Archive of Our Own

Major seminary was already shaping up to be a major disappointment.

Fredo had hoped that things would be different. That maybe a glimmer of that childhood magic that had set him on this path would be here, so close to the Vatican, the beating heart of the church. Too many of the boys at the minor seminary had been stupid, impious bullies, more interested in football and a chance at an easy life than in becoming foot soldiers for Christ. The teachers- the thought of them made Goffredo sneer- if they weren't dottering old fools, droning on and on, they were limp-wristed pansy pushovers. It had been almost impossible to respect then- Fredo thought that when he was recognized as a saint, being able to hide his disdain would be counted as a miracle.

He just wanted to be a priest in the church he grew up in, he thought with a despairing rage. He remembered vividly Don Carlo instructing him on how to be an alter boy - the precise movements expected of him, the importance of every prayer and gesture.

"Never forget, Fredo," the priest had said, "When a priest celebrates mass, he is a living symbol of Christ. He represents that eternal sacrifice, his hands carry Christ's flesh to His people. Do you understand me? I am standing in the place of God; you kneel in the place of angels. Mass brings us as close to God as we can be in this life, there is no greater source of grace- and if you screw up, you are ruining that grace for everyone, do you understand me? So when I tell you to do something, you must obey me as perfectly as possible..."

Anyways. Whatever his foibles, Fredo would always be grateful to Don Carlo for giving him such a solid experience in real religion, before the modernists started tinkering with every little thing they were allowed to- and some they weren't, Fredo thought furiously.

Worse than their zeal for reform, which could perhaps be excused as well-intentioned but misdirected- God surely wept over the rampant clerical and liturgical abuses, though none of them would be fixed by letting some coglione with a guitar caterwaul through service- it was their attitude that repulsed him. That smug sense of false enlightenment, that they knew better than a thousand years of saints, that they were so good for stooping down to save the simple masses from ignorance.

The smuggest bastard of them all could easily be the straight-toothed American in his cohort, Aldo Bellini. He was incredibly annoying- his vocabulary was fine but every word was inflected with a grating American accent that made everything sound sarcastic. He was impious and immodest, lounging around the dormitory in shorts, listening to disco and Jesus Christ Superstar. God had blessed him with brains, but he was determined to use them to make contrarian and communistic arguments. Worse, the cazzo di liberale who taught their moral theology class liked him, praising Bellini's so-called creative thinking and dismissing Fredo's well-crafted and thoroughly defended arguments as "rigid and dogmatic".

Of course they were fucking dogmatic, Fredo seethed- he was Catholic, what other kind of argument was he supposed to make?

He startled at his desk as the very focus of his ire pushed his door open, knocking on it as he did so as if that was any kind of politeness.

"Goffredo!" Bellini said cheerfully. "Some of the other first years and I are going out tonight, you should come along!"

"No," Fredo said curtly. Bellini sighed dramatically.

"You haven't hung out with us at all since the term started," Bellini chided, "You're starting to get a reputation, you know."

"I don't fucking care."

"Oh come on," Bellini said, "Look Goff, we're-"

"Fredo," he interrupted angrily- if Bellini was going to be overfamiliar he could at least get his fucking name right 

"-yes yes, Goffredo," Bellini corrected, rolling his eyes, completely missing the point of Fredo's correction, because he was stupid. "Look, you don't get bonus points for refusing to have fun-"

"It's not about that!" Fredo snapped, voice raising. He was plenty fun, damn it, not that these losers deserved to know-

"Oh, so you're just too good to go out with us?"

"Not all of us have money to waste you stupid American!" Fredo yelled. Red-faced and dizzy with anger, Fredo turned away from Bellini and fumbled with the packet of cigarettes resting on the corner of his desk. It was fucking embarrassing that this idiot had been able to provoke him- Fredo was too good for him, he shouldn't be lowering himself like that, should be above petty jealousy and the desire for craven material indulgences-

"You're crying," Bellini said, stupidly.

"No I'm not," Fredo said. His eyes just hurt from yelling. He'd probably burst a capillary.

"Look, I'll buy," Bellini offered.

"Buy what?"

"You."

"What!?"

"I said I'll buy you a drink," Bellini said. Goffredo turned back in his chair to look at the other man, taking a long draw off his cigarette.

"What the hell would you do that for?"

Bellini made an uncertain hum.

"I don't know- Raffa was saying you were a snob, but I thought- you're always so tense and nervous, I just assumed you were shy and needed an invite. I didn't realize you were having a hard time-"

"I'm not," Fredo said, because he wasn't any of those things, he wasn't shy, he wasn't tense, he wasn't fucking nervous, and he wasn't going through a hard time; he'd never had money.

"Come on Goffredo, one drink, get to know the cohort- we're not so bad, I promise," Bellini said, smiling broadly like he was a fucking movie star, though his eyes looked a little nervous.

Why was he being so damn insistent, Fredo wondered- then his blood ran cold when the truth dawned on him.

Because one of the most important reasons Fredo hated Bellini was that he was obviously a homosexual. He hadn't said or done anything damning- yet- but Fredo knew what to look for. Once you knew the signs, it was hard not to notice them.

Homosexuals were sick. They were dirty, disgusting, lying perverts, and they all only wanted one thing. Even Bellini, it seemed. Wanted to 'buy him a drink', sure, of course, like he was a stupid little girl ripe to be plied with wine and taken advantage of, the sick fuck, in a fucking seminary, in front of his friends- were they perverts too?

"You're hyperventilating," Bellini said, snapping Fredo out of his thoughts. "Do you need me to get someone?"

"No no no," Fredo said- the last goddamn thing he needed was this fag spreading rumors that Fredo was emotionally disturbed.

"Okay," Bellini said slowly. He rapped his knuckles on the door. "So... I'm leaving now. We're heading out at around 10, alright?"

"Fine," Fredo said, turning away and staring at his desk until he heard Bellini shut the door. He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and rested his elbows on the desk with his head in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp. How the fuck was he going to get out of this?

Maybe if he just stayed in his room, they'd leave without him. But if Bellini wanted his attention, he'd be persistent- maybe even angry with him for snubbing the invitation. If people saw him following Fredo around, flirting or picking on him, they'd get the wrong idea...

Maybe Fredo should beat him up. His muscles tensed and trembled as he thought about it. As soon as he saw Bellini, just punch him in the nose, knock him to the floor, kick the shit out of him for presuming he could turn Fredo out...

That was a bad idea, he thought, gritting his teeth. He'd get kicked out of seminary for fighting.

Maybe they'd take his side- he imagined sitting before the disciplinary panel and explaining the situation, that Bellini has come onto him and made him feel unsafe, that Fredo had to defend himself, and they'd think he was very brave and strong and kick that stupid fucking American out of school while he cried...

But no, the daydream burst. There were too many liberals among the faculty- he couldn't risk it. They'd probably blame him for this whole mess.

I want to go to church, Fredo thought miserably. He'd loved church as a little boy. The spire rising up like a mountain peak in the midst of the shanties, the insides preserving the glory of a bygone age, before the desecration of war... For an hour or so, he could leave behind the chaos and evil of the world and catch a glimpse of heaven, just inches from the Lord... He could wear clean beautiful clothes and handle silk and gold, could be helpful and special and adored...

He felt calmer just from thinking about church. He imagined it was the Holy Spirit, filling him up and drawing him into deeper communion with Christ. Suffering was essential for sanctification, after all. Sometimes, when you found yourself in a bad situation, you had no choice but to submit to it as if it were God's will.

He loosened his fascia, undid the top few buttons of his cassock, and pulled it off over his head, leaving him in just his shirt and trousers. He adjusted his glasses, calming his breathing. He looked down at the reading he'd been doing before Bellini had interrupted him, but it all seemed pointless. He fumbled for his cigarettes and lit up another. He chain smoked, lost in memory, until he heard laughter and knocking at his door.

It was fucking Bellini, along with Gio, Raffa, and some other foreign student who's name Fredo didn't remember. Raffa looked Fredo up and down skeptically- Fredo's skin prickled, and he drew on his cigarette, glaring at the other student.

"That's what you're wearing?" Raffa asked. The other boys were dressed in street clothes; while Fredo's were technically unmarked, they were still obviously clerical.

"Shut up," Fredo muttered, cigarette in the corner of his mouth as he drew the door shut behind him. He saw Bellini smiling at him and looked away.

There were several faculty members who lived in the same dormitory as the seminarians. They were supposed to be supervising them. It was only an hour till curfew, and they could definitely hear the chatter of the other boys. They could come out, stop them, stop all of this in its tracks...

But nothing happened. He walked out into the streets with the others, feeling sullen.

"You're from the south, aren't you?" Gio asked.

"I'm Lucano," Fredo muttered, throwing the butt of his cigarette on the cobblestones and fumbling with his lighter. "I came to Rome a few years ago when I finished school to work."

"Work?" Raffa asked. "You didn't go to the liceo?"

"Don't ask stupid questions," Fredo snapped. He'd only had to work for a few years, anyways, until he'd earned some favors from a priest who helped him with his admission to the minor seminary. He wasn't embarrassed by that at all, he told himself- better to be a real man with rough hands, not like those hot house flowers groomed for the priesthood since they were in short pants. It wasn't his fault his family had forced him onto the vocational track in lower secondary.

Raffa rolled his eyes and raised his hands in faux surrender. Fredo caught Bellini looking at him and looked away. This was his fault, Fredo thought angrily. It wasn't too late to leave. He could just run away- he knew these streets better than these fools. Maybe he wouldn't even go back to the shitty seminary. It was never too late to go back to Basilicata, to be a farm hand like his father and brothers...

He flinched a little, remembering the noise and the smell and the too cramped quarters and the rough slaps for getting underfoot. Life was hell, but sometimes God gave you the grace to pick your poison. Fredo reminded himself that, no matter what, this was the best it had ever been for him.

Fredo half listened as they talked and joked, giving short replies at comments directed towards him. He wasn't unfriendly, no matter the wrong headed implications others made- but Fredo wasn't used to talking to boys like this. Boys who were smart, and comfortable, and used to having pocket money. Boys without shame. Fredo wasn't like that- wasn't the kind of boy people expected to become a priest. If they got to know him, they'd know that, they'd judge him...

He'd chain smoked too much today by accident; he was down to the last three and would need to ration himself. He started biting his thumbnail as he put the mostly empty pack in his trouser pocket and caught Bellini looking at him again.

At least he wasn't ugly, Fredo thought, then pushed the thought away.

They reached a night club, thumping with the noise of American dance music. Bellini must've noticed Fredo's flinch at the blast of sound as the door swung open; he put his hand on the small of Fredo's back, which made him flinch again. Bellini probably felt it, but Fredo hoped the other boys didn't see as they entered the darkened dance floor.

They pushed their way through the crowded mass of gyrating bodies, until they'd fought their way up to the bar and managed to get the bartender's attention.

True to his word, Aldo signalled that Fredo was on his tab. Fine, Fredo thought, ordering his first drink and pounding it back with spite. He was going to make this worth his time.

Fredo always seemed to finish his drinks faster than everyone else- he didn't really know why. By the time the other three men had finished ordering their drinks, Fredo had finished his first and pushed forward to get a second.

"Not a cheap date, are you?" Bellini joked, yelling to be heard over the din.

"No I'm not," Fredo snapped. He regretted it immediately- the others over heard them and laughed, and Bellini looked a little surprised for some reason. They tried to get him to go out on the dance floor with them but he pushed them away, absolutely refusing. He kept close to the bar, where he could drink, and watched them. Without his cigarettes to slow him down, he drank fast even for him.

Bellini was staying close to the edge of the crowd, where Fredo could see him. Dancing, showing off. He looked fucking stupid. He was all sweaty, his thin bangs stuck to his forehead, his white shirt unbuttoned low enough to show his chest hair. His St. Christopher medal kept catching the strobing lights.

Fredo was about five drinks deep, lips numb and legs shaky. He watched Bellini dance and thought- I don't want to wait until he's ready to pounce. I want to get this over with while I have my wits about me.

He lurched away from the bar, shoving past the other club goers to reach Bellini. He grabbed his collar, pulling him close.

"Do you have any cigarettes?" he shouted in Bellini's ear.

"No?" Bellini shouted back. Fredo rolled his eyes, making an annoyed sound. He yanked at his collar, pulling him away. Gio looked over at them, confused.

"We're going for a smoke!" Fredo yelled at him. He ignored him, focusing on not tripping as he pulled Bellini out of the crowd towards the door.

"Goffredo, I don't smoke," Bellini said as they got outside. Fredo shushed him, annoyed, and pulled him down the alley along the side of the club. He pushed Bellini against the wall, looking around- there wasn't anyone else using the alley right now. They had a few minutes.

He quickly undid the buttons of Bellini's fly, ignoring Bellini's sputtering. He dropped to his knees, pulling the other man's cock out of his briefs- he was circumcized, which threw Fredo for a second, but he didn't let himself think too hard about it. He wrapped his lips around the tip of Bellini's cock, licking with his tongue as he started to jerk him off with his hand. Bellini was sweaty from dancing, which made jerking him off a little easier at least, and Fredo's mouth was still a little numb from drinking so he didn't mind the taste too badly.

Bellini was being kind of noisy- lots of gasps and moans and little phrases in English. His dick got stiff quickly, leaking into Fredo's mouth. Fredo stayed focused, breathing through his nose and not gagging. The American didn't know what to do with his hands- they came to rest on Fredo's head, tangling in his curls. First he tried to push Fredo away, but he stiffened his neck and kept at it. Then he tried to pull him closer, but Fredo resisted that too. He was willing to do this, but he wouldn't let the other man push him around. Bellini settled for scratching Fredo's scalp, which was actually kind of nice. Some guys pulled hair, but this gave him little tingles down the back of his neck. He almost let himself enjoy it. Bellini made a choked sound, fingernails digging in, and Fredo's mouth filled with cum.

He pulled off, spitting on the ground, and wiped his sticky hand on Bellini's jeans. He decided to be impressed with himself for how quickly Bellini came- still got it, he thought to himself bitterly. He tried to stand up, dizzy with drink and legs numb from the hard stone streets, and Bellini tried to pull him close, one hand falling low to cup Fredo's cock-

Fredo pushed him away, stumbling backwards and tripping onto the ground.

"Are you okay?" Bellini asked.

Fredo pushed himself up and ran away.

He wasn't scared- he wasn't. He was fucking mad, and drunk, and it wasn't fair. How fucking dare Bellini, he thought, choking on his rage. Bellini bought him a drink, Fredo got him off, done, and then he thought he had the right to touch him after?

Everything hurt- his knees were bruised and his palms were scraped, his head was spinning with drink and worst of all his eyes fucking hurt. Eye strain, probably, from the strobes and running around at night, he thought, rubbing them as they watered. His stomach hurt too, knotted up with drink and anger. Everything just seemed so unfair. The door to the dormitory was locked, and he sat outside with his head between his knees until someone saw him and cracked it open.

"Have fun?" the older student asked teasingly. Fredo grunted and ignored him, stumbling back to his room and curling up, fully clothed and clutching his rosary.

His head was still pounding Saturday morning, hung over and out of sorts. He changed his clothes, wiping himself in the sink to get the worst of the stink off him, and dressed for chapel. He spotted Bellini in the hallways, looking worried. Horribly, he walked over and stood close to Fredo.

"Are you okay?" he asked, the same stupid question he'd asked the previous night.

"Don't ask questions you know answers to," Fredo grumbled. He didn't owe this jerk anything- they were even.

"I won't mention your name," Bellini whisperer. "In confession- I promise."

Fredo hadn't even considered that Bellini might be stupid enough to do such a thing. "Good," he said shortly.

"And you won't...?"

"No," Fredo said. He did not intend to say anything about Bellini and his wickedness if he could help it.

Fortunately, there were always two priests hearing confessions on Saturday at the seminary chapel. Fredo made sure to stand in the opposite line from Bellini. For once, he wasn't irritated the line was long- it gave him time to examine his conscience, though it was hard to focus with a hangover and a headache from his lack of cigarettes.

Finally, it was his turn to kneel in the confessional, crossing himself as he began.

"Bless me Father for I've sinned; it's been a week since my last confession," he began by rote. "I've cussed at least fifty times. I lost focus in Mass once. I got drunk last night and did not prepare properly for confession. I thought badly of my family yesterday." The first four commandments covered, the fifth and sixth were like burning coals as his mind touched them. Thou shalt not kill, and he who was angry with a brother had already committed murder in his heart. Thou shalt not commit adultery, which bound everyone to the law of chastity. He skipped ahead to the latter commandments. "I'm jealous of those who have more money than me. Once in particular, yesterday, but often." He hesitated again, trying to find the words, and cursing Bellini for his distractions. "I'm angry," he managed to say, "About sins committed against me." Maybe he shouldn't have even said that last part, you weren't supposed to mention other's sins in confession, but it just wasn't fair.

"Have you forgiven those who've sinned against you?" the priest asked.

Fredo grunted.

"You must forgive them," the priest said. "Our Lord commanded us to forgive those who sin against us- even seventy-times-seven times."

Fredo knew it was meant to be metaphorical, but the thought of having to allow others to hurt him another four hundred and eighty nine times made him want to scream. Was everyone in the world entitled to mistreat him four hundred and ninety times, or was it a collective tally? When was he allowed to put his foot down and say enough was enough? When would his anger be deemed righteous?

"Is there anything else you need to confess?" the priest asked.

Fredo grunted again.

"For your penance, pray the Stations of the Cross. Meditate on the love Our Lord showed his mother, and the forgiveness he offered to those who hurt him. Be grateful for the blessings God has given you. Now say the Act of Contrition."

Fredo hated public acts of penance like that, having to parade around the church where everyone could see. And now he had another sin of anger to repent of while he did so, he thought, annoyed again. He prayed quickly and left the confessional, genuflecting before the altar as he crossed the church to begin his penance before mass started. He couldn't help but notice Bellini, apparently already done with his prayers, sitting peacefully in the pews.

Fredo crossed himself and knelt before the first icon of Christ condemned to die. He thought of the injustice of it all- a perfectly innocent man condemned to be tortured to death for sins he didn't commit, and prayed- please God, if I must share in your sufferings, let me share in your endurance as well. And please, please- he prayed in the secrecy of his own heart- in my lifetime and not just in the world to come, please let me share in your glory, please. He clasped his hands and began to whisper the Our Father, continuing through the set prayers.

After mass and the rosary, Fredo walked to the cafeteria, wincing as he bit the quick of his thumbnail. He needed to buy more cigarettes. He had the afternoon free to study and work on his assignments- maybe he could find some bottles to recycle, get some change together...

A hand on his shoulder startled him out of his reverie.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Bellini asked in English.

"What?"

"It's an expression," Bellini said, explaining the obvious. "You looked positively contemplative- I was worried you were going to abandon us for the Dominicans."

Fredo felt his brow furrow as he passed Bellini's remark. Was that blasphemous? Fredo himself had the utmost respect for St. Dominic and the sacred mysteries of the Rosary... But he had heard jokes about the Dominican order being full of abstracted daydreamers...

"I'm joking-"

"Obviously you're joking," Fredo snapped. "I just haven't decided if you're funny yet."

Bellini looked at him for a beat, mystified, then his face cracked into a smile. He ducked his head, blushing a bit as he laughed.

"I think maybe you're the funny one of the two of us," Bellini said. "Here, why don't you go find us a seat, and I'll bring back food for the both of us?"

Fredo almost snapped at him that he could carry his own damn plate, but then he thought- if we don't sit together, I won't know if he talks about me behind my back. Then he thought- if he wants to wait on me, fine. He should be so lucky as to be with me.

Curtly, Fredo nodded, and stalked off to find a space for he and Bellini to eat. Bellini and his friends joined him a few minutes later. Fredo finished his food before them, but sat around listening to their jabber rather than hurrying off as he normally did. It was a waste of time, but it was a little pleasant to be included in the conversation. He kept catching Bellini giving him fond looks, which was weird and obvious and embarrassing. He nudged the American's ankle with his toe, trying to subtly tell him to knock it off. It didn't seem to work.

"What are you doing today?" Bellini asked.

"I need to buy cigarettes," Fredo said curtly.

"I'll come with you," Bellini declared.

"Since when do you smoke?" Raffa asked.

"Well I- I smoked the last of his cigarettes last night. I owe him a pack to make up for it, right?"

It would significantly simplify Fredo's day if Bellini bought him the cigarettes. But if Bellini bought him cigarettes, they wouldn't be even anymore- Fredo would owe him...

Biting his thumbnail, Fredo shrugged, looking away indifferently. "Whatever," he mumbled. "If you want to come, finish your damn food already, you eat like my grandmother's elderly cat."

"I am done," Bellini said, seemingly amused. "This is just the- ah fuck, what's the word for the sides of bread?"

"The crust," Fredo sniped, pinching the crusts from Bellini's plate. If he wasn't going to clean his plate, then Fredo would at least make sure perfectly good food didn't end up in the trash. He used his thumb to swipe up a glob of jam, picking up the last few crumbs, and sucked his thumb clean, stacking Bellini's plate and silverware on top of his. "C'mon then," he said standing, "Let's go."

Bellini didn't just buy him a pack, he bought him a whole carton for the week, and a Coca Cola. He wanted them to study outside together- Fredo couldn't think of a good reason to say no. Bellini behaved himself, only looking up at Fredo over his reading from time to time, not doing anything inappropriate. It was kind of a nice afternoon, Fredo could admit.

It wasn't a terrible chore to stay close to Bellini throughout the week and make sure he wasn't talking about Fredo. Bellini was clearly an inexperienced idiot who didn't know how things were done; he kept trying to treat Fredo like a girl, offering to carry his books and bringing him things. Fredo made a show of scoffing, but he could never quite bring himself to firmly rebuff Bellini. It had been a long time since someone had gone out of their way to take care of him. It was nice. Nicer than money, even- money had a way of slipping through his fingers, disappearing into all the little costs of living or being reluctantly sent home to his different relatives, to take care of his aging mother or pregnant sister or sick niece or nephew. But he was the only one who could enjoy the niceties Bellini showed him. No one could take Bellini opening the door for him away, he couldn't send being given a cup of coffee or a stick of gum home. Despite that- at the end of the week, Fredo knew he'd put things off long enough. He owed Bellini for all the little kindnesses he'd shown him.

He knocked on Bellini's door late on a Friday evening. Fredo was agitated- he knew what he was about to do was wrong, but he'd put it off long enough. He'd smoked a little to settle his nerves, bracing himself for the evening. Let's get it over with, he thought grimly.

"Hi," Bellini whispered, smiling excitedly. The bastard knew exactly why Fredo had come over. He was dressed for bed, in shorts and an undershirt. He locked the door to the small dorm behind them as Fredo stepped in. He stepped closer, getting in Fredo's personal space. He cupped Fredo's cheek with his hand. "I've been wanting to do this for days..."

I figured, Fredo thought, closing his eyes as Bellini kissed him. He cringed, flinching a little as Bellini tried to deepen the kiss. A shiver of disgust curled up and turned hot, low in his stomach.

"Have you... You have kissed before, right?"

"Yes," Fredo said curtly. He kept his eyes shut tight. He didn't like the way Bellini sounded- but then again, he never liked the way Bellini sounded.

"Do you want me to show you how I like it?"

"Do what you want," Fredo muttered, bracing himself- but Bellini didn't kiss him again, even as his hands rubbed little circles on Fredo's taut back.

"You're kinda throwing me off here," Bellini said. "You were so... decisive last time, and now you're... Is it my turn to call the shots?"

Fredo grunted. God, why did he owe things to this obtuse fucking idiot? Why couldn't Bellini just figure it out? Fredo crossed his arms, clutching his elbows- then realized he probably looked entirely too bothered, which was unbecoming, so shoved his hands in his pockets, staring at his shoes.

Bellini was muttering under his breath in English, but he stopped touching Fredo, moving towards the twin bed that ran along one wall of the narrow room.

"Alright, c'mere," Bellini said. Fredo looked up, and saw Bellini sitting at the foot of his bed. He dropped a pillow on the ground between his feet, beaming as he beckoned Fredo over. Fredo slowly crossed over to him, standing in front of Bellini. He felt his heart pound, his throat constructing. Bellini touched him, hands on his forearms, guiding Fredo to put his hands on Bellini's hips. He let go of Fredo's arms, running his fingers through his curls and scratching his scalp. A shiver ran down Fredo's spine, and he reflexively closed his eyes.

Bellini cursed a little in English- he squirmed, jostling Fredo's hands as he tugged the elastic waistband of his shorts and briefs down around his thighs. Fredo caught a glimpse of his cock, already half hard, and quickly shut his eyes again.

"Okay, okay- I want- I want to try like this. Just your mouth. Is that okay?" Bellini asked, burying his fingers in Fredo's curls and pulling him close.

What a moron, Fredo thought as he opened his mouth. Everyone always thought this was a hot idea, and maybe it looked good- Fredo wouldn't fucking know- but it didn't feel as good as men thought it would. Fredo had only known three men who came from his mouth and throat alone, and Bellini was a softie, not sadistic enough to be as rough as they were, much less enjoy it.

Still. It was his pay back. If he wanted a mediocre blowjob, whatever. He tried to relax, letting Bellini bob his head back and forth, breathing through his nose to avoid gagging. The rhythmic scratching of his scalp helped a lot- it really was nice, even if it was weird- and Bellini's whispers helped too.

"Good... that's good... oh, you are so so so good..."

I am, Fredo thought, wrapping the comforting thought around him like a blanket. He felt detached from the act they were engaged in, but it was a warm, happy feeling. I am so so good.

Bellini's mutterings became incoherent and apologetic, his grip tightening in Fredo's hair as he held him closer, grinding deep enough to make Fredo gag. The discomfort was enough to snap him out of the pleasant trance he'd fallen into, but not enough to put him in a bad mood. He pulled back- Bellini didn't even try to stop him- and jacked the American off quickly. Fredo let Bellini come on his face, and wasn't even annoyed until he opened his eyes and realized he'd forgotten to remove his glasses before they began.

"Figlio di puttana," he swore, standing up and going to the small sink in the corner of the dorm to wash his face and glasses. That's what I get for showing off, Fredo thought irritably, though at least Bellini's stupid pillow meant his legs weren't numb from kneeling.

"Sorry about that," Bellini whispered, suddenly close behind him. Fredo his his startle, shooting him a near-sighted glare over his shoulder.

"It's fine."

"I can make it up to you," Bellini offered, "An eye for an eye, as it were."

"No-" Fredo jumped as Bellini touched him, and Fredo realized he was visibly hard through his own trousers. What the fuck, he thought in shock- what the fuck was wrong with him, this hadn't happened before.

"You really enjoyed that," Bellini observed, voice low and hot.

No I don't, Fredo thought, panicked and hands wet, vision blurry. I don't like it, I don't like that stuff.

"C'mon-"

"No," Fredo said sharply, then slammed a hand across his face, fearful he'd been too loud. He put his glasses on, still a little water splotched from washing. "No," he repeated, firmly but quietly. "You bought me things, I paid you back- we're even. I don't want to start the week owing you."

"Huh," Bellini said, staring at him. "Is that the game we're playing?"

What the hell did he mean 'game'? Fredo wondered, and shrugged.

"So if a drink gets me a... Fuck, I don't know the word in Italian for blow job. Your mouth, I guess. What do I have to buy to get you?"

Fredo felt uncomfortable and pissed off. He hated being asked to name a price- it was fucking demeaning. If someone offered, he could accept or not, be the judge, keep his pride, but to tag himself like a block of fucking cheese or something- it was humiliating. He was suddenly incredibly angry with Bellini and his stupid questions, ruining the good mood he'd been in before, and he was still fucking aroused for some stupid reason.

"Whatever," he muttered, "I'm going to bed."

It was extremely unsatisfying to leave- he had to gently crack the door open as he slipped into the hall, and quietly make his way back into his own room. He was still thrumming with unreleased tension.

He could jerk himself off, he thought. He shouldn't, because it was a mortal sin and wholly unbecoming of a saint- Christ or his Blessed Mother would never engage in an act so vile and embarrassing- but... But he could, in principle. He was going to confession the next morning anyway- he could even stay up, just to be certain he wouldn't die in his sleep...

He slipped his hand into his pants, touching himself. He suddenly remembered the time he'd tried to rescue a baby bird, fallen from its nest, but as he scooped up its soft and featherless body he'd realized it was already dead. In disgust, he jerked his hands out of his pants, and tried to go to sleep.

Fredo had been a little worried Bellini would be mad at him, but the American was reassuringly normal. After chapel and confession, Bellini had taken Fredo to a cafe and bought him a coffee and a biscuit. It was nice, but Fredo noticed the other man scrutinizing his reaction. He's looking for what I like, Fredo realized- he's weighing the cost of me.

He felt very self conscious that week- every little gesture Bellini made suddenly laden with sexuality. When he gathered up Fredo's things for him, or took to carrying a lighter just so he could offer it to him- when Bellini offered Fredo food from his plate, and gradually took to leaving a little more behind on it after every meal, smiling smugly as Fredo finished it- all of it was building towards something. Fredo realized with horror that the twisting in his gut he increasingly felt around Bellini was arousal, not nausea. It was a terrible, girlish thing to be betrayed by his own body. He hated Bellini for making him look forward to his own sin.

Fredo couldn't bring himself to go to Bellini's room that Friday. He froze up, going back and forth in his mind about what to do, and was so absorbed in his thoughts he lost track of his cigarette, accidentally burning his finger tip. He swore under his breath and stuck it in his mouth, sucking the pain out. When he heard Bellini knock at his door, he couldn't help but bite down on the blister.

He cracked the door open, and Bellini slipped in, pressing close to Fredo's side.

"Hey you," Bellini whispered, glasses catching the lamp light. He touched Fredo's hand, pushing it away from his mouth. "Make a little room for me, huh?" He tilted his face up, kissing Fredo on the lips. Fredo couldn't hold back the little sound he made, startled and squeaky from the back of his throat.

Bellini ran his hands up and down Fredo's body, making him shiver. He hadn't changed out of his clerical garb- it made him feel strong, secure- but he didn't have the money to replace anything and he was rotten at mending his own clothing so when Bellini started fumbling with the buttons of his cassock, Fredo pulled away to undo them himself, reluctantly shedding the top layer of his clothing.

It wasn't enough, of course- he flinched a little as Bellini reached out and untucked his shirt, running his hands across his hips.

Bellini shushed him in English, rubbing little circles into Fredo's skin that made an unbearable tingle squirm inside him.

"It's alright," Bellini murmured, finally speaking properly again, "It's your turn tonight- what do you want?"

Fredo didn't want anything. Wanting was a sin. It was better when it was a necessity, or unavoidable, when it was just an accident to accept and overcome. Wanting was complicity, was guilt, was dirty. Bellini bought him things, and Fredo paid him back, it was simple, he didn't have to think about it, and now it wasn't enough, now this selfish jerk wanted to drag Fredo down to his level and make him want things and choose and talk and it wasn't fair because all Fredo wanted was to be good and he was good, despite everything he was a good person and it wasn't his fault and this wasn't fair-

"Jesus, breathe," Bellini blasphemed. "I seriously can't tell if you're made on or panicking."

"Turned on," Fredo corrected him automatically. Bellini pressed his face into Fredo's shirt, muffling a laugh.

"Well, that's a relief," Bellini whispered back. "What do you want then?"

"I-" Fredo started. "I want to keep my clothes on."

"That's fine," Bellini said. "We can do just- ugh, what the word. Kissing and touching, what do you call all the stuff that comes before sex but isn't fully sex?"

"Molestation?" Fredo suggested. Bellini stared at him, frowning.

"No," Bellini said definitively. "I don't know the word I want, but I know that's the wrong one."

They wound up lying down on Fredo's bed, Fredo on his back and Bellini lying on his side next to him, leaning over him to kiss him. They'd kissed enough that the weirdness had come off it- it was kind of nice, and Fredo liked it best when Bellini would stop to stroke his cheek or face, but then he'd remember that he didn't want to like any of this and he'd try and detach, ignore what was happening, but Bellini could feel when he tensed up and he'd kiss him again-

"Oh forget it," Bellini muttered. He sat up, pulling away from Fredo. "Where are your cigarettes? I want to try one."

"I thought you didn't smoke."

"Kissing you is like kissing an ash tray, it's about time you got a taste of your own medicine," Bellini sniped. He leaned over, stretching out to grab the pack from the desk squished close to Fredo's bed. When he looked back, he saw something on Fredo's face that made him flinch. "Sorry, that was bitchy," Bellini said. "I do get it, you know- I'm a repressed Catholic, just like you. But- oh for Christ's sake, Goffredo, if you're not in the mood just say so, don't make me feel like a creep by flinching every time I touch you."

Fredo still felt bad- the same bad he'd felt earlier, a self-pitying frustration- but a new feeling bubbled up in his heart. It was a strange, confusing sort of sadness- it took him a minute to recognize it. He felt sorry for Bellini. Fredo rarely felt sorry for anyone, and he wondered if this was how God felt, looking down on the poor sinners of earth.

He reached out, grabbing the hem of Bellini's t-shirt. He was suddenly afraid the other boy would leave. Bellini glanced over at him, still smoking one of Fredo's cigarettes miserably.

Fredo wanted to say something, but no words came to him. He tried to make a sympathetic noise, humming a little. Bellini passed him the cigarette- which Fredo wasn't asking for, but he did accept, just to have something to do. He took a long pull off of it and passed it back to Bellini.

"How many times have you done this before?" Fredo asked.

"What do you mean 'this'?" Bellini asked archly, looking away. "Once, I guess. I had a boyfriend at camp growing up."

"Camp?"

Bellini elaborated, telling Fredo about a Catholic youth camp in upstate New York he'd attended every summer, and the boy he met there. He talked about how they'd started out as bunkmates as children, the dance routine they'd performed together at a talent show, the first kiss they'd shared behind a boat shed. About how they'd become counselors at the camp as teenagers and fooled around together after their charges fell asleep.

It was all very idyllic and innocent. Normally, Fredo would've felt exasperated by Bellini's heavily accented ramblings, and jealous of the happy childhood he described, but that weird soft feeling lingered. He closed his eyes, imagining the picture Bellini's words painted.

He woke up the next morning, still in his clothes on top of the covers and alone. He felt disoriented and out of sorts- even more disoriented when Bellini deliberately avoided looking at him in line for confession. He tried not to think about it- tried to keep his heart and mind focused on the Lord God- but he felt the absence of Bellini's glances acutely.

He lingered at the periphery of Bellini's personal space through out the day, trailing after him from the cafeteria to the library- he didn't feel bold enough to sit down next to him and his friends- and the longer he went without a single look from the American the angrier he felt. I don't put out one time and he's done with me? Fredo thought, outraged.

Bellini claimed he'd only been with one boy before Fredo. Last night, Fredo had thought- he's almost innocent. Now, he thought- he must think I'm some kind of slut, good for only one thing. He looks down on me. Fuck him. He's probably lying, anyhow, because he's a fag, and I hate him. Fredo seethed until Bellini's friend left, and then rushed over to sit across from Bellini, grabbing his attention by force.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Fredo demanded, barely controlling the volume of his voice.

"Excuse me?" Bellini asked, which made Fredo seethed more- always with the stupid fucking questions, this guy!

"Why are you ignoring me?"

"Oh, now you care," Bellini said sarcastically, shutting his book with a flourish. Fredo felt his face screw up- because he didn't care, he didn't, but how did Bellini know that? "I had the impression I was boring you last night."

"What?"

Bellini levelled him with a withering look. "You said nothing and fell asleep while I was talking to you. In most circles that would be considered rude, you know."

Fredo screwed his face up more. He wasn't going to apologize- he hadn't done anything wrong, after all- but he didn't know what to say. Bellini was wrong- Fredo had been listening, had liked his story.

"You don't even call me by my name," Bellini remarked bitterly.

Fredo realized that was true- that he had never addressed Bellini by name to his face. "Well of course I don't," he said defensively. "Why would I? You're right here."

"People generally like to hear their name. It's a sign of affection."

Fredo scoffed. Why was Bellini speaking in generalities? Be a fucking man, say what you want, he thought meanly.

"I can call you Aldo," Fredo said defensively.

"My friends call me Al."

"Al," Fredo scoffed again, mimicking Bellini's nasally vowels. "How fucking American. If you were Italian, your nickname would be Dino."

"Do you want to call me Dino?" Bellini asked sarcastically.

Fredo was surprised to realize that yes, he did. He wished Bellini was someone he could be friends with. A little dream started to grow, like a flower sprouting from a sidewalk crack. That maybe Bellini could understand him, be his friend, love him in that pure hearted way he'd described last night.

"Can we get coffee this week?"

"You mean I buy us coffee?"

"I'll bring you a book," Fredo said, ignoring Dino's tone. "My favorite one. You'll see."

He got up and left, bumping shoulders with Dino's foreign friend as he left. He realized they hadn't actually set a date, but there were only so many afternoons they had free. Fredo tried to be attentive to Dino, sitting by him at meals, making a point to watch him closely. He jumped in as often as he could in conversation, adding his opinions, telling jokes. See, he thought happily, I can be a good friend.

Dino did eventually take him to a little cafe. Fredo was elated. I don't have to do anything bad to pay him back- I have a book to give him, he thought happily. He pulled it out of his pocket after they sat down- a slim little pamphlet, like the kind they sold in gift shops, the binding a little loose from frequent reading and the cover reenforced with sellotape. Uniformity with God's Will, by St. Alphonsus di Liguori.

"Ah," Dino said, accepting the little book from Fredo's hands.

"Read it," Fredo encouraged him, gesturing excitedly.

"Now?" Dino asked, but dutifully opened the book, beginning to leaf through its thin pages.

He's going too fast, Fredo thought, annoyed that the other boy was skimming rather than absorbing the wisdom it contained- but then again, Dino was one of those annoying natural-born intellectuals. Maybe he could read that fast, Fredo thought, equal parts anxious and hopeful and jealous.

"I think I've read this before, in English," Dino said. "My grandmother collected these sort of things."

"It's a classic," Fredo said, deciding not to take the grandmother comment as an insult.

"Why don't you tell me what you like about it?"

"It was a gift."

Dino half-laughed. "Of course it was."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You like gifts, don't you?"

"Of course I do," Fredo said. Everyone liked gifts, and Fredo could remember each one he'd ever been given- there weren't exactly an abundance of them, never mind ones that were brand new and special and for him alone. The book had been a gift to him from Don Carlo, after he was confirmed. A special gift, just for him, because Don Carlo liked him the best.

"But the actual writing- what do you like about it?"

"It's comforting," Fredo said.

"You don't find it depressing?" Dino asked. "All this talk about resigning yourself to suffering?"

"Christ suffered," Fredo snapped, then shoved his feelings down- this was his chance to teach Dino something, what real religion was. He tried to force a pleasant expression on his face, taking a sip of his espresso to ground himself. "Either suffering is a gift from God that draws us closer to Him, or He's too weak to save us from it. I believe the first. St. Liguori's writing made me feel very loved."

"Uh-huh," Dino said, flipping through the pages of the book. "And how does that apply to us?"

"You and I?"

"Homosexuals," Dino clarified, and Fredo flinched at the word, looking around to make sure no one could hear their conversation. "Is it God's will that we love the way we do?"

If Dino would just shut up and read the fucking book, Fredo thought, he'd see that there was a whole section on living with mental illness. "The Lord controls the movement of the stars in heaven," Fredo said, fighting for all the eloquence he could muster, "The wind and the rains, all the atoms. Nothing happens without his permission. If someone tries to turn away from God, God allows their actions and uses them for the greater good. So nothing that happens to you matters, as long as your heart is set on God."

"I'm not sure I follow."

Of course you don't, Fredo thought meanly, but bit his cheek. "Giving in to temptation is a sin, but if you're not tempted, there's no sin. If things happen, that's unpleasant, but God is allowing them to happen. So as long as you're not the active one- or as long as you don't want it... Sin begins in human will, not action."

"If I'm understanding you correctly... Jesus, Goffredo. I've heard homophobic guys use the 'its not gay if you're on top' cope before, but I think you're the first to come up with 'it's not a sin if you're on bottom'."

Fredo felt his cheeks flush, head spinning as his blood rushed. That's not what I meant, he thought.

"Do you want to come by my room tonight, or are you going to wait till Friday, like usual?" Dino asked, shutting the little book and setting it on the table between them.

"But I gave you the book," Fredo said- not to mention all the attention he'd given Dino that week. That was supposed to make them even.

"Oh, the book," Dino- no, Bellini, said. "I see, I have to want it so it can be all my fault. In that case- I want you to come over tonight."

Sure, Fredo had thought that, but there was something ugly in hearing Bellini say it out loud. I liked it better when you were nice to me, Fredo thought, and then hated himself for it. That's what he got for letting himself daydream about love- he'd wanted Bellini to understand, and now it seemed he did.

"I wonder," Bellini said, sipping his coffee, eyes burning with something as Fredo met his gaze, "Which will happen first? You admitting you want this, or me deciding I don't?"

That sounded like a challenge. Fredo finished his espresso and steeled his heart. Fredo was not a loser. He would find a way to outlast Bellini, and keep him coming back for more. Because God was on his side, Fredo thought, and maybe someday Bellini would understand that too.