XXVII

Lucien was very nearly at the end of his rope. This was not the first time he had felt every second of life to be a torture. He had existed before in unthinkable pain and anguish. He had begged for death if only for a reprieve from existence. This wasn't like that. Not really, anyway. He was not watching those he loved be slaughtered, he was not being beaten within an inch of his life, he was not being sadistically tortured, and he was not starved beyond recognition. He was not a soldier in the camp, and it was important that he remembered that. He had survived worse.

But before now, the emotional pain and guilt had been tempered by physical torment that had largely pushed the emotional aspects aside. And by the time he had been freed and healed, such time and distance had passed that the loss he'd suffered and the horror he'd witnessed became a dull ache. A constant throbbing pain in his heart, but nowhere near the acute trauma it might have otherwise been. The only time it really affected him was in his dreams, which had been difficult enough to bear.

Now, though, was quite different. The pain Lucien felt in his heart and soul was one of lost hope. He'd not had any hope in so long and then to be given that gift and see it ripped away was a pain he'd not been prepared for.

Though really, he'd not been prepared for anything when it came to Jean.

This beautiful, brilliant woman with her strength and unbelievable kindness had become his very heart. He loved her more than he'd thought possible. Especially now. Lucien had not thought himself capable of love anymore. And he'd certainly not thought himself worthy of being loved. Everything about what had come of his relationship with Jean was the very antithesis of why he'd become a priest. That vision of the Virgin Mary and his mother's voice had led him to the Church but it had been the perfect escape. As a priest, he was granted clemency from being a true member of society. He could stay in the rectory and in the church and not interact with the outside world. He could teach and care for his parishioners from an arm's length away. And while he learned their secrets in Confession and eased their worries with his spiritual guidance, they never had to learn the same of him. He did not need to reveal himself to them in order to serve a purpose. It was a lonely and isolating existence that allowed him to still be useful and to help those in need when it was really he himself who had been yearning for that same help. His drinking had been his only companion. And it had suited him just fine.

Only it hadn't, had it? Jean had appeared in his life as a mystical beacon of that strength and kindness that had first interested and detracted him in equal measure. She was too good for him by far, but she did not give up on him. She cared for him. She let him unburden himself to her. And when he'd been sure she'd cast him aside, she had stayed. She had somehow grown to love him as he loved her. And for all the miracle of that love, it had now become his greatest torment.

For two days, Lucien tried to return things to normal with Jean. She continued to come make breakfast for him and chat pleasantly with a cup of tea each morning. She tended the garden and made her flower arrangements for the church. She helped him finish the decorations for Christmas. And she sat in the living room with him in the early evenings while jazz records played on the phonograph while he worked on upcoming sermons and she sewed costumes for the nativity play. It was a comfortable existence. They were happy in each other's company and thankfully had not returned to some of the awkwardness that had ensued after their previous close calls. It very nearly gave the illusion that they were just like everyone else, a normal couple spending a quiet evening at home.

But it was eating him up inside. The divide between them that had been re-erected after they'd crashed through it that afternoon in the chapel was torment beyond his expectations. He knew now what it was to hold her in his arms and to kiss her and to tell her that he loved her. He wanted that back. He wanted it so much he could hardly see straight. So much of being with Jean felt like they could have this kind life together, but it only served to highlight how far apart they truly were. They had come so close and yet were still kept apart in the cruelest of ways, and it was all he could do sometimes to not think about the torture of it all.

That night, after she'd finished her costumes and returned to her own home, Lucien decided to forego dinner. He instead took a bottle of scotch off the shelf—which he'd not needed to indulge in for some time—and tossed the stopper aside. He'd not need it. He was going to drink the suffering away as he'd always done before. For each thought he had of Jean, he would take a punishing swallow of scotch. After so long without it, the burn was not a familiar comfort anymore.

And Lucien wanted to be punished. He wanted to drink away every painful need he had of her. The vision of the way her eyes sparkled when she smiled. He took a drink. The sound of her laughter. He took a drink. The warmth of her hand caressing his face. He took a drink. The feel of her sitting next to him at the piano while they sang together. He took a drink. The way she could cut through his rambling ideas and focus his thoughts so succinctly. He took a drink. The taste of her glorious kiss. He took a drink.

On and on he went, thinking of everything he loved about her and filling himself with the sting of drink for each one. Eventually, however, the bottle was empty. And Lucien could not manage to get up for another. He slumped over on top of his bed, fully clothed with his shoes still on. His eyes would not remain open any longer, so he had to let them close.

His mind was full of Jean. He wished more than anything that she was here with him. He wanted her. He wanted to hold her in his arms. He wanted to hear her breathy moans as he kissed down her neck and chest. He wanted to unzip her tight skirt and unbutton her pretty blouse and strip her of each layer that separated them. He wanted to feel her fingers undo the buttons of his shirt and pull his vest off and rake her fingernails down the plane of his chest. He wanted to see what color slip she wore and see if she would blush when he pulled it over her head. He wanted to unclip her stockings and roll them down each leg, caressing those lean muscles as he did. He wanted to bare her whole body to him, to see if she had scars or freckles or marks on her skin and he wanted to know each and every one of them. He wanted to feel the outline of her body and learn the contours of every curve. He wanted to know what sounds she would make if his mouth trailed down her body to cover her breasts and belly with his kisses. He wanted to know if she would prefer the graze of his teeth or the soft swirl of his tongue over her nipples. He wanted to learn the scent and taste of her if she spread her legs for him to settle between. He wanted to know if she would cry out his name, if her thighs would clench around his ears. He wanted to feel her move against him as he thrust himself inside her. He wanted to know the way she looked and sounded and felt as she trembled with climax in his arms. He wanted to kiss her as he came and collapsed in her loving embrace. He wanted to fall asleep holding her and wake up beside her and never again worry about whether they were too close or doing things they oughtn't just because they were in love. He wanted a life with her. He wanted everything.

Lucien's mind savored these beautiful feelings and for once, he did not remember that he wasn't allowed to have them. He drifted out of consciousness thinking only of Jean.