fully into Anaxa’s arms.
The scholar caught him easily, holding him close as though he were both anchor and prayer.
For the first time, Sunday did not try to fight the storm of guilt. He let it burn through him, let it hollow him, and still Anaxa remained, steady. Even if Ena tore the heavens asunder, even if the scriptures turned to ash. Here, in this moment, Anaxa’s heartbeat against his own was undeniable.
The world quieted. The cathedral bells no longer rang, the incense had faded, and still Sunday sat trembling against him. His tears dampened Anaxa’s shoulder, his breath shuddering like a man caught between two altars.
Anaxa didn’t speak again right away. He only shifted, sliding his arms more securely around Sunday’s trembling frame, letting him feel the steadiness of his heartbeat.
“Sunday,” he murmured after a long silence, his voice deep, low, almost coaxing. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
Sunday obeyed, if only because his body needed to. His breaths came ragged at first, breaking like waves against stone, until slowly, with Anaxa’s thumb brushing absent circles against his back, they grew steadier.
“I’ve betrayed them,” Sunday whispered again, muffled against fabric. His fingers curled tightly in the folds of Anaxa’s robes, as if ashamed to hold on but incapable of letting go. “I swore my heart belonged to Ena, and yet—”
“And yet it beats,” Anaxa said, cutting in gently, without sharpness, without mockery. “It beats for me, too. That is not betrayal. That is simply truth.”
Sunday shook his head, despair pooling in his expression. His wings trembled against his temples, quivering with every broken breath. “You speak as if truth absolves me. It does not. Truth damns me just the same.”
Anaxa exhaled through his nose, tilting his forehead against Sunday’s hair. He smelled the faintest remnants of incense, devotion clinging even here. “If truth damns you, then I’ll share that damnation. Don’t carry it alone.”
Something in Sunday cracked further at that. His hand lifted blindly, fingers brushing Anaxa’s chest as though seeking proof of warmth, of life, of something solid amidst all this unraveling.
“You can’t understand,” Sunday whispered, voice fraying. “You weren’t raised to kneel, to obey, to live only by order. You weren’t raised to believe that one stray thought could unmake you in the eyes of eternity.”
“You’re right,” Anaxa admitted, his tone neither defensive nor dismissive. “I wasn’t. I was raised to question, to push, to break every wall set before me. I am not order. I never will be. But I do understand you.” His hand rose, brushing Sunday’s damp hair, steady and careful. “And I see how much this is tearing you apart. Let me carry that with you. Even if I cannot kneel beside you, I can still hold you when you fall.”
Sunday’s throat tightened. His tears came again, softer now, not a flood but a quiet stream down his pale cheeks. He pressed himself closer, his voice nearly a prayer against Anaxa’s shoulder.
“You shouldn’t love me. I’ll ruin you.”
Anaxa gave the faintest, wryest smile, though his eyes softened with pain. “You think I don’t already know that?” He tilted back slightly, just enough to look at Sunday, thumb brushing away one tear, even as more followed. “If ruin is the price for loving you, then I’ll pay it again and again. Because you are not ruin to me, Sunday. You are...” he paused, his voice gentling to something almost reverent. “You are the only thing that has ever felt inevitable.”
The word caught Sunday off guard. His breath hitched, his gaze finally lifting to meet Anaxa’s. “Inevitable?”
“Yes.” Anaxa held his gaze, unwavering. “I could read a thousand scriptures, debate a thousand priests, tear down every wall in the world, and still, I would end up here. With you in my arms. It is not choice, Sunday. It is gravity.”
Sunday’s lips parted, trembling, though no words came. His heart clenched painfully at the thought of it: inevitability. Not chance, not mistake, but fate itself.
And still, guilt gnawed at him. His gaze dropped, wings folding closer to his temples as though to hide. “What if Ena never forgives me?”
“Then I will.” Anaxa didn’t hesitate. His hand cupped Sunday’s cheek, thumb brushing lightly beneath his eye. “I’ll forgive you a thousand times over. For every prayer you break. For every sin you think you carry. For every moment you choose me and drown in guilt for it. I’ll forgive it all. Because I’d rather hold your breaking pieces than never touch you at all.”
Sunday broke again, the sound of it raw and aching. He clung to Anaxa like the only lifeline left, his sobs muffled but sharp, each one tearing out pieces of himself. And still, Anaxa held him. Still, Anaxa whispered low assurances, steady as the rain.
“You don’t need to choose tonight,” Anaxa murmured into his hair. “Not now. Not while your heart is already heavy. Tomorrow, you can kneel. Tomorrow, you can beg forgiveness. Tomorrow, you can push me away if you must. But tonight…” His lips brushed Sunday’s temple, feather-light, reverent despite his irreverence. “Tonight, just let me be the one who holds you.”
Sunday’s breathing steadied, though his hands still trembled. His forehead pressed into Anaxa’s neck, wings twitching faintly as though torn between fear and comfort.
And for the first time, Sunday let himself be held fully. Not as priest, not as servant of Ena, not as a soul sworn to order just as himself. Fragile, flawed, and loved.
Anaxa closed his eyes, tightening his hold. Whatever came tomorrow, whatever wrath, whatever choice, he would face it. But tonight, he was Sunday’s anchor, and that was enough.