take my hand and i'll show you what was and will be
Enrico Pucci stood at the treshold of the large door at the end of the hall and posed his hand on the naked wall for a moment before stepping in. It had been a week, but his eyes still struggled with adapting to darkness broken only by artificial glow. Peering inside, he made out Dio's figure on the large bed, hidden in shadows cast by dusty lamps, then, catching sight of the book in Dio's hands, made his way inside.
From where he stood, he could only see the broad back, bare save for thin black straps. Still, Dio's voice rang clear, as if he'd spoken directly into Pucci's ear.
"Hey, I was waiting for you."
Pushed by the words, Pucci walked forward as Dio turned slowly on himself and motioned the boy to take a seat next to him on the large bed. In the same movement in which he placed the fruit he carried on the nightstand, Pucci set himself softly on the edge. Through it all Dio kept his eyes on him, then promptly turned to the open book.
"Do you remember what we talked about the other day?"
"About Heaven?" he didn't wait for confirmation, "Yes, happiness is seeing God and reaching Heaven, I remember," Pucci replied.
It was the first time they'd discussed something, it seemed to Pucci, so intimate and important not just for himself, but for Dio. Especially for Dio; it was as if he'd been allowed entrance to forbidden grounds, to closed off buildings he was always being chased away from.
"I read the book you told me about, and, see, Thomas Aquinas says—"
"Saint Thomas," Pucci said absentmindedly, punctuating the first word.
He wasn't sure why he felt the need to do so—he'd been corrected himself before—and he didn't know even after the words left his mouth, but when he noticed, he'd already done it.
Dio narrowed his gaze and frowned slightly, looking directly at Pucci, away from the book for once. It was less than a second before a slight grin broke on his lips.
"Saint," he stressed the word as much as he could, "yes, I know." Before Pucci could reply, before he could even feel the sting of regret for having remarked a triviality, Dio's grin grew wider, interested in something else, and he added, "I didn't know you cared so deeply about these things."
"What? He's—" Doctor Communis, Pater Ecclesiam, he's ancient words, written about this moment in time, "Why wouldn't I care?"
Eyes narrowed even more, grin grew into smirk and Dio's gaze fell on Pucci's stack of novels, a considerable pile neatly arranged on the nightstand at the opposite end of the bed.
"What with the novels you read, I mean," he said reaching over Pucci to collect a volume with marble white cover, a ghost of the tables inside a conservatory where children hide to study masks and secrets as bluebottles dance lazily close to their ears, "like this one."
The hitch in Pucci's breath, brought on by proximity, evident to the two of them, was consciously ignored once Dio resumed his position, his fingers feeling the book's back pointedly, as distinctly as he'd felt the flow of blood.
"That… is a very good novel," his confidence startled.
"It is…," Dio nodded, "very… English."
"It's about choice… and history. But it's also about the twitch upon the threads," admiration and respect dripped from his words, confidence in someone else's creations, "it means, no matter where in the world or how much of a sinner man is, when God twitches upon his thread, he'll return, no matter how much time has gone by," there was even reassurance in his voice.
Dio's smile left his lips, briefly, while he considered everything Pucci was saying. It returned slowly, the smile, having formed three syllables before exposing itself fully. He released the book, it gave a thud when it rolled off the covers to the floor, and he forced himself onwards.
Repeating the motion, he reached over the boy's body for the rest of the books. The feeling was different this time, like an open hand receiving white bread, or at least Pucci thought so; his breath was calm and he watched Dio's hands on the books with attention. Long fingernails dragged across the backs of all books, seeking familiarity with their touch, as they constantly did, deciding which one to open first until they settled for the one with golden lettering in rough cloth.
"Okay, this one, then" Dio said, after flipping through the pages, "the preface itself says it's a horrible book." Though he tried, there wasn't mockery in his tone but simplicity, simple as the lives unveiled in mediocre prose.
"It's—" Pucci stammered, ashamed since he knew the book held no merit, religious or literary, but he still read it, repeatedly.
Dio placed it aside in a moment of consideration, and his eyes fell on the boy's favourite. Gathering from its use, how torn it was at the edges, it'd been worn by repeated readings, all of them in hiding, in the secrecy of raised bed sheets and torches. For a moment, the realisation that the book held some his friend's most intimate thoughts, most intimate memories, that it was more himself than the notes from the seminar or his thoughts on theology could ever hope to be, stopped his movements and stared back at him in the form of a face that belonged to a man he'd called friend and meant it, the form of piercing swords and sharp noise, heightened emotions clouded by death and loss, forgetfulness.
Frowning, he took the book in his hands like a challenge, abruptly, and searched its insides for a pause, an explanation.
"Interesting that you like this one the most," his eyes relaxed, the grin had returned, but his intonation was coated in bitter layers, "the priest isn't punished for his sin. There are no consequences to his actions—she dies, but he's given a clean slate, he sees Paris."
He looked to Pucci again, expectant.
"Have you read all of these?"
Curiosity, raw and honest, stared in surprise from Dio's gaze.
"Some of them."
Pucci looked away, whispered "Oh", and wished to ask when; wished to know if it was before they met, if it was after; focused on the creases his weight formed on the clear bedsheets and didn't say anything.
Because of the silence, Dio pressed on.
"I just think it's interesting."
"What is?"
"How you read them with such interest and they're all about" a pause, so intentional it was distasteful, "this."
The hand that suddenly took hold of Pucci's jaw, caressed just under his earlobe with claw like nail, only emphasised the word, the intonation.
"They're about—"
Sounds died in his throat along with his breath; electricity ran along his skeleton.
"Do you want me to touch you like that? Would you like that?" Dio's breath tickled his ear as sharp as the nail, the claw. It was physically impossible but he was sure he could see the pointed teeth glinting in darkness. "Or would you run away if I tried?"
"No," he said, clearly this time, as he grabbed hold of the hand near his throat, returned with the same might he'd received, painfully turning to stare into Dio's eyes.
There it was, Dio thought, he'd held his gaze. It wasn't defiance, it wasn't the threat lifetimes ago on someone else's face, resolution masked in fictitious anger and hatred. No, this was something else altogether: it wasn't contestation, not protest, but the look of a man who's sure of his thoughts, is sure of his fellow man's thoughts, the bond between them.
He retreated, released, but Pucci didn't let go of his hand.
"Or do you believe they're wrong? Do you want to prove them wrong?"
Hands released each other and Pucci's instinctively rose to his own chest. He murmured something, his eyes closed, and Dio thought it a prayer, but was met with the sudden reapparence of Pucci's large eyes as he recited: "They're all caught with an unseen hook."
Every muscle in Dio's face relaxed, smoothed the tiniest of features, the grin erased.
That was it, clearly; he wouldn't be punished; he'd be able to see Paris; would return. Like testing time, defying order just to prove there's a net to cushion the fall.
A fallback.
Gravity.
"I'm sorry," he said finally, "I didn't mean to make fun of your books."
Pucci halted, posed his hand on Dio's naked arm for a moment before showing his smile.