It wasn't exactly a secret that he hated homosexuality. But he was an intelligent man and he knew that it wasn't a choice anyone made, rather a biological preference. He didn't really hold it against anyone but himself, and even then he reserved his self-loathing for special occasions.

Like this one.

The boys were something special; he'd known that before setting eyes on them. But how many people could be covered in the blood of people they'd killed and still radiate innocence?

Murphy with his laugh and Connor with his furrowed brow – they were two halves of a whole. Yin and Yang.

If he could believe they were saints – and he didn't want to – then he had to believe he was going to Hell for this.

It was bad enough imagining one or the other. Maybe Murphy on his knees before him, looking up through those dark lashes and those lips tight around him. Or Connor below him, spread wide and screaming in surprised ecstasy as he slammed into him repeatedly.

But imagining them both at the same time! Well, he'd just have to wait and see if Hell existed. Maybe there'd be a special place for him and any other depraved soul who fantasized about the boys together. Locked in a passionate kiss as Paul ran his hands over their naked bodies, felt their heat and was engulfed by the firestorm.

If he could limit his imagination to non-explicit images like that one, his soul might be safe. But he couldn't.

Those naked bodies would always writhe, that perfect skin would slide across its sweat-slicked twin, those arms and legs would tangle and Paul couldn't help but glance down and imagine flushed erections moving in concert.

These were the images of Purgatory.

The images of Hell covered those erections with mouths that shouldn't be there. Sounds enter his imagination and no man should call out his brother's name quite like that. The glistening skin takes on a feverish quality and the sounds thunder through his head and if he's gone this far, surely he may as well watch as Connor slides into Murphy and Murphy thrusts back wantonly. It would make sense to watch as Connor's tongue traced an intricate pattern down the shell of his brother's ear and came to rest on the Madonna before disappearing behind powerful lips that left her with a deep, rosy glow.

The images of Hell felt like his cock would burst at any moment under his hand. They felt like sticky streams falling over his fingers to make their way to his base. Connor's release into his brother felt like Heaven and Murphy's climax landing on Paul's chest surely burned hotter than the hottest flames of Hell ever could.

Tonight, his own particular brand of self-loathing drove him to an exclusive bar. When the bartender tried to cut him off, his anger broke free of its leash. When he stumbled out into the early morning, he made his way to the church and hunkered down to await some answers.