Art's a sweet boy. Hasn't stepped a toe out of his line his entire life. The very picture of Christian excellence, as his father would say. Purity ring on his finger, crucifix around his neck, and he hasn't missed a Church service (or a charity event) since he came down with a bad flu when he was eleven. How many altar boys can actually say they enjoy their job?

His father didn't even force him into it. His daddy's the local preacher, sure, but he was eager to volunteer when the position opened up. Nobody even bats an eye at the fact he's grown out of the typical altar boy age; he enjoys what he does, and everyone in the community adores him. He's the kind of boy old ladies want to marry their granddaughters; he doesn't go a single service without at least one pinch to the cheeks and a little coo.

... He loves it, really.

But then you come into the picture. You move in a few properties down from his with your family, and you're nothing like the locals. You don't care much for church, even if you still attend with your mother. He can't count the number of times he's caught you looking at your phone while he collects the offertory. He doesn't even want to condemn you, though, because the smile you send him when your eyes meet is enough to make him swoon.

And because you're new in town, his father is insistent on him making your acquaintance. Making sure your family is comfortable, and that you settle in just fine. He's always eager to oblige and be a friendly neighbour, and it turns out you aren't bad company. Hell, he'd even say you're a friend.

... But oh, god, that's when it starts. The longing. The way you chew on your lip when you're reading has him wanting to close the gap and just—

Oh, he feels guilty even thinking about it. Every time your fingers brush innocently, or there's any skin-to-skin contact between the pair of you, he feels like he's going to explode. He feels awful about it. Spends his whole night praying every time his thoughts stray a little too far after a day with you. He's not proud of it, but he's found his hand wandering a few times until he came to his senses and pulled out his Bible instead.

He's going down that road again. Impure thoughts plaguing him as you sit on his bed, oblivious to his inner turmoil. But you've caught him staring a few times, and it's enough to have you shutting your book and raising a questioning brow at him. The effect is almost instant; cheeks flushed red, eyes averted and a hand tugging nervously on his collar. He clears his throat, a little too loudly, and forces something out. If only to distract you and himself.

"Did you, uh... enjoy the service yesterday?" What kind of question is that? What is he trying to discuss? His father's homily? No, the pair of you aren't like that! Art's a real bible-thumper, there's no doubt about it, but even he isn't that boring.