She jumps down to explore, his legs blocking the path from her until he decides otherwise. It’s his invitation, though, presented with a tilted up face before his hands push himself off from his perch at the back of the pew, feet now on the ground. They land barely with any difference in noise, as defiant as the last, more determined in their standing, the purpose of belonging in spite of his religious status in limbo. “Next time? Use them,” he tells her, eyes flickering to point out her jump, as if the impact is something tangible to catch, as if the catch by offered hands is the exact point that needs to be made. “If not? You’ll twist an ankle. And then? You won’t have the choice.” The slightest tinge of a smirk is brushed off as his head nods to the side, the direction of where they need to go. “Come.”
The entrance is turned through. The small fountain of holy water is passed, viewed to him nowadays as something as commonplace as a coffee table in someone’s home. As the stairs are reached, the remainder of light glides through the windows, sprawls out all over the second floor, as if it’s the first and last touch of the sun within the entire church. Everything takes on a tawny finish. The pews are turned into golden oak, the carpet is now more orange than red, and the light fixture that hangs above that centers the vaulted ceiling pales in comparison.
“The photos. What will you do with them?”
“will i?” she hopes it comes off as a joke, although the ever present specter of injury has never quite escaped the peripheries of her thought. it’s easier these days to say that it’s because wynn always picks such morbid documentaries to watch, but she’s not sure that’s entirely the case and it’s not a topic she’s going to broach here of all places. not with him. not when she’s just laughing, and the whole world is a cascade of gold, she can pretend for a few moments that everything is normal and the joke was just a joke.
she follows him without question regardless, something about the leader and disciple, the trusting and the trusted, how great the photos will look from the spot that he’s pointed out. clearly he has an eye for it as well, but she’s not in the business of just handing out compliments either. “i bury them.” it’s a joke, a poor one, given away by the sigh that accompanies it. besides, she likes the truth of it all the same. “no— my dad frames them. sometimes he uses them to decorate too.”
they pass shrines that a better girl would consider holy, that she might even stop to take in for a moment if not for the stained glass that was awaiting her. and her preoccupied thoughts make their way to the surface one way or another, finding a safer respite as the stairs are climbed. “he’s got an office closer to downtown, i want one good enough to go there.”