Lovino fucked Gilbert in a confessional once.
But these booths were in use, lined across the walls sheltering the soft murmur of whispered prayers and confession from the deep echo of vaulted ceilings.
"I still don't see why we're here," Gilbert muttered. The other was facing one of many columns stooped in darkness, palm pressed flat against the smooth surface. The flicker of a sconce glanced across a reverent expression, as eyes turned followed the pillar upward, to where it met the swoop of an arch. The albino merely sighed. "What do you say we commandeer one of those wooden boxes again."
Lovino said nothing, though his brow just barely furrowed. His sigh was heavy in the hum of chanted murmurs sinking into the dim light; his eyes were on the worshippers drifting toward the altar in the front.
Finally his eyes met Gilbert's. "I already have too much shit to confess as it is." There was a solemnity about him evident in the way his normally abrasive voice was little more than a whisper. Still, it seemed loud.
"Lame," Gilbert said. He made a show of rolling his eyes, but followed Lovino toward a pew and sank into the hard cushion. "You don't even like this shit anymore."
With a shrug, Lovino shook his head. "Shit's important." He glanced upward to where a confessional creaked open and a man slinked out and disappeared out the back door. He seemed smaller than when he entered.
Gilbert leaned back. His head thunked into the wooden backing with a resounding crack and-though he winced-he did not move, instead laughing it off quietly. "Sounds like a big shit-list of to-dos to me. I remember all that. Back then it was wars and butt-kicking, which was a bit more bearable than overbearing stone churches and pretending someone cares enough to listen to you talk to yourself."
Lovino was already wandering off down one of the arms, toward where stained glassed windows cast patterns across stone floors, capturing the brilliance of early morning sunlight in a spectrum of colour. There, Mary sheltered baby Jesus, but panel after panel told the story of his life, teachings, death, and resurrection.
Gilbert tried to scoff to himself, barely remembering the gist of the story nearly thrust down his throat a few hundred times, but he paused in the heaviness of a sudden moment that settled into his heart. A flash of purple then blue then green swathed Lovino's face from afar, caressing the contours of a pointed chin, barely defined cheekbones, and the bags under his eyes. But in that moment, there was no anger in the Italian's face, just a quiet peace that Gilbert only saw in the quietest hours of the morning when the other was still asleep. He was beautiful.
His heart swelled.
"Oh fuck it," he muttered into the silence. "Okay, fine. "God" if that's who you say you are. Just a disclaimer—if you exist, you're a shitty God and you made my life fucking hell, but…" His brows scrunched. His words tumbled haphazardly from his mouth, like pebbles down a hill before they could be counted. He took a deep breath and glanced back over at Lovino, who had closed his eyes and was praying. "Just…" Gilbert continued, "thanks for letting him love me and shit like that. Thanks for him." Soft breaths rolled from a heaving chest, but he wiped at his eyes with a grimace. "Thanks for Lovino."
