TW: Fluff, Worship, Churches/Cathedrals 

Religion had never been something which interested Ross. Or, perhaps it had been when he was young, and his mum dragged him and his equally unwilling brother to Sunday school, where old people spouted off about God and His mysterious ways. Ross had never understood it, had ignored them to get on with his crafts that they encouraged the children to do. Drawing scenes from the Bible, sticking down pieces of cotton wool and tissue paper to make scenes of shepherds with their flock. Back then, he had at least appreciated his Sunday school friends and the crafts.

It was never something he had truly believed in, though; he had never prayed to God of his own volition or thought about the purpose God had given him. Not usually, at the very least. The closest he had came to religion was once when he had sat down in a cathedral. Trott's footsteps had echoed off the cavernous walls and ceiling, masked by whispers, amplified by the acoustics of this place. The place must have taken months to build, so much time spent carving pillars and fitting high windows, every other thing they must have done making this place.

All that time, dedicated to one man whose only proof was someone's own belief. Some would see it as foolish (and Ross did, too, in a way) but he couldn't help but think it was as beautiful as it was anything else. He could respect someone who could believe in something like that.

And then thoughts of that brought him onto thoughts of God, of his place in life, his purpose, and for a moment, he could think that somehow, somewhere, he fit into all of this.

Most of that had died off as soon as he left the building, or even earlier, but the thought had been nice. A sweet comfort, if perhaps somewhat delusional. He didn't have a set purpose in life- except, he felt like he did sometimes. Ross wasn't sure if he would ever say it out loud, for fear of being laughed at, but Trott was almost a religion to him. The dedication, the love, the respect, the sense of purpose- all things Ross could find in Trott, far more so than he ever could a God.

Trott would run his fingers through Ross's hair, and Ross could swear it was better than any religion, just that simple comfort. Sometimes, if Trott was working late in the office, or he was squished up next to Smith on the sofa and there was no space, Ross would sit at his feet, resting his cheek on Trott's thigh. The first couple times, Trott had thought it was his way of asking for attention, but it was almost the opposite.

Ross just liked to sit there, relaxed, beside Trott's feet, safe and where he belonged. He would rub his thumb along Trott's ankle, small repetitive motions where he could reach, or trace over his hand if it was free. Even that felt like enough, like perfection. He worshipped him, the clean-cut jawline, sharp cheekbones, plush lips- everything, Ross felt blessed to run his hands over, his lips, drag his eyes across, absorbing it all.

Trott in the early morning, when the sun was just rising, and he opened the blinds to light him with golden-pink light, was one of Ross's favourite things. An angel, a god, that's all Ross could think of. A statue, carved from bright marble, set in motion.

Ross felt protected, wrapped up in Trott, closer to whatever kept him going. He worshipped Trott like a religion.

Credit to iktwabrokenbone on Ao3