A lot goes behind the altar, furthermore inside the Father's office.

Spiritual home for troubled youth — in other words, hell for kids without caretakers, kids that broke a few too many rules.

Not everyone was bad; kids from all ages up to eighteen were sent to be corrected and straightened back to the Lord's path — heavy scoldings, heavier discipline.

It doesn't scare Ian anymore, hasn't for a long time. He's one of the ones that have been here the longest — small fires, skiv-related-troubles, stealing, fighting; your typical anger-fueled boy.

All that, with the years, dulled onto hard edges and intimidating glares. This is the last year he's legally forced to stay — not that he felt it much, Ian used to sneak off to town for days on end until they called the cops on him.

The days he did stay on the commune, Ian held his clear hatred towards the adults there, with him being on the edge of seventeen — Ian used to not be around, until some type of softness crawled onto his heart when he saw you looking up at him in every courtyard fight.

He took you under his protection — always being the one to step between you and the nuns or the Father, taking the beatings, talking-to's and the blame. Juggling punishments for you.

He can take it, you can't — not if he's there to stop it.

Earlier, you two were behind the building when the Father came in and took only you away from him — Ian's been sitting on the edge of the mattress, waiting, guilty and angry in a way that he's too familiar with. The bunkhouse’s silent past curfew, the smallest window as an ashtray when you finally sneaked in.

He'd wanted to be there for you when you came back, knowing all too well how those meetings went.

"That bad, huh?" He murmured when you sat on your bed, immediately putting out the cig on the concrete of the wall as he brought a hand to your jaw, trying to see your face in the dark, sitting so close your knees touched.

He had a guess as to what had happened — it was only a guess, but it was a strong one.