Jake walked, not really going anywhere, his mind a churning mess of confusion and something else. Something hot and shameful that coiled low in his belly, hummed in his balls. The images from that night in the church kept flashing behind his eyes as he walked. Simon's skinny body arching over the altar, cum spattering across the stone, the grunts of the men as they took turns fucking him. Father Dan's thick, hairy hand wrapped around Simon's cock. And Simon's face. Not pained, not fearful, but alive in a way Jake had never seen in him at school. At school, his expression was dull, almost vacant. He'd been there, but he hadn't really been there.
For that matter, Jake had sure as hell never seen that face in the mirror, either.
He kept wandering the streets without direction, his amble echoing the confused ramble of his thoughts. But as the sun set, clouds rolled back in and it started raining starting again, a fine mist that clung to his skin. His swollen eye still ached. His lip still stung. Soreness still jabbed his ribs and his feet burned, clad for three days now in the same damp, grimy socks. It all reminded him he had nowhere to go. But the lingering heat in his groin reminded him of something else, a voice saying, *Sure it's okay. I'd...like that*.
So he found himself trudging toward the edge of town, to the trailer park he'd only ever driven past. The gravel road was rutted and muddy, the trailers huddled together like tired animals, rusted and peeling, with sagging porches and flickering porch lights. Simon's squatted at the very end, a narrow, beige box with a tar-paper patch on the roof and a broken window covered with cardboard. The screen door hung crooked on its hinges. Jake knocked, the sound hollow and thin.
A long pause. Then the inner door cracked open, and Simon's pale face peered out. He looked smaller somehow, out of his school clothes, wearing a stained gray t-shirt, shorts that hung loose on his thin frame and socks as dingy as Jake's. His eyes were wary. He narrowed them and said, "Uh, hey. So, uh..."
Jake's throat tightened and he lowered his voice to a soft rasp. "I talked to Father Dan. He... he said I could come back tomorrow night. For the... the sacrament." He felt stupid saying it out loud. "And then I didn't know where else to go." He shook his head, cold water dripping from his hair, and started to turn away. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm just gonna go—"
Simon opened the door wider. "Fucksake, man, you don't have to be sorry. Come in and dry out."
The inside wasn't any tidier than the outside. The floor was sticky linoleum, the furniture mismatched and threadbare. A smell of cigarette smoke and something sour hung in the air. Dishes were piled in the sink. The living room had a couch with the stuffing coming out and a small TV on a milk crate.
Simon Jake him take it in, his face unreadable. "Yeah, it's a shithole. But, hey, it's dry."
"I don't care about that," Jake said, and meant it. His own home had been clean, orderly, and full of hate. He already felt more at ease here than he did there. Not that the awkwardness between them was gone entirely. He and Simon sat on opposite ends of the sagging couch, heavy silence hanging between them. Jake toed off his sneakers. They made a sucking sound as they pulled off his feet. Water pooled around his grubby socks.
Simon frowned. "You're soaked. Let me grab you a towel." He vanished up a hallway, reappeared with towel that was actually half-assed clean. Jake scrubbed it through his hair.
"Did he scare you?" Simon finally asked. "Father Dan."
"No." Jake paused. "I mean, yeah, a little. But not in the way I expected."
Simon nodded slowly. "He's not scary. Not once you understand."
"Understand what?"
Simon looked down at his hands. "That it's okay to want things. Even things that other people think are wrong." He lifted his head, and his eyes met Jake's with surprising directness. "The night in the church... that was the first time I ever chose to..." He sighed a shuddering sigh. "Every other time it was just... taken."
Now Jake frowned. "Taken?"
Simon nodded, his gaze dropping to his own toes. "Yeah. Taken. My mom brings home men, and they..." He pressed his mouth closed and said nothing more.
Jake still didn't get it, until he did. Then his stomach lurched. He thought of what his father had done to him. Hitting him, the screaming about sin and shame. But Simon's words hinted at something much, much worse. Jake remembered something Simon had said, something that had jangled with raw, ragged pain he hadn't recognized at the time.
*Bullshit like bring the little children unto me. Yeah, right.*
"Oh." Jake lowered the towel. "Shit. I'm...I'm *so* sorry, Simon," Jake said.
Simon shrugged, a small, tight motion. "It is what it is. She brings them home. They do what they want. She doesn't care, or she pretends not to see." His voice was flat, inflectionless, as if he'd recited this so many times it had worn smooth. "But the church..." He turned to Simon, his eyes suddenly bright. "That was mine. I said yes. I wanted it."
Jake felt that heat again, flickering in his gut. He remembered the way Simon's body had moved, the sounds he'd made. It should have been horrifying. But it wasn't. It was powerful.
"I still really don't know if I'm going back," Jake said, though even as he said it, he wasn't sure it was true. He heaved a frustrated sigh and ran the towel over his hoodie, his jeans, sopping up what water he could. "I don't know what I'm doing. I just..." He took a shuddering breath. "I don't know anything. I can't even go home." Tears stung his eyes. The rain drummed on the room. "I've got nowhere, Simon. Nothing."
Simon's expression softened and he slid across the couch, moving closer to Jake. "You're not going back out there, into the rain. You can stay here. The air mattress is in the closet. It's got a hole, but I can patch it."
Jake shook his head. "Thanks, but I can't let you--"
"You're not *letting* me do anything, man. I want you to stay. I mean, what are you gonna do, walk all night soaking wet and cold? They'll find you dead in a ditch in the morning."
"Your mom won't mind?"
Simon's laugh was hollow. "Oh, she won't even know. She's at Mike's. Her latest boyfriend. Might not be home for days." He stood up, moving to a closet that overflowed with junk. "Come on, I'll set the mattress up."
They worked in silence, clearing a space in Simon's tiny bedroom. It wasn't much bigger than a closet itself, with a single bed pushed against the wall, clothes on the floor, and a faded poster of a band Jake didn't recognize taped crookedly to the wall. The air mattress wheezed as Simon patched a small hole with duct tape and blew it up with a hand pump.
"It'll hold," Simon said, not sounding convinced.
A warm, dank stink wafted up around them as they shifted things around, making room. It challenged the old cigarette smoke for ownership of the air. Simon wrinkled his nose, then looked down and smirked. "That's what it is. Damn. Man, your feet stink."
Jake looked down, too, and gave a glum shrug. "Haven't showered or changed in, like, three days," he said, shaking his head at his wet, grimy socks. "Sorry, man. I can wash them or something--"
Simon laughed. It was a real laugh, genuine humor. "Fuck, don't rag on yourself. We can live with stinky feet. I mean, mine probably don't smell too good, either. You can shower in the morning, huh?"
Jake gave a grateful smile, then peeled off his dirty socks, stripped down to his underwear and lowered himself onto the air mattress, pulling the tattered sheet and one thin blanket over him. It was probably just past nine, but he was dead tired. Simon stripped down to his boxers, switched off the light and clambered into his own bed. His scrawny body gleamed pale, reminding Jake of the last time he'd seen it, that night in the church. His cock shivered and twitched at the sight.
They lay quietly in the dark, the only light a sliver of moon through the grimy window. Jake stared at the ceiling, listening to Simon's breathing. He thought about his father's fists, his mother's silence. He thought about Father Dan's voice, smooth and coaxing in the confessional. You saw something beautiful, something that called to you. That made him think again about Simon, bent over the altar, his mouth flung open in a silent scream. His hand crept south, found the bulge in his underwear. He sighed a long, low sigh, idly squeezing his dick and listening to the thrum of rain on the roof. He felt strangely...safe.
And then he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew a sound sliced through darkness that had suddenly become thick. A choked whimper, then gasping, then the violent thrash of sheets.
"Simon?"
No answer. Just shaking, then a muffled sob. Jake sat up and saw Simon in his bed, curled up tight, his face buried in his hands. His whole body trembled, wracked with silent, heaving breaths. Jake hesitated only a moment before climbing off the sagging air mattress and clambering onto the bed. It creaked and the mattress dipped, and Simon jerked away, a sharp, desperate sound escaping his throat.
"It's okay, it's okay—" Jake gripped Simon's shoulder, but he flinched, trying to pull away. "Simon, man, it's me. It's Jake."
A long pause, then a raspy whisper that hitched with sobs. "I'm s--sorry. I didn't m--muh--mean to wake you" Simon's voice cracked, raw and ragged. "I'm sorry, I'm s--sorry—"
"Fucksake, stop apologizing," Jake said, laying down beside Simon. Another moment of hesitation, of listening to Simon sob, then Jake put his arms around him. Simon fought, tried to pull away, his body taut with sudden panic. Instinct told Jake to hold on, and he did. But Simon struggled only for a moment, then he slumped, his face pressed into Jake's shoulder and started sobbing so hard he made the bed shudder.
Jake tightened his arms around him. Simon was all bones, sharp and fragile. His greasy hair smelled sour, but beneath that, the same cheap soap Jake used at his own house. He held Simon tightly, his own eyes burning, tearing up with the sheer weight of the other boy's misery.
"Tell me," he whispered to Simon.
Time passed and Jake waited. Simon's words finally came tumbling out, broken, gasping. "The same dream," he hissed. "The same fucking dream. It's always the same. The men my mom brings home. The ones she lets... I can't even—" He choked, pressing his face into Jake, his breath hot against the hollow of his neck. "She knows. She knows. She just doesn't care."
Jake squeezed his eyes shut and choked back a sudden surge of anger. What Simon needed wasn't anger. It was safety. "If it matters, I care," he whispered, then started stroking Simon's hair. It was lank and tangled. Jake didn't care. "You're safe, man. You're here with me. No one's going to hurt you tonight."
Simon shook his head against Jake's chest. "You don't understand. The dream always comes after I feel good. After I think I've found something that matters. And I did feel good, Jake. In the church. I felt powerful. Like for once, I was the one in control. And..."
"And what?"
"And...tonight. You being here. It...it makes me feel even better." A shaky sigh. "But the...the dream doesn't care."
Jake just kept holding him. They lay in the dark like that and Simon gradually calmed, his sobs fading to shudders, then to quiet, uneven breaths. He didn't pull away. Neither did Jake.
"The church," Simon said after a long silence. "You said you might not go."
"Yeah, I...I don't know."
"Can I tell you something?" Simon lifted his head, his eyes so red and swollen Jake could see it even in the dim light. "I hope you do. Not because Father Dan wants you to. But because... because I want you to feel what I felt. To have something that's yours. Something that you get to choose. And...I'd really like to share it with someone."
Jake's throat tightened. He thought about the ritual. The profane mass, the altar, the men, all naked. The prospect should have filled him with dread. But it stirred that same simmering, guilty heat instead.
"I just...don't know," he said again, but it was weaker this time, more uncertain.
Simon didn't push. He just let his head fall back into Jake's shoulder. They were quiet for a long time. Simon's breathing evened out, deepened, and he fell asleep in Jake's arms.
Jake lay awake for what felt like hours. He could feel every press of Simon's body against his, the bony hip, the sharp shoulder. He could feel the warmth of another person, a warmth he hadn't felt in... He wasn't even sure how long. Certainly not since before he'd come out and everything had collapsed into a smoldering heap of shit.
And then, beneath all that, unwelcome and undeniable, the stirring of arousal. He tried hard to push it away. It was wrong. Simon was in pain, vulnerable, asleep. But Jake's body didn't care. The close warmth of Simon brought those memories of the ritual once more flooding back, and in exquisite detail. Simon's cock bouncing against his belly, the slick sound of the priest's cock slamming in and out of him, the way Simon's eyes had rolled back in ecstasy. Jake bit his lip and forced himself to think of other things. His father's fist, the cold rain, the fact his worldly possessions consisted of the sweaty clothes heaped on the floor and that was it. The arousal faded, leaving only a dull, complicated ache.
Jake finally closed his eyes. Simon's breath was hot and damp against his neck. Tomorrow, he thought. I'll decide tomorrow. But even as the thought formed, he knew what his heart was leaning toward. And it terrified him. Not because of what Father Dan and the others would do, but because part of him wanted it.
He held Simon tighter and waited for sleep to take him.
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