Chapter 24

Draft

____

No doubt, you made a mistake. You have to repent, you need to repent, and that you'll do.

Not every clergyman's house has a confession room, but every priest's house has at least a small chanting hall with a bit of modification. The confessional was set up the first year you moved, but wasn't used until you met Lemuel. Every subsequent night, after the lights go out, you'll spend an hour inside the confessional. The light stretches the shadow of the cross to be very long, and the sound of the rattan whip gets absorbed by the four well-insulated walls. Your back turns hot at first, and then becomes cold. You deeply regret it, as always.

You recite the penance over and over again, you don't know if it'll cleanse your soul, but at least it'll empty your mind. When you don't, you'd always think about Lemuel.

His red hair is stuck with sweat and the sexual redness darkens the pale scars, his lips are full cherries, his eyes like fire, and his body the embodiment of hell in the stories. The heat, the sin, the quagmire and the attraction. "Enoch," he says, the last time someone called you that was five years ago, and the last time you've been addressed by it probably more than ten years ago. They don't call you by name, they call you "Father" or something. The name has no meaning, it's just a symbol, but when Lemuel calls you things seem to be different.

He call you while his body rests on yours, his hands hold your cheeks, his lips kiss your lips, when he looks at you. Lemuel's sweat fall on you, your semen is still in his body, and he lets the heat smack on you, inside your chest. He calls your name inside your mouth, and the word suddenly seem to make sense. You begin to subtly understand why Lemuel reacts so much when you call his name in the chaos.

You are guilty, the evidence is clear. No need to tell your teacher or siblings, any bystander would shake their head at the situation you're in— a half-blood demon lingers in your mind, and you're having sex with a man with no other thought than lust¹. If your father knew, he would've told you that this was a test from God, "The Son of God is tempted by the devil!" You can imagine what he would say, "This is a test for you, Enoch, you must..."

You must repent, you are repenting. You have to repent. You... you're not sure.

Sometimes after leaving the confessional, you'd go to the living room to see Lemuel and wonder if the endless stream of demon-obsessed thoughts had been washed away by your confessions. Lemuel would be asleep on the sofa, the light of the TV shining on him. At this time, he isn't as sharp as when he's awake, he won't look into your eyes, he won't have a reaction that'll catch you off guard, and he shouldn't have much impact on you. But when you watch him breathe lightly, just breathing, you'd want to reach out and push the dangling strands of hair aside. You can touch him, his forehead, his cheek, or the hand hanging from the blanket, anywhere you want.

The sound from the TV is barely audible, and you stand beside Lemuel, feeling the sound of his respiration fill the room, like the waves from the ocean in the middle of the night. You want to soak your hands in this unassuming tide, in the warm summer night this tide might even carry the temperature of the sun.

This longing becomes heavier and heavier, regardless of time or occasion. You're standing behind Lemuel watching him cook, his hair is tied up and showing the back of his neck; a patch of skin that's inexplicably alluring. You want to touch it there, with your fingers, with the back of your hand, with your forehead, with your lips, anything. You have to force yourself to stand by the kitchen door and resist this sinful urge. It's as hard to hide as a cough and as permanent as a toothache. Lemuel hands you the plate, you take it, spin it, and run your fingers over the places he touched, the heat that remained on it quickly dissipates. You rub the edge of your plate like a goat licking a cliff for salt.

The sexual intercourse have disrupted your life. You're overwhelmed, as if suffering from a strange disease that you've never had before. Luckily you're not the only one who doesn't know what to do.

Lemuel never mentioned it again, but it clearly affected him as well. He'll occasionally suddenly leave in the middle of a conversation, leaving you to go to another room. Sometimes he'd blurt out your name and then quickly become silent. There's a palpable agitation, pursed lips and piercing eyes, like your very presence distracts him. Sometimes he'll get close to you again, deliberately sitting near you, quiet and peaceful, like just staying there gives him a peace of mind.

Some days Lemuel gets mad at you for reasons you don't quite understand. When he calms down, he'll apologize to you— not the same kind of apology from waking him up from a nightmare. You can tell the difference between the two and feels that his apology is more sincere to you, no it should be that he doesn't think he'll die or worse if he doesn't apologize- at least not as much as he used to- he just wants to say to you for getting mad at you.

You aren't unhappy about his moodiness, on the contrary, sympathy surges in your heart. The abnormality of you two makes it difficult to maintain everyday regularity, but it gives you an inexplicable peace of mind. You're glad that you're not the only one who's in chaos.

At least some of the time, you can be at peace with each other.

The soup boils in the pot, and the potatoes, beef and cheese blends into a warm aroma. It's been raining these days and there's a sweltering dampness everywhere, Lemuel announces that he should eat something warm- but you think it's mainly because he likes it. He likes high-calorie and packed food, you secretly guess that it's probably related to his frequent hunger. If it weren't for your loss of consumption recently, you'd definitely gain weight.

The processed ingredients have been stuffed in the pot, a small fire is lit on the stove and the pot of soup slowly simmers. There's still some time before it's finished, Lemuel sits back on the sofa, changing the channel carelessly, and finally stops at a half-played movie.

This is a war movie, probably, most movies these days are related to war. Dirt spills down the heights from traces of human ammunition; tumbleweeds lit by wires ran about pretending to be fiendish fireballs. You could easily see the simplicity of this camouflaged battlefield, and of course Lemuel can to. He moans as a "corpse" falls, and complains that the hero who dug such a poor trench deserves to be hit in the face by a fireball. You're sitting on the other side of the sofa, a meter away from Lemuel, and even though he sees you out of the corner of his eye, he doesn't say anything.

A few minutes later, you find the reason why they've been so lazy for the battlefield. The beautiful heroine with light coloured hair rushes into the hospital and slams into the hero's arms. This isn't a war movie but a romance movie. Lemuel sighs, because the other few channels on the television were either playing commercials or worse. He just watched the TV with lack of interest, he didn't change channels.

"What if your face changes? Your eyes are still like sapphire and your heart is still like a diamond!" says the heroine (Lemuel mutters "I bet this movie was sponsored by a jeweler" or something), the hero and heroine exchanges a few words with each other, and then they kiss fiercely. The camera beautifully rotates a full three hundred and sixty degrees. The heroine has one foot raised, with heels high enough to kill people.

The film presents various lines one after another, only the background music was left this time. Lemuel snorts, his disapproval for it being too dramatic, but he doesn't say anything to break the atmosphere.

So the room full of various chatter fell silent, no words, only the violin playing a melodious tune. The sunlight on the screen shines through the window of the ward. Unlike now, it's a sunny day with the sounds of birds and flowers. Off the screen, soup from the kitchen gurgles, the second hand of the grandfather clock in the living room ticks forward one second at a time, and the sound of rain crackles against the window, filtering out outside sounds and turning your house into an island. The heroine hooks the neck of the hero, you're one meter away from Lemuel and whether he's sitting or not, his hand on the back of the sofa is only less than five centimeters away from you. It's too close. You turn your head to look at him quietly, he squints at the TV, you wonder what he's thinking.

Then, suddenly, an aura appeared in your heart.

It came so suddenly and violently, you don't know why and you can't think of a reason. It smashes the dam you've built in your heart, perhaps only the Holy Spirit's calling in the scriptures could match such a strong power. You've been very good, you've been repenting every day, you've been repenting. You haven't touched Lemuel for 190 hours and 27 minutes, not even with your hands, you can't even get close to him, or you'll suspect that you'll have sex, sticking to him with a thud, like a nugget too close to a magnet. And then you think, you think for no reason, suddenly and uncontrollably; It's time, now. Now.

You approach him, lean towards him, you kiss him, as eagerly they do in the show, without raising your feet. You don't move too fast, you have about a moment or two of action and you suspect you'll hesitate before the distance you'll actually meet, but no, your lips press together at once, like two magnetic poles colliding. Lemuel kisses you back, as eager as you are without asking why.

It wasn't the pure and innocent kiss of that day, Lemuel opens his mouth and licks your lips. Your surprised voice is swallowed by him, his tongue wrapps around yours, it feels weird, but good. You swallow uncontrollably, maybe trying to swallow the constant flow saliva, maybe you want to eat that soft and flexible tongue. You feel a visceral thirst, and you're not sure exactly what you want to eat.

You haven't learned how to breathe while kissing, the lack of oxygen makes you dizzy. All the sounds are gone, the world is quiet, the organ plays in your head. That's the problem, when you get too close to Lemuel, he can give you some scary delusions that everything but the two of you isn't worth caring about. You hug him tightly, and after more than 190 hours, you finally absorb his body temperature again. It's not an impulse, when you hug him, the emotion in your heart really has nothing to do with sex, that feeling is like hugging life itself. You thank God for letting you have life.

Lemuel is kissing you, his hand in your hair. His claws are on your scalp, he can pierce your skull if he wants to, and you don't care, at least not now. You're breathing rapidly, your lips and tongues make sticky water sounds, and the temperature seems to be getting higher. Who told you to stick together. Just kissing, you think, not sex. But when Lemuel unzips you, you have no resistance.

He pulls out your semi-hard cock and sticks it to his. He's holding your hand and jerking you both off, no penetration, but it still feels great. You've been kissing, getting so close, rubbing your ears, and caressing each other, and you feel like your brain is simmering and boiling too. Even after ejaculation you don't separated, you stick together like you've been born as one.

In the end, the burning smell separates you. Lemuel cusses and hurries into the kitchen. You sit on the sofa, still dizzy, like you just had a heat stroke. When you look down, you see the white sperm spots on your black vest.

How indecent².

You touch your lips, and your lips are itchy, maybe a little red. You're still hungry, but you're satiated, like your mind and body had been fed. You turn your head, from the open door you could see the kitchen, Lemuel is cursing while saving the forgotten pot of soup, he doesn't care about his messy hair and clothes, anyway, this is your home, there's no one else.

You make mistakes, and you make mistakes again and again. You need deep and strict repentance. You'll repent, of course you will.

But you realize that you won't repent.

You're willing to spend twice as long in repentance, and stay every day for the rest of your life in the confession room from dusk until dawn. You can wear a crown of thorns on your head and put thorn bush on your feet and trek all the way to the sanctuary to confess your sins to the Father, the Holy Spirit and the Pope. You'll confess, but you won't repent.

You think it's worth it.

____

Notes:

1- It was a bit confusing, it said think about him the whole time and seemed a little redundant. I went a bit out of the way but I think that's what it was trying to express

2- More like fallen or sinned or something of that expression. Hadn't thought of a perfect adjective so I'm putting it off for now

____

PastTimer: An unexpectedly heart warming chapter 😭😭😭 I'll (maybe) update this again tomorrow!