After Sunday mass every week was confession. The older women who had been smacking their grandchildren's wrists with their fans in between readings to keep them quiet would shuffle through the pews and openly gossip about the sermon – that priest rambled far too much, the homily went on for hours, and in such a heat – metres from the poor man who had delivered the service. In many ways, he enjoyed listening to confession. It was a relief to hear people who were genuine and not hypocritical, and only concerned themselves with God's judgement. And as a priest, he was proud to be the connection of trust between them. The man took up his position behind the little velvet curtain and waited for his first appointment. The door opened and closed, someone sat down, and a man bid him 'good morning, Father'.
"Good morning to you, too," he replied, calm and accepting, as they all deserved. He waited in reverent silence for the confession to begin.
"My name is Antonio," was the somewhat sheepish response. His voice was light-hearted and young – he seemed open, which struck the priest as slightly odd. He was used to a much more reserved tone. Antonio was perfectly respectable, so far, but not particularly sorrowful. It sounded like he had come to settle some business.
"It's not necessary that you tell me," nodded the older man, as he assumed he was, sitting back in his chair and looking at the small velvet curtain that separated the booths. It was a habit he'd never been able to shake, despite having never been able to see who was talking to him, either. It felt less condescending, somehow, to pretend there was some eye-contact. "But it's your decision. What do you want to confess, Antonio?"
From the other side of the curtain, there was a slight sigh and a creak as Antonio sat up in his chair, considering to himself. "I slept with someone I'm not married to," he finally answered. There still wasn't the standard regret of a real 'confession', but he was more pensive at least.
The priest paused, again, waiting to hear more, but there was none. "Are you married, my son?" He asked.
"No, no," came the hasty reply, and he sounded like he was smiling. His expression could almost be heard dropping a second later. "I guess that's just as bad, huh?"
"Some might say, yes," agreed the priest humbly (he was constantly humble, something he prided himself in, but affairs were old game. Just once, a bank robbery or a secret heist or something, it was all he asked). "Was the other participant married?"
"No, no one's feelings were hurt," replied Antonio firmly, almost passionately. He could be heard to sit up even more. "We care a lot about each other, it was the first time we were together like that, and it was…" Antonio paused, sighing to himself, and continued before the priest could interrupt, as much as he would have liked. "It was everything I wanted. I can't describe to you what it was like."
The priest cleared his throat. "That will suit me fine…" he pressed on, determined to get to the moral root of the problem. "So your concern is that you've had relations with someone out of wedlock?"
Antonio seemed to laugh at himself, his voice lowered, as if he was tilting towards the curtain. "I've not been a very good Catholic, Father. I'm trying to clean the slate a little."
The priest considered in silence, wondering if he should encourage Antonio to explain himself. It wasn't his place. He wanted people to feel that the Church was supporting them, not interfering. "So," he went on, his tone lighter. There was still progress to be made. "Do you love this person, Antonio?"
"… yes. Yes, I do."
"And they love you?" asked the priest, folding his hands over his lap and sending a quick request for a little guidance when a reply faltered, but he was saved.
"I'm quite sure of it," answered Antonio, unable to hide the swell of pride in his tone. His smile was audible once again. "I've been told as much, and believe me, that takes some work."
There was hope yet. The priest followed Antonio's example and smiled. He was not a sinner at all, simply a young man who was madly in love and impatient. Those two went hand in hand so often. "Would you be willing to marry her?" He asked, feeling he knew the answer already.
To his surprise, Antonio sat back, his chair creaking, and sucked the air in through his teeth. "That's the problem, it's not legal for us to get married," he explained. He was careful, but not ashamed. "Yet. It is for me, but not him. I would propose the second I got home if it would make any difference, but it wouldn't. He's probably still in bed, anyway."
There was an odd, tense quiet. Antonio cleared his throat, but said nothing. The priest nodded to himself and continued to make fake eye-contact through the curtain, because young Antonio was honest and deserved his respect and attention.
"Just to be clear," he tried, somewhat tensely. "I don't like to make assumptions… you're not confessing to having sexual intercourse with another man?"
"I admit that I did it, but I'm not apologising for it, no," replied Antonio with conviction.
As a priest, not the best answer one could have hoped to hear, in any circumstance, concerning any moral or ethical dilemma. However, as a man, and that was as important, the priest found himself filled with a quiet respect for the calm certainty of the young man. He was not asking for forgiveness for who he was, but rather, what he had done, and for that, the clergyman was glad. There was no use in asking for forgiveness in matters like falling in love – there was nothing to forgive. Acting on urges was where wires started to cross.
Regardless, it was Antonio's confession. The act was between the confesser and God, the attending priest was only a link between the two, so he made sure to understand properly, "… you're apologising for having sexual intercourse with someone you're not married to?"
A more awkward pause ensued. Something like a nervous laugh bubbled through the curtain from Antonio's throat. "… I'm supposed to, aren't I?"
Unfortunately, much of the quietly earned respect disappeared in an instant, like a swiftly drawn ruler cracked against the knuckles of 'unruly' children. "You're only supposed to apologise if you're sorry," the priest reminded him sternly.
"…ah."
There was a shared atmosphere, just as the grins had been shared earlier. However, this was not a positive atmosphere. The priest sighed and turned to the curtain, deciding to take one final shot at reining the misguided boy back. "Are you sorry at all, Antonio?"
Lo and behold, not only was there an absence of consideration, but the presence of a bored little tut. "Not really, no. I was supposed to feel bad, that's why I came. But it doesn't bother me in the slightest. And I mean no disrespect, but if making love to my boyfriend upsets God then He's a little more sensitive than I've been led to believe. I love him, he loves me, we showed each other that, it's no sin."
The priest stared forward and blinked. He was open to questions of faith. He was open to debate, to criticism. He would not open his doors for confession to allow someone to sit and list off things they were specifically not sorry for. "Antonio, my child…" he forced himself to say, with a laboured calmness. "Do you understand what the confession is for?"
The chair on the other side of the curtain squeaked again as Antonio stood. "Of course" he replied, and opened the door, pausing to finish his botched confession. "But if you knew my Lovino, Father, you'd be telling everyone, too."