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Thomas was out of sorts from the moment the morning bell rang. He dragged himself to prayers late, his long hair mussed, his breviary forgotten on the nightstand. He clutched only his rosary, knuckles white around the beads, winding and unwinding them through his fingers like a child refusing to let go of his mother’s hand. His lips moved in prayer, but it was soft, distracted, more muttering than devotion.
At breakfast, he barely touched his food. He sat hunched over at the end of the table, distancing himself from the other boys, staring at his plate as though the eggs themselves had wronged him. When one of the brothers teased him to eat before it got cold, Thomas pressed the crucifix of his rosary to his lips and turned away. The gesture might have seemed pious, but there was something brittle, almost petulant, in it, like he was shielding himself from the world behind those beads.
By midmorning, he had vanished into one of the common rooms, stretched out on a faded sofa with the rosary wrapped so tightly around his fist that his knuckles had turned pale yet again. He laid there with his head tilted against the armrest, refusing to join in study, refusing to do anything at all. Anyone who passed through saw the same sight: Thomas listless, moody, half-curled like a sulking boy, the occasional whisper of Hail Mary slipping from his lips.
When the bell rang for the midday homily, Thomas shook his head violently and refused to move. “I’m not going,” he hissed. “I’m not. You can't make me go.” He knew what was coming. He knew it would be for him. Father John had heard his confession every day that week. Aldo had heard it too, just last night, when Thomas had finally admitted the truth out loud. The lust wasn’t a secret, not here. Everyone in the seminary knew of his weakness, his long war with desire, and the whole town knew as well, for Thomas was very attractive.
His beauty had always been remarked upon, from the market women who clicked their tongues at the sight of him, to the farmers who shook their heads knowingly, to the young girls who blushed when he passed in the square. There was a kind of inevitability in it, the way people spoke of him, as though temptation were stitched into his very face, and every whispered word about him seemed to drive the shame deeper. They had counseled him, prayed for him, tried to back him, and Aldo, the one at the center of it all, knew most of all, knew that Thomas wanted him, not only with restless hunger but with a yearning he couldn’t tear out of himself.
It took the mother of the visiting sisters, Mother Elizabeth, a small, silver-haired woman, to coax him into a side room. She shut the door and sat across from him, speaking gently, like a mother to her child. Thomas wouldn’t explain what was wrong; he just clutched his rosary, sniffled, and let her fuss over him. She smoothed his hair, told him she would walk him to the service herself, and reminded him that God loved him even when he could not love himself.
“Isaiah 41:10,” she said softly, “‘Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.’”
He nodded weakly, and finally let her lead him inside. One of the older brothers sat beside him in the pew, soothing him when he shook.
Though, as Thomas had imagined, Father John’s homily was merciless. Ruthless in its assault of sin. His voice thundered through the chapel, sharp and unyielding: lust was a rot, a defilement of the body, a poison to the soul. The sermon wasn’t named, it couldn’t be, as Father John was bound by the laws of the confessional, but everyone knew who it was aimed at: Thomas. “Lust eats away at the soul like a parasite,” Father John spat. “It makes the body a temple defiled.” Each word drove Thomas further inward, pressing the rosary so tightly to his chest it left a welt. His tears, which had almost stopped, returned in a hot, unrelenting flood. By the end, he was trembling, trying and failing miserably to hold back his cries, curling in on himself even as the older brother tried to keep him upright. The shame, an open secret, was aired again, undeniable.
When they got back to the common room, Thomas huddled into the corner, knees drawn up, crying openly now, his beautiful face painted with tears. A father and a brother sat beside him, stroking his hair just as Mother Elizabeth had, offering quiet solace while he wept into his sleeve. Helpless.
The seminary knew what to do with these spells. Thomas would sink deep, inconsolable, and the whole house bent toward him, worried he might break. He hated it, but he couldn’t control it; the spells came like weather, and he had to endure them or try, always in vain, to hide them.
Yet even in these moments of exposure, there was a quiet admiration, though unspoken. Thomas’ vulnerability, so raw, so unguarded, made him, paradoxically, seem strong. He felt the full force of his emotions rather than hiding them, and that honesty drew eyes. The older seminarians noticed it, as well as the fathers, quietly respecting it, and the women who visited the seminary, even if the world frowned upon overt displays of emotion, found it strangely magnetic: the boy who wept openly at Mass, moved to tears by the crucifixion, was not weak, he was devoted, courageous, alive in a way that demanded attention.
This time, though, humiliation burned hotter compared to any sadness. “It isn’t fair,” he whispered hoarsely to Father Michael, who had crouched near his chair. His words came in ragged gasps between weeps. “He preaches at me. Always me. Everyone knows it. Why does he do it? Why me?”
Father Michael laid a strong hand on his shoulder, his voice gentle but firm. “Because you are not alone,” he said quietly. “And because God’s mercy is with you, even in the darkest moments. You will endure this, Thomas. You will not break.”
Thomas shook him off instinctively, though the comfort made his chest ache all the same. “He made me a spectacle,” he pressed on, his voice climbing, broken. “As though I stood there filthy before them all. He wants me ashamed. He wants me ruined.” His face crumpled. “I confessed. I’ve prayed. I’ve done everything they said—what more can I do? It doesn’t leave me. It won’t leave me.”
He tried to pull himself together, forcing his gaze away from Father Michael, but it faltered. His eyes drifted across the room, and for a moment they landed on Aldo, sitting quietly a few paces away. That single glance sent a jolt through him. His stomach twisted with shame and longing both, and the tears he had been trying to stifle returned with a vengeance. He pressed the rosary to his chest as if it could shield him from the heat of desire, rocking slightly, sobbing harder, wishing he could vanish entirely.
While Thomas’ heart burned, the others filled the silence with their own guesses, weaving stories from Father John’s homily. Lust, yes, that much was obvious, but they imagined some girl in town, the ones who might want him in return, a passing face, the usual. By God, they had no idea.
He wanted another seminarian.
Thomas had confessed it once, the gender of the person, haltingly, to Father John, who had not turned a blind eye. His sin was no less vile, John said, for being aimed at a man. Lust was rot, no matter its object, its target, and Thomas never felt the need to add the detail again. Lust was lust, evil, wicked, an offense against God but seeing Aldo made it feel worse. The longing that gnawed at him now burned alongside the humiliation, and Thomas wanted nothing more than to disappear away from judgment, away from desire, away from himself.
The silence stretched too long, thick with whispers and sideways glances. Father Michael, worried by the boy’s unrelenting sobs and sudden bursts of anger, gave a discreet signal to one of the seminarians. Minutes later, the door opened. When Thomas saw Father John enter, flanked by two boys, his sobs broke into sharp, frantic cries. He pressed his sleeve hard against his face, whining like a child, as though John’s very presence undid him further.
Father John’s expression was grave but gentle. He lowered himself slowly into a crouch, speaking faintly, careful not to startle.
“Brother Lawrence,” he said. “Brother Thomas Lawrence.” His tone carried weight, but also a tenderness reserved for the broken. The broken now being Thomas.
Lawrence shook his head violently, rocking harder, his tears soaking his sleeve.
“Son,” John murmured then, with more warmth, “my child. What troubles you so deeply? Tell me. Let me bear it with you.” The words floated between them, earnest and attentive, but Thomas could not receive them. His breath came in heaves, his face buried, his body curled in upon itself as though to shut the priest out completely.
John tried again, his hand hovering near Thomas’ shoulder but not touching. “You do not have to carry it alone. Speak to me. Tell me what is weighing on your heart.”
But Thomas only sobbed harder, twisting further into the corner, refusing to look at him. The more gently John spoke, the more Thomas’ silence seemed to harden, his shame thickening like mortar between them.
At last, John straightened, a shadow of sadness in his face. He insisted Thomas had to be taken out with the others. The boys were going to the shops, and he demanded Thomas join them. Tom needs the outside, Father said, as though it were a medicine to cure what churned inside.
One of the boys lifted Tom gently to his feet, but he fussed, wriggling and protesting, pushing against them with hot hands. He snapped and kicked, red-cheeked, his voice breaking into sharp cries. Tears streaked down his face in angry lines. The rage sat awkwardly on him, like a garment that no longer fit; stroppy and taut, he looked less like a grown man of twenty-something years than a sulking boy who had never learned how to bear himself.
Seeing Thomas struggle and push harder, Father Michael stepped in quickly, placing a firm hand on his shoulder to prevent him from striking out. He glanced at Aldo and, without fully understanding why, guided him gently toward Thomas. Aldo hesitated for only a moment, then reached out. His hand brushed Thomas’ arm. Thomas stiffened, twisting, flinching, but not away. There was something in Aldo’s presence he could not resist, something that made the resistance both unbearable and necessary.
Aldo crouched slightly, steadying him, letting his weight fall lightly against Thomas so that he could be led. Thomas whimpered, still wishing he could retreat to his room, still unable to understand why it hurt so much to be so near Aldo, why desire coiled with shame and humiliation, knotting his stomach as tightly as the grip on his wrist. Still, he went, unwillingly obedient, because the Fathers expected him to move, and Aldo was there to carry him forward.
They herded him along, like a lost little sheep, his body jolted beside them, dragged more than led. Their own Parable of the Lost Sheep. He was still whimpering when they passed the lake on the way there, still crying into Aldo’s ear.
Though when his eyes locked on the lake, he stopped dead in his tracks. His shoes scuffed the path, but he would not move another inch. His gaze had locked onto the water. Ducks floated there, gliding in pairs, tilting their heads beneath the surface before popping up again with drops shining on their beaks.
The sound of his own crying stilled. He stood there in the path like a child waking from a nightmare, chest rising and falling fast, eyes wide as if the sight had caught him off guard.
The others went ahead, already chattering about sweets and crisps and if the Fathers would scold them if they bought any, their voices drifting further down the road. Only Aldo lingered back. Against his own will. He tugged Thomas gently by the wrist, trying to pull him forward, but Thomas resisted, planted on the grass at the lake’s edge.
Aldo sighed, loosening his grip. He watched Lawrence’s face soften, a faint crease of wonder replacing the scowl. Tom’s sniffling, loud and abundant. The water mirrored the sky in broken ripples, and the ducks cut neat lines through it, trailing silver.
“Just a minute,” Aldo called to the other boys. They glanced back, saw he was handling it, to a certain extent, and moved on. He let Thomas linger beside him, watching. The ducks quacked and splashed, their movements unhurried, their rhythm so natural it seemed to hold him in place.
Aldo glanced at him sidelong. He couldn’t remember the last time Thomas had looked like that, unguarded, almost tender. Not since desire had begun to trouble him, his need for Aldo, raw and insistent, binding him with a longing he could neither confess nor cast off. In the quiet of his own room at night, Thomas would pace the floorboards or bury his face in the pillow, whispering prayers that withered on his tongue. Yet always the thought of Aldo returned; his voice, his nearness, the curve of his hand as he wrote at his desk. It left Thomas wretched, sleepless, aching with a hunger he despised, until even the silence of the seminary seemed to press in on him, heavy with the weight of what he could not escape.
“You like them?” Aldo asked suddenly, voice low, almost tentative.
Thomas didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the water, the ducks cutting through it in slow arcs.
Aldo rubbed his side, tender, coaxing. “Come on, Tommy,” he insisted, quieter this time. “We’ll see them on the way back, too. You can say hi to them later.”
Thomas blinked at him, head moving to look at him, lashes sticky with tears. He gave the smallest nod, but his feet dragged like lead as Aldo coaxed him back onto the path. His head turned once, twice, reluctant to lose sight of the lake.
Ahead, the others were laughing, already halfway to the shops, their voices warm and careless in the afternoon air. Aldo walked slowly to match Thomas’ pace, not rushing him. He stayed at his side until the street opened up, until the bright awnings and chatter of the market pressed in around them.
When they arrived at the shops, Thomas didn’t ask for anything. He simply sulked in silence near the exit, rosary pressed to his lips like a child clutching a blanket, his eyes flicking toward Aldo. Naturally, Aldo noticed. Quietly, he asked if Thomas wanted something to eat, knowing full well that Lawrence never touched his breakfast when his emotions ran high. He never touched any food during his episodes. It was worrying to say the least.
Aldo made his way over to the exit in due time, taking Thomas’ hand in his and offering an anchor. Thomas let himself be guided, yet again. When Bellini steered him toward the fruit, he reached for the first thing his fingers found, peaches, and held them close.
He liked them. They weren’t his favorite, not really, but right now he wanted them. That was enough; Lawrence had his mind had settled stubbornly on the choice, and he would not be moved on the matter.
Then, almost on impulse, near the bread, he grabbed half a baguette, mumbling about feeding the ducks on the way home. He thrust it at Aldo, insisting his hands were full. Bellini said nothing, an unusual restraint for him, but let it be.
“You can feed them on the way back,” Aldo murmured, attempting reassurance.
Thomas whined softly, as though the promise weren’t soon enough. Aldo gave his hand a squeeze. “Do you feel better now?” he asked.
Instead of answering, Thomas only clutched tighter, pressing his face against Aldo’s arm. His voice came muffled, childlike, “I want to feed them… I want to feed them so much.”
Aldo sighed, not in exasperation but with the patient fondness anyone who spent enough time with Thomas eventually learned. He had the face of an angel; porcelain pale skin, long lashes and soft mouth as though it was made for prayer only, but the devil lived in him just the same, restless and stubborn.
“You have to wait,” Bellini schooled him softly, a cheeky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He signaled to the other boys, handing off the peaches and bread for them to carry, but kept his arm firm around Thomas, holding him, indulging the little storm until it passed.
“You have to wait until everyone is finished in here… and then you can go feed the ducks.”
His other hand smoothed the damp strands from Thomas’ forehead, brushing them back. Then, lower, his fingers found Lawrence’s clenched one, the one still curled tight around the rosary. He stroked it lightly, coaxing. “Is that okay with you? You bossy boy.” he teased, voice lifting.
Thomas pressed against his shoulder, nodding. “I just want to feed the ducks,” whining louder now. “I’m not being bossy…”
Aldo leaned in, resting his forehead against the side of Thomas’ temple, smiling. Tom is being bossy and he knows it.
“Yes, you are… you’re being bossy,” he mumbled.
Lawrence, though taller in stature, let his head tilt down slightly, resting against Aldo’s shoulder. The closeness made Thomas’ heart thud painfully in his chest. He prayed Aldo couldn’t feel it.
By the time they made their way back outside, the city sun had shifted, painting gold across the streets. Bellini guided the group toward the lake, insisting they stop; no one argued, as no one wanted a miserable Thomas. The boys settled on the grassy bank, laughing, smoke curling up from their new packs of cigarettes, a few rolling their own with stained fingers, watching as Thomas tended to the ducks. Their chatter carried across the water; jokes, curses, the flick of lighters but they let Tom do what he wanted to.
He crouched near the bank, crumbling pieces of baguette into the water. The ducks swarmed eagerly, splashing and squawking, necks stretching toward every falling crumb. He watched them with wide, intent eyes, his expression softening as though the noise of the others had been shut out.
For a little while, Lawrence was quiet. The hard line of his shoulders eased. A faint, fleeting smile touched his face as he tossed another crust, almost like a boy again, far from Father John’s sermons or the whispering of the dormitory. He leaned forward, arm outstretched, as if tempted to let the ducks eat straight from his hand.
Behind him, one of the brothers called out through a plume of smoke, “Feed them all, Tom, and they’ll follow us home.”
The laughter that followed barely touched him. He kept his eyes on the water, the rosary still looped loosely around his wrist, beads catching the sunlight as he scattered another handful of bread. Aldo lingered back, watching. He didn’t laugh with the others. He noticed the way Thomas’ breathing had slowed, the way he stared at the water as though something in it had drawn him into another world. He had stopped crying, for once.
After what felt like 10 minutes, voices started to raise. “Come on, it’s time to go,” someone called, shouldering a bag of cigarettes.
Lawrence didn’t move. He crouched lower, eyes fixed, waiting for the ducks to scramble over one another for the last of the bread. His fingertips brushed the surface of the water.
“Tom.” Aldo’s voice was quiet, closer than the others. He reached down, hand brushing his sleeve. “Come on. They’ll leave us behind.”
Thomas looked up at him, blinking as though pulled from a dream. The faint smile was still there, soft, a little dazed. “Just one more,” he mumbled.
“No.” Aldo’s tone was firm, unrelenting. “Come on, Saint Francis, that’s enough. We need to go back. If we stay here any longer you’ll start preaching to them.” The corner of his mouth twitched when he said it, but his eyes stayed steady. Aldo reached down, plucked the last crust from Thomas’ hand, and tossed it into the water. The ducks surged at once, flapping and squawking, a greedy flurry.
“See? They’re fine without you,” Aldo muttered. “They need to forage, not be spoiled by your handouts.”
He caught Thomas by the arm and pulled him up, steadying him when he swayed. Thomas leaned in closer than necessary, shoulder brushing Aldo’s, dragging his feet as though every step back toward the seminary was an injustice. His gaze clung to the ducks splashing in the pond, and his mouth tightened in a familiar, bratty pout. A pout Aldo knew all too well.
“I don’t want to go back,” Thomas muttered, half to himself, half to Aldo. “It’s boring there. There’s nothing to do and the common room is going to reek of tobacco.”
Aldo only chuckled, giving his arm a small squeeze. “You’ll live. Besides, when we get back, you’ll have the peaches. All to yourself. Every single one.”
Thomas’ pout wavered. “The peaches?” He tried to sound unimpressed, but the interest slipped through.
“Mmhm,” Aldo said, grinning. “But only if you don’t run off to sulk in your room.”
Thomas sniffed, chin tilting up. “Maybe I’ll eat them in my room just to spite you.”
“You won’t,” Aldo replied easily. “You’ll want to beat me at chess too badly.”
That cracked Thomas’ façade. His eyes sparked, and though his lips still curved downward, a smile was threatening. “I am going to beat you. You’re the worst in the seminary.”
“Oh, sure I am, as if you’re any better,” Aldo retorted.
Thomas let out a dramatic sigh, but the bratty sulk had already softened into mischief. He stayed close at Aldo’s side, letting himself be steered along, the rosary clicking against his thigh in a steady rhythm that betrayed he was, in truth, perfectly content. He always was when he and Aldo were alone.
Once back at the seminary, Tom’s chest felt lighter, his sulk softening in the wake of Aldo’s presence. He was demanding now, craving attention, though his thoughts still lingered obsessively on the closeness of their bodies. The comfort should have been safe, familiar, brotherly, but now it carried a dangerous edge.
They sprawled across the rug in the common room, the bag of peaches dropped carelessly to the side as they set up a battered chessboard between them, while the other boys watched with piqued curiosity.
Tom’s fingers, still tacky from fruit juice, left smudges on the ivory pawns, prompting a groan from Aldo, and a stop in play, as he shook his head at the mess.
“Thomas, for fucks sake—don’t touch the pieces with those hands. Go clean them now.”
Tom only grinned, deliberately pressing his thumb into the knight’s carved head before sliding it forward. He chewed noisily on another bite of peach while Aldo scowled at the wet sheen glistening on the wood.
Every sticky chew, every exaggerated slurp, was meant to draw Aldo’s eyes, to demand something, anything, that would shatter the quiet between them.
“Wipe your face, Thomas,” Aldo muttered at last. “Stop being disgusting, please.”
Thomas laughed and leaned back on his elbows, letting Aldo clean up the mess. When Aldo plucked the mauled peach from his hand, wrapping what remained in a tissue so it wouldn’t drip through his fingers, Tom watched him too closely. His chest hurt at the sight of Aldo fussing over something so small.
Tom finished the tortured peach in a few hyperbolized, almost frantic munches, the juice slick on his fingers and dripping onto the table. Without pausing to wipe them, he grabbed the next fruit, Aldo handed it over without looking, already plotting his next move on the board. Thomas rolled the peach in his palms, its skin supple and warm from Aldo’s body temperature.
His mind betrayed him, lust sinking its fangs in. He pictured it split open, silk and soaked, ready for him, and from that thought, another bled through: Aldo, pliant beneath him, waiting.
The air seemed to thicken around him. Just holding that peach, just sitting across from Aldo while he leaned over the board in his easy, thoughtful way. It was unbearable. Heat pooled low in Tom’s body, his breath quickening, his thoughts twisting darker and darker to the point he could hardly see the board anymore.
It wasn’t only lust attacking him, it was Aldo’s gentleness. It was the way he steadied him on the walk back, the way he didn’t let the others laugh when Tom broke down, the way he simply stayed close without asking for anything. That tenderness carved him open, made the hunger inside him impossible to silence.
His knight slipped from his grip, sticky fingers leaving a smear across the square. Tom jolted, as though caught. Something inside him snapped; mischief, longing, shame, and raw hunger all colliding.
“I… I need to go to my room,” he blurted, rising so suddenly the chessboard rattled, pawns tumbling over. He clutched the fruit like an idol, avoiding Aldo’s eyes.
“Thomas? We haven’t even—” Aldo frowned, halfway to stopping him, but Tom was already moving toward the door, breath short, body burning, desperate to tend to his mess before it consumed him whole.
The sun had long since set, leaving the hallway in shadows that stretched and warped around him. Thomas nearly ran, stumbling up the stairs two at a time until he reached his room. He shut the door with a sharp slam, the echo rattling in his chest. The peach landed hard on his desk, and he stood over it, staring as though it were something alive. His throat was tight, his eyes burning, his whole body caught between panic and hunger. For a long moment, he couldn’t move.
He should never have confessed yesterday. He should never have let the words spill to Aldo, that forbidden admission: I want you, I touch myself thinking of you. It was wholly wrong. He should never have let Father John’s voice carve so deep into him, seeding shame that grew wild inside. He should not be here now, trembling with need, betraying every vow with the simplest weakness; desire.
Though his body moved without permission from his mind, in an instant his thumb drove into the velvet skin of the peach until it split with a wet pop, juice spilling hot and sticky across his palm. He tore it open, crude and desperate, the halves collapsing under his grip as though they had been waiting for this. A sound broke from him—“ahh—hnnh—ahh”—deep and gruff at first, then climbing into ragged pitches, each breath catching hard in his throat with every pull. His moans came unbidden, spilling out as freely as the fruit’s juice, running down his wrist, dripping onto the desk in slow, glistening trails. The slickness only drove him further, riling him until his body shook, until thought dissolved, until his mind drowned utterly beneath the flood.
The scent thickened in the room, sweet and overripe, cloying until it made his stomach knot. With a trembling hand he set his rosary on the bedside table, as though pushing it just out of reach might soften its judgment. But the beads still caught the lamplight, sharp and watchful, gleaming like a row of eyes that would not look away.
“Ahh—ahhh—ohh—” His voice broke on itself as he fumbled with his clothes, tearing at them in frantic jerks. Buttons slipped from his fingers, fabric snagged against his skin, every tug another desperate gasp, another betraying moan. By the time he was bare, shame burned hotter than the air in the room, licking across his chest and thighs. Yet still the sounds spilled out, “mmnhh—ahhh—hahh—” uncontrollable, needy, as if they had a will stronger than his own.
The moment his hand closed around himself, the groan that tore free was roaring, frightening in its force. “Ahh—Aldo—ngghhh—” His hips rocked without thought, his body moving as though it belonged to someone else. In his other hand, the peach sagged wet and broken, dripping against his wrist. He closed his eyes and it was no longer fruit. It was Aldo.
Aldo in dark robes, head bowed in the pews, lips moving soundlessly in prayer. Aldo’s slight grin when Thomas corrected another seminarian’s clumsy verse quoting, that flicker of amusement he tried to hide. Aldo’s body glistening with sweat when they played football in the courtyard, hair damp, his breath fast and careless in the sunlight. Aldo bending for him, opening for him, trusting him. The crude tear in the fruit was Aldo’s flesh. The wetness was Aldo’s welcome. And that thought terrified him, because it felt too real, because the pleasure made his chest ache like blasphemy, because he knew that in his cries there was something being broken, something holy being spat on.
And still he couldn’t stop.
Thomas gripped the peach, squeezed it, until juice leaked between his fingers, then climbed onto his bed and lay back, his body trembling with need. He didn’t wait for a moment. His thighs quivered as he brought the fruit down onto himself, impaling, pushing, thrusting upward into it with a hunger that bordered on madness.
“Aaahhh—haaahhh—aaahhh—” The sounds tumbled out of him, unrestrained, his chest rising in frantic bursts. He pressed a pillow to his face to muffle himself, but the mewls still came. Half-choked sobs tangled with ragged moans. “Nnnghh—ahhh—yaaaahh—hnnnhhh—” Each thrust dragged another broken sound from his throat, until his voice was raspy, irritated.
The peach was wrecked in his hold, though he didn’t care much, it served a purpose. He bucked against it like he could bury every unholy thought inside it, every want Aldo had awakened. Tears streamed down his cheeks as his sobs grew louder, his hips pounding aggressively, the pulp and juice smearing down his thighs, sticky and obscene.
His climax rose cutting and unbearable, pulling him to pieces. “Ahhh—hnnnhhh—Aldo—Aldo—ahhh—ohhh—hnnnnhhh—” The name ripped out of him as his body seized, cock spasming deep inside the peach. His release came sudden and forceful, ropes of hot seed spilling into the torn fruit, filling it in heavy pulses.
“Ahhh—hahhh—nnnnghhhhh—ohhh—” He cried through it, each wave tearing more from him. The first pulse flooded the fruit, the second forced its way out and spilled down the sides, hot across his thighs, the third dribbled over his knuckles as he clenched the peach too tightly, the fourth spurted up onto his belly before dripping back down, mixing with the pulp.
The mess was everywhere, most of it trapped in the devastated fruit, though it oozed out, running down his skin in glossy streaks, coating his trembling thighs.
“Ahhh—ahhh—nnnnhhh—hahhh—” The sounds wouldn’t stop, breaking louder, filling the room, with every pulse of release, his hips jerking helplessly as his cock twitched again and again, pushing the last of it out in trembling dribbles. His sobs tangled with the moans, high and guttural, until his voice was raw and his whole body quaked.
Even after the climax faded, Thomas couldn’t stop whimpering. He rubbed weakly against the peach, shuddering through the aftershocks, still leaking thickly into the ruined flesh. His whimpers started to tone down, but they didn’t stop, every breath catching on another sob, every whine cut through with guilt
When finally he stilled, he sank against the damp sheets, chest heaving, face wet with tears. The peach lay crushed against his belly, juice smeared across his skin, sticky down across his base. His cock twitched faintly, spent, but the shame burned hotter than ever, flooding him until he curled into himself, shaking, still mumbling Aldo’s name like a broken prayer.
He stayed like that for ten long minutes, motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of his breath, staring blankly into the sheets as though they might swallow him whole. His crying didn’t stop. It only shifted, sometimes quieting to a wet hitch in his throat, sometimes rising again into full sobs that shook his chest. The tears blurred and blurred until the bedding swam beneath him, but still they came.
At last, he dragged himself upright, peeling his damp body from the sheets, his face still red and raw. Tears swelled in his eyes as he stumbled to the chest of drawers. He pulled out a shirt, a thin, washed-out cotton thing that clung instantly to his sweaty back, sticking over the moist peach-juice across his stomach. He tugged on a pair of plaid navy boxers, over his hips, over his softness, fumbling with fingers that wouldn’t settle, covering just enough to pass for dressed, though nothing could cover the shame pressed so raw against him.
On the nightstand lay his rosary, abandoned earlier. He snatched it up, clutching the beads so tightly they dug into his skin. The cross pressed cold and hard against his sticky palm, metal stained under his grip. He brought it to his face like it might cool him, cleanse him but the sweetness of the peach still clung to him. Thick in his throat, sour on his skin. It only made the sobs worse, the shame heavier. His shoulders shook as the guilt broke over him again, relentless, as if he were drowning in it.
He couldn’t stay. Not in that room. Not with the ruined fruit lying on the bed like a witness. The thought of being alone with it was terrifying. So he stepped into the corridor, wiping at his face, though the tears wouldn’t stop. They ran anyway, warm trails that caught in the hollow of his mouth. His sobs softened to a muffled rhythm, pressed into the rosary in his palm, but they never ceased.
The moon was high, the common room alive with voices, laughter spilling through the walls. Tom passed it by with his head bowed, too raw to be among them, too raw even for the moonlight to see him. His body moved on its own, long before his mind caught up. It carried him where it always carried him when he was broken: to Aldo.
Each step was fast, every breath hiccuping, his face blotched and wet. He’s had a terrible day. He wiped at it with the back of his hand, ashamed to arrive so undone, yet powerless to turn away.
The door gave beneath the faintest push, creaking open like a sigh. Inside, Aldo sat at his desk, hunched over a journal, pen scratching. He looked up, surprise flickering across his face. Tom stood in the doorway, trembling, red-eyed, his chest rising in heave. The quiet was pierced only by the soft, continuous sound of his crying
Aldo rose from his desk the moment he saw Thomas’ face. His pen clattered down onto the paper, forgotten, as he crossed the room. “Lawrence? What’s wrong?” His voice was gentle, coaxing, like it always was and when Thomas didn’t answer, only stumbled into his arms, sobbing, Aldo held him tight.
“Easy, easy,” he murmured, one hand on the back of Thomas’ head, the other bracing his trembling shoulders. “Thomas, you’re shaking. Tell me what’s happened.”
Thomas buried his face against him, his tears wetting the fabric of Aldo’s cassock. For a while he said nothing, only clung harder, like he did earlier, the rosary biting between them. Then, slowly, his hand moved between their bodies. His grip was tight, trembling, holding something.
“Thomas?” Aldo tried to pull back enough to see, but the boy pressed closer, forcing the object between them. “What is it?”
Thomas tilted his head just enough to look up through wet lashes. His eyes were burning. His hand came up between their chests, palm opening. The peach lay there; broken, hollowed, dripping juice and something thicker. Its flesh was torn apart, its skin collapsing inward. Fucked
Aldo blinked, confused. His breath caught. For a second his mind didn’t want to form the thought, didn’t want to believe but the smell was horrid, and the sheen across the pulp wasn’t only fruit. Realisation swept through him like a cold wave. His stomach turned.
“Thomas…” His voice wavered. He tried to turn his face aside, but Thomas’ shaking hand pushed the fruit closer, almost forcing him to look. “No—don’t—”
“Look,” Thomas urged him, voice cracking, miserable. His eyes brimmed, his lips quivering as though the word itself cost him. “You have to see.”
“I don’t need to,” Aldo said immediately, but Thomas pressed yet again. The crushed peach hovered between them like an offering, sticky juice running across Thomas’ knuckles, dripping onto Aldo’s sleeve.
“Please,” Thomas sobbed. “Please, just… look.”
Aldo’s throat constricted as his gaze shifted again. He saw it. He knew what it was. There was no mistaking it now. The peach sagged in Thomas’ palm, obscene, shameful, yet carried with reverence, as though he’d brought a sacrifice to lay at an altar.
“Why?” Aldo begged for an answer, something to tether to, his chest seizing. “Why would you—”
But Thomas shook his head fiercely, tears spilling. “Don’t ask me. Don’t make me say it.” He tried to burrow closer, hiding his face in Aldo’s shoulder, keeping the fruit lifted between them, refusing to let him look away. “Just… don’t leave me.”
Aldo’s jaw clenched. He wanted to push the thing aside, to rid them both of the sight and the smell. Yet Thomas held it with such trembling devotion, as if showing him was the only way to survive it.
“Alright,” Aldo said at last, fainter now. He secured Thomas’ wrist, not to take it away but to hold him still. “I see it. I see, Thomas.”
Lawrence crumpled into Aldo’s chest, cradling the ruined fruit in one hand and the rosary in the other. “You see it.. so.. so help—help me,” he cried. “Please help me.. I-I don’t want this. I don’t want to be like this…”
Aldo mantles his arms around Thomas, moving him toward the bed. “You’re not alone,” he reassured, heart heavy. He eased Thomas down, pressing him to lie back while still holding him close. “I’ll help you. You hear me? I’ll stay.”
Thomas laid on his back, face streaked with tears, the peach finally slipping from his hand to rest on the sheets between them. He turned his face away, ashamed, but didn’t let go of Aldo’s sleeve.
“Bless me,” he pleaded. “Please… bless me.”
Aldo’s hand held onto Thomas’ shoulder. His other reached for the vial of holy water, uncapping it with careful fingers. “Yes,” Aldo agreed to it, seeing it as the only way he could help Thomas in that moment. “I’ll bless you, Thomas.”
He touched the cool water to his brow, tracing the sign of the cross. “In the name of the Father…”
Thomas shivered, a broken little mewl escaping.
“…and of the Son…” Another cross, another smear of coolness on his skin.
“…and of the Holy Spirit.”
Thomas whimpered again, tears running fresh. “More,” he begged softly. “Please don’t stop. Pray.. pray for me..”
Aldo hesitated, then poured more water onto his thumb, anointing his forehead again and again, each cross pressed with gentle insistence. Small prayers uttered to soothe. The boy writhed faintly under the repetition, not resisting, only pleading, only needing.
When the vial was nearly empty, Aldo set it aside and drew Thomas against him, letting him bury his face in his chest once more. He pressed a kiss to the boy’s damp hairline, whispering blessings not from the book but from his heart: “May your tears turn to light. May your shame be lifted. May every wound in you find healing. May you know you are loved. May God never leave your side.”
The rosary slipped between their hands, beads tangled in their fingers, the cross pressed against both their palms as though binding them to the same prayer. Thomas clung tighter, sobs stilling with each word, each breath, as though every blessing gave him back a little more air.
Aldo kissed his temple and leaned his cheek against the boy’s damp hair. “I’ll hold you as long as you need, Tom. All night if you want me to. You’ve had a rough day and I’m sorry you’ve gone through all of this.” His voice was low, steady as stone. “But tomorrow, you must confess. You know that. And soon—” he shifted slightly, brushing his fingers over Tom’s sticky forearm, “—you need a bath. For your own sake.”
Thomas whimpered, nodding faintly against his chest, too weary to argue, too desperate to be held to pull away.
“I’ll stay,” Aldo whispered, tightening his embrace. “I’ll stay until you sleep. Then tomorrow, we’ll do what must be done.”
And so he held him, strong and unmoving, his rock, the beads warm between their joined hands, until Thomas eased and his breath began to come evenly.