DORIAN IS RIGHT HERE, SITTING in the front pew of mahogany furniture reeking of leather shoes and anachronism; he is wearing a red-striped flannel top, looking like an oblong peppermint lollipop, and chinos pants. His hands are obediently placed on his thighs and his nose cocked towards the pulpit.

"You look one funny thing about love, my people? Love is tenacious just as it is unforgiving. Love is like that Spotify ad that pops up unless you pay what is due. It will keep rearing its ugly head until you confront it head-on."

"Interesting metaphor for a bishop pushing 60," Dorian mentally comments as he absorbs the discomfort of the stiff seat sinking into his bones.

He becomes more aware of the one long lint sticking out of the bishop's robe and waiting to be pulled out; more aware of the fact that he is sandwiched between two huge aunties with frilly hats towering like Star Wars' UFOs; more aware of the ominous feeling but also of tranquility that he came all the way with his mom to seek in this church.

Dorian decides he likes feeling this way. Maybe a church of all places isn't where he is supposed to be. The thirst for new experiences has exactly been what has led his life to this point but it might be the only thing that can put him back into place.

"Love does not take account of the wrongs," says Bishop Matthews. To which Dorian scoffs, quietly but loud enough to earn the stink eye from the busty aunty on his right.

Don't get him wrong. He is far from being indicted into this lifestyle. But maybe this new environment is what he needs right now. Casting a glance at his mother who is coincidentally doing the same to him, Dorian receives her outstretched hand and returns the loving squeeze.

Her eyes are crinkled at the edges; premature crow's feet due to stress herself, her son and life in general has put her ass through, and she smiles at him.

"Well, that was cringey," Dorian thinks as he turns back to the pastor who looks like he is low-key convulsing on his words. Every gesticulation is seasoned with so much passion that Dorian has to wonder if he really enjoys doing this; spreading sugarcoated lies about his definition of "love".

Dorian casts his eyes to his hands, he holds them out to stare them down. His oculi lick the lines down to the moulting parts of his fingertips. What is his own definition of love?

He almost curses out loud when the image of a someone he can barely stand to think about appears right on the seat of his mind; which makes Dorian wonder even more deeply, is that boy his definition of love?

"Whatever draws you to the other person, hold it tight and dear. There is always one thing that draws everyone to everyone. I for one, believe we are destined to meet that other person. We are starcrossed, as superstitious as that sounds. Of course, as long as that union is consecrated by our Lord Jesus Christ."

That basically ends the sermon, much to Dorian's delight and he is on his feet faster than the choristers who belts out notes to usher the bishop away from the pulpit.

Well, he almost did before his mother pulls him back down, smack on his butt into the seat and in that very moment, he realizes he is doomed to sit this one out for the rest of the Friday service.

Some boring moments later, the service ends, everyone is dispersing to their various destinations but Mercy decides she has more in store for her son.

"Let's go see the bishop," she announces, her hand tight around Dorian's arm.

His answer was lightning fast. "The fuck, no?"

She smacks the back of his head in the church. "You might have won my heart by suddenly waking up this morning and deciding to follow me to church."

"You don't say." Dorian sweatdrops.

"But that gives you no right to be a brat. Got it?" She practically drags him towards the elevated segment of the building with flower wreaths, light streaks and gold-painted fences. Dorian guesses that is where the deacons and whatnot sit.

"Got it, ma." He rolls his eyes  "You're the boss here."

"No sarcasm too. I hate when you do that."

Dorian digresses, already tired of the banter before it has even started. "What are we seeing the man for, exactly? For research purposes."

"I said I hate when you do that sarcasm thing. It is rude and uncalled-for." Mercy stops walking to adjust the scarf, retying it around her short, tinted dreadlocks in loose spirals.

"Okay?" He raises a brow. More sweatdropping.

"Apologize, mister," she practically scolded.

"I'm sorry, damnit. What happened to my old mother?"

"We have been through hell these past few weeks and I feel a new dawn is upon us."

"Huh-uh," Dorian muses, his tongue pushing the roof of mouth in a bid to prevent another snarky comment from rolling out

"You are changing," Mercy continues. "I am changing. We are becoming better version of ourselves, thanks to all these ordeals. And if we want real changes to happen around here, it starts from," she pats his head, "here".

Such bullshit. Like, pure, unadulterated bullshit. But Dorian can not dare to share his opinion. Maybe his mother should keep living in this delusion. Whatever makes her happy and out of his business more.

"Oh, here he comes!" She enthuses, scrambling to block the poor man who, Dorian can swear on his dead ovaries, looks like he'll rather be anywhere than here.

"Sister Mercy!" Mathews exclaims, giving her a side hug that she happily leans into.

"Good afternoon, father. Can I just drop it that today's sermon just hit me in the right spot? I was so blessed!"

Dorian mentally cringes at her saccharine-sweet words. She is never like this.

Mathews, greying everywhere but his stache and goatee, flashes a smile as white as his robe. "I'm glad. How are you doing now?"

"We thank God, father. Speaking of which, this is my son we talked about."

We talked about? Why have these sissies been gossiping about his shit?

Dorian still has passive aggressive countenance on his face, his brows furrowed and his gaze distant before a painful nudge by his mother brings him back into reality. "Oh right. I'm Dorian Ayuba. Sir."

"Such a bright-looking young man! Your mother must be proud."

Dorian forces a smile as the man slaps his shoulder in what the former probably think is in a reassuring manner. And for what? What has his mom being telling this man about him to warrant this air?

"Umm, thanks..."

"How old are you?"

"I--"

Mercy cuts him off. "He is nineteen."

Wrong. Dorian is few months away from his nineteenth birthday but he didn't exactly believe she will keep that piece of info in her head.

Dorian does a double take at the figure cowering behind the bishop. It is a girl about his age. Skin like light caramel, doe eyes and lips set in a permanent pout.

"Have you met my daughter?" Mathews lightly pushes her back into the group. "This is Rebecca. Rebecca, meet Dorian."

"Oh my gosh, she is so precious!" Mercy squeals and jumps to shake her hand as if Mathews mentioned her damn name.

She is wearing a satin-ish--or is it linen?--dress with flowery prints; something you'd see on Hawaiian beach shorts.The dress reaches all the way to her shin and that's when he gets turned off completely. Her calves are as huge! Like yams. So much for the girly ass face.

"Nice to meet you," she manages to say, looking away and to her feet.

That would've been cute if she didn't have the planet Jupiter in her legs.

"Likewise." Her hands are soft in Dorian's, but all he just wants to do is get the fuck out of this place. Is this some set-up by his mom to make him straight again? Especially not when his surgery scars are barely dried up.

Dorian can see the both parents, observing them with cunning, self-satisfied smiles.

"I'm sure, we will be seeing more of you soon."

"Doubt," Dorian utters with the right dose of bluntness.

"Ugh, don't be modest." Another slap to the shoulder. "This is your Father's house. Feel free to express yourself. I personally, will be expecting you. Which is why Rebecca right here will be showing you the ropes."

"Can you point me to a rope that can hang me right here, right now?" "Oh I'm sure I'll be--"

"Feel free to ask for her number incase you have questions."

"Rightttttttt," Dorian drawls. "I'll keep that in mind."

Silence dawns on them for a moment. Plus the awkward staring and Mercy having this egging grimace on her face.

"Well, what are you waiting for, meathead?" The corner of Mercy's smile quivers. "Ask for her number."

Must suck to be her right now. Imagine your father selling you off to a stranger just to keep reputation. "What? Okay, fine! Can I have your number, Becky?"

"Rebecca," Mathews corrects firmly.

Dorian swallows and digits are exchanged. Nothing much was said till they left the church, Uber-ed so the way home.

After the abrupt sound of the front door shutting, Mercy decides to break the ice. "I'm just trying to help you."

Dorian just rolls his eyes, tailing it to his room, knowing Mercy will be hot on his tracks. "Really? That's the least cliche thing you can come up with."

"What do you mean?" She whines like she is the one getting her personal choices slammed into her own face. "She is a nice girl."

The clock is ticking and the school bus will be here any minute. The school management organized an outing -- as the seniors like to call it, it sounds less juvenile than 'camping' -- for the final year students. It's probably just some weird trip and the bus was supposed to make a stop at his place ten minutes ago.

"That concerns me like, how?"

Dorian strips down to his boxers and dashes to his wardrobe, disemboweling it in search of one or two casual outfits for the not-camping.

"It concerns ever part of you."

"Ugh, for fuck sake. No, it doesn't." He is juggling cargo pants and beach shorts when Mercy pinches his right ear. "Ow! What gives?"

"I'm your mother and I know what is best for you." She is giving him that don't-argue-with-your-mom-or-it-won't-end-pretty face. As a matter of fact, Dorian isn't even planning to exchange words with her at all. After all what has happened, things may not go back to normal in this tiny household but he will have to cut her some slack. Being the merciful golden son he is.

He rolls his eyes. "I'm still into girls, you know."

"As long as you are capable of getting down with a male, I don't think I'll ever be okay."

"Well, goodluck on your journey to self-healing." Dorian can hear the faint sounds of a car horn. "Looks like the bus is here already."

Dorian picks up the duffel bag, not forgetting to grab his toothbrush from the bathroom, and he races down the stairs. The thuds of his mom's feet close behind him just makes him sigh.

"Do you really have to go? Are you sure you'll be fine? And why are you taking Scooby?"

Standing before the front door, he turns to her. "Yes, I have to go. Yes, I will be fine. And yes, he is my therapy cat. I have to." He winks.

"Oh, you bring your lying ass down here." Mercy laughs, wrapping him in a frail hug. For the first time in a long time, she feels physically and emotionally warm. Maybe she has really changed for the better. Oh, and she doesn't reek of weed; that's a first.

Rushing towards the bus, the driver almost immediately stops him one leg inside. Dorian gets the message after tracing the gruff man's gaze to the Siamese cat he holds in his armpit.

"Therapy cat. Doctor's orders," he says before the man's face grew soft and he nods his head into the bus.

Dorian adjusts his bag on his shoulders as he walks past the rows of seats. There are a few waves and high-fives in order, while some girls coo at Scooby. Most seats are occupied though; except for an empty space he can sight at the far extreme right.

Much to Dorian's chagrin, Scooby hops out of his arms and prances straight to the empty seat. Scooby was once an alley cat so maybe this is just a thread of residual territoriality?

By the time, Dorian gets there, he is unable to speak, to stand, to breathe. He might have well just jumped out of the window and get this shit over with.

Instead, he swallows deep, feeling the heavy bobbing of his throat. With his heart pounding and fingers trembling, he sits down quietly.

Right beside him is Giovanni Price, snoozing into space with a bucket cap on his forehead to shield himself from the sunlight blaring through the glass and his hair in a menacing buzzcut.

Dorian's body might be ready to acknowledge this blonde right here, but he sure as hell will not. Even if his mind breaks. This not-camping is going to be a wild ride.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

This chapter was so off-the-shelf (idk what that expression means but i feel smart using it) and i wrote it without looking back, or making any edits and changes. As usual, read at your own peril and i love you all