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Father Francesco is always somewhat late to the last round of confessions, on thursday evening, from 6 to 8 p.m., for how inconvenient the timing may be. It’s an inconvenience born out of necessity, anyway. As a priest that fully embodies the spirit of a renewed, invested Church, Francesco’s schedule is kinda packed; his fridays are already booked full by chorus practice, while on saturday he’s too busy with the youth group to listen to the same four, five people confessing their outbursts of blasphemous anger, or the fact that they’ve lied to their spouse about something completely menial, like the reason why they haven’t gotten milk from the store. And there’s charity work. And the evening services. Keeping up with the youth groups and their afternoon activities – homework, sports, every necessity that can’t be covered by families that live paycheck to paycheck and often struggle to make ends meet.
So, yeah, confession time is a little inconvenient, but it doesn’t mean he’d ever back off from his most holy mission.
Still in his secular clothing, he’s quick to bolt for the sacresty before Pierina intercepts him to be the first in line, and even quicker to change into his black shirt and collar, the stole twisting around his shoulders a couple of times before he manages to get it right.
He probably doesn’t smell fresh, even though he’s sprayed a generous amount of antiperspirant under his armpits before, during and after the weekly basketball match with the charity teams of the diocese. Kneeling in front of the crucifix, he asks the Lord to forgive his poor state – blue Nike sneakers, and hair that look too much like an unkempt bush surrendering to the wind. Not very priestlike, but he’ll make do.
At 6.05, he’s sitting in the confessional, still a bit winded out and sweaty. At 6.07, Pierina enters, kneels, and confesses her usual set of sins: she’s been quite too mouthy with her husband, cursed too much while driving in the traffic, yelled too harshly at her granddaughter and so on. Father Francesco grants her her weekly absolution, and he lets her go with some hail marys and an act of penance, the first onset of a headache slightly pulsing behind his temples.
In between penitent parishioners and the two newcomers that hang around and light up some candles under the holy feet of the Virgin, Francesco takes his time to pray – he likes the quiet contemplation of it, the familiarity of the gestures, the silence of the church when he’s alone with the Lord and feels the warmth of his own faith spreading through his sore limbs like a balm, soothing and peaceful.
Far too peaceful, considering that he falls asleep on the pew, waking up with a start to the sound of the door closing behind someone’s back.
“Amen,” he says, only to hide the fact that he’s been napping for God knows how long. In the shiny tabernacle, he can see the reflection of a man slipping inside the confessional, and he quickly signs himself before resuming his holy work. He stops by the candles, though; the electrical candle holder - real candles are, of course, a fire hazard, so they had to be replaced by electrical ones - is malfunctioning again, and he really doesn’t need any more inconveniences for today.
The confession booth is a sweltering furnace. Francesco feels the beads of sweat roll down the back of his shirt, the synthetic fabric clinging to his skin, making him itchy. After another sign of the cross and a long, inward sigh, he opens the confessional screen, the figure behind the grate blurred – a man, with his eyes cast down. Francesco’s heart catches in his throat long before the man says “bless me father, for I have sinned”.
A part of Francesco would like to remind him that this formula is outdated, but the other, the one who could recognize this voice everywhere, is screaming.
Static buzzes in his ears for a moment, then Marco’s eyes meet his and – well.
Father Francesco has never been so quick at bolting out of the confessional booth, guilt burning on his cheeks, making him feel nauseous and far too unsteady on his wobbly legs.
If he wasn’t an utter coward, he would carry out his sacred duty without a fuss; as a priest, he can’t refuse anybody their absolution. Still, he knows Marco hasn’t come all the way here for forgiveness, so there would be no point in playing his game. For what Francesco knows, Marco doesn’t even believe in God, despite having received most of his sacraments.
His heart is pounding in his fingertips, so loud Francesco is sure Marco could hear it bounce off the heavily decorated walls of the church, ricocheting around like a bullet shot from an elephant gun. His thoughts are in an even worse kind of disarray. Too quick, too chaotic. Impossible for him to cling to one single thread and pull it.
He looks up to the Virgin, who’s watching him with her sad, pitiful eyes, and takes a couple of deep breaths, in and out, until his heartbeat has finally slowed down to a somewhat acceptable rhythm and he can convince himself he’s hallucinated everything. Not every mildly attractive guy with a curly mullet is Marco, after all, and he’s so tired and weak his mind could have tricked him. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Still.
It seems like today is not his lucky day at all, because the man that emerges from the confessional booth is undoubtedly Marco, and there’s no saint here that can shield Francesco from the horrible reality of it.
The breath he has struggled so much to keep in check is now catching in his throat, swelling into a lump that makes swallowing almost impossible. It feels just like a scene from a movie. An agonizing slow motion, Marco looking at him like a kicked puppy, the floodlights casting an orange glow over him, slightly onirinc, slightly heavenly. Francesco is sure he’s seen at least a dozen paintings of Saint Sebastian that looked exactly like Marco now; tragically doomed, charged with an obscene erotic subtext – dangerous, dangerous even here, inside the very house of the Lord.
“Marco,” Francesco caves in at last, acknowledging him, still gasping like a stranded fish. He’s far too aware he must look like a lunatic right now, with his eyes almost bulging out of his skull and kind of breathless, but at least Marco has the decency not to point it out. He looks quite bummed, if anything, like a sad dog being brought back to the shelter for misbehaving. The insides of Francesco’s stomach curdle. Jesus Christ, he shouldn’t feel so much for him, but he’s always been too empathetic for his own good, and that’s exactly what’s going to be the end of him, sooner or later.
“Franci. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to startle you.”
Francesco hates it, the way Marco always seems to know when to look contrite, how to test the waters, see if his favorite priest lets his guard down or not.
It usually happens.
Francesco swears to himself that this time he won’t give into him so easily.
“What are you doing here?”
It’s a stupid question, really, one that a priest should never ask anybody. Everyone’s welcome in the house of the Lord. God is a good shepherd, he never allows his flock to get too far before guiding it back to the barn. Other than that, Francesco is rather sure Marco isn’t animated by noble intentions, like asking for a real confession or simply praying the rosary together, kneeling in front of the Holy Mother in the chapel in quiet reflection, looking for the most sacred form of atonement.
Marco came all the way here for a quick fuck, that much is clear, but Francesco is done with such an abject form of sinning.
“I was…I was looking for you, of course? You haven’t been texting, and you’re not returning my calls.”
The slight headache from a little while before has turned into a giant fist crunching his skull to gravel. Francesco thinks it’s probably the dehydration. He hasn’t touched a drop of water since getting off court and chugging down a bottle of electrolytes in a single sitting. He was already running late, and stopping by the store to buy some water would have just made his parishioners’ wait even longer. He’s mentally kicking himself for it, now. Marco’s presence is only exacerbating the awful feeling, and the lights are a little too harsh on his tired eyes – not the ideal situation for playing God’s stronger soldier, considering he brought it upon himself entirely on his own volition.
Imagine this: late night on the Adriatic sea, a food truck serving every kind of piadina known to man, his car breaking down in the middle of the road, a guy offering him food and then offering him to take a look at his car for free – “yeah, sure, I’m a mechanic, can you open the hood for me?”
Francesco wasn’t wearing his collar. He wasn’t wearing anything that could identify him as a priest, actually, aside from his golden crucifix. But plenty of people wear necklaces with the Holy Cross everyday, so it wasn’t a dead giveaway of his vocation. Plus, he was getting back from the airport after spending a couple of weeks with the missionaries, so he just looked like a regular tourist – tanned and tired, with his sunglasses pushed back in his curls, lips pulled in a tight line as he tried to understand whether his car insurance covered roadside assistance or not.
Marco was kind and bubbly and friendly. They had hit it off immediately. Hours later, in a clean and spacious mechanic shop on the outskirts of Viserba, they were fucking, locked in an office, turning the couch there into a battlefield.
It’s been a little less than a whole year, and Francesco can’t live like this anymore. He’s walked on the edge of the precipice for far too long – he can only be in or out, there’s no real shade to it. Either he’s a priest, or whatever Marco thought they could be. Lovers, partners. All empty words, siren songs to lure him towards mortal sins.
A nearly hysterical chuckle bubbles up to Francesco’s lips. The situation feels both claustrophobic and absurd. For the first time in his life, the collar around his neck feels every bit like a noose, slowly closing his airways, cutting off all the oxygen rushing towards his brain.
“Are you…are you serious? I’m a priest, Marco, if you haven’t noticed. Why should I pick up your booty calls?”
He realizes he’s been trivial inside the church only when it’s too late to take his words back. He signs himself again, for good measure, asking for the Lord’s guidance not to give into temptation. Even Jesus Christ himself has agreed that the flesh is weak. Francesco’s is definitely weaker than that of the Son of God. How is he supposed to fight such a wearisome battle all on his own?
Marco frowns, his hip jutting slightly as he leans against a bench, playing with the frayed bookmark of one of leatherbound prayer books Francesco usually leaves by the pews, hoping to make his parishioners feel more welcome, more cared for. He tugs at it, and Francesco is tempted to smack his hand, to yell at him that he should be more careful while touching something that is not his, but to look at his hands would be detrimental, and touching them even more so. Yeah, he would slap him, but he’s not ready to take such a risk, not even to teach him a lesson. He folds his arms on his chest, then, hoping that his glaring is enough to convince Marco to stop pulling at the fragile seams of the prayer book, but it’s all in vain. He opens and closes it rhythmically, eyes barely skimming over the words, as if they mean nothing at all.
They probably don’t, to him. Francesco shudders, but it’s got nothing to do with the sudden gust of air coming from the open window of the sacristy, announcing an incoming storm.
“Well, first they aren’t booty calls, father,” Marco says, disrespectfully sarcastic, when he’s done torturing the prayer book. Only now Francesco notices the new tattoo on his left ring finger: a stylized cross, because when the Universe is playing a cruel joke on you, it goes down brutally hard.
“What’s this?” He hears himself hissing, the sound of a slicing blade in the empty air. It starts raining outside, and from the likes of it, it won’t stop anytime soon.
Marco frowns again at first, then he picks up the clues, eyes darting towards the barely healed tattoo, still a little swollen and too glossy, so much that Francesco guesses he’s probably had it done three or four days ago at most.
“I was thinking about you,” he replies, a bitter smile making his mouth curl upwards, baring his teeth. Francesco’s world tilts on its axis just a bit. It’s a slip, nothing more, nostalgia tugging at his heartstrings in a way that’s almost physically painful. It’s either that, or he’s slowly developing dehydration-induced heart failure. Of the two options, the latter feels like the most palatable, anyway.
“You’re an asshole.”
The Lord will forgive him for his many faults, today. The Lord will understand and accept his contrition. The Lord will be merciful, even if Francesco - Father Francesco - has let the worst part of himself get the upper hand inside the church, where he should be the most irreprehensibile.
What the Lord won’t forgive, though, is what happens next. Marco’s hand, closing around his nape like a snapping vice. Francesco putting up the most risible defense ever and then giving up, letting himself get pulled towards Marco, barreling into him, all the wind knocked out of his lungs the very moment their lips meet in a rushed, ungentle kiss, all urge and teeth and too much saliva running down the corner of Francesco’s parted lips – sloppy, tremendously hot. There’s a pang of familiar desperation in Francesco’s stomach when they part, and Marco’s eyelashes flutter over languid eyes in a way that silences all the noise inside Francesco’s skull at once. There’s no running away from something like this. No place secluded enough to stomp over the burning embers of his desire.
It burns, it burns, it burns. Inside his guts, his chest, his traitorous hips that instinctively buck forward, his twitching dick meeting Marco’s erection, ripping a shocked gasp out of him.
“Francesco. Franci. I missed you. I missed you, please –”
When Marco reaches for his face again, Francesco recoils, remembering where he is. His heart is beating so fast behind his ribs he’s sure it will bruise. Around him, saints and virgins are watching. Some judging him, some pitying him.
“I…not here, Marco. We should…we have to –”
Marco nods. What happens next is a blur. Turning off all the lights, leaving to the electrical candles the job to light their way to the sacristy, and from there to the back door. Running under the furious downpour to the small rectory across the courtyard, the keys slipping from his trembling hands, his fingers clumsy and shaky, Turbo coming to greet him on the door and retreating to his own bed upon seeing Marco pushing Francesco inside, kissing him with a small groan.
They’re both soaked through and kind of gross, and Francesco can’t tell anymore whether he’s feeling weak from hunger, thirst, or from the incessant assault of Marco’s hands that seem to be everywhere at once, on the buttons of his soggy shirt, on his buttocks, over the buckle of his belt.
“Franci, I need –”
“Yes, yes, let me, I –”
He helps Marco going through the nightmare of the too small buttons and sheds his shirt and undershirt in the hallway, long before they get to the bedroom. Marco’s t-shirt gets tossed behind the small, dusty TV screen Francesco has turned on maybe twice since he moved here from Turin, and it all becomes real enough that his dick suddenly springs to life with it, as if it’s been zapped with electricity. It’s almost painful, and Marco’s mouth closing around his pulse point and sucking a bruise into the delicate skin is doing nothing to ease his lust-induced discomfort.
Francesco draws in a hissing breath through his gritted teeth, head tipped back, offering himself to the ruthlessness of Marco’s mouth, spasmodically leaving wet kisses everywhere, licking at his throat and collarbone like he can’t get enough of him – Francesco’s balls tighten uncomfortably in his briefs at such gnawing desperation, the throbbing of his erection growing almost unbearable.
“Marco,” he whispers, his voice thin, pleading.
Marco’s eyes, already glittering with want, turn into bottomless, dark pits.
“Can I suck you off?”
Francesco makes an ugly, agonizing sound in the back of his throat. He reaches for the golden cross on his chest, clutches at it like a lifeline. Forgive me, Lord, for I couldn’t be strong.
“Please,” he whispers, and he doesn’t know whether he’s invoking Jesus or simply urging Marco to get on his knees. He keeps holding onto the cross until his knuckles turn white and the metal has left a deep indent in his flesh, an aching reminder of what he was so adamant not to do anymore, but did anyway.
On the floor, looking up to him the same way Francesco looks at the suffering image of Christ nailed to the Cross, Marco is a vision Francesco will carry with him as long as he lives, the fuel for his most sinful dreams. His trousers and briefs are pulled off in one go, leaving him exposed and sensitive, like a raw nerve. His cock is leaking already, overlooked for too many days as a form of atonement, and the stubble on Marco’s cheeks is soft, so that his skin doesn’t blister where he’s kissing him, hard and impatient, making Francesco dizzy with want.
There’s a hunger in the way Marco gives him head – like a starving man, all of his throat working around his dick, as if he would have dropped dead if Francesco hadn’t agreed to this madness once more.
Madness, yes, because what else could it be? He’s a priest. He’s supposed to abhor the sin of fornication. He’s not supposed to be attracted to anybody, let alone someone who’s got a dick just like him. He’s supposed to pursue sanctity and yet, here he is, stuffing his cock inside another guy’s mouth – a guy he’s in love with.
A guy he’s in love with.
What could this possibly be, other than madness?
He’s supposed to be better than this. Holier than this. But Marco’s mouth around his dick is nothing of the sorts, and Francesco is only a man. A man that’s tangling his fingers in another man’s curls, letting out a stream of moans that could put a whore to shame, arching his back whenever Marco’s experienced tongue flicks across the tip, gently pushing into the slit, then back along the shaft, following the path of his veins to the base, where he resumes his sucking with religious fervor.
His thoughts are moving in an agonizing slow motion. He knows he’s going to come soon, and he knows Marco won’t pull away even if he explicitly asked him, so he just surrenders to it, leaning his back heavily into the cream colored wall that scratches him, coarse and textured as it is. He should have fixed it but, in his defense, he couldn’t predict he would have ended up like this, pinned to the wall and groaning, with a guy kneeling between his parted legs, sucking him off with passion and technique. He comes with his eyes shut, but he’s well aware of what he’s doing and with whom. The sounds Marco’s overworked throat makes as he dutifully swallows all of his cum are something Francesco will never forget.
“Don’t you ever dare try to dump me again, father…” Marco says, still on his knees, his voice somewhat hoarse, a couple of octaves lower than it should be. Now Francesco finally understands the term deepthroating, for how unpleasant it sounds.
“Please, don’t –”
“Don”t what?”
Francesco pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing his watery eyes until they sting a little. There’s a rustling sound, Marco’s hands on his hips, stroking slightly. When he finally gathers enough courage to look at him, Marco is naked, his head tilted on the side, the small loop dangling from his ear catching on the dim light from the floor lamp Francesco must have switched on without even realizing while they were stumbling towards the bed…and failing spectacularly at it.
“Don’t call me father when…when we’re –” He breaks off, breath shaky.
Marco frowns.
“Oh, sorry. Should I call you daddy instead?”
Unfortunately, Francesco is too busy reveling in the sensation of Marco’s hands stroking his thighs and buttocks to let Marco’s inappropriate humor ruin the mood.
“Father,” he says again, tugging at his golden crucifix to pull him closer, his breath hot and bubblegum-vape sweet as Francesco inhales mouthfuls.
His heart skips a beat, and then some – Marco leans in, kisses the cross reverently before letting it go. It bounces on Francesco’s chest, as devastating as a wrecking ball, heavy with all the things he should repent for, all the things he should beg forgiveness for while on his knees, like a good chastised christian…like the man he will never be again.
When their lips meet, Marco’s mouth tastes like his cum – acrid, salty. Francesco wants to recoil from how hot it feels, but there’s an unexpected tenderness to it, a gentleness that makes him feel lightheaded and that’s so different from the rabid hunger with which Marco has sucked his dick. Now, he’s almost pacified, cupping his cheeks with reverent palms, calloused from work and industrial handwashing paste. It’s like Francesco’s chest has been cracked open like a walnut, exposing the throbbing organ beneath; love, madness. Is there even a difference between the two? The crucifix that mounts guard over his bed doesn’t answer his question.
“Marco…”
On his mouth, Marco whispers the softest “will you fuck me, father?” and Francesco’s brain short circuits for a long, excruciating moment.
He will.
He will.
He wants.
He wants like he’s never wanted before, not even when he was barely out of his teens, studying in a seminar alongside another dozen boys, each with their own jets to cool – back then, it was easier to think that hands and mouths had no gender, therefore feeling less guilty for sneaking into this or that guy’s bed a couple of nights a week. But he didn’t want like he wants now, didn’t want them like he wants Marco. Dazed, he nods, and they kiss again until they’re both breathless and panting before climbing into the narrow bed - a queen sized mattress made to accommodate only one person - where he stares in wonder at the tight pull of Marco’s well defined muscles, his slim little waist, the perfect fit for his hands when he grabs his hips, barely resisting the urge to pinch until the skin bruises.
That’s the extent of his want.
Could God ever forgive such greed?
Could God ever forgive him?
“I don’t have a condom,” he finds himself saying, feeling awfully stupid for it. Marco’s chuckle is soft and playful as he pulls him in for another kiss, his mouth already far too pink and too swollen.
“Me neither. But I have lube in my jeans pockets, if you want to fetch it.”
Francesco obeys. He’s not going to ask him why he goes around with lube in his pockets, even though he has a couple of theories, but it’s fine, it would have been a terrible fuck otherwise.
Marco is flexible, and he can easily spread himself open in front of him, long legs tucked to his chest and ass propped up on a pillow, obscenely on display. He says he attends yoga classes; Francesco has never had any trouble believing him, given how pliant he is, almost boneless. There’s a lovely little mole right on his rim, perfectly round, and Francesco’s finger strokes right there first. Marco hisses, and Francesco is under the impression that the crucifix hanging over them is scowling at the sight.
“Wait,” he lets out, finding his voice a little strained. He removes his golden cross first, putting it on the nightstand next to a book he should have finished reading at least two weeks ago, then, showing off a bit of his own athleticism himself, the crucifix hanging from the wall. Marco laughs, but there’s no real bite in it, only dopamine-fueled amusement.
“Oh, right, you don’t want the big boss to see…”
Lecturing Marco on how the Holy Spirit is always around would be not only useless, but also counterproductive when they’re both naked and Marco’s dick is as hard as post, so he decides to scoff instead, asking once again for forgiveness when he realizes he’s put the Lord in his socks drawer – mom, dad, Carola. I hate to break it to you, but I’ve been excommunicated for vilifying the cross while fucking around with another man in my bed. Also, I am gay. What’s for dinner?
A gentle nudge from Marco is enough to pull him out from his overthinking head, the sight in front of him way more palatable than thinking about going back to his family excommunicated and out of the closet. Marco isn’t ripped, but he’s lean and strong, both from working as a mechanic in his dad’s shop and hitting the gym regularly, and he’s beautifully delicate without looking less masculine for it.
He’s got a nipple piercing. Francesco bends over to graze his teeth across the tiny metal bar, pulling it a little with his teeth. He had almost forgotten how foreign the sensation in his mouth was, how the metal could absorb Marco’s heat and come off warm against the tip of his tongue, how Marco turned instantly into a ball of soft moans the second Francesco started playing with his nipple. He’s always found it fascinating, how reactive Marco is.
His pupils are dilated, huge. If Francesco could look at his own reflection in a mirror, he would see his own matching. His fingers are trembling so much it makes coating them with lube look like the most difficult task in the world.
He slips in, slowly but steadily, knuckle deep. One finger, the curl of it hitting something soft and swollen inside Marco. He keeps stroking his prostate, mouth agape as he watches him squirm on the bedsheets, fisting them so hard he could rip them. Two fingers. The resistance of Marco’s muscles, clenching around them stubbornly as his throat fills up with little begging gasps. Three fingers. The stretch, and legs closing around Francesco’s waist, a silent prayer. It might as well have been an hour or a week, and Francesco couldn’t care, not when he’s prepping Marco up and feeling his dick harden again, inflating like a balloon with each sound spilling from Marco’s flushed chest.
“I think you’re ready.”
Honestly, Francesco can’t even fathom how he summoned enough voice to speak. The room is swimming around him when he finally pushes in, the ring of muscles now loose and welcoming, warmed up by his fingers. Inside, he’s scorching hot, tight to the point of making it very difficult for Francesco not to come right away. His mouth goes very dry, very quickly, and before he can collect himself he’s whimpering, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes, his vision suddenly blurry at the edges.
Forgive me, Lord, forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. Oh Lord, I’m begging you, forgive a sinner.
When he looks down to Marco, his face is slack with pleasure, his cheeks blotched red, like appetizing strawberries. Francesco drags his lips across the bridge of his nose, tongue swirling where his cheekbones turn into hollows, sucking slightly at the quirked corner of his mouth.
He’s never fucked so tenderly, nor so nasty. A contradiction that could sum up well the kind of situation he’s gotten himself into. Misguided, lost, unable to choose in which direction he should go next.
But for now, he’s inside Marco, and Marco is writhing and twitching all around him, holding him in place with desperate limbs, and that’s enough to make everything else shrink in comparison.
He could have this. He can have this. Oh, Lord, he can have this. He needs to stifle a wail when he suddenly realizes he can have this, Marco will let him have this, the Lord will let him have this.
Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, forgive –
Marco comes with a high-pitched whimper. Even though he’s aware he’ll lead Marco to overstimulation, Francesco chases his own release, fast and frantic, until pleasure hits him like a truck launched at full speed right into his chest, a devastating impact that breaks all of his bones at once, disintegrating him and then putting him back together at odd angles. Marco is holding him tight, holding him together, and he’s whispering sweet nothings into his sweaty hair, while Francesco can only pant open-mouthed against his collarbone, his heart still beating so loudly all the sounds around him feel muted, kind of filtered out.
He dozes off for something like ten minutes, lulled by the heat coming off in waves from Marco’s soft-limbed body wrapped around his own. When his spent dick slips out of Marco, Francesco feels some sort of a phantom pain tugging at his heartstrings – he’s not supposed to feel like this, content, filled to the brim with that kind of luminous joy he should only draw from the care of souls. He’s not supposed to feel as fulfilled as he feels after praying the rosary, now that he’s staying in bed with Marco and basking in the warmth of his tender, ever loving embrace.
It’s wrong.
It must be wrong.
He slightly turns towards his sock drawer, and his crucifix is still there, still slightly judgy.
Oh, God, what have I done?
“Stop overthinking, Franci. Stop. Just look at me now, hm? Look at me.”
By God, he does. He’s a foolish heartsick idiot, drowning in his lover’s eyes. Marco’s gaze is softer with the afterglow, less feverishly intense. Dangerous even like this, when he’s pacified and stroking his back, humming under his breath. Francesco reaches for his cheek, cupping it. All of his body is made of lead, heavier than a sack full of bricks.
“What are we going to do now?” He hears himself asking. The Lord, confined in the sock drawer, doesn’t answer, but Marco does.
“I think we should eat first. Aren’t you hungry, father?”
As much as he hates when Marco calls him like that, Francesco can’t help but nod. He is famished, after all, and Turbo must be too.
“You remember you can’t sleep here, right?”
Marco pulls his face in a displeased wince, even though he doesn’t stop stroking his back.
“Don’t remind me. So, what are you making for dinner?”
Francesco sighs. At least the tension headache is gone, for now. He’ll remember to thank the Lord for it, in between his repentance sessions.
Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. And I will sin again, he quietly prays.
Even if he strains his ears, he can’t hear God’s voice anywhere.
Maybe the silence is fully deserved.