The church was beautiful.

All the efforts John and Jenn had put into it had paid off. Walking inside, John helping him along, Boris was impressed. He'd been inside a few churches in his life, but never one that felt this homey, this welcoming...one he'd willingly chosen to go to. John and Boris continued, until they reached the pew in the front right side and Boris sat down, groaning as he did, breathing heavily. John sat down beside him, crossing his legs, resting his elbows on the back of the pew. Neither one said a word for a while, just instead admiring the sight of the moonlight through the stained glass windows, the absence of sound, the birth of silence.

"...Is it true God is everywhere?" Boris asked, and John shrugged.

"Depends on your interpretation. Frankly, between you and me, I hope not. Bathroom time is private time," John said.

"But he's in every church," Boris said, and John nodded.

"Well, they're his home, he'd have to be," John said, and Boris scoffed.

"God's nothing but a landlord," Boris said, making John put his head back and cackle; Boris continued, "he's got all this property he has to pay no taxes on, people who do all his work for him, give him money. God's a moocher. And yet here we are, praising him, worshipping him. But I suppose, if the scripture is real, and his love is divine, then-"

"The scripture doesn't matter," John said, surprising Boris, who looked at him; John chewed his lip and continued, "it's just words, Boris. Vagueries. Conceptual ideas about ways to live your life, not a manual. What matters is interpretation. That's why I said, depends on your interpretation. We all approach our relationship with the lord in a different way, no one way is right and no one way is wrong. Whatever works for us works for us, and for him, so the question then becomes...is his love divine to you?"

Boris stared back ahead at the stage of the church and thought. Here he was, sitting in a partial suit, as if he was expecting to be here tonight when really it had been a whim, and now he was appropriately dressed, being asked if God's love was divine to him? Boris bit his lip and furrowed his brow.

"It isn't, no," Boris said, surprising John; Boris coughed, clearing his throat and added, "that...that isn't to say it isn't worthwhile. I think I've found some kind of peace from it. But the love that is divine to me...it doesn't come from God, it comes from other people, people who mattered while I was here. People like you, John."

John smiled, abeit weakly, and nodded.

"Lorraine, Polly, Carol, Whittle, Ellen, Chrissy...those are the people whose love mattered to me, and those are the ones I got love from and got to give love back to," Boris said, his voice hoarse, his hands shaking on his knees, "but you, especially. I sat in that nursing home and I was angry, I wanted to be better, I wanted to be remembered as more than a pile of mistakes and regrets and failed expectations. I just didn't have the drive. And then you walked in. You walked in to give the last rites to someone else, and we spoke, and I knew then that I didn't want to get better for me, but for the people around me, who deserved the best me they could have. Sure, getting better for myself was a nice bonus, but it wasn't my primary motive. Call me a people pleaser, I suppose."

John laughed.

"You're certainly on the cusp," John said.

"But that's what I wanted. More from life. I wasn't content to sit around and wait for it to end. I wanted to do something before that, because I'd barely done anything with it before then," Boris said, "so no, God's love isn't divine to me. It's just a nice bonus. Yours is what mattered."

Boris slid his shaking, frail hand across the wooden pew seat and held onto John's, making him tear up. John looked up at Boris, and their eyes met.

"Out of everyone...all of them, even my own daughter, who I wanted for so long to forgive me, acknowledge me, accept me...you were the one that mattered most. To me, when the accident happened, I figured that was it. I was a bad father. I'd crippled my own daughter and for what? A sport she didn't even want to play? When facing God on judgement day, I figured he'd take one look at me and think what a waste of effort I was to create in his image. But then you, a man of the clothe, a middleman for the lord, tells me I can be better, tells me that I can improve and that my past doesn't define me nor dictate what's left of my future...a man closer to God than any other...tells me he loves me."

John reached forward with his other hand, placing it on Boris's face. Boris shut his eyes, his face wet with tears.

"How could I not love myself if you could? God would forgive me. The accident wasn't intentional. God would forgive me, because you saw I was deserving of forgiveness," Boris said, starting to cough, "and...and how could that not inspire me to be the best?"

"I don't know what to say, Boris," John said softly, "other than, I'm touched, moreso than I've ever been. Knowing you has been the greatest gift I've been given. In a way, it almost feels as though I lost my brother, and lost Steven, so that I would be capable of helping you when we finally met."

"Don't conflate the reasons," Boris said, "everything is just a coincidence, and it is what it is."

Boris looked back towards the front of the church, John still holding his hand.

"Sister Jenn calls it The Inevitable Whatever," Boris said, "because she says she has no right to claim what comes next, so why give it a name and a face, an idea. I like that. Being on the verge of The Inevitable Whatever...however...not so much. Scares me. But, like Leanne, I'm excited to see what comes next. I didn't get it at the time, but I think I do now."

John nodded, exhaled and squeezed Boris's hand gently.

"Boris," John said, "you don't have to-"

"I love you," Boris said, surprising him before adding, "I was so scared to say that. But I do. I think I love you, John, more than I've ever loved another person, romantically. Lorraine will always have a soft spot in my heart, having given me Ellen, but...but what you and I had, even if it wasn't official, was so much more real, and it was nice. Nice to get that, before it ended. To at least get to experience it once. The thing I wanted more than anything out of life. And you gave that to me."

John was now full on crying, wiping his eyes on his shoulder, breathing fast.

"I...I love you too," John replied, his voice shaking, "and you're welcome, you gave just as much to me as I could've given to you if not more. I will never have something like this with another man."

"Sure you will," Boris said, smiling, patting John on the hand, "it just won't be like what we had. But don't close yourself off to the idea. Live, John. Live because I couldn't. Don't be me. Don't be afraid. Love someone else, love everyone else, hell, it's your job, you're a priest, remember?"

John laughed, nodding some more. Together they turned and looked at the main window in the front of the church, admiring its beauty. Boris's eyes weakened, fuzzy, and his breathing got heavier. He groaned as he shifted in his seat.

"You know what I could use," Boris said, "I could use a coffee."

"At this hour? You're a maniac," John said, laughing.

"There's a place just down the street, maybe around the block, that's open all night, makes great coffee," Boris said, "would you mind? I'll get breakfast tomorrow."

John smiled, and shook his head.

"I wouldn't mind at all," John whispered, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek before standing up and exiting the church. Boris sat there, listening to the silence. He thought about what John had said, about how he'd never have this again with someone, and he just hoped to God that John would take his advice to heart. To not be afraid to love some more. Because if anyone he'd ever met in his life was deserving of love, it was John Potter Krickett. Boris shut his eyes and leaned his head back, just resting. He could hear some cars passing by outside. A radio in the distance.

"Having a nice night?" a voice asked, and Boris roused from his quick rest, glancing to his opposite side, only to find a woman there. A young woman in her mid thirties with medium length hair in a braid over her shoulder, a blouse with a collar and cuffs, and a pencil skirt. Polly. Boris sighed.

"Didn't know you were allowed in a church, figured you'd burst into flames on sight," Boris said, making her chuckle.

"Always with the quip," Polly said, "it's a beautiful place."

"It is," Boris said, "it's a miracle, frankly. This church is a miracle, and I'm proud to have been a part of that."

"Now that's a legacy worth leaving," Polly said, grinning.

The radio outside got louder, as the song "Let's Get Away From It All" drifted into the church easily, clear and crisp as day. Polly stood up and held one hand out to Boris, as he looked up at her, cautiously confused.

"Dance with me," she said, and Boris smirked, nodded, and stood up. He took Polly by the hand and, together, started dancing. It'd been years since he'd danced, but he still remembered how. One hand in hers, the other on her hip, Boris couldn't help but laugh at the whole situation.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Polly asked, "the people who mean the most to you?"

"It is," Boris said, nodding in agreement, "you just...you never expect it. You think it's gonna be your family or your childhood friends but often...often it's the people you meet along the way, sometimes not until much later, who turn out to be the most important. The ones you have unspoken bonds with."

"Exactly!" Polly said, grinning, "and isn't that nice? To recognize you're not alone, even at an age like that? It sure made me feel better. And that's a beautiful thing, because I think a lot of people, maybe even most people - though many of them are far to prideful to ever admit it - don't acknowledge that they don't become who they actually are until well towards the end. That's when you've known yourself the longest. That's when you know who you are. And that's when others can know too. It's like a gravitational thing, we all become pulled towards one another. I think that's what's beautiful about nursing homes."

"There's something beautiful about nursing homes? God, you really can see the upside to anything," Boris said, making her snort laugh.

"I just mean, we fill these places with people we think are too far gone, but they aren't. They're just starting," Polly said, "look at how much more you lived. Look at who you became. I'm proud to have known you."

Boris nodded, leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. They turned and continued dancing as the song came to a close and the silence once again enveloped the church. Boris, his chin resting on her shoulder as the dance ended, then saw it. Himself. Sitting on the pew, looking the way he had for years. Boris stepped back from Polly, and quickly rushed to a nearby mirror, looking at himself. Nice button down, long sleeved shirt, tucked into slacks, suspenders. Hair, full and well groomed. Stubble. He turned and looked back at Polly, who was gently scuffing the floor with her shoe like a nervous teenager.

"I didn't want you to be scared," Polly said, and Boris stammered, walking back to the pew. He seated himself on one side of his body, Polly on the other; Polly cocked her head to both sides before saying, "for what it's worth, for someone very sick at the end...you don't look too bad, champ."

"...why are you here, Polly?" Boris asked, his voice stammering, shaking.

"Why are you here, Boris?" Polly asked, leaning back and crossing her legs.

"...that wasn't scary at all," Boris mumbled and Polly laughed.

"Well, to be fair, this could all be nothing. The subconscious does strange things when the brain is dying. But at least you're somewhere beautiful, with people who cared about you," Polly said.

Boris leaned forward again, looking at his body.

"They have a term for it, you know," Polly said, "for these years, the ones at the end, they call them your golden years, not sure why, guess it sounded poetic in 1945, but...there's something nice about it too. Golden Years. You lived through the bronze, that was where you were young and shitty, and you survived through the silver, where you were getting better, growing but still kind of awful, and now here you are, top of the podium, with the gold. You did it, kid. You won. You survived life. Thing is, nobody gives you a medal. And why should they? We all end here, same as everyone else, no matter how well we did. The only ones who really acknowledge whether we became golden were ourselves and maybe the ones closest to us."

Boris leaned back in his seat and put his hands on his knees, exhaling slowly.

"I think you did it, though, and did it damn well might I add," Polly said, "sorry I didn't make it there. I had to tap out in second place. Always the first loser of the race."

Boris chuckled, nodding, Polly giggling.

"You weren't a loser, Polly. A loser doesn't play by their own rules. So what's it like?" Boris asked, "is it nice?"

"Nicer than this? Anything has to be," Polly said.

"I was supposed to have breakfast tomorrow," Boris said.

"Oh, come off it, we both know you weren't going to manage that," Polly replied.

A moment passed, and Polly stood up, straightened her skirt, and held out her hand again.

"Shall we?" she asked, and Boris waited, then stood up and took her hand. Together they walked around the aisle, and headed past the pews, towards the church doors. The doors opened and out they stepped, into the great Inevitable Whatever. A few more minutes passed, and the doors re-opened, John re-entering, two coffee cups in one hand each. He quickly approached the pew and sat down, placing Boris's by him as he put his own between his legs.

"Their coffee better be as good as you claim," John said, "because it cost too much and it took too long and they spelt my name Johm. That's not even a name, Boris. It's one thing when they misspell it in a way that makes sense, like Sally with an IE, but Johm? Frankly I think they're just bitter about their job. But, if this is what the lord wants, from now on I'll be known as Johm, so be it."

John laughed at his own joke, and then stopped laughing. He reached out, putting his hand on Boris's shoulder, shaking gently.

"Boris? You takin' a power nap in church? It's the house of God, not the bedroom of God," John said, chuckling nervously, before shaking him again, "Boris?"

John had seen death enough to know what was sitting next to him. So John Potter Krickett sat on his pew and he sipped his coffee, and he rested his head on the old mans shoulder. He'd savor this moment for as long as he could. You only get so many moments in life, after all. John lifted his cup to his lips and took a sip.

"Alright," John said, "you were right. Coffee's pretty good."