Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When I look back upon my life
It's always with a sense of shame
I've always been the one to blame
For everything I long to do

No matter when or where or who
Has one thing in common too
It's a, it's a, it's a, it's a sin
It's a sin

Everything I've ever done
Everything I ever do
Every place I've ever been
Everywhere I'm going to

It's a sin
At school they taught me how to be
So pure in thought and word and deed
They didn't quite succeed

For everything I long to do
No matter when or where or who
Has one thing in common too
It's a, it's a, it's a, it's a sin
It's a sin

Everything I've ever done
Everything I ever do
Every place I've ever been
Everywhere I'm going to
It's a sin

Father forgive me
I tried not to do it
Turned over a new leaf
Then tore right through it
Whatever you taught me

I didn't believe it
Father you fought me
'Cause I didn't care
And I still don't understand

So I look back upon my life
Forever with a sense of shame
I've always been the one to blame
For everything I long to do

No matter when or where or who
Has one thing in common too
It's a, it's a, it's a, it's a sin
It's a sin

Everything I've ever done
Everything I ever do
Every place I've ever been
Everywhere I'm going to
It's a sin

It's a
It's a
It's a
It's a sin

It's a sin
It's a sin
It's a sin
It's a sin

- Petshop boys

September 1910s,

The harsh morning light shines through the window illuminating a barren cell of a room in St. Augustine's rectory. It settles on Louis de pointe du lac’s face, waking him from his dreamless sleep. Louis stirs in bed and briefly contemplates closing the curtains and sleeping a little longer but this year is not the year to be slothful. He is preparing for the adventure of his lifetime. Paving the path, he will walk down for the rest of his life.

The young man chucks off the blanket, stands to his feet, and opens the window. He is blessed with a cool morning air wafting into the room. It had rained the night before, so the usually muggy New Orleans night had been pleasant. That explains why Louis slept so well. How blessed is he?

Louis walks over and picked up his rosary from the small bedside, he kisses it three times. He kisses it once for Grace and the kids, once for Mamaw, and once for Paul. It was his rosary before Louis inherited it. He kneels down on the hardwood floor in his crisp long white nightshirt, performs the sign of the cross, clasps his rosary, and prays. He prays five hail marys. He prays for the health of his remaining family, for peace and blessings over all mankind, he prays for the strength to resist temptation, He prays for the knowledge to succeed in his studies, he prays to be able to make Father Mattias proud, and lastly, he prays for the strength to be able to fulfill his pledge to the Lord.

“The time is drawing near Lord God, it is soon time for us to settle the wager we’ve made, If I become a priest for you in Paul’s stead, you will welcome him into the gates of heaven. He knew not what he did father, his mind was not right father, if I devote my life to you, to spreading your grace and upholding your word, you will see that Paul’s soul is at rest by your side. Amen,” Louis has prayed the same every day for five years, only adding, never subtracting the final wager between him and God.

Louis then gathers his simple toiletries, and heads towards the bathroom to have a cold shower on a cool day at 5 am. There is a furnace in the cellar of St. Augustine's, but Louis always feels in control of his body and mind after it has been battered by the cold water. It may be penitence for the sins he committed in his former life, a desire to rid himself of his previous preoccupation with comforting luxury or to prevent his body from betraying him when the treacherous parts of him rise to meet the sun. He did not know why. He just knows he is compelled to.

For similar reasoning, he skips breakfast to study for the first church bell ring.

“Missed you at breakfast Louis,” Father Mattias says entering his office, as Louis helps him prepare for morning mass.

“Sorry father, I am fasting,” Louis says, avoiding his gaze to assist in readying the sacred vessels, linens, and vestments that they use. “It…strengths my walk with Christ.” It sounds generic but what else is he supposed to say? ‘Food is a distraction and indulgence’, sounds insane.

“You have been fasting mighty often Louis, you’re a growing young man, you need to nourish yourself, there are other ways to show your devotion son,” Father Mattias's voice is soft and kind, yet Louis finds him naïve. Louis is certain he needs all the favor from God he can get.

Louis turns to him and offers a confident smile, “And I'll admit it gives me extra time to study.”

That sentence causes worry to leave Father Mattias's aging face, he laughs heartily. His jolly laughter echoes through the perfect acoustics of the church, reverberating in Louis’s bones. “Oh, you young people, always with your tricks.” The sweet man pats his belly. “Someone should have told me that in my boyhood when my ordination was underway, I was so wounded up, I ate everything in sight.”

Louis smiled.

“But you eat well when you break your fast, you’re as thin as a whippet, you can’t be neglecting the temple where God resides.”

“Yes, father, I’ll have a mighty fine dinner.”

Despite, Louis’s sinful repulsive past, Father Mattias has always been a benevolent figure in his life. He counseled Louis after the loss of Paul and he sponsored Louis, an ex-pimp, as a candidate for seminary school when no one else would. He has to become a priest not only to save Paul’s soul but to not let down one of the few people that has always been there.

A lot is resting on these last few months.

After mass Louis sets about doing his chores. He, other deacons, and seminarians wash scrub floors, dust, wash dishes, and wash clothes in complete silence. The stinging ache in his muscles and his relentless hunger pains remind him of why he’s doing all of this. This all is to honor Paul, and he should never lose sight of that. He throws himself into his work. 

After his chores are complete Louis teaches a class at the Boy’s Catholic school down the street from St. Augustine’s. It is the same school he and Paul had gone to, Grace went to the sister school adjacent. It was here that Paul was inspired to strive to become a priest, and if his mind had been right, he would have been eligible upon graduation. Every facet of Louis's life is a shrine to Paul’s memory. As it should be.

It is the first ‘religious education’ class of the semester, and the students are first graders, so he usually teaches simple lessons on friendship, charity, and love. He did not see the point in scaring the children with fire and brimstone just yet. They need to be introduced to the love and power of God first.

It is a segregated class, and the children are fascinated by his clerical collar and the very existence of a negro priest.

“They let us be priests?” A shiny-faced little boy asks. “I ain't never seen one before.”

“I am a transitional deacon, not a priest just yet. I will be,” Louis answers. He holds back his smile as the boy's mouths the words to himself to get it just right.

“The collar tight Mr. du lac sir?” another boy asks.

“It fits just fine, they tailor it just right for me.”

They all gasp in amazement.

This time Louis can’t help but smile. Louis has always wanted children, but being a priest isn’t the only thing keeping him from having children of his own. He made a vow of celibacy well before entering seminary school, it makes sense to know where his desires lie. To keep from dwelling on that bitterness Louis began his lesson. “Listen up. Your first lesson is going to be on ‘Love and Sacrifice.’” He writes it on the board. "There is no love without sacrifice."

This had to be Louis’s favorite lesson. It was the one thing in the church that made sense to him as a child. It is what he uses to win over the souls of children. Love for Louis has always come meant sacrifice. That was real love. He damned his soul to hell by becoming a pimp to save his family from destitution after his father died. And it is only natural that when Paul died, in some part by his influence, he would repent and honor Paul’s memory by becoming a Priest. His whole life is shaped by love and sacrifice. Amen. 

The children are captivated by his lessons of Love, making sacrifices for the ones you love, and how the greatest love was not from family or friends, but from God, because he requires the greatest sacrifices. So the love was deeper. The thought comes to Louis if he could love God more than he loves Paul.  The doubt is pushed away when he thinks, ‘Paul would want me to love God more than him’.

What follows after the class is over is Louis assisting Father Mattias in his priestly duties, serving food to the poor, counseling delinquent young men whose mothers have forced them to come to church, closing up the church, washing a second time, praying the same prayer, and going to bed.

Except for the rare time of the year Louis visits his family or indulges himself by reading in the park, Louis's days are all the same. Prayer, studying, labor, teaching, and service. Where some people see mindless monotony, he sees structure and purpose. He wants someone to tell him what to wear, how much to eat, where to go,  what to believe in and who to love. He's made of mess of his life and the path to the priesthood is order in the sea of chaos that is his life. 

Oh, he forgets to break his fast. That night and a few nights before.

Change comes to Louis in the form of an invitation to a wedding reception he helps Father Mattias preside over. It happens to be the wedding reception of Babette Macon. She was a childhood friend and the sister of Jonah Macon. Jonah is a sore subject, and when Babette sees him in his deacon’s clothes assisting Father Mattias at her wedding, she is shocked – not because of his well-publicized history as a pimp but of something he had only ever told Father Mattias in confession.

...

As a child, when unimaginable shame sunk in Louis stopped being able to go to confession. Confession used to be simple and straightforward. Weekly, Louis used to confess to stealing pocket change from his parents to buy some gadget to show off at school, the times he would get in fights with the older boys or any time he used coarse language with Paul or Grace. He wasn’t the best-behaved teenager out there, but he wasn’t a delinquent either, he was just too willing to take risks. Too smart to be good at school. Too ambitious.

However, when Louis realized in his teens that his desire for men was not going to go away no matter how much praying he did or the self-restraint he practiced, he knew confession just won’t work for him anymore. Shame would consume him if he was forced to tell a priest every week about all the petty sins he had committed – when every night he thought about laying down with the captain of his local baseball team.

So, he projected his desires for men onto women who would not ask the impossible of him. At nineteen Louis started to date Babette Macon, she was a beautiful well-mannered girl who attended the same church as his family. Babette and Louis were a perfect couple. He’d take her on very public dates to weddings, birthday parties, holiday parties, and all other local events (that Babette deemed appropriate for a young daughter of Christ). Nothing too secular.

Babette looked great on his arm, every man in the neighborhood was jealous. She was also one of the prim and proper negro girls, who carried themselves with the elegance of princesses – that fact impressed his mother and father and even Paul. The only person who didn’t like her was Grace who felt she was stuck up and judgmental (they had a bad first meeting, where Babette criticized Grace’s plum-colored dress for being too garish and 'worldly'). It was a riot watching the two verbally spar, subtly crafted art only known to women.

But the best part of dating Babette, the thing that made Louis approach her in the first place, was that she was a staunch believer in Christ and promised chastity until her wedding night. She made Louis promise that if he were to court her, he would never pressure her to give him her body before marriage. It was a match made in heaven. He could easily do public dates, dry formal conversation, and chaste affection. They could have gone on for years, but Louis had to ruin it by getting too close to her younger brother Jonah.

During the early days of his relationship with Babette, her father forced Jonah to come along with Louis and Babette on private dates as a sort of chaperon – to protect his girlchild’s honor. It didn’t take long for Louis to welcome Jonah’s presence on these dates. Jonah’s voice was low and thoughtful. No one would ever catch him raising his voice or acting a fool. It made Louis believe he could keep a secret; he really liked men who could keep a secret.

Louis and Jonah would never directly say how they felt about each other, at the beginning they only communicated their attraction to each other through subtle phrases and yearning glances. Louis would tell Jonah he liked the fit of his church clothes, and that he should give him the name of his tailor. While Jonah would look at Louis with long yearning glances and charming smiles, behind Babette’s back of course.

It was long before Louis and Jonah would escort Babette to choir practice, only to run off to the Bayou behind the church to drop each other’s pants, lean against a tree, and tug each other off like crazy. It was the desperation of having someone know and touch you.

They carried on like this for two years. Louis and Jonah understood they were different, but it mattered none because they cared for each other. Whatever that meant between two young men. Louis bought Jonah a suit once, his first real suit and Jonah never did anything to make Louis feel like less of a man. He always understood what Louis needed from him. Whatever they were ended when Babette finished choir practice early one faithful evening and went searching for them to take her home. She found her brother on his knees with Louis’s cock in his mouth.

“Babs I can explain!” Louis shouted after her.

She turned and ran all the way home by herself.

He didn’t know if she ever told her family the whole truth, she told them something. Her father called off their courtship, and Jonah was sent to his aunt and uncle in Georgia to work a prestigious factory job there. There weren’t any rumors spread so the Macons didn’t tell anyone, but Louis was certain his mother looked at him differently after that day. He imagined Babette wrote her a concerned letter on beautiful stationery, in beautiful handwriting about fearing for the soul of her son and the type of man he was becoming. He lost two good friends in one fell swoop.

He hadn’t gotten close to anyone ever again. He didn’t need anyone trying to get to know him.

...

Now he is at her wedding reception. It is a lavish outdoor integrated affair where wealthy blacks are rubbing shoulders with even wealthier whites. Food is plenty, and booze is flowing, yet Louis spends the wedding fearing Jonah would show up until he overhears a conversation about him joining the Army. He sighs of relief at not having to face Jonah, then feels a deep well of sadness and longing. Is Jonah well? Is he thinking of him? Is he safe?

The wine and spirits call out to him. His sobriety is being tested. He has to go home; he longs for his barren cupboard room more than ever.

As Louis gets up to leave, a fight leaves out between two attendees.

One clearly drunken man holds another at knifepoint. They are arguing over owed money. The sight frightens the women nearby and all the men present are of the class of men who never did anything for themselves. They let the fight play out. Babette cries out to Jesus and covers her eyes. Her big night is going to end in murder if someone doesn’t do something.

Without thinking, Louis runs up to the two struggling men, sucker punches the assailant with the knife, and pushes him to the floor. Anger unlocks a strength in him, he never would have imagined. He plucks up the knife off the floor and holds it to the other drunken man. “How about you go on home.”

Shocked at being threatened by a priest, the man runs off and the other drunk stumbles off behind him. The party guests cheer and applaud while surrounding Louis. A streak of pride runs through Louis. He still has it - the fierceness that had him running Storyville. The bride breaks through the crowd and approaches Louis. It is frightening, the look of shock on her pretty face. “Louis du Lac, you are heaven-sent!” Babette says, pouncing on him and kissing him on his cheek.

“What you do that for Babette?” Louis smiles, letting her cover him with kisses. 

He looks curiously to Father Mattias for guidance, his superior laughs and waves him on. “You did good, and Mrs. Williams is just thanking you, Louis, no harm done.”

“If you say so Father,” Louis laughs, composing himself. Adjusting his crooked collar. 

“Oh, don’t make a man regret his vows now Babette,” A man from the crowd shouts. 

“Brother du Lac or her husband?”  A woman asks.

Laughter erupts from the guests.

Babette’s dark skin hides her blush, and she draws near to her husband. “Now don’t go saying nonsense, he’s a man of the cloth and I’m a married woman.” Her husband held her tighter, staring Louis down. He must know about their history, but not everything, or else he wouldn't be worried about Louis. If the coward had defended her honor himself, she wouldn't be kissing another man. 

Louis lifts up his hands in surrender and backs away. He's staying out of married folks' business. 

The crowd roars with laughter again and the celebrations resume. Louis is showered with praise and containers of food to take back to the church. Father Mattias and Louis leave early in the middle of the commotion, they have an early morning as always. As they set out to walk to the Cathedral Louis feels an inkling in the back of his head, like he’s being watched. Goosebumps cover his skin. 

A devout nun, named Christina, in the Low Country of the Duchy of Brabant, told me the following concerning this same woman. On the vigil of one Pentecost the woman came to her complaining that she dared not take the Sacrament because of the importunate molestation of a devil. Christina, pitying her, said: “Go, and rest assured that you will receive the Body of Our Lord to-morrow; for I will take your punishment upon myself.” So she went away joyfully, and after praying the night slept in peace, and rose up in the morning and communicated in all tranquility of the soul. But Christina, not thinking of the punishment she had taken upon herself, went to her rest in the evening, and as she lay in bed hear, as it were, a violent attack being made upon her; and, seizing whatever it was by the throat, tried to throw it off. She lay down again, but was again molested, and rose up in terror; and this happened many times, whilst all the straw of her bed was turned over and thrown about everywhere, so at length she perceived that she was being persecuted by the malice of a devil. Thereupon she left her pallet and passed a sleepless night; and when she wished to pray, she was so tormented by the devil that she said she had never suffered so much before. In the morning, therefore, saying to the other woman, “I renounce your punishment, and I am hardly alive to renounce it,” she escaped from the violence of that wicked tempter. From this it can be seen how difficult it is to cure this sort of evil, whether or not it is due to witchcraft.

- Malleus Maleficarum chapter 1.

The next day Louis awakes bone tired, ravenously hungry, and sporting an erection. He feels disgusted with himself on so many levels. He’s woken up in whorehouses less disgusted with himself than he is today. In spite of valiantly fighting the temptation to drink at the wedding and coming home to pray and sleep on an empty stomach, he feels completely debauched.

It was a sweltering hot night, the sheet is sticking to his skin, his bare skin. The bed is soaked with sweat and something else. He had stripped himself of his nightshirt during the night, so he doesn’t suffocate from the heat. But he regrets it, he wishes he had suffered through the night because he abhors seeing his naked aroused body.

And the feel of the wet sheet on his sensitive bare skin was distracting.

Louis tries to think about what would put him in such a state, but the sudden flash of lewd images, remnants of his dream from last night, causes him to stop thinking. He shuts his eyes tight and wills away the images, images of himself and some showy masculine figure, entangled in sin. His headaches – temples pulsing and when he opens his eyes, he finds he had been scratching into his thigh to help forcibly will the offending thoughts away.  There are welts. His skin prickles with blood.

What had done this to him? The wedding hadn’t been Sodom and Gomorrah. It was perfectly standard for an upscale New Orleans affair. Was it the fight? Had violence driven him to such a state? Had he let wrath get the better of him?

Anguish, like bile, builds up in Louis’s stomach. He feels sick. He makes himself sick in the chamber pot beside his bed to free himself of the bile.

The anguish and disgust remain – but he feels more in control.

Louis quickly bolts up, opens the window and cold air comes in. It had dewed last night. The New Orleans air was crisp and refreshing. It hadn’t been the hot humid night he had experienced. Every chill breeze is a slap to the face. Had the heat come from within him? Is he delving into a deep state of wretchedness, now? After 5 years of saintly living? He thought he had rid himself of all unfit feelings. 

Louis ran for his rosary, grasps tight it for dear life, and prays up a storm. He prays longer and harder than he has in years. He prays the same prayer as before but lingers on the begging for the strength to carnal temptations and iniquity. His flesh is weak, but his will is strong.

For once in a long time, Louis forsakes his studies to have a long cold shower, hand wash his linens of the night before, and avoid eating breakfast in the dining hall with his fellow clergymen like the plague. Nevertheless, the scent of food pulls calls out to him like a siren song. It followed him wherever he went. None of the brothers or Father Mattias were great cooks, so there was something strange about Louis’s temptation to eat. In defiance of his aching stomach, Louis starts his chores early, hoping hard labor will distract him from hunger.

Hunger for what he isn’t sure.

Louis goes about his day as he normally would; mass, chores, teaching, and revising the rites of ordainment. Except for today, he doesn’t feel like his normal numb self, he feels inflamed and agitated. Tiny red fire ants were crawling under his skin and driving him to madness. He’s taken to sucking his thumb and biting his nails to keep from giving into cravings for food and flesh.

He is locking up the church at night when Father Mattias calls him into his office. Louis is certain he is going to confront him about the sinful desires just leaking from his pores, trailing him like slime. He is calling him to withdraw his sponsorship, he knows it. He doesn't feel deserving of it, or anything at that moment. Paranoia consumes him. 

“How you doin’ Father Mattias?”

“There he is!” Father Mattias gleefully welcomes him into his small stately office, “Louis my boy, I have someone I would like you to meet.”

It is then Louis notice someone sitting in a chair in the corner. The blonde gentleman stands up and approaches him. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he says, offering his hand. It is just a handshake, but Louis hesitates. He spends an inappropriate amount of time trailing his eyes over the man before him.

He is a bolt of lightning falling from the sky.

Pampered yellow hair. A wide mouth. Iridescent eyes are indecisive on whether they want to be blue or grey, and from an angle, flirt with being lavender. An athletic body wearing a brand-new cleric uniform as if it were a new suit. Indecent. Offensive. An assault on the senses of Louis, whose nerves were worn down after a day of pure agitation. Louis nods to him respectfully and refuses to take his hand.

“Here I thought I was making a compromise, how you say, ‘when in Rome’” He laughs too sweet, slow, and indulgent like molasses. “Brothers kiss where I’m from.”

We aren't brothers, Louis wants to reply. He grimaces at the man, “And where is that exactly?”

“Father Lestat de Lioncourt is from France,” Father Mattias says, taken aback by Louis’s lack of graciousness.

“Auvergne region of France, to be exact, we have separate customs,” Father Lioncourt adds. “I hope I haven’t committed a social faux pas already.” He does not seem apologetic at all. He seems delighted with himself. 

“And what he doin' all the way in New Orleans?” Louis tries to face Father Mattias, avoiding looking at Father Lioncourt. It feels too much like staring into a morning star.

Father Mattias sighs, disapproving of Louis’s attitude. “Father Lioncourt has come to stay at St. Augustine temporarily while on a mission to Argentina.” Louis’s body goes still when he hears the information. He isn’t sure why it concerns him but he knows it does.  “He’s come with a signed and sealed letter from Archbishop of Auvergne, Abbé Faria. A good friend of ours. He is to be hosted here. And while he’s here he’s embarking on an extreme vow of silence and fastidious prayer from sunrise to sunset. He's to be cloistered in our cellar and not disrupted during those hours.”

“Why?” Louis asks, looking at Father Lioncourt with new eyes, of shining admiration.

Father Lioncourt’s face gains a sorrow-filled and vulnerable expression. The impish quirk fades. This is a man that has done wrong and is seeking repentance for something great. “God spoke to me and said his will must be done.”

God has never spoken to Louis, his calling has always been Paul, who God whispered to night and day – like a flock of birds. What did it feel like to have God in your ear? Had God turned away from Louis long ago?

“You are creole aren’t you Louis,” Father Mattias says out of nowhere. “And your French is real good if I may say so.”

“I ain’t bad,” Louis says, “There are some differences between creole and French, but I understand better than I speak.”

“Don’t be modest my boy, you are just what we need.”

“For what?”

“To show Father Lioncourt the ropes,” The priest says, smiling at both men. “Show him New Orleans and the good work we do here…”

“We’re destined to be good friends,” Father Lioncourt says, with his molasses voice and smile that warms the room.

Louis did not answer; he did not need to. The decision is made for him. How is he supposed to defy two superiors, superiors in more ways than one?

Louis, who has been hot under the collar all day hates him and hates the spirit that he brings with him. He designates him an adversary, someone to endure, someone to resist. Being near him made him hungry.

The young man goes to bed that night, he tosses and turns – disturbed by relentless hunger and intense feelings of arousal. He has galloping horses in his bones and fire for blood. No human has ever wanted more than him. He doesn’t know what he wants – a blind grasping for it all. That is a lie. Yes, he does know what he wants. They are both down the hall. Food and Flesh. They are both hidden in the pantry and the cellar room of Father de Lioncourt.

Louis springs from his bed and grabs his rosary; he prays with all he has inside him. He prays himself sick and weak into the middle of the night. He prays against the demands of his body. He fights his heavy limbs and drooping eyelids. Never has there been a man who wars harder against himself, against temptation. “Give me strength Lord!” He cries.

As he passes out on the cold floor, just inches from his bed, a memory comes back to him.

...

Whenever anything started feeling too good Louis knows that’s when he has to stop. It started when he was a small child, and he would always eat too much and feel just awful after. After block parties and family gatherings, a young Louis de Pointe du lac often had a stomachache and might even be sick for a day or two. No one else in his family ever seemed to have this problem, and their sympathy for him wanned after the three or four times he pulled this schtick. “Now Louis de Pointe du lac do not think you’ll miss school on account of the stomachache you inflicted on your damn self.”

“But Mamaw it hurts,” Louis whined, gripping his stomach, writhing in bed.

“You will take these tablets, and go right on ahead to school, no son of mine will be truant.” She placed the tablets on the side of his bed with a glass of water. She was doing her darndest not to look back at his pitiful state, if she did, she’d end up petting his stomach and letting him skip a day of school. Her husband would have a field day when he came home, he hated when she babied Louis too much, it was making him soft, and a soft boy will not fare well in this hard world.

“Uh Mamaw, how come you lot never get sick after parties,” He asked.

For the first time all morning, she glanced down and looked him directly in the eyes. “It is because we know when to stop. You never seem to know when to walk away from temptation my love. Gluttony is a sin you know?”

“Yes Mamaw,” Louis answered, not really understanding how he could be a glutton, he wasn’t even fat. He just happened to be born without the organ that told him which slice of cake should be the last. In this sense, he felt defective. “How ya suppose to know when ya should stop?

Florence Du lac paused in her search for a perfect starched white shirt to dress Louis in on that fine Monday morning. She thought about what she was going to say to her son, and how to make it a lesson-learning moment. “Well Louis my love, you know when to stop when it starts feeling too good.”

“Huh –

“What’s not to get Louis? When you’re thinking in your head that you can do this for the rest of your life because it tastes and feel so good, you know you gotta stop, ain’t nothing that feels that good is good for you for long.”

Like a one-reeler on a loop, the memory played over and over in his exhausted, agitated mind.

...

A pool of sweat and drool is under Louis when he wakes up on the floor.  He was painfully erect in one area, while the rest of him was doubled over in pain. His body aches as if he has been running a marathon or losing a fight in his sleep. The only force to rouse him to complete wakefulness is the harsh judgmental light of the sun, burning his sinful body. He struggles to lift himself, he struggles to even breathe.

Someone must have worked voodoo on him because he feels like those fabled zombies of Haiti – a lumbering heavy dead body only propelled to move by an understanding that he must work for whoever commands him. Or someone somewhere is sticking a little cloth effigy of him with pins.

The swollen insisting organ is weighing him down and crippling him. There is an inkling in the back of his mind that if he relieves himself, he will feel better. It is the core of this pain, all other pain stems from this offending organ. He would chop off the offending limb if it wasn’t the confirmation of his manhood. It’s not like he’s never masturbated before, but he’s never been able to masturbate without thinking of lasciviousness. Without indulging in his predilections.

He hears the sound of footsteps outside his room. His brethren are awake and up and about before him, he’s usually the first one awake. He has overslept. If he doesn’t move now, someone will get worried and come looking for him. He rather die than have someone find him like this.

Taking a deep strenuous breath, Louis moves his hands under his sleep shirt. The once paralyzed limb moves suspiciously quickly after Louis makes up his mind. Oh, sin comes easily to the body. He wraps trembling sweaty palms around himself, himself and begins to stroke. It is slow, without enthusiasm, like an automaton performing a routine task. It is how he prefers it.

Eyes shut, breathing stifled, he continues his pleasureless self-pleasuring.

It is getting him nowhere.

Until images flash before his mind.

Pampered yellow hair. A wide mouth. Iridescent eyes are indecisive on whether they want to be blue or grey, and from an angle, flirt with being lavender. An athletic body wearing a brand-new cleric uniform as if it were a new dandy suit.

Louis imagines the feel of that pampered yellow hair slipping through his fingertips, behind his legs. His breathing quicks when he thinks of the mouth around his cock, feeling it taking him in. Iridescent blue eyes look up at him, begging for more, and he gives all that he has. He gives it readily. And soon he’s stripping his cock as if he is furious with it and wants to punish it for transgressing.

Hair, mouth, eyes – the full image of Father Lestat de Lioncourt is before him greedily sucking him off. Then his voice, Louis practically hears his voice in his head, “Brothers kiss where I’m from.” Would he have kissed Louis?

His voice was thick low, and sweet like molasses.

He wishes he had taken his hand so he knew how his skin felt on his. 

Soon Louis is coming over his fist, smothering his cry with the other hand.

Breath comes into and out of Louis, swallowing at first, then increasingly stronger, giving him back life. He’s able to move and work now.

He clutches his rosary with the undefiled hand, he adds a prayer for forgiveness to his ever-growing list. Zombified and automated, Louis goes about his usual routine with even less enthusiasm and strength than usual. He skips breakfast this morning because he couldn’t dare to have breakfast with his brothers, in case he afflicts them with what sickness he’s come down with. Food is undeserved. 

The day-to-day happens of the transitional deacon have not changed, but he moves as a former shadow of himself, with less than half the vigor to fight off the devil that is riding him.

As Louis locks up the church and proceeds to bed, his mysterious fatigue has been an ankle weight dragging him down. He’s at his room door, opening it when he hears a sound. It is faint, but he is certain it’s singing and it’s not a hymn he has ever heard. It calls to him. Tired, he resists it and opens his door.

venez à moi

The singing is louder, and this time it is accompanied by an enticing aroma, familiar, sweet, and strong. Like a man possessed he marches to the sound and scent. The distance down the hall blurs, and dances. Drunk on air – Louis marches on. Staggers on. His aching body nearly fails him, he holds onto the wall for support but keeps moving toward the sound and scent.

The compulsion drives him to the dining hall.

It was dark.

Aside from a three-progged candelabra lit on the largest table in the middle of the room. Since the year began Louis hasn’t seen much of this room barring when he was tasked with scrubbing the floors. There is a dark figure at the head of the table. It is Father Lioncourt. That yellow hair, iridescent eyes, and pale skin illuminate just as much as the candles.  Closer and closer Louis approaches the table, now trembling and holding his breath.

Soon he notices the bounty of food on the table. Checker cake, Pompano fillet, boudin, dirty rice, roast beef, green beans, and wine in fine crystal glasses Louis has never seen see in his five years at St. Augustine’s. It was a smorgasbord of delicious creole food right out of Louis’s childhood, right out of Louis’s dreams.

“Bonne nuit,” Father Lioncourt greets Louis.

Louis swallows, eyes equally devouring the man at the table as much as food. His mouth fills with saliva. Flesh and Food. Food and Flesh. “Bonne nuit,” he says, voice so soft and unsure. He sounds young, real young. He tries to deepen his voice. 

Father Lioncourt continues in French, “Do you care to join me, Louis?”

“I should turn on the lights,” Louis says, throat suddenly bone dry.  

“You should sit down.”

“I’ve been fasting. I mean I am fasting now…”

“For how long?” He says concern in his eyes.

A day, Louis meant to say, but his dizzy mind makes him tell the truth. “I haven’t eaten in ten days.”

“Mon ami!” Father Lioncourt gasps, “Aiming to beat a record, dethrone Simeon Stylites perhaps?”

Louis lowers his gaze; he’s assaulted with the sight of scrumptious food. “I got something important coming up…”

“Your rites of ordination.”

“And I want god’s favor and guidance, fasting helps me…stay focused, conquer the weak flesh.” Why is he explaining himself to this stranger, he owes him nothing. “And I’m not hungry.”

His stomach grumbles, betraying him. Humiliation sets in.

“How does father Mattias feel about this extended fast?” The question stabs Louis in the stomach like hunger pains.

“He…what does he have to…Am I not in charge of my own penitence?” Louis grimaces and finds a strength he didn’t think possible in his state. “I’m a grown man.”

“Extended fasting, however…has to be supervised, at least in Le Puy Cathedral this was the custom,” He feigns naivete, and his accents even get thicker. “I must seek Father Mattias's counsel to be sure.”

He is being blackmailed, by a priest!

Louis could not afford for Father Mattias to think there is anything wrong with his health or his head. He refused Paul’s applications to be a priest multiple times on account of his frailty of the head. He doesn’t want him to think that it’s heredity. Sometimes he fears it is, he’s been seeing and hearing things that just ain’t there. And his dreams. Oh, his dreams. Frighteningly vivid. 

He is trapped.

“Fine, I’ll eat,” Louis gives in, roughly drawing the chair and plopping down.

“Merveilleux!” Father Lioncourt celebrates, beaming brighter than the candles. “I cannot possibly eat all on my own, and food tastes better in agreeable company.”

The grimace has not left Louis’s face. He begrudgingly, takes a small bite of the pompano fillet, breaking a fast he had never imagined the end of.

When the taste of the food hits his tongue, Louis closes his eyes in ecstasy. Had food always been this good? How has he denied himself for this long?  He can deny himself no longer. He loses himself in eating. He cuts with knife and fork, further tears it to pieces with his teeth, and swallows with the understanding that there will be room for more.  He washes it all down with the sweetest wine. The starving man had less consciousness of his food than the hyena had for the gazelle.

It is good, it is his, and he wants more.

So enraptured with his eating, he doesn’t notice Father Lioncourt just moves the food around on his plate.

When he’s done, the food is gone, and the feeling of fullness sets in, Louis looks up and Father Lioncourt smiles at him. All soft and tender. “Bravissimo!” The French man spoke pitch-perfect Italian. He offers Louis a napkin.

 He wants to scowl at the man, he thinks he’s making fun of him, but can’t make himself feel anything other than more euphoria. Indulging always did come with a rush. Their fingers brush against each other when passing the napkin. Louis wipes his mouth with the napkin offered. “Thank you, Father Lioncourt.”

“Please, call me Lestat.”

“Lestat.”

Louis says the strange name and swallows, even his name tasted good. He gets up to leave, desperately longing for his bed. When he stands, he notices his posture is straighter and he has a feeling of boundless energy coursing through him. Maybe the dread he’s felt for the past three days was just hunger. The devil isn’t riding him, he just was starving.

How foolish of him to take this long to address the problem. 

“We have to do this again…” Lestat calls after him.

“We'll see,” Louis says noncommittal, heading back to his bedroom.

All is right in the world.

He wakes up, expecting to be sick, but he wakes up stronger than ever. He is still sweating puddles at night, but he wakes up amorous, aroused, and giddy. He brings himself to finish thinking of Lestat’s hands and mouth. Guilt and self-disgust sit heavy in the pit of his stomach as the food does. He longs to purge himself of the heavy feeling but too much time had passed. It had settled and digested. 

Dread fills him. 

He prays, "Confiteor Deo omnipotenti vobis fratres quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere et omissione. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa."