The church was very old and had likely been funded by some rich dude who whored, killed, and sinned his entire life and thought such an act could buy him God’s favor, but what Emil didn’t like about religion didn’t affect his appreciation of sacral art.
The church was the relic of times long gone, though the modern tabernacle spoiled the beauty of the whole setup. The tiny cupboard was made of metal too new and shiny to fit in with its antique surroundings, which was made even more obvious by the proximity of the old-fashioned eternal flame right next to it. He wasn’t an expert, but the monstrance kept inside the container was not only antique but also made of precious metals, so maybe he shouldn’t wonder why the pastor had decided to replace the old, somewhat flimsy tabernacle with one that offered more security.
Emil startled in his seat when the door behind the altar screeched, but then Adam entered wearing the somber cassock that covered him like a medieval robe. A serene expression didn’t leave his face when he briefly captured Emil’s gaze, invading Emil’s solitary space like a being that existed just to taunt him. Despite Adam being an outsider from Warsaw, he’d already seemed to have made friends, and had woven himself into the fabric of the village as if he’d lived in Dybukowo his whole life.
Emil watched Adam walk toward the carved wooden confessional, unsure whether he wanted company or solitude, and, this endless dichotomy was driving him mad.
It appeared as if Adam were intent on ignoring Emil’s presence, but as he touched the heavy green curtain obscuring the middle of the wardrobe-sized box, he did look back at him. “Would you like to talk?”
“No.”
Adam licked his lips. “If you change your mind, I will be here. I doubt a line is about to form. Few parishioners come to confession at this time.”
Emil stared daggers into him, angered that the offer of a conversation was really an invitation to a religious rite. Was Adam suggesting Emil had something to confess after Zofia’s death?
“So… I’ll just— talk to you another time,” Adam mumbled and fled behind the curtain.
Emil groaned and rubbed his forehead. Had he been too harsh? The two of them had been playing a game of cat and mouse since the night of the young priest’s arrival, but ‘play’ didn’t mean actually hurting his prey. Adam was uptight, and rode a high horse, but he’d never been unkind to Emil.
Except for that one time when he’d lost his cool at Emil for touching his hand.
Emil would love to see that kind of flush on Adam’s face again.
They didn’t know each other, they barely spoke, but when Adam looked into his eyes, it felt like he saw Emil, not Old Słowikowa’s grandson, not a black sheep, or the resident metalhead Satanist, but the person he was. And in the brief moments they’d shared, Emil didn’t feel so alone.
Or maybe it just was his dick talking.
Either way, once Emil made sure they were alone in the church, he rose and walked loudly so that Adam could hear him coming.
The big box of wood had an intimidating effect on Emil. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t religious, or that he only planned to have a conversation. When he slid behind the curtain at the side, into the dark space that smelled of dust and wood polish, the sight of Adam’s face behind the wooden lattice made him briefly forget about all the pain beyond the confessional. He kneeled.
“How are you feeling?” Adam asked.
Emil took a deep breath. The last time he’d been to confession was at sixteen, right before his confirmation. At that time, he was in the process of leaving religion behind, but Grandpa had insisted it was the thing to do, so Emil went with it to keep him happy.
He hated talking about his feelings. All it had ever brought him was heartache, so he kept that wall high when he answered. “I’m fine. I was bored and decided to see my favorite priest.”
So it was a whole load of horseshit. It didn’t matter what he said as long as Adam was there to listen.
Adam took a deep breath that echoed through the hollow piece of furniture that provided them with an excuse to talk. “Did the police bother you yesterday? They told me it looked like an accident, but sometimes they don’t want to reveal what they found out.”
At least they weren’t talking about feelings. “They did come over, but it wasn’t like they had much to do other than take my statement, since a kid had seen Zofia attacked by the crows.” He stalled, staring at Adam’s face behind the wooden grate. They were separated yet close enough for it to feel intimate. “As a… man of faith, do you think it’s possible for the devil to interfere with people? Cause them bad luck?”
Adam’s lips stretched into a smile. “Are you asking me for my personal opinion or that of exorcists?”
Was that… flirting?
“You know the opinions of exorcists, Father?” Emil teased and rested his temple against the wood, comforted as if Adam’s gaze was sunshine at the cusp of the summer.
Adam shrugged, seeming more relaxed now that there was a physical barrier between to keep them from jumping each other’s bones. “I’ve met one or two. Don’t tell anyone, but I think some of them are nuts. That is my personal opinion. Satan doesn’t just spoil cow’s milk like demons in old wives’ tales. His actions are more subtle. He courts us with promises of something pleasing, only to push us off the cliff when we least expect it. Metaphorically speaking, of course.”
“Is that something you encountered back in Warsaw?”
Adam rested his head against the lattice, and some of his pale hair snuck through it, as if it was reaching out to Emil. “Everyone has to deal with temptation. There are no true saints. Just look at how hard they tried to find witnesses to miracles for some of the recent beatifications. It’s easy enough to believe someone who lived two thousand years ago could have been this perfect human being who spoke to animals or made someone’s leg grow back, but even the best people sin, and the good they do is extraordinary in a mundane way.”
Emil snorted and moved his head so that it was aligned with Adam’s. “Blasphemy. Are you suggesting John Paul the second, the one and only pope who ever mattered, doesn’t deserve sainthood? You think that miraculous healing he supposedly performed didn’t actually happen?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Adam said, although he absolutely did.
This was fun.
“Why even become a priest if you can’t be a saint?”
Adam met his gaze, and for once kept it, pushing his hooks into Emil and anchoring him in the confessional. “I’ve always wanted to be a priest. My mom’s very religious, so I spent a lot of time in our local church. There was this particular priest, who was really good with children. Everyone liked him. He’d organize trips, and games, and he played the guitar so well. I suppose I idolized him a little bit. My Dad freaked out when he found me pretending I was celebrating mass in my room, but years later, I’m doing it for real.”
“So your parents supported your decision?”
Adam nodded. “Mom was always very worried for my soul, so I suppose she believes I’m safer this way,” he said, and for a moment, thick silence hung between them as Adam stared at his hands. Was he contemplating his very obvious interest in Emil and how his cassock offered zero protection from lust?