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Perfect Sins Part 1: Gluttony

Summary:

Fathers Davies and Gilbert have a new target, Alex and Mark commit a crime, and Alex takes his punishment.

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No matter how Father Davies protested – in low, persuasive tones, while cradling Alex’s head against his crotch – Alex could see what was going on. He could feel them tightening the screws. Both of them. Father Davies, with physical intimidation. Father Gilbert, with psychopathic guile and the power of his position. And it was strange, maybe, that Alex could feel it, because he wasn’t their target. They were targeting Mark.

Nothing had happened, since that night Alex had kissed Mark on his feverish brow and fallen asleep holding his hand. There had been some difficult silences and some heated ones. There had been sentences left tantalisingly unfinished as they both tried very hard not to acknowledge the charged atmosphere that now crackled between them. But nothing had happened. Alex still spent his nights in his nest on the floor (sometimes creeping in late after wild hours with Greg), and Mark still slept soft and sweet in Alex’s bed. The friendship was still fond, and far more intense than before, but strained. They used to play silly talking games or chat about football or rant about the teachers together, but something had changed that was hard to ignore.

Of course, if anything were going to happen, it would be up to Alex to initiate it. Mark didn’t rock the boat. He was, above all, a peculiarly gentle man. So it was surprising when Alex entered their room one night after extra Latin to find Mark furiously laying into one of the hassocks they kept under the bed. He was kicking the poor cushion around and swearing creatively at it like it had wronged him in some terrible way. Mark hadn’t been at dinner. Alex could only assume he’d spent their dinner hour being very angry with a cushion.

‘Er, Watto?’ he said.

‘Fuck! Alex. Sorry. Just, er…’ Mark picked up the hassock and patted it awkwardly. ‘Just fluffing this up. Don’t want to kneel on a flat one. Distracting for the old…prayers. Ugh.’

Alex watched as Mark threw the hassock unceremoniously on the bed. ‘Should I be doing the same to mine?’ he said, trying to lighten a mood he really didn’t understand. ‘Kick it in the unmentionables and call it a cushiony bastard?’

‘Cushiony fucker,’ corrected Mark, glaring askance at the unassuming thing where it lay on the bed.

‘Right, sorry, yeah. Can I ask, er…why?’ Alex gestured at the irate Mark and the abused hassock. ‘I’d have thought, at least in a seminary, these guys would be pretty uncontroversial.’

Mark scowled. ‘It’s not the cushion, really. Just needed something to…’ He picked up Alex’s stolen hymn book and whacked it repeatedly against the bed.

‘What’s wrong? Where were you at tea time?’

‘That’s exactly fucking it, Alex. They’ve changed my extra Bible Studies lessons so they clash with dinner. Every day. Nothing they can do about it, apparently. I don’t know whether that means I’ll be allowed to go back to Latin classes, but I’ll be dead by then. I’ll be a husk. Fuck.

Ah, of course. Mark always got a bit irate if food was delayed. Missing a meal with the promise of continuing to miss meals for the foreseeable future was bound to push him over the edge. ‘Can’t you just eat after?’ Alex said, cautiously. ‘Or before?’

‘No, they won’t let me! Logistically unfeasible or some bollocks. Not fair on the kitchen staff. Fuck me, Horne! This can’t be allowed, can it? But it came from Gilbert himself, so God knows…sorry, goodness knows who I’m supposed to go to.’

Alex felt Mark’s helplessness, and it turned to rage inside him. Of course, there was nobody Mark could go to. That was the point, wasn’t it. The two senior priests (there was not a doubt in his mind that Father Davies was in on this too, if not behind it) were picking on the one they perceived as weak. He didn’t know why. Maybe this was just fun for them. Target Alex with sex, target Watto with food. To each their own private hell. Impulsively, he put his hands on Mark’s shoulders. ‘Forget this, Watto,’ he said. ‘You’re getting dinner. I know how to sneak around here and not get caught.’

Mark winced, and Alex’s stomach clenched uncomfortably as he realised his misstep. Alex knowing how to sneak around the seminary was not something Mark wanted to be reminded of. Sometimes Alex heard his friend crying when he came in late at night. ‘It’s not allowed,’ said Mark, bitterly, not meeting Alex’s eye.

‘I don’t care,’ Alex said. ‘I’m gonna get you fed. They can’t do this to you.’ He let his hands drop from Mark’s shoulders and took one of Mark’s hands in his own. ‘Come with me,’ he said. And oh, Mark’s eyes were so wide as he nodded his assent. Alex had to look away.

* * * * *

The kitchens were dark and warm. A cocoon with a nostalgic school dinner smell. Alex hadn’t let go of Mark’s hand the whole time he’d led them through the labyrinthine back corridors. Now they finally exhaled and laughed, breathless, at their insubordination. ‘Crime!’ said Mark in a loud whisper, grinning.

‘Crime,’ agreed Alex, smiling back. God, Watto shone when he was happy and excited. So different in every way from Father Davies. Greg was a black hole, magnetic and deadly. Mark was pure light. No wonder the guy dreamed about angels. Alex shook his head a little to clear it. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got, then,’ he said.

He opened the fridge. It was stocked with all sorts of things. Most notably, though, among the basic rubbish they were fed on a daily basis, a selection of fresh fruit and a large chocolate gateau. ‘What?!’ said Mark, a little too loudly, quickly checking himself and lowering his voice. ‘Bloody hell. Who gets this? Even on our birthdays we’re lucky if we get a Colin the Caterpillar cake.’

‘It’ll be the teachers,’ said Alex. ‘Or Gilbert and his lot. This place is becoming more Oliver Twist by the second.’

‘Well, obviously we can’t eat this, so…’

‘Who says?’

‘…What?’ Mark’s eyes were bright in the darkness. Alex felt fluttery inside.

‘Who’s going to stop us?’

‘We can’t.’

‘We can.’

Alex took the tub of fruit out of the fridge and opened it. It all looked so perfect. He picked out a piece of pineapple and popped it impulsively into Mark’s mouth. ‘Hey!’ said Mark, sloppily, almost spitting it out in his surprise.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ said Alex.

Mark snorted, picked out a strawberry and shoved it in Alex’s mouth. ‘There,’ he said, grinning. ‘One all.’

They set about the fruit, then, with abandon. For the moment, Mark had forgotten to worry about getting caught or found out. This was fun. Nice, easy fun. Even the closeness in the dark, even their hands touching as they grabbed for strawberries and raspberries and wedges of kiwi, couldn’t take away from it. Maybe they could just be mates again. It was only when most of the good stuff was gone that Alex realised he’d forgotten the point of this exercise. He had already eaten dinner. And here he was stuffing his face alongside poor starved Mark. ‘Right,’ he said, decisively, as though he did this all the time. ‘That’s enough for me. The cake is all yours.’

Mark eyed the cake nervously. ‘I’m not leaving my fingerprints all over that thing,’ he said. ‘Gilbert already hates me.’

‘Fine then. My fingerprints. Not that I think you can leave fingerprints in a cake.’ Alex gingerly scooped up a bit of frosting with his finger. ‘Here,’ he said.

Mark looked blankly at Alex’s finger. ‘…What?’

‘Take it.’

‘How?’

‘Just take it.’

Mark opened his mouth awkwardly, closed it again, reached tentatively towards Alex’s finger with his hand, thought better of it, and shook his head. ‘I’m going to find a fork,’ he said, getting up.

‘Right, yeah, of course,’ mumbled Alex, and he felt Mark’s bewildered look as he sucked his own finger. For someone who was supposed to be in love with him, Mark was a tough nut to crack. Simultaneously more innocent and less naïve than Alex ever was. ‘You could have just taken it,’ he said, softly.

‘Don’t, Alex. You know what? Forget the cake. Some things are best left well alone. See if you can cover up the bit you took.’

‘Mark, you’re hungry.’

‘It doesn’t matter!’

‘It does! You don’t have to…’ He paused, remembering the same thing being said to him. ‘…You don’t have to be good all the time.’

Mark was turned away, but Alex saw his body tense and then relent. ‘I…I am hungry,’ he said.

‘That’s OK.’

Mark turned to face Alex and crouched down beside him again. ‘People get hungry,’ he said, his tone a breathless plea for permission that had already been granted.

‘I know. All the time.’

‘All the time. And the guys in charge aren’t exactly starving themselves.’

‘Clearly not.’

‘So why should I? Why should we?’

‘Try it,’ Alex coaxed, scooping up more frosting with two fingers. ‘It’s good.’

‘Yes…’

Mark sat there, lips parted, and let Alex guide the frosting-covered fingers into his mouth. His lips closed around them, his tongue sweeping against them, and his eyes closed as he let out a shuddering sigh. ‘Nice?’ asked Alex, fascinated. ‘More?’

More.’

And more, and more. Before long the cake was a mess and Mark was a debauched mess too, kneeling with eyes closed like a supplicant, lips tinged with chocolate. ‘Wow,’ said Alex. ‘We’ve really done a number on their feast.’

More,’ said Mark again.

‘More cake?’

‘Just…more.’ Mark grasped blindly at the front of Alex’s shirt, drawing him closer. ‘Is this OK?’ he whispered.

Quite a few layers to that question, most of which Alex couldn’t answer. But he knew what he thought. ‘Yes. Yes, it’s OK. Everything’s OK. It’s a religious experience. Like the mystics.’

‘Like the mystics,’ Mark repeated, staring at Alex’s parted lips.

‘What was it the Bible said? The thing you quoted to me?’ It was a low, dirty strategy. He knew it. Appealing to Mark’s religious fervour should be beneath him. And yet…

‘My soul thirsts for you. My…my flesh…faints for you.’

God, the hunger in Mark’s voice. And the fear. It shouldn’t excite him so much. What had he become? He reached out and brushed some frosting from the corner of Mark’s mouth with his thumb. Then all at once Mark’s lips were pressed against his own, Mark’s body trembling in his arms, and it did feel like a religious experience. He’d imagined kissing Watto would be light, easy, compared to the way it felt with Greg. He could not have been more wrong. He felt the full weight of their history, their closeness, as Mark’s tongue swept over his own tasting of chocolate and fruit. He felt profound responsibility for the moral dilemma he’d created as Mark held him punishingly tight and sighed into his mouth. When they finally parted enough for him to breathe, he said, ‘OK?’

‘Yes. Yes, I think. I just…it feels too indulgent. Too greedy.’

Alex stroked Mark’s cheek. ‘No,’ he said, soft and fond. ‘You deserve it. You should have it. As much as you want. Take it.’

‘Take it…’

And Mark was on him again, hands fisted in his shirt, mouth ravenous.

* * * * *

‘Sorry, Father! I’m sorry!’

‘Again.’

‘Sorry!’

Again.

Fuck! Sorry!

Greg let go of Alex’s hair, by which he had been shaking him like a rag doll, and Alex crumpled to his knees. ‘Now,’ said Greg, a deadly-cold tone to his voice. ‘How is Father Gilbert to celebrate his birthday with this?’

Greg pushed Alex’s head forward, the better to display the opened tub half-full of wilted, overripe fruit and the ruined cake. ‘I said I was sorry.’

‘I don’t want your apologies. I want an explanation.’

‘I…I can’t.’

In the silence that followed, Alex knew he’d dropped Watto in it as surely as if he’d laid all the blame at his feet. ‘I said,’ growled Greg, ‘that you could fuck your little friend if you wanted to. I did not say that you could put your thieving hands all over food that isn’t yours. Again. And teach Watson to do it too.’

‘I know you’ve been starving him.’

Starving? He’s missing one meal a day. I know he’s a skinny wretch, but he’s well fed enough. Don’t be fooled.’

‘Why are you messing with him? He’s done nothing to deserve it.’

‘Listen, boy.’ The priest yanked Alex’s head back viciously by his hair so that their eyes met. ‘Just because you’re fucking the lad, doesn’t mean your allegiance has changed. You’re mine. My little Alex Horne. You don’t ask questions. You worship.’

‘…Yes, Father.’

‘Again.’

Yes, Father.’

Greg’s grip on Alex’s hair loosened, became a caress. ‘You do want to remain mine, don’t you.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘And you’ll do anything I say.’

‘…Yes, Father.’

‘That’s right. Then you’ll go and apologise to Father Gilbert and offer yourself up to him for the night.’

‘…What?’

‘My birthday gift to him, to make up for you and Watson demolishing his cake and fruit. You’re lucky I’m not offering him your fuck-buddy too.’

‘He’s not my…’ Alex lowered his voice, aware he was beginning to shout. ‘He’s not my fuck-buddy. We haven’t. We’ve only ever kissed.’

Greg barked out a laugh. ‘Only kissed! God, he really is a sexless little thing, isn’t he. Good for a peck on the cheek and not much else. Big dreams, small…well. Maybe you need to work harder on him, little Alex. In your spare time. When you’re not working for me. Or Father Gilbert. Now. Look at the mess you’ve left here. The birthday boy isn’t going to want your stale leftovers, and it’s not fair that anyone else should have to clear up. You’ll finish it. The fruit and the cake. Now.’ Greg helpfully laid the open tub of fruit and the platter with a demolished chocolate cake on the floor, signalling for Alex to turn round. ‘Look at me when you do it,’ he said.

So, staring Greg down with fire in his eyes – passion? Anger? Both, perhaps – he reached into the tub for a handful of the soft, overripe fruit. It was cloying and syrupy on his tongue, with a fizz like it was starting to turn. He swallowed it down. When the fruit was finished, he started on the cake – handful after messy handful, stuffed into his mouth as Greg watched, fascinated.

He felt sick. Sick with overeating and sick with anger and sick with his hopeless addiction to this toxic thing. As he sucked the last of the chocolate from his fingers, Greg purred, ‘Good boy’. And just like that, it was all worth it.

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