Felix’s house suited its owner perfectly. Old, but well-kept and restrained, without excess. Built in the nineteenth century, and it showed: classic Austrian style, wooden shutters, warm plastered walls, a small stairway leading to the front door, and other such details.

  Elias walks in as if it’s his own home, his gait loose, unhurried, and lets his gaze sweep across the space. He is met by a narrow, chilly corridor with wooden shoe racks and an antique coat stand where, among stern overcoats and grey hats, a pastel-pink, delicate shawl peeks through. A trace of Molly’s presence—one that pricks him with faint irritation. And her traces are scattered everywhere in this house, awkwardly intruding into Felix’s austerity and restraint.

  In the living room, small touches are meant to hint at family coziness, but instead only underscore its absence. A decorative embroidered pillow rests on the sofa—something Molly had bought at a fair ages ago. In the china cabinet, among Felix’s drab, severe tableware, sit a few tasteless porcelain cups and plates with floral patterns. The kitchen is one of the few places where Molly’s influence is truly felt. Unlike Felix’s restraint, she had added a patterned tablecloth, a few bright towels, and a baking set she likely barely used. Bauer had never paid much attention to any of it, but with Elias here, it becomes uncomfortable. Everything feels embarrassingly staged, painfully artificial, and the nausea that has been dogging Felix returns.

  But Elias disregards it all with careless ease. His arrogant gaze stays mostly on the priest, only occasionally gliding over the room. He walks deeper into the living area, connected to the kitchen. Felix grips the sleeve of his cassock in lieu of a rosary and tries not to look at the young man. He felt too strange, too raw. He didn’t have the strength to quarrel or to chase him out. No matter how many sinful things Huber might drag into his life—Felix would not give in to temptation. He had resigned himself to the fact that any attempt to banish this serpent of seduction would fail. He was far too cunning for that.

  “If you’re here to mock me again—”

  “What’s with your hands?” Elias cuts him off abruptly and immediately takes Felix’s bandaged palms into his own. Too carefully. That tenderness, that unexpected concern, feels out of place, but stirs something warm and disturbingly needed in his chest.

  “It’s—”

  He cannot find the words. The memory flashes too clearly: yesterday, kneeling before the crucifix, gripping a candle so tightly that melted wax spilled over, burning his skin, sealing his fingers together. His palms had reddened so badly they blistered, even tore, when Felix later peeled the wax off too roughly. Something that ought to be hidden—hence the bandages. No one cared, usually. But Elias is looking at them with such genuine concern Felix suddenly feels ashamed.

  “I burned myself on a candle,” he says quietly, not pulling his hands away, though he cannot bring himself to meet Elias’s eyes. “Don’t worry.”

  “Both hands at once?” The tone is mocking again, and it grates. “You barely sleep, Father Felix, am I right? It’s written all over you. Praying, serving God… honestly, why torment yourself like that?”

  “I’m not tormenting myself,” Felix sighs and gently withdraws his hands. “I’m atoning for the sin you forced upon me.”

  Elias reacts sharper than expected. He grabs Felix’s shoulders, both hands, squeezing slightly as he pulls him closer. Fear freezes inside him, and Bauer silently thanks God that at least they’re the same height—Huber won’t snap him in two. Probably.

  “You’d better shut up, Father Felix,” Elias hisses, fingers tightening, “and stop hanging your sins on me. They’re your own doing.”

  “I begged you to stop, and you forced me.” Felix answers with cold restraint. “Don’t put yourself on a pedestal, Elias. You’re no different from anyone who thinks they’re special while being hollow inside. Without even a soul.”

  “Felix..!” Elias nearly shouts, but catches himself. Exhaling slowly, he releases the priest’s shoulders and steps back. “Fine. Whatever.” He stuffs one hand into his jeans pocket, shrugging away the tension. “Can I stay the night?”

  The question isn’t surprising—but it still throws Felix off. It’s rhetorical. There’s only one possible answer, and they both know it.

  “You may,” Felix nods calmly. “Molly’s staying with her friend anyway. Come, I’ll show you the room.” He starts to move, then stops, lowering his voice to a strict murmur. “But behave properly. There will be no indulging in sin under my roof.”

  “Padre, you can’t see my face, but trust me—I just rolled my eyes so hard I saw my brain,” Elias laughs, following him, and Felix feels a brief, involuntary smile tug at his own lips—one he immediately hides.

  Elias crosses the threshold of a small, light-filled room on the second floor, looking around. It seems frozen in time. Sweet, pastel wallpaper, neat curtains on the windows—but dust on every surface. No one had cleaned here in ages.

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  “No guests in a while?” Elias smirks, tugging playfully on the ear of the stuffed bear lying on the bed.

  “It’s not a guest room,” Felix corrects shortly. “It’s a nursery.”

  “You have children?!” For the first time, Huber’s face contorts with genuine shock, as if he’d just been told unicorns existed.

  But Felix only presses his lips together and looks away, staring at the lone plush toy. A long-buried image of Molly rises before his eyes—Molly howling in pain, curled around her abdomen. Felix had thought he’d never known fear greater than the sight of blood running down her legs. How could they have let it happen? How had he not prayed for protection of what was most precious? Perhaps that grief had been the final blow that destroyed any chance for them to remain a “family.” After that, they never even tried to be happy again.

  “No,” Felix finally says softly. “We have no children.”

  Elias seems to understand immediately—Bauer sees it in the shadow crossing his expression—and, mercifully, asks nothing more. Instead, he lets the topic drop, flops onto the bed, and stretches lazily. His carelessness is disarming. It feels as though his lightness melts the house’s severity, softens its cold. For the first time in days, Felix smiles genuinely—over something as small as a joke. But he cannot allow that to show. If he admits that nausea and hatred were never about Elias, his entire fortress of ice will collapse.

  Felix stands statue-still beside the bed, looking down at Huber. His gaze slides, unwillingly, down the young man’s body—relaxed thighs wrapped in dark jeans, the too-slender waist, the belt emphasizing it, the broad shoulders beneath the damp shirt, the large, strong hands.

  He could probably snap my spine with one hand, Felix thinks, and for some reason the thought doesn’t frighten him. It pulls at him, low and deep.

  At last, he looks at Elias’s face—and flinches when he finds the young man already watching him. Felix turns away quickly. Elias notices. And grins—genuinely, brightly.

  “Admiring me, Padre?” he purrs, casually lifting the hem of his damp, half-unbuttoned shirt to expose a toned torso.

  “Not at all…” Felix forces himself to look away. And still—he steals glances from under lowered lashes. He can’t help it. It feels like turning away from the Sistine Madonna. Too beautiful not to look. “I should go. I must begin my prayers. Good night, Elias.”

  He turns, but doesn’t take a single step—Elias springs up with such quickness that the exhausted Bauer can only envy it, grabs him by the waist with one arm, and pulls him down. Felix gasps, loses balance, and falls onto the bed. Now they lie side by side—impossibly close—Huber’s hand boldly resting on his waist.

  Felix jerks his head up, staring in bewilderment, fear sparking. His heart hammers wildly; breathing becomes difficult. No rosary to cling to. Control slipping from his grasp again. He pushes at Elias’s wrist, trying to free himself, but it’s useless. The difference in strength is undeniable, and every attempt only earns him a tighter hold. The belt under his cassock—the rough, rigid fabric—presses into raw, burned skin so sharply he almost cries out. He stops struggling to avoid worsening the pain and lifts his eyes to Huber.

  “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” Elias sounds absurdly innocent. “I don’t like sleeping alone in a new place. So calm me down, Father Felix. Isn’t that your job? To soothe souls?”

  “Fine. I won’t leave,” Felix winces as Elias’s hand shifts slightly, “but let go. Your behavior is unacceptable.”

  “Your righteousness annoys me,” Elias mutters, though he does release him and scoots back a little. “But your stern face turns me on. You’re such a contradiction, Padre.”

  “Remember what I said about sinning under my roof…” Felix exhales tiredly and gives up on resisting. He relaxes on the bed, puts a little distance between them, and closes his eyes. “How can you live without faith?”

  “Oh, I live with faith,” Elias smiles. “I believe in myself, Padre—and that’s enough. Last thing I need is to be limited by a fantasy novel.”

  “Lack of boundaries makes you a slave to your own weaknesses, Elias.”

  “And your life inside boundaries makes you a slave to others!” Elias turns onto his side, resting his head on his hand. “Haven’t you ever noticed that you remain alone even when surrounded by people? Isn’t that the punishment for obedient servitude?”

  “I have noticed,” Felix answers indifferently. “But you’re wrong. Solitude is not always punishment.”

  “You see it as protection?”

  “Or atonement.”

  “And what—you hope to atone for all your sins by being alone?”

  “If that’s the price…”

  “Isn’t it too high?” Elias cuts in. “You of all people know that sin comes from our true nature. Are you tormented by the sin itself—or by the fact that you liked it?”

  “Elias…” Felix feels exposed—Elias clearly knows exactly which sin he means. “What are you implying? Every righteous man must overcome his vile sin. And I consider myself a righteous man.”

  “When a man is forced to do something revolting to him,” Elias says slowly, gaze fixed on him, “he simply doesn’t repeat it. But if he returns to it again and again—even in thought—it means he doesn’t want to be rid of it. People don’t change. And neither do you. Or do you hope God won’t notice who you were? What you did?”

  “It’s a struggle,” Felix sighs again, fighting back a yawn. “I only hope He notices who I tried to become.”

  “That’s cheap self-deception, not struggle!” Elias raises his voice so suddenly that Bauer flinches. “You can’t run from yourself. And no matter how much dust you throw in the air, the moment you’re alone—without prayers, without rules—you become yourself again. And God knows it. So what’s the point in running, when you could simply enjoy what brings you pleasure?”

  “Even if the sin is pleasant, that doesn’t make it right…” Felix doesn’t realize how uncertain his voice has grown. He turns his head—and unexpectedly meets Elias’s gaze.

  “Then maybe admit that you want it, that you need it, instead of torturing yourself? Who will you be without your faith?”

  For a while, they lie in silence, both lost in their thoughts. Rain taps softly on the roof—soothing, lulling, but only the body. Felix’s thoughts race, tangled with scripture, giving him a headache. He frowns, closes his eyes again, and turns away from Elias’s face. Tries to get up, to leave. But it feels impossible.

  The weight returns—heavy, stone-like—pressing on his chest. He tries not to move, but breathing grows harder. Because the air is thick with Elias’s scent. Damp fabric smelling of rain, mixing with his perfume—spiced, woody notes that cloud his head. Elias breathes slowly, but the warmth of it fills the room like water in a vessel. Too close. Both know it’s wrong.

  But where is all the disgust that haunted him these past days?

  There is no fear now. No nausea. No hatred. Only a heartbeat pounding in time with his thoughts—loud, quick, echoing in his ears. And the exhaustion dragging at him, anchoring him to the bed. He should leave. He cannot simply fall asleep here beside him. Something inside him—something from within—holds him in place. Felix feels as if he’s at confession. Only without words. Just silence and two breaths in the dark.

  “Who will you be without your rebellion and rage?”

  “I’ll be free.”

  “Free.” Such a simple and yet unbearably difficult state of being — and yet Elias always seemed to inhabit it, as if he were the only one who had grasped the true shape of happiness. Felix understood that, in part, and that was precisely why he resisted acknowledging it. Because if he admitted that Elias was, in his own frivolous way, genuinely happy, then Felix would lose. He was already losing — shamefully, completely.

  Despite everything he had built inside himself over forty-three years, despite the pillars of conviction he had so carefully erected, his body betrayed him and reached for Elias. Even in all his brutality and danger, Elias was impossible to deny. Holding the distance had become too difficult. And, truth be told, with every passing day Felix felt he didn’t even want to try.

  As if answering that quiet surrender, he feels the warm brush of fingers against his cold hand — and startles. But he doesn’t pull away. Later, he will explain it to himself by saying he was simply too tired. But the truth, in this moment, is that he just wants to be warm, if only a little. He needs it.

  With that same thought lingering in him, Felix sinks into a deep, dreamless sleep.