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During the Mass, it starts raining outside, and it just keeps raining. Andrés quite enjoys it; it only adds to the aesthetic. The sound of rain, and the foreboding darkness it brings to the sacred halls.
He only snuck in halfway through the readings, because it pleases him to bask in his superiority over all these little lambs of blind worship. They are here because they feel like they have to be, because they fear a divine punishment, repent a crime not even committed, while Andrés is here because he wants to be.
He doesn't have to think himself superior; he knows it, instead. While the priest drones on about salvation, damnation, and whatever it is that takes place between, Andrés is admiring the persistent oppression the church is aiming to inspire. How attractive, the way these lesser minds fall prey to the powerful.
After the Mass ends, he hangs back. Wants to bask in the quiet, once all the sheep have gone. A church is at its best without its various patrons, after all; when it becomes free for him to admire, to soak in the holy and the less than.
He notes how he's not the only one who remains, however. There's also another man, wearing all black, completed by a black leather jacket. His shadowed energy is sharpened like a blade, and it's at odds with the church, in a way that draws Andrés in.
The man is vaguely glancing at the altarpiece, when Andrés approaches him. A chance encounter, but perhaps always fated? Andrés knows him to be different from the rest of the congregation, from the rest of the world even.
“Inspiring,” he offers the man as a greeting, putting on an impression that he doesn't quite intend to sell, isn't willing to dress as one of the sheep for even a sentence, “Wasn't it? I'm always so touched by Ecclesiastes.”
The man turns to look at him, a very non-Christian suspicion in his gaze. Whatever happened to loving one's neighbours? Andrés, for his part, loves his hesitation, for it beckons a chasm being crossed, and a connection, perhaps, being made.
This is a test, of course. There's a wrong answer, and should the man give it, they truly have nothing further to say to one another. If he begins lovingly quoting the holy books Andrés has long since discarded, then the first impression was mistaken, and Andrés will be sorely disappointed, his match made in hell thoroughly shattered.
“I don't know who that is,” the man responds, his accent lilting softly despite his dismissive tone, “Nor do I care.”
Andrés smirks. How wonderful, to be rewarded.
“I am Andrés. There's a name you'll want to care about.”
“And mine is Martín.”
“Tell me then, Martín, are you a good catholic? Do you make your parents and your god proud?”
Martín scoffs. “Not for a day in my life, I'm afraid.”
“That's much better,” Andrés agrees, “For neither am I. I come here simply because I enjoy being here. It has very little to do with religion, and all to do with pleasure. And for all these years… I have scarcely encountered a man like myself.”
“Here you have him,” Martín says, “Me being here does make my mother happy, but mostly I come here to appreciate the art and the architecture. And most of all, the…” He licks his lips, searching for the wording to complete his visual. “...desperation. There's truly something about places of worship, isn't there?”
“Truly,” Andrés agrees, “But I'm not very fond of the worshippers.”
“Really? Oh, but I love to watch them,” Martín draws, “Their worlds are so small, the only way they can think to widen them is to attempt at reaching for a God who'll never love them. I love it, when they try and fail and never learn. Humanity at its dumbest, truly. May they continue to fall.”
That could be considered cruel, except is a man truly ever cruel to look down upon the ants at his feet?
What a perfect man. Andrés wants him, sinfully.
“So am I to understand you think yourself better than them?” he prompts, playfully.
“Of course. Our approaches to life are so different. I'm not a man of god; my sins are vast, various, and wholly unrepentable.”
“Believe anyone is invited to repent, actually,” Andrés offers, “Isn't that the whole point? You can always return, as does the prodigal son.”
“I suppose then the problem is… I don't actually want to,” Martín offers, with a languid grin, “I could repent and turn my face towards God… if only I had the desire. But my desires are elsewhere; they keep me committing one sin after another, without regret. I may never reach their deity, but I'll carve my own steps to whatever I desire.”
“Good,” Andrés says, “Take what you want, as you should. Instead of your alleged god, you should look elsewhere for your redemption.”
Their eyes meet, and the agreement is unspoken.
“Tell me about your sins,” Martín says, “Match my passion with your crimes.”
“I've been divorced three times,” Andrés offers, a fun anecdote for a fellow apostate, “And that part, while sin, isn't even half of it. The truth is, I got bored of them, every time. The confines of marriage, while interesting for a while, aren't exactly worth committing to. And you?”
“I have lain with men,” Martín says in turn, “So many men. And I'll continue to do that. Along with coveting what's not mine but will soon become, it's my favourite sin.”
“Men?” Andrés echoes, admittedly intrigued by the notion, “There's a sin I haven't yet tried.”
“That so?” Martín hums, and Andrés thinks that it's kind of foolish how he didn't immediately notice his sexual leanings, considering how Martín's body calls out to his, masculine grace that would be pathetically wasted on women, because they wouldn't be able to give his body what it craves, the absolution of shattering pleasure… “Well, should you ever want to take it for a spin, you now know where to find me.”
“At church?” Andrés responds, and Martín laughs, soft and amused, the kind of laughter that betrays transparent attraction.
“Yeah. I've never fucked in a church, but… the aesthetics would be second to none, I think.”
“Yes,” Andrés agrees, taking a look around the place, suddenly much more intimate, “I've been thinking that I'd like to introduce some of this into my own living space. All the dressings of worship…”
“I'm understanding the vision,” Martín says, quick to match his pace, “But honestly? You ought to think much bigger. Wider; grander. Italy’s full of derelict ruins, former houses of worship… take one of those. You could live within halls like this.”
Andrés considers that. It sounds very attractive, but… “I'm opposed to work,” he admits.
“Work?” Martín snorts, disbelieving, “Just hire a professional for any big renovation. For the small things–”
“I don't want to do those, either. I hate getting my hands dirty.”
“Ah, where's your sense of romance? Don't you love to make a piece of plumbing or wiring come to life with your own two hands?”
Andrés smiles, because that idea is so intensely foreign, and yet Martín seems so genuine about it.
“I prefer to paint,” Andrés explains, “That's where I get my sense of romance.”
“Oh? Acrylics, oil?”
“Oil,” Andrés says, appreciating being asked.
“Expensive?”
“Intensely.”
“As you should. Portraits, landscapes? Wait, let me guess. Religious imagery, without the faith in what it represents. You take all this, and make it your own, with a palette and a canvas.”
“Anything that inspires me,” Andrés confirms, for that's it exactly.
Martín would look good on his canvas. All black, just candlelight. Or maybe Andrés would put him right here, in a church. Paint him in the muted glow of stained glass windows, as it rains outside.
“I love to work with my hands,” Martín sighs, “There's such power to it.”
They're like a coin, the two of them. The same, and yet altered. Equals in different forms.
“Yeah? Why don't I call you, then, to come and fix the plumbing and live wires of my derelict monastery?”
“I'd be happy if you did,” Martín says, and sounds oddly sincere.
Andrés files that knowledge away.
"Give me another sin," he says, transfixed by this man, "Within these sacred walls, I want you to commit another crime."
"I don't believe in God," Martín says, his eyes dark, "Not our alleged god, or any other. I just come here for the aesthetics, and I don't repent. I haven't been to confession since I was ten."
"You are in one, now," Andrés says, "And I'll trade you like for like. I do believe in God. But not in the god this cathedral was built to worship, and not in the Holy Trinity; I believe in a divinity of my own creation. I believe myself to be above all others. And I think that maybe... Have I found a kindred spirit in you, Martín? A fellow sinner, hm? The other half of my holy duality?"
"You want me to say we're gods, you and I?” Martín purrs, responding in body and soul alike.”I–”
“Not gods, no,” Andrés cuts in, ”A singular god, in two forms.” He's never craved to lift another to his level, but that was before he found Martín, who was already there. They are to be one, now, a vision being completed in his mind.
It only makes Martín grin more wickedly.
”I can believe that,” he says, ”A divine intervention of our own making. I'll be the other half you've been craving, throughout your three failed marriages. I'll take the Eucharist, and pour the wine over your body. I can worship you, if you'd like."
"Worship us," Andrés corrects, making sure he's understanding all that is on offer, "At an altar of our own creation."
Martín's pupils are blown, and his lips part a few seconds before he finds the words.
“I'm starting to understand this… devotion they speak of,” he says, his voice a little breathy, “Organised religion, not so much, but…”
But he is having a true religious experience, for the first time in his life. An awakening; a rebirth. Andrés understands that, because he feels the same way. If this isn't true divinity, then what is? If Martín and him aren't devout for one another, then what could possibly be?
“I have a much better target for all your devotion, Martín,” he says, his voice low as he bleeds seduction into it. He wants this; he's not sure what this is, but he's always been the type to take, and this is clearly meant for him.
“I can tell,” Martín agrees, swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing deliciously. Andrés can now understand how all of sin would have originated right there.
“And you choose to accept it, don't you?” Andrés offers, more playful, because he's confident Martín will give him the correct answer once more, “Our holy duality.”
“You would've made a wonderful cult leader,” Martín tells him, his whole body angled towards his duality, “Little lemmings would run straight off a cliff for you.”
“Accept it,” Andrés purrs again.
“I will, and I do. But accept this, in turn; this – whatever this is – runs both ways. I'm your only equal, every day of your life. You will consider this day your resurrection. As I am yours, you are mine.”
To answer him is easy; Andrés was drawn in by a man, seduced by a sin, and is now converted by the sacrosanct. That's to be his own private creed, from now on.
“Consider your terms accepted, Martín. And how would you like to seal this deal?”
Martín does not disappoint, nor does he hesitate.
“We both know how the Catholic church is,” he prefaces, “Corrupt to its core, rotten to its very foundations… There's so many riches here,” he gestures at the altar, “And I feel it's only just that we use some of it to build the foundation of our private religion.” He pauses, hallowed and reverent, before making his offering: “Let's steal something.”
“You want to partake in all your favourite sins with me?” Andrés says, with a smile. His very own kindred spirit.
It's still raining outside.
“Yes,” Martín says, emphatically, “Exactly.”