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Latin is a funny thing sometimes. Ignatius's classmates are young and haven't shed the last bits of immaturity yet, and so, they snicker at a passage from Catullus that mysteriously found its way into the syllabus of a religious educational institution.
Ignatius, however, isn't laughing. While he wouldn't find Catullus funny either way, he simply isn't in the classroom — yes, physically, he is there, but mentally he has been transported somewhere far away. Within the stained-glass-windowed walls of an old church, he can hear an unexisting choir singing Christe Redemptor Omnium.
To him, Latin, first and foremost, is a song, the kind of a prayer that isn't spoken but chanted.
Now he's sitting on a stone bench outside, barely aware of the fact that he left the building and the lessons for today are over. The bench is uncomfortable, too cold and too high, although it allows him to swing his legs. And as the chain of ancient words has led him to the hymn, this repetitive motion wakes up the memories of his childhood.
The first prayer he's ever heard, Ave Maria, chimes in his ears now, replacing Christe Redemptor. He looks up at the sky reflexively, almost expecting to see angels instead of the clouds, but the shine of the sun through the rim of one of them isn't divine in nature. Well. Depends on how you see it. Everything is divine to Ignatius right now, even the rustle in the bushes to the left.
He straightens up.
Now he suddenly, unexplainably feels like it's the opposite of divine, and he warily turns to look. There's a young man standing there, as if trying to hide but look casual at the same time — a very weird thing to do. He's very, notably tall and wearing the seminary's brand jacket. Ignatius shivers: it's too cold to be outside without a coat, and he snuggles tighter into his own. The man — a boy, rather, not a year older than Ignatius himself — looks around and notices that he's not alone.
Something changes in his face, almost unperceivably, and Ignatius notices it only because the sun is fully out of the clouds, casting a stark shadow across his features.
Then, the stranger smiles, raises his hand to wave, and Ignatius waves back. There's again that baseless feeling that something is wrong, and it will only get more wrong if he doesn't do something immediately.
But what can he do, really?
He pats the bench next to him and to his surprise, the boy joins him.
"Gustav," he introduces himself and reaches out for a handshake.
It's not the way someone pronounces their name, Ignatius thinks out of nowhere, but has nothing to prove it.
"Ignatius Brown," he mumbles and shakes Gustav's hand.
This might not be a proper way to say your name either.
"Soon to be Father Brown, eh?"
He has a slight but recognisable French accent, and it might be the reason why his name sounded strange. Ignatius blushes and doesn't apologise for the assumption only because then he will have to explain why he's apologising in the first place.
"Well..." he says. "I do hope to become a priest. And you?"
Gustav makes a vague sound, "Maybe."
"You don't feel the calling any more? I'm sorry if it's a rude thing to ask."
"It's... different," Gustav admits, wincing. "All this talk about flock and..."
He trails off, and Ignatius feels weird again.
Gustav's eyes dart to the window that is almost hidden behind the bushes he came out of. It's the window of the rector's office, cracked open just a little, which is strange in this weather.
It's as if Ignatius is doing a jigsaw puzzle and can't find the last two pieces.
"Please sit with me a little," he blurts out. "You don't have to say anything, just... stay for a bit."
"Okay," Gustav narrows his eyes, his accent oddly very strong on such a simple word. "I can talk, though. You somehow look like you will be very good at hearing confessions."
"Again, I hope so."
There's no reason for the window to be open like that. Ignatius knows it, because its hinges were stuck and then fixed yesterday and he accidentally knocked over the service man's bag and spilled the machine oil.
"Don't you feel lonely sometimes?" Gustav asks wistfully. "Like you are not where you belong?"
He stares now at a spot on the gravel in front of him and absentmindedly pulls on the cuffs of the jacket. The sleeves are much too short for him.
The service man was very, very tall.
Ignatius's head is starting to spin.
He sighs through the pain in his chest, air leaving through the hole he vowed — hasn't yet but is going to — to never fill. He understands loneliness.
"Go," he says, putting his hand on the boy's cheek, "and never come back. You don't belong here, you are right."
Gustav doesn't reply, only puts his own hand over Ignatius's. His eyes are glistening.
"You have your whole life ahead of you," Ignatius continues quieter. "I know it sounds silly coming from an eighteen-year-old, but you know that it's true. I have no idea what you are planning to do, but just don't. Please."
"Saving souls already, are you?" Gustav says bitterly, but Ignatius can hear tears in his voice. "You are really good at this. I'll visit your church for a confession someday."
"I'll pray there won't be any reason for that."
Ignatius realises that his palm is still touching Gustav's face. He jerks his hand away but not before Gustav squeezes it.
"I can't promise anything," the boy laughs and gets up. "But I will do as you want now."
He turns away and goes to grab a very familiar bag from under the bushes.
"Wait!" Ignatius calls. "What is your real name?"
The boy freezes.
"You are very sharp."
"Oh, I'm not," Ignatius says and laughs too. "No one's ever called me that."
"Well," Not-Gustav looks back over his shoulder and says without any effort to suppress his accent, "they are wrong. And it's Hercules."
He smiles at Ignatius for the last time and leaves the seminary garden.
Ignatius stares after him for no one knows how long, unmoving, until Christe Redemptor Omnium starts playing in his head once again.