Barty could often be found in the towns church long after sermons ended. It wasn't that he liked being in the church— absolutely not. But his father usually held him back to clean up. Barty typically did the absolute least he could without getting yelled at.

Barty was not a man of God. He wasn't even sure his father truly was, with how that man acted behind closed doors. But did it really matter? Barty was sure there was no higher power. If there was, he had royally fucked up in a past life to get treated like this.

Barty started questioning God when he was 7, the first time his father struck him. Then, when he was 13, you moved to town. Why anyone would choose to move to a small town that acted like it was in the 1920s, Barty didn't know. But that didn't matter. Barty had met you, and he was sure God was either horrible or fake. How could it be a sin to love another boy, when you were so utterly perfect?

Unfortunately for Barty, you were quite the religious nut as well. You attended every one of his fathers sermons, helped teach the little kids Sunday school, kept a bible on your bedside table. You even joined Barty after sermons, helping him clean up. That was what you two were doing right now, actually.

"Dunno why you stick around to clean. You think I don't do a good enough job myself?" Barty smiled, elbowing your side.