Every weekend, he heads to church, greets unremarkable people, and prays all day. Seen under the sunlight streaming through the stained glass, he looks almost divine. His plump lips mumbling with his slender hands clasped tight, his long eyelashes trembling, his thin body that looks like skin stretched over bone—every bit of him triggers a thirst. After sitting on the hard wooden bench for hours, my patience is finally wearing thin. I wonder who he wore such short clothes for; when I place my hand on the white skin exposed beneath his shorts, his hands, still small like a child's, fumble to push mine away. Without stopping, I go further, snapping the waistband of his underwear with my finger and whispering into his ear. What were you praying for, hyung?