Chapter 9: Chapter 9 — Brick Wall Confessions

“Liam… have you ever felt a god?”

The question landed hard.

Liam froze, his breath catching. His mind flicked back to the priestess in the bunker, to the way her eyes had slid past him as though he were invisible. To the churches where others bowed their heads and spoke of the gods pressing close, warm and undeniable. He had never felt it. Not once. Where they described a presence, he found only silence.

And so, he said nothing.

Peter’s gaze lingered on him, waiting. The air between them felt fragile, as if a single word could shatter it.

Finally, Liam shook his head once. “No.” His voice was flat, final.

Peter’s eyes softened, but there was something searching in them, as if he wanted to press further. Instead, he looked down at the lute resting by his side, his fingers drumming across the wood. “When I stepped into her church,” he said, his voice quiet, “it was like walking into the heart of the sun. Not heat exactly. More like… being held. Every part of me, even the pieces I don’t like to admit I have, pulled in close and wrapped tight. Accepted. I felt loved. Unconditionally. It was everything I had ever wished for from my own parents,” he paused for a moment, seeming to take in the few seconds of recollection. “It was so much that my knees gave out before I even realized. I just dropped. And I couldn’t stop crying.”

Liam felt his stomach twist. The words were too raw. Too earnest. Too vulnerable.

Peter let out a shaky laugh, not really amused. “I didn’t even say anything. Didn’t even try. I just sat there while it washed through me. All the guilt, all the shame, every stupid thing I ever said or did… it didn’t matter. She didn’t care. She loved me anyway. That’s what it felt like.”

He paused, drawing a breath, eyes unfocused as though he were back in that place. “It wasn’t words. Not thoughts. Just… the certainty that no matter what I had done, no matter what I might still do, I wasn’t going to be abandoned. And for someone like me… I didn’t know that was even possible.”

Liam’s hand tightened on his knee. The dead weight of the steamgraft pulled at his shoulder, cold and inert. He had seen others break down in those halls. He had heard the sobs, the whispers of thankfulness, the fervent vows to live better. He had watched them weep into their hands while the candles burned, feeling the presence of the divine as real as breath.

And he had felt nothing.

He had stood in the same pews, listened to the same sermons, stared up at the same statues, and waited. The presence never came. Not a flicker. Not a whisper. Only silence.

“That’s a trick,” he said finally. His tone was sharp enough to cut the air.

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You heard me. That’s how they keep you loyal. Wrap you in honey and call it love. Maybe it feels good, but that doesn’t make it real.”

For a moment, Peter’s expression closed up. His jaw tightened, and his fingers stilled against the lute’s frame. “You don’t get it,” he said quietly.

“I get it,” Liam snapped back. “I’ve seen it. People shaking and crying like they’ve been touched by fire. It’s a performance. You let yourself believe because it feels good. That’s all.”

Peter straightened, his back pressing hard into the wall. There was a flash of something in his eyes, quick and dangerous, but he swallowed it down. His voice, when it came, was steadier than Liam expected. “You think I wanted that to happen? You think I walked in there looking to fall apart in front of strangers? I didn’t. It tore me down anyway.”

The silence that followed was taut, straining at the edges.

Liam stared at the floorboards, refusing to look at him. The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but he couldn’t pull them back. He hated the part of him that wanted to believe, hated the way Peter’s description had stirred something hollow and aching inside his chest.

Peter let out a breath, the sound slow, controlled. “Maybe you just can’t feel it yet,” he said at last. There was no mockery in the words, only something close to pity.

That cut deeper than anger would have.

Liam finally looked at him, his turquoise eyes sharp. He wanted to lash out, to tell Peter he didn’t need anyone’s pity, least of all his. But the fight drained before it reached his lips. Instead, he leaned back on the cot, the frame creaking beneath his weight. The graft hung useless from his shoulder, silent and still, as if it too had given up.

Peter turned his head to the side, staring at the cracked plaster. He spoke more softly now, as though the burst of tension had burned the edge out of him. “When it happened… I thought I’d imagined it. But the priestess said it happens to everyone who opens themselves. That the goddess answers anyone who reaches for her.” He gave a faint, humorless smile. “Guess I didn’t even reach. She just pulled me in.”

Liam’s throat felt dry. He thought of the priestess in the bunker, of the light in her eyes and the way her breath had steadied as if something unseen held her up. He had felt nothing. He never did. The gods spoke to anyone who opened themselves, they said. Anyone.

Except him.

He forced his voice low and cold to hide the break in it. “Good for you.”

Peter flinched, barely, but he didn’t rise to it. He closed his eyes instead, head tilting back against the wall. For a moment, he looked as tired as Liam felt.

The lamp hissed faintly in its sconce, throwing shadows across the room. The silence between them stretched, brittle but unbroken.

Peter’s voice came softer still. “I don’t know what’s worse. That you think I’m lying, or that you can’t imagine it could be real.”

Liam didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.

The words hung in the air, heavy as stone, and Liam hated that a part of him wanted to believe every one of them. Still, he sat with his arms folded, keeping his eyes on the floorboards, jaw set. If Peter had any sense, he would take the hint and leave.

Instead, Peter shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “You know, this room is murder on conversation. I feel like every word I say just smacks into the wall and slides down dead.”

Liam grunted, not lifting his gaze.

“See? Exhibit A.” Peter’s mouth twitched. “I crack jokes, you grunt. Comedy gold.”

“Then stop talking,” Liam muttered.

Peter leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “Can’t do that. I promised myself I’d actually say the things I don’t usually say. You might be the only person in this city I can trust not to use it against me.”

Liam’s eyes flicked up. “Why me?”

Peter spread his hands with mock gravity. “Because you don’t talk enough to spread rumors. It’s like confiding in a brick wall, only you blink sometimes.”

Liam scowled, but the corner of his mouth threatened to twitch. He forced it still.

Peter let out a low chuckle. “Look, all I’m saying is… this whole outworlder thing? You can’t breathe a word of it. Not to anyone. If it slips, things get bad. The clergy made that clear.”

“You think I’d run around telling people?” Liam’s voice was flat. “I don’t care enough.”

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“Good,” Peter said, though he studied him closely. “Still. Say it.”

Liam stiffened. “What?”

“Promise. Swear it. Humor me.”

Liam’s teeth clicked together as he clenched his jaw. The demand grated, another weight shoved into his chest. But Peter’s eyes were steady, unblinking. At length, Liam ground out, “Fine. I won’t tell.”

Peter grinned, all bright relief. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“It was.”

“Eh, I’ll take it. Grumpy oath still counts.”

Liam shook his head and slumped back against the wall. His shoulder ached under the cold drag of steel. The craving for plasm stirred faintly, but it didn’t burn the way it had before. Peter’s voice filled the space where the need usually gnawed.

Peter stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “You know, it’s funny. The priestess tried to explain how this world works, but half of it sounded like some weird bedtime story. Soul this, aura that. I hadn’t realized that the only way everyone else sees their status and character sheet is by going to a church and asking the clergy or the divine directly.”

“You didn’t know?” Liam asked. It was only the most obvious thing in the world, since that’s how it worked for everyone. Everyone but him.

Peter tapped a finger against his knee. “So… the priestess made it sound like everybody’s running around with a hidden ledger on them. You want to see the numbers, you have to march into a church and hope the gods cough them up. That about right?”

Liam gave a single nod. “That’s how it works. For most people.” He left the quiet part unsaid.

Peter huffed a laugh. “Figures. I thought maybe it was just me missing the trick. Should’ve asked you instead of sitting through a sermon disguised as bookkeeping.”

“You wouldn’t have liked the answer,” Liam muttered.

Peter tilted his head, eyes narrowing in mock thought. “Let me guess. That Academy of yours wrung the curiosity out of you?”

Liam’s jaw tightened. He said nothing.

Peter’s grin softened, losing some of its edge. “Guess you hated it there.”

A dry sound escaped Liam, more bark than laugh. “You could say that.”

Peter didn’t push. Instead, he leaned back on his hands, staring at the cracked ceiling as if the right words might be written there. “You know, for all their speeches, half of what they say feels like nonsense. But when she talked about the soul… it fit. Like your body’s not just meat and bone, but wrapped in something more. Every blow you take shakes it, and the ache is real, even if it fades. Still rattles you.”

Liam didn’t answer, but his jaw worked, thoughts scraping inside his skull. It was too close to the truth he knew. For those who had a class. Not for people like him who lacked one.

Peter waited a beat, before giving a small, self-deprecating smile. “Course, I could be wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You usually wrong?” Liam asked dryly.

“Statistically? Constantly.” Peter’s grin widened. “But I make up for it with confidence.”

Liam rolled his eyes, but it was faint, lacking its usual edge.

For a while they sat like that, the tension ebbing. Peter’s light tone brushed against Liam’s heaviness without being crushed by it. Somehow it made the air easier to breathe.

Peter drew his knees up again, resting his chin on them. His voice dipped quieter. “Truth is, I didn’t just come to talk about gods. Or souls. Or the church. I came to check on you. Didn’t like how we left things.”

Liam’s throat tightened. He forced his tone flat. “I don’t need checking on.”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe not. But I wanted to anyway.”

Liam looked away, staring at the where the vial of plasm lay just out of sight on the shelf. The urge was there, whispering. But weaker now, almost drowned out. He didn’t move.

“You don’t make it easy, you know,” Peter said lightly. “Letting people in.”

“Don’t need people in.”

“Yeah, you do.” Peter said it simply, without malice.

Liam’s lips pressed thin. He had no reply.

Peter smiled faintly, watching him from the corner of his eye. “You let me in, didn’t you?”

“That was a mistake,” Liam said.

“Then let me keep being your mistake.”

Liam turned sharply, glaring at him. Peter only grinned wider, unshaken.

For a moment, the air thickened again, brittle and sharp. Then Liam looked away, exhaling through his teeth.

Peter leaned his head back, satisfied. “See? Progress. You didn’t throw me out.”

Liam gave a low grunt.

“That’s practically affection coming from you,” Peter teased.

Despite himself, Liam felt the faintest tug of warmth in his chest. He crushed it quickly, but the echo remained.

The silence stretched again, but it no longer had the raw scrape it had when Peter first stepped through the door. Something about the air felt looser, though Liam still carried the weight in his chest. Like the silence had become a little more comfortable. An unsaid truce.

He leaned back against the cot’s thin pillow, the graft hanging heavy and lifeless at his side, its metal claws catching the lamplight.

Peter stretched his arms high over his head, joints cracking, and let out a long sigh. “Well, that’s the sermon according to Peter. Not exactly fit for scripture, but it kept us from sitting here counting the mold spots on the ceiling.”

Liam gave the faintest snort. It wasn’t laughter, but it was more than nothing.

Peter grinned, pleased with himself. “See? Progress. I’ll get a full laugh out of you yet. Give me a few more nights and you’ll be cracking at my jokes like the laugh track in a seet kom.”

“You’re not staying,” Liam said flatly. He brushed off the strange words without a thought, chalking them up to Peter’s strange ways.

Peter clutched at his chest in mock injury. “Harsh. You wound me.” He let the act drop a moment later, his voice softening. “But yeah, you’re right. I came here to check in, not to move into your luxury suite.” His gaze swept across the cramped room, lingering on the dead graft and the untouched mug on the shelf. “Even if the rent’s a steal.”

Liam said nothing, eyes back once more to the floorboards.

Peter tapped his heel against the plaster. “Look, I get it. You like your silence. You like your shadows. And you hate when people crack them open. I won’t push it. But I couldn’t just leave things hanging after the bunker.”

The words cut closer than Liam wanted to admit. He shifted, turning his face toward the wall. “You’ve said what you came to say. You can go.”

“Yeah,” Peter said softly. He pushed himself up to his feet, brushing dust from his trousers. “I should.”

He slung the lute across his back and stood there a moment longer, not moving toward the door just yet. His eyes found Liam again, and there was nothing playful in them now. “You don’t have to believe everything I told you. Hell, half the time I don’t even believe it myself. But… it’s real to me. That’s all I wanted you to know.”

Liam’s throat worked, but no words came. He hated the heat building behind his eyes, hated the way Peter’s voice carried something he could not bring himself to touch.

Peter gave him an easy smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve got that look again. The one that says you’re about to chew on something until your jaw breaks. Don’t. Sometimes you’ve just got to take a story as it is.”

Liam grunted, which seemed to be enough of an answer.

Peter turned for the door, his hand on the latch. Then he hesitated, glancing back. “One last thing. Friendly advice.”

Liam raised an eyebrow as he met the other boy’s gaze, waiting.

“You stink.”

Liam blinked. “What?”

Peter grinned. “You heard me. You smell like rust, sweat, and the inside of a boiler room. If you’re planning on meeting anyone important, you might want to fix that. Find a bathhouse. Get yourself cleaned up.”

A flush of irritation rose hot in Liam’s chest. “You come here, dump your story in my lap, and then tell me I smell?”

“Not just smell.” Peter wrinkled his nose dramatically. “You reek. I’m telling you this as a friend. The city’s full of people looking down on you already. Don’t give them another reason to sneer.”

The retort on Liam’s tongue died there. He wanted to tell Peter to shut his mouth and leave, but the words snagged. Because Peter wasn’t wrong. He had let himself sink these past days. By the Nine Hells, he hadn’t even cleaned himself since he left on the trek to the rat cave. And the steamgraft lay cold and empty, the apartment gathered dust, the vial of plasm still sat untouched on the shelf. He had let himself rot, and Peter had noticed.

Peter must have seen the shift in his expression, because his grin softened into something gentler. “Hey. I’m not saying it to get under your skin. Just… take care of yourself, alright?”

Liam turned away, jaw tight. He hated the way the words left a mark.

Peter gave a little salute, then pulled the door open. “Alright. I’ll stop bothering you. Don’t worry, I won’t tell the priestess where you’re hiding. Your secret’s safe.”

He stepped into the hall, boots creaking against the boards. Before the door shut, his voice drifted back in, lighter again, almost playful. “Seriously though. Take that bath. Never know when you might need to look respectable.”

The latch clicked, and he was gone.

For a long while Liam sat motionless, staring at the wall lamp until its light blurred. Peter’s laughter still seemed to echo faintly in the corners of the room, but the silence was creeping back in.

His eyes slid to the vial of plasm on the shelf. The urge stirred, then ebbed just as quickly. For once, the pull wasn’t strong enough to move him.

Instead, he thought of Peter’s words. Bath. Respectable. Meeting someone important. The more he tried to shake it off, the more it settled in his chest like a stone.

By the time the first gray light of dawn pressed through the shutters, the thought had rooted itself. He would go. Clean himself up. Not because Peter told him to, but because sooner or later someone in this city would come knocking who wouldn’t take silence for an answer.