The Last Attempt

Chapter 2: 

Elias POV 

“Come here.” The moment I heard these two words, I moved toward him with precision so my steps didn't falter.

The alcohol in my blood made my limbs feel light, almost disconnected from the rest of me, but I needed it. 

Without the wine the fear would have been louder than the need.

 Without it I might have turned around at the door and ridden home in the rain like a coward.

 I had already made the decision in the quiet of my parents’ house while the last guests were still laughing in the front room. 

After tonight, if he still sent me away, I would let go. I would bury every memory of Father Cassian Riven.

He was the most beautiful man in the state. I had heard the women and girls say it often enough after Mass, their voices low and admiring as they watched him walk back toward the rectory.

 Such a waste, they would murmur behind their hands. A face like that locked behind a collar. If he weren’t a priest… Some of them were bolder when they thought no one important was listening. 

They spoke about the width of his shoulders under the black fabric, the way his voice sounded during the homily, the rare times he smiled at a child. But what they loved most—what they returned to again and again—was his quiet kindness when he believed himself unobserved.

They had seen him stay late to sit with the old women who had no one left at home. 

They had watched him carry bags of food to the back doors of families who would never ask for help in public.

 They whispered about the way he spoke to the orphans after catechism, patient and low, as if every word mattered.

 He has a gentle heart, they said. You can see it when he thinks no one is looking.

 Each comment left a sharp, familiar jealousy under my ribs. 

They could admire him from a distance. They could invent soft stories about his goodness. They would never know the sound of his voice when he was trying not to say my name too carefully. They would never know the exact shade of grey his eyes became when he was tired. That knowledge, at least, still belonged to me.

The rain continued outside, soft and steady against the high windows. 

Vespera was quiet at this hour. The old quarter would be asleep. No late footsteps, no voices carrying from the street. No one would hear the things I had come to say. The silence felt like a fragile kind of safety.

I stopped a few steps away from him. Up close I thought I saw it again—the same look from four years ago. Longing. Recognition. The feeling of being seen. Or maybe the wine was inventing shapes in his expression that were not really there. I could no longer trust my own eyes.

“Will you hear my confession, Father?”

Cassian’s grey eyes rested on me. He swallowed once, hard. I watched the rise and fall of Adam's apple beneath the edge of the collar. 

Contemplation moved through his face, quick and tightly controlled, as if he were weighing something heavier than a simple request. For a moment I thought he would refuse.

“It’s late, Elias,” he said. His voice was low, almost careful. “Come tomorrow.”

I didn’t recognize the sound that left my own mouth. It was quieter than I expected, stripped of the usual composure I wore in front of him.

“Please.”

The word hung between us. I heard the rain, the faint creak of old wood, the sound of my own pulse. Something in him shifted.

 He looked at me for a long second longer, then gave a single, reluctant nod. He turned and walked toward the confessional without speaking. I followed.

Inside the narrow wooden booth the familiar scents of wax and incense closed around me like a hand at the back of my neck.

 They were comforting and dangerous at the same time.

 Those smells had followed me home on too many nights. They had clung to my clothes and my skin while I locked my bedroom door with shaking fingers, shoved my pants down, and took myself in hand in the dark. 

The memory rose immediately, vivid and unwelcome, bringing heat with it.

I knelt on the worn wooden board. The screen between us did almost nothing to reduce the awareness of how near he was. I could hear him breathing.

For a moment I said nothing. I stared at the dark wood in front of me and tried to find the formal shape of confession.

 The words would not come. What I needed to say had no place in the usual ritual.

“I’ve wanted men for as long as I can remember,” I began, my voice low.

 “But I’ve wanted you since the day you walked out of the rectory. You looked at me and I felt seen in a way no one else had ever managed. In this house, in this parish, I’ve performed every day of my life. Perfect son. Perfect smile.

 Perfect answers. You looked at me and for one second I felt real. I’ve been chasing that feeling for four years.”

I paused, listening. He said nothing. The silence on the other side of the screen felt heavy, but it was not the silence of dismissal. It felt like waiting.

I continued.

“ I think you've always known that  I’ve been trying to get closer. You’ve tried to stop me. 

You removed me from the cleaning group. You took me off the altar schedule.

 You shortened every confession and gave me duties as far from you as you could manage.

 It only made me more careful. I learned the timing of your evening lock-up. 

I found reasons to be near the rectory. I asked questions I already knew the answers to just to hear your voice a little longer. I told myself I would stop after the next rejection. I never did.”

My hands were pressed flat against my thighs. I could feel a faint tremor in my fingers.

“I’ve touched myself thinking about you,” I said, and the words came out rougher than I intended. 

“More times than I can count. At night I lock the door and take my cock out—seven inches, thick, veiny—and stroke it with lubricant while I imagine it’s your hand instead of mine. 

I go slow at first, almost careful, then harder, twisting over the head the way that always makes my hips jerk.

 I think about your mouth. I think about the weight of your body. 

I think about you pushing into me while those same scents of incense, cologne and wax are still on your skin. 

I cum with my face buried in the pillow so my parents won’t hear the sound of your name.”

My own body reacted to the confession as if the memories themselves had hands.

 I felt the warm, slick wetness of pre-cum already spreading against the front of my underwear, as my  7 inches thick veiny cock begs for freedom. 

The fabric clung uncomfortably. I shifted on the kneeler, heat rising hard in my face and neck, but I did not stop speaking.

 The alcohol and the years of silence had loosened something that could not be put back.

“I know what happens if we’re caught,” I said, quieter now.

 “I know what Vespera does to men like me.

 I know what it would do to my parents. I know what it would do to you.

 I’m willing to risk it anyway. But I’ve also decided that this is the last time I’ll ask. If you send me away tonight, I’ll stop. 

I’ll stay away from the rectory. I’ll stop finding reasons to cross your path. I’ll bury every thought of you and every night I spent touching myself to the memory of your voice. I’ll let go.”

I drew a slow breath. The scents of his cologne and incense filled my lungs.

“I needed you to know what you’ve been to me,” I finished. “Even if nothing comes of it. Even if you tell me to leave and never come back.”

I waited in the thick, scented dark of the confessional, pulse loud in my throat, the damp fabric of my underwear sticking to my skin, and listened for whatever he would say next.

 The rain continued outside. The rest of Vespera slept. Inside the small wooden booth, everything I had carried for four years lay exposed between us, and there was no taking it back.