Cantrell knew better than to expect Illias after Mass on Sunday and didn’t have high expectations to see him on Monday. However, come Tuesday, Cantrell grew antsy with hope and a small ounce of guilt that perhaps he pushed Illias too far last week. In an attempt to distract himself, Cantrell prepared for Wednesday Mass, tended to the few parishioners that came in, and even restocked the sacristy with wafers and grape juice. Once he completed those few tasks, he found himself idle once more. With nothing to occupy his thoughts, Sunday Mass crawled to the forefront of his mind.
He had searched the congregation in hopes of seeing Illias among the crowd, praying that perhaps he was just out of sight when Cantrell didn’t spot him. However, Illias wasn’t present at communion and Cantrell feared he had gone too far. When church ended, he, in spite of his better judgement, searched out Charity before she left. Acting in pure selfishness, Cantrell asked her to deliver a note to Illias. He told himself it was to assure Illias that Revived Faith was still a place he could come for worship and guidance. Even wrote on the note what days each priest had, so that if Illias decided to seek the rite of confession he could choose who he’d prefer to speak with. Cantrell couldn’t deny that he prayed that Illias would choose to come on Tuesday.
Imagining Illias going to Rier, confessing to him the sins Cantrell had grown to enjoy, filled Cantrell with jealousy. Rier didn’t deserve to hear Illias’ confessions, to know what secrets he kept hidden from the world and chose to reveal to Cantrell. The older priest wouldn’t understand Illias’ turmoil with his family the way Cantrell would.He wouldn’t fall from his path like I have though, Cantrell thought. Shame contorted jealousy from beast to mouse.
“Father Cantrell.”
“Mother of God.” Cantrell flinched. He crossed himself quickly and turned. His heart leapt into his throat. “Illias,” he forced out then cleared his throat. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Don’t worry Father, I won’t tell anyone you used blasphemy,” he teased with an obscene wink.
“Thank you,” Cantrell said tersely. “How may I help you?”
Illias held up the bottom half of the pamphlet Cantrell used to scribble his note on. “I got your note and last time I checked, it’s Tuesday.”
Heat crept up Cantrell’s neck. “I take it you’ve come to confess then.”
“I think this confession should be more…private, don’t you, Father?”
His penance.Cantrell’s ears burned.How could I forget so easily?“Right, of course, follow me to my office upstairs.”
Thankful to have his back to Illias, Cantrell attempted to compose himself while they walked. Most days it took forever to climb the flight of stairs that led to the second floor, but today they only took a minute at most. Cantrell’s hand trembled as he opened the door, revealing his rather plain and cramped office. A standard oak desk sat in the middle of the room with an old computer chair on one side and two obnoxiously stuffed chairs on the other. Two pictures hung on the wall: one of the bishop handing the keys to Saint Anthony over to Cantrell, and the other was a simple photo of Saint Anthony’s when it first opened. The picture had been on the wall for so long the paint beneath it was still soft cream.
Illias walked into the office then Cantrell stepped in and closed the door, locking it with a resoundingclick. Channeling the man he used to be, Cantrell rolled back his shoulders and faced Illias. “Did you behave?” He took a step forward. “Did you do as your Father asked of you?” Cantrell backed Illias into his old, wooden desk.
“Yes Father. I haven’t even bothered touching myself since my last confession.”
“Did you suffer?”
“God, yes,” he groaned. “I hate edging, it makes the denial that much worse.”
“You enjoyed it though, didn’t you?” Cantrell used his thumb and pointer finger to grab Illias’ chin, forcing him to tilt his head down. “Being under my control?”
Illias leaned forward and their noses brushed. “I think.” His breath fanned across Cantrell’s lips. “You enjoy seeing me suffer.”
Cantrell’s lip darted out to wet his lips. “It’s hard not to enjoy it. Desperation looks divine on you.”
“Father, it’s not polite to tease like that.” Illias toyed with Cantrell’s rosary. “I’d hate for you to break your vows because of me.”
I’ve already broken them just by being here with you like this. “My vows only keep me from touching,” he lied, not caring how far he pushed what it meant to be celibate.
Illias sat on the edge of the desk, spreading his legs invitingly. “Is that your way of telling me you like watching, Father?”
Cantrell stepped between Illias’ legs. “You’re lucky I don’t bend you over my desk like you wanted me to the first night we spoke.” He planted his hands on the desk beside Illias, careful to maintain a sliver of distance between them. “I advise you to tread carefully.”
“You’re teasing again, Father,” Illias breathed, pupils blown with lust.
“Behave.” Cantrell bent his head to the left, letting his lips ghost over Illias’ skin. “And follow your Father like a good parishioner.”
“Fuck.”Illias’ hand, warm and heavy, covered one of Cantrell’s. “Yes, Father.”
“Good boy. Now tell me what you want.”
Illias bent his head neck to the side, giving Cantrell more space. He ached to sink his teeth into Illias’ neck again. Worry the spot that was long faded until it bloomed purple again.
“You know what I want already. You just like hearing me say it.”
“Confess your sins and be freed from your penance.”
