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The church has long been a place where lost travelers or the desperate, the lost could come at any time of the day, ask for a place to stay and shelter for a while.
This was the place where the Lord accepted anyone who turned to him for help.
But such a routine, however, required enormous efforts from the church workers and deprived them of their own personal life.
Churches began to close at night, but there were also temples and monasteries that were still ready to receive guests, although they would hardly be welcome.
It was late Sunday night.
All the parishioners had long since gone home to their loving, or not so, families, cooked dinner, put the children to bed.
The clergy followed the same example, going to their wives and children, without whom no Christian family could do.
Only the guards who came to control the order at night sit in their nook, and the cleaners scrub the rooms with the icons.
So much red tape after the guests, especially with the candles...
– Oh, I remembered. Do you want another story from prison?
Gelato couldn't help but smile, remembering the old days, full of events, unexpected turns and people.
Lazily lounging, his head propped up on his hands instead of a pillow, on the stairs of the main hall, where, as Sorbet said, people were usually baptized, and most often children, he takes the already smoldering cigarette out of his mouth and puts it out on the small puddles and splashes around.
He doesn't get an answer to his question, Sorbet doesn't even turn to him or twitch, sitting invariably, hunched over his knees and finishing his cigarette, lagging behind Gelato by exactly one.
But for some reason inexplicable to each other, even to themselves, they understood that there seemed to be no particular need for an answer here.
They understood everything perfectly, felt it without unnecessary, superfluous words.
– We had one guy, sat opposite. I don't even remember why. Or maybe I was just too lazy to find out…
Gelato spoke slowly, recalling details and, in general, times when he had to put newcomers in their place and fight for his right to solitude and inviolability.
However, it was more annoying than difficult, for some reason, everyone who wanted to prove their worth to the local gangs considered it their duty to assert their rights in front of him.
Sorbet was distantly finishing his cigarette, while the familiar, no longer so annoying voice sounded in the background, which fleetingly stopped in anticipation of him finishing, so that they could start on the fourth cigarette together, if necessary.
Although it was not really smoking. Only if passively.
Most of the ashes simply burned into thin air and fell to the floor, smoldering in thick puddles.
– I still don't believe that he killed or robbed anyone.
An unpleasant damp coolness blew across their legs. As if they had decided to take a dip in the river without taking off their clothes.
Or got caught in the rain.
No.
It was a deliberate, conscious decision.
The socks were still soaked through from the high splashes. If they stood up, it would definitely squelch.
Although in Gelato's case, it was most likely the holey old sole.
– He was so sweet, so sugary. I almost felt sick at the sight of him.
The hands were unpleasantly sticky.
Drops still trickled slowly down fingers from time to time, breaking off at the tip and falling with a ringing sound into the puddle that had formed under their feet, echoing off the walls of God's house and into ears, which weren't torn by the ragged cries of horror.
Or disappointment?
Humility.
Sorbet didn't expect anything else.
Dirty hands left bright red marks on every cigarette they held, leaving a bitter metallic taste on their tongues.
– And we were short on women. Those bastards were ready to fuck anything that moved or didn't move, I swear.
All those gaps, those seconds between words, when Gelato spoke or, on the contrary, caught the silence, just to think, to assess the situation, whether there was a need to continue, whether it was necessary to change the topic or the nature of the narrative, every moment was filled with the noise of their surroundings.
The air was filled with the oppressive sound of slush, still spreading on the exquisite floor.
He may not have been a particularly empathetic or tactful, understanding person, but he could sense Sorbet even from behind.
Perhaps not his thoughts, they were still a pleasant surprise every now and then, but this man could exude something inexplicable, capable of either drawing him to him or pushing him away, wanting to run without looking back.
And Gelato wanted to feel it all at the same time.
– You might think, oh, this guy has a canyon in his ass! And I thought so too!
Gelato almost instantly, like a bull with a red flag, catches the unobtrusive, light movement, with which the hand itself, without delay, goes into the pocket.
Pulling out a half-empty pack, he lightly pushes away from the steps, mostly dirty by himself, and hands the open box to Sorbet, allowing him to independently choose and pull out the desired cigarette.
Only after he lowers it to his lips, Gelato takes one for himself.
It wasn't a serious conversation.
Sorbet didn't even listen to him, didn't delve into the essence of the story, the characters, even the location of the action, most likely, remained outside his thoughts and especially memory.
But that wasn't the goal.
He loved listening to Gelato's stories, and sometimes they even made him laugh, sometimes surprised him, and sometimes made him roll his eyes.
And well, the latter happened more often.
Although it was hard to deny that this was what he liked.
But sometimes
Sometimes Gelato knew that Sorbet just needed to sit and fill his head with extraneous noise in the background.
It wasn't "being alone with yourself”.
It was precisely the need not to be alone with your own mind.
Calmed, relaxed, didn't oblige or force anything.
He didn't ask for more.
And Gelato was ready to give it to him in any quantity he needed.
– We were in the cafeteria. I was just out of solitary confinement, so I didn't notice right away. You know, food is more tempting than unicorn spit.
After several unsuccessful attempts to turn on the lighter, he finally reaches for the flame and lights Sorbet's cigarette first, not taking his eyes off how his lips stretch slightly, squeezing the nicotine bundle, how thin fingers hold it over the fire, and how the first threads of smoke barely escape from his nose.
As soon as he pulls away, Gelato sits up completely and lights his own cigarette, idly looking at the cigarette butts floating in the puddle.
Like paper boats, which Sorbet moved with the tip of his patent leather shoe.
– The two big bald freaks who were holding up the entire left wing had gotten to him. I won't quote the conversation, but his ass was definitely on their minds.
They take another drag almost simultaneously, but as Gelato exhales the thick, acrid smoke in a long, thin string, he quietly clicks his tongue, noticing how Sorbet swallows it, leaving it to occasionally come out of the corners of his mouth or nose.
Not the best solution for the lungs.
They generally juggle their health like circus performers now, and this one doesn't spare them at all.
– He listened to them silently until one grabbed his arm.
He glances at Sorbet out of the corner of his eye.
– And then suddenly BOOM BAM BACH-!
Gelato jerks with all his might, almost jumping up from his seat.
With a heavy grip of rough, wounded hands he digs into Sorbet's shoulder, simultaneously pushing but also holding him in place, simulating a crushing shock.
He freezes for a second, if not less, catching on Sorbet's face a sluggish, but responsive reaction to unexpected actions.
– He shoots them in the head! Blood, brains, everything was on the floor, on the tables, on the food!
They meet eyes and the voices fade away again, leaving only the oppressive clicking of the spreading moisture in front of them.
– He had a gun?
Sorbet's thin eyebrow arches elegantly, somewhat arrogantly, but clearly puzzledly at the moment of the question.
Gelato can't help but grin, smiling as he realizes that he was listened all this time.
Every word, every sound, every moment of silence and stillness.
– Imagine, right? I was simply SHOCKED.
With a light, dying laugh, to further relieve and support Sorbet's caloric activity, Gelato takes his arm.
The calloused palm slowly slides down along the forearm, bending around the thin wrist that he could easily grasp, and, finally, intertwining their no longer wet, but sticky with dried blood fingers.
– And then he was killed in the shower.
Life finally appears on Sorbet's lips, with which they hinted at a smirk. He gently but firmly squeezes their intertwined fingers tighter, reciprocating this strange, unfamiliar, most intimate gesture.
The tiny balls of the pendant that Sorbet usually wore around his neck, but now wrapped around his arm, rolled unpleasantly between their palms with a black metal cross hanging down.
They sat silently, pressed against each other as if neither time nor potential threat existed. Exhausted under the onslaught of weathered adrenaline, wet, stinking from the vile but already boring smell of rotten thick liquid that hung firmly in the air, enveloping their clothes, skin, even faces and especially the floor under their feet.
There was no longer any need for meaningless chatter.
Every time Gelato thought about it, about why it was happening, why he was even telling all this shit, he felt helplessly stupid.
Need to confess?
Sorbet was a priest, after all.
No.
It was a chance to just chat, just say the first thing came into his head, knowing that he wouldn't hear judgment, lectures, or other annoying attempts by people to help, to sympathize.
Because Sorbet felt the same.
And he began to feel it at the same time when he began to want to feel him near.
No talking, no consoling.
It was all unnecessary, superfluous, and intrusive.
The ability to simply be there was irreplaceable.
Although he also felt a hint of weakness that irritated him even more.
– Did he know about what happened?
Sorbet doesn't react right away.
Or rather, no.
He reacts instantly.
However, he's in no hurry to answer.
He wandered his eyes from one point to another for a while before looking away and thinking about the answer.
Or rather, it seemed to him that he was thinking about it.
– I don't think so. He wouldn't survive it.
Gelato accepts this answer.
He has no other option.
He will accept Sorbet's words in any case, even if they are the most blatant lies or blind stupidity.
Did that make him an idiot?
Well, it wasn't such a terrible prospect.
He looks slowly over the bloody, still bleeding body, every fold, every one of the many stab wounds, bullet wounds, and the deep, long cut across the throat.
It's hard to say how sure he is of how he should feel about what happened.
Not that killing a man, even a priest, was something horrible, scary, or shameful for him.
The problem, rather, was the man's connection to Sorbet.
They had similar facial features, he didn't have time to see them before Sorbet closed them at the end, but it seemed even the color of their eyes was the same.
It was strange.
And it was even stranger because Sorbet himself didn't seem to fully understand or even realize what he had done.
– Mmm. I can call him a bad word or-
Sorbet savors the question on his own tongue, tasting every nuance of his attitude and memory, thoughts and perceptions.
– No. He was a good man. And he always wanted the best for me. Maybe...
He slows down and falls silent, exhaling deeply and taking another lonely drag on smoldering cigarette.
– No. I still love him.
– Then why is he lying in a lake of blood now?
Gelato asks a counter question earlier and more abruptly than he planned, not having time to think about his decision.
Or not wanting to?
Sorbet is silent, would’ve been silent no matter how soon Gelato would have asked this question.
His tongue slowly rubbed against his upper jaw, gums, rubbing and revealing the colors of acrid bitterness on his tongue, shaking off the ashes after he fell on his own.
– Do you know why Christ was crucified?
– Pfft. Sorbet.
The open mockery doesn't offend him.
In fact, it comforts.
He nods slightly, holding his breath for a moment as Gelato rests his head on his shoulder, shifting slightly and settling himself.
The free hand slowly reaches out to take Sorbet's wrist, sliding higher and squeezing the hand gently.
They remain in this position for a moment before Gelato pulls the limp hand up and brings the cigarette between his fingers to his own lips, taking a drag or, he wouldn't deny, touching Sorbet's lips in that way at least.
– He claimed to be the son of God. Jesus was a blasphemer, by the law of the Bible.
– Your father thought he was God?
The answer was again forced to wait.
It was hard to call it confusion or difficulty.
Looking into those gloomy, despite the brightness, sky-blue eyes, it was obvious that Sorbet was thinking about something completely different than the question or the situation in general, in which they, in all fairness, should have left here long ago. Immediately.
This thought was obvious not at all because Gelato was a cool psychoanalyst who knew how to read people.
The sight of Sorbet trying to smoke an empty cigarette butt could have been funny, if not oppressive.
– Probably I did it.
Gelato didn't comment on it.
It seemed like the best possible solution at the moment.
– If we smoke another one, we'll be soaking with him.
He gets a slight nod.
– Want to go somewhere?
– Where? You're a beggar.
Sorbet's animated grin can't help but strike with warmth and a strange calm.
Strange precisely because he was calm before.
He definitely was.
Gelato slowly pulls the smoldering cigarette butt from his thin, weakened fingers, meeting and supporting it with a grin in return.
– But I'm a thief and a pickpocket. I can show a couple of good tricks on the way.
– First, we need to change and wash up. I'm not going to jail.
– Do you want-
Gelato bites his tongue almost until it bleeds when he shuts himself up, a little more and he was ready to hit himself in the lips, not thinking about the words that were perhaps inappropriate now.
But Sorbet, however, calms him down, letting out a sharp, but satisfied, sincere laugh.
– Yes. I won't refuse to see you naked. Once again.