Desire
The living room, usually a cheerful space bathed in the morning light, felt stifling, heavy with unspoken tension. Lynn had arranged the seating with a precision that bordered on the manic: herself and Tony on the sofa, facing Lionel and Paul on the two armchairs, and Father Michael positioned squarely in the middle, a serene, almost beatific smile on his kind face. A platter of untouched pastries sat on the coffee table, a cruel mockery of hospitality.
Lionel, sensing the peculiar gravity of the situation, exchanged a wary glance with Paul. They'd been told it was a "family meeting," but the sudden, unannounced presence of Father Michael, dressed in his clerical collar, cast a distinctly unsettling pall over the proceedings. Paul, ever composed, simply offered a polite, questioning smile towards the priest.
Father Michael cleared his throat, a gentle, almost theatrical sound. "Good morning, everyone," he began, his voice soft, imbued with a practiced warmth. "Lynn and Tony invited me over for a… a little chat. They've shared some concerns, and they felt it would be beneficial to have a spiritual guide present to help navigate these… complex waters." His gaze, calm and unwavering, settled first on Lionel, then on Paul.
Lynn clutched Tony's hand, her knuckles white. Tony simply stared at the carpet, unable to meet anyone's eyes. The air thrummed with a nervous energy that Lionel found increasingly unnerving.
"Of course," Father Michael continued, folding his hands neatly in his lap, "my role is simply to offer guidance, to remind us of the enduring wisdom of our faith, and to help us all find a path forward rooted in love and understanding." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the room, lingering for a fraction of a second on Paul. "Lynn and Tony, as devoted parents, have naturally expressed some… anxieties about recent developments."
Lionel's brow furrowed. "Concerns? What concerns, Mom, Dad?" he asked, his voice tinged with a growing defensiveness. "Is this about… us?" He gestured vaguely between himself and Paul.
Lynn's breath hitched, but she remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. Tony shifted uncomfortably, clearing his throat.
"Well, Lionel," Father Michael said, his tone still gentle, "your parents love you very much. Their concerns stem from a place of deep care for your well-being, both earthly and spiritual." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a more confidential, almost confessional tone. "They're… grappling with certain aspects of your relationship that they find… challenging to reconcile with their understanding of traditional values and the sanctity of… intimate unions."
Paul’s calm façade showed the first flicker of discomfort. He placed a reassuring hand on Lionel's knee, a silent gesture that did not go unnoticed by Lynn and Tony, whose eyes immediately darted to the point of contact.
"You see," Father Michael continued, his voice losing a touch of its previous softness, "the Church, in its infinite wisdom, views certain… expressions of love as being outside the natural order. It's not about judgment, mind you, but about adherence to divine law. And while we are called to love all, we are also called to guide our flock towards righteousness." He paused, taking a deliberate breath. "Your parents, Lionel, have been particularly troubled by… the intensity of certain displays, and the… specific nature of the physical intimacy they've become aware of within their home."
Lynn let out a tiny, choked sound, a desperate whimper of agreement. Tony's head snapped up, his eyes briefly meeting Paul's, then darting away, a mix of accusation and shame in their depths.
Lionel's face paled. He knew instantly what they were referring to. The sounds. The Daddy of it all. His heart began to pound with a mixture of embarrassment and rising anger. How dare they? How dare they listen? And how dare they bring a priest into this private, intimate part of his life?
Father Michael, perhaps sensing the shift in Lionel’s demeanor, pushed on, his voice a little firmer now, a note of gentle admonishment creeping in. "And there's also the matter of… certain uncanny resemblances, Lionel. Lynn and Tony are quite understandably distressed by the fact that your… partner bears such a striking resemblance to your father. It has, for them, raised questions about… deeper, perhaps subconscious, desires that might be at play here. Desires that could be, dare I say, deeply unsettling and, from a spiritual perspective, potentially… incestuous in their root."
The word hung in the air like a poisonous cloud. Incestuous. Lionel gasped, his mouth falling open. He looked from Father Michael's gentle but firm face to his parents, whose expressions were a mixture of pained righteousness and profound discomfort. Then his gaze snapped to Paul, whose serene expression had finally crumbled, replaced by a look of bewildered shock, a slow flush creeping up his neck.
"Incestuous?" Lionel repeated, his voice barely a whisper, laced with a dawning horror. "Are you… are you serious? You think… you think I'm doing this because he looks like… Dad?" He finally looked at Tony, a profound hurt and betrayal in his eyes. "Is that what you think of me? Is that what you think, Dad?"
Tony flinched, unable to answer, but Lynn, seizing the moment, broke her silence, her voice trembling but firm. "It's unsettling, Lionel! Don't you see? The way he looks, the way you… and then those sounds last night! And what you were shouting! It's all… it's all too much! We're just trying to understand, trying to help you, to get you back on the right path!"
Paul, who had remained silent throughout the priest's gentle accusations, finally spoke, his voice low and steady, though a tremor of controlled anger ran beneath it. "With all due respect, Father," he said, turning his gaze, cool and direct, to Father Michael, "and to Lynn and Tony. This is a private matter between Lionel and myself. And to suggest that our relationship, or Lionel's expressions of intimacy, are rooted in some sort of incestuous desire because of a purely coincidental physical resemblance, is not only deeply offensive but frankly, rather disturbing. Are you truly suggesting Lionel doesn't know the difference between a lover and a parent?" His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of steel entering his voice. "And as for 'spiritual guidance,' I'm not sure a discussion of our bedroom activities is within your purview."
The living room descended into a stunned silence, broken only by Lynn's sharp intake of breath. The gentle intervention had just taken a decidedly un-gentle turn.
The living room had become a pressure cooker, the air thick with accusation and unspoken dread. Paul's calm defiance had punctured Father Michael's gentle demeanor, but it was Tony who now seized the reins, his face a mask of strained earnestness. He took a deep, theatrical breath, his gaze fixed on his son.
"Lionel," Tony began, his voice softer now, almost pleading, a stark contrast to his earlier fury. He even reached out a hand, a conciliatory gesture that felt utterly false to Lionel. "Son, listen to me. I'm not mad at you. Not really. I… I just want to understand. Your mother and I, we've been trying so hard to understand all of this, to be accepting, truly. But… this… this is different." He gestured vaguely between Paul and himself.
Lynn nodded vigorously beside him, her eyes wide with a desperate plea for Lionel to confess to their twisted narrative. Father Michael, though maintaining a solemn silence, shifted his gaze between father and son, a look of somber expectation on his face.
"I just… I need the truth, Lionel," Tony pressed on, his voice dropping to a near whisper, laden with a feigned vulnerability. "The whole truth, and nothing but the truth. From you. Why him?" He gestured towards Paul, a pained expression on his face. "Why did you choose a man who looks so much like me?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Lionel felt a hot flush creep up his neck, a searing wave of shame mixed with overwhelming embarrassment. It wasn't just the accusation itself, vile as it was, but the public nature of it, delivered in front of Paul and, worse, Father Michael. The priest, a man whose judgment Lionel had always subconsciously sought, was now privy to the darkest, most perverse interpretation of his love.
Lionel's gaze flickered to Paul, whose hand had tightened almost imperceptibly on his knee, offering a silent anchor. Paul's expression was unreadable, a careful blend of concern and deep offence. Lionel wanted to scream, to lash out at his father's grotesque insinuation, but the words caught in his throat, choked by the sudden weight of his parents' perceived betrayal.
Why him? The question echoed in Lionel's mind, tainted by his father's implication. He had never once, not for a fleeting second, associated Paul's looks with his father's. He loved Paul for his kindness, his wisdom, his gentle strength, the way he made Lionel feel seen and cherished. The physical resemblance had been, to Lionel, a mere coincidence, a fleeting observation dismissed as soon as it arose. But now, under the harsh glare of his father's twisted logic, it became a damning piece of "evidence."
His stomach churned, a knot of dread tightening in his gut. The raw, unfiltered sounds of the previous night, the desperate cries of "Daddy" that had slipped out in the throes of pure, unthinking passion—those moments of uninhibited bliss now felt like a betrayal, a weapon to be used against him. He hadn't meant it to be his daddy. It was an endearment, a submissive cry, a word uttered in the white-hot peak of sensation. But his parents, in their horrified, self-serving interpretation, had twisted it into something vile.
He opened his mouth to speak, but only a choked sound emerged. The words of defiance, of explanation, seemed to stick in his throat, paralyzed by the sheer enormity of their accusation. He felt exposed, stripped bare, his deepest affections dissected and pathologized by the very people who claimed to love him. The shame burned hotter, knowing Paul had to endure this alongside him, knowing Father Michael was listening to this grotesque unraveling of his life.
"Lionel?" Tony pressed again, his voice still soft, still deceptively gentle. "Please, son. Just… tell us. We need to understand. Is it… is it because of me?" His eyes held a disturbing mixture of dread and a bizarre, self-important curiosity, as if he secretly relished the idea of being the unconscious object of his son's perverse desires, even as he condemned them.
Lionel finally managed to force out a whisper, his voice barely audible. "No," he breathed, the single word laden with exhaustion and a profound, aching sorrow. But the shame of the accusation, the public humiliation of it, made it feel impossibly difficult to articulate any further, to defend himself against such an utterly depraved and unfounded claim.
Lionel's single, whispered "No" hung in the air, feeble against the weight of the accusation. But Father Michael was relentless, his voice unwavering, a gentle but firm probe into Lionel’s already raw psyche.
"Lionel," the priest said, his tone still remarkably calm, yet imbued with an undeniable pressure, "sometimes, our hearts lead us down paths we don't fully understand. Our subconscious can be a powerful, often bewildering force. It's not about judgment, my son, but about honesty. Honesty with God, and honesty with yourself." He leaned forward, his eyes unwavering. "Are you truly, truly certain there isn't a deeper, perhaps unacknowledged, reason for this striking resemblance? For your choice?"
The words, delivered with such quiet authority, burrowed into Lionel's already fractured defenses. He felt cornered, exposed, unable to articulate the complexities of his feelings, or to fully deny the insidious suggestion that had been planted so firmly in the room. His parents, Lynn and Tony, were watching him with an agonizing intensity, their faces a mixture of expectation and dread.
Lionel closed his eyes, squeezing them shut against the harsh reality of the room, against the judging gazes, and against the sickening implication that had taken root in his own mind. He tried to clear his head, to recall the pure, unadulterated joy he felt with Paul, the genuine connection, the love that had nothing to do with physical similarities. But the priest's words, his parents' horrified whispers, and the echoing "Daddy" of last night’s passion had poisoned it all. A cold dread seeped into him, tinged with a desperate, self-loathing doubt. Was it true? Could his love for Paul be tainted by such a monstrous, unconscious desire? The thought was vile, but under the relentless pressure, it began to feel terrifyingly plausible.
He took a shaky breath, the air burning in his lungs. The silence stretched, unbearable, punctuated only by the frantic beat of his own heart. He imagined the judgmental eyes of the priest, the wounded, horrified expressions of his parents. He imagined Paul, standing by, his face a silent question mark.
Finally, Lionel opened his eyes. They were clouded with a profound sadness, a bitter resignation. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, barely audible, laden with a gut-wrenching shame.
"I… I don't know," he began, his gaze fixed on a point beyond his father's shoulder, unable to meet anyone's eyes. "I… I never thought about it like that. Not consciously." He swallowed hard, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "But… maybe. Maybe… subconsciously… yes. Maybe that's… part of it."
The admission hung in the air, a shocking, devastating pronouncement. Lynn gasped, a sound of horrified validation. Tony let out a low, shaky breath, his face a mixture of grim satisfaction and renewed disgust. Father Michael nodded slowly, a somber, knowing expression on his face, as if Lionel had just confirmed a profound spiritual illness.
But it was Paul who reacted with the most raw, visceral pain. His face, which had been a study in pained composure, suddenly contorted. His eyes, usually so warm and kind, flashed with a white-hot fury, tinged with a deep, crushing hurt. He recoiled from Lionel as if struck, pulling his hand away from Lionel’s knee as if it had suddenly burned him.
"What did you just say?" Paul's voice was low, dangerous, barely controlled, a stark contrast to his earlier composure. He stared at Lionel, his eyes wide with betrayal. "You… you chose me because I look like your father? Is that what this is? Is that what I am to you? A stand-in?" His gaze flickered to Tony, then back to Lionel, his lip curling in a bitter sneer.
Lionel flinched, tears welling in his eyes. "Paul, no! I didn't mean it like that! I love you! I just… I don't know why I said it! I'm confused!"
But Paul was beyond hearing. The pain in his eyes morphed into a cold, hard resolve. He stood up abruptly, knocking the armchair back with a loud thud, the sound reverberating through the stunned silence of the room. He pointed a trembling finger at Lionel, then swept his gaze across Lynn, Tony, and Father Michael, his eyes blazing with a mixture of contempt and profound heartbreak.
"You know what?" Paul's voice was suddenly loud, cutting through the thick air, filled with a raw, guttural rage. "If you want your dad to fuck you so much, just let him do it. I'm out of here."
The words, crude and shockingly explicit, hung in the air, slamming into Lynn and Tony like a physical blow. Lynn gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Tony’s face went white, his jaw dropping in speechless horror. Father Michael looked genuinely aghast, his serene expression finally shattering.
Paul didn't wait for a response. He turned on his heel, his movements sharp and decisive. He strode out of the living room, his furious footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor as he moved towards the front door. A moment later, the sharp, decisive slam of the front door reverberated through the house, a final, definitive punctuation mark on the shattered remnants of Lionel's relationship.
The silence that followed was absolute, thick with the weight of unspeakable words, broken trust, and the chilling confirmation of a perverse, self-fulfilling prophecy. Lionel stared at the empty doorway, tears streaming down his face, the profound echo of Paul's parting words ringing in his ears. Lynn and Tony sat frozen, their faces etched with a horrified triumph. The "truth" had been revealed, but at a devastating, irreversible cost.
The echoing slam of the front door left a vacuum in the living room, filled only by the ragged breaths of Lynn and Tony and the quiet, unsettling presence of Father Michael. Lionel remained frozen, staring at the empty doorway, the brutal words Paul had flung at him still searing his ears. Then, slowly, he turned, his eyes blazing with a raw, unadulterated fury that had not been there moments before. He looked at his parents, his face a mask of profound accusation.
"You," Lionel choked out, his voice trembling, "You did this! You ruined everything! You drove him away!" His gaze pierced his father, then his mother, then settled back on Tony with a venomous intensity. "Your 'concerns,' your 'understanding' – it was all a lie! You just wanted to confirm your disgusting little theory! And you did it! You pushed him until he believed it!" He pointed a shaking finger towards the door. "He's gone! Because of you!"
Lynn flinched, tears springing to her eyes, while Tony recoiled, a flicker of genuine shock on his face at the intensity of his son's hatred. "Lionel, that's not fair," Tony stammered, "we were just trying to—"
"Trying to what, Dad?" Lionel spat, cutting him off. "Trying to prove I'm a pervert? Trying to prove I want you to fuck me?" The words hung in the air, crude and shocking, making Lynn gasp and even Father Michael’s placid expression waver slightly.
Father Michael, however, remained remarkably composed. He raised a gentle hand, a calming gesture that nevertheless held an undeniable authority. "Lionel, my son," he interjected, his voice soft but firm, cutting through the raw emotion. "This is precisely why we are here. Your emotions are valid, but they are born of confusion. We must first address the root of this distress, the subconscious needs that are surfacing. Only then can true healing begin. And only then can we hope to bring Paul back into the fold, if that is God's will and your true desire."
Lionel stared at him, bewildered by the priest's unflappable demeanor and the bizarre suggestion of bringing Paul back. "Bring him back? After… after what just happened?"
"Indeed," Father Michael affirmed, a serene certainty in his gaze. "But first, we must confront the truth within you. It takes courage to face these hidden desires, but it is the path to spiritual clarity." He then turned his attention to Tony. "Tony, please. I need you to understand. This is for Lionel's well-being. For his soul." He then looked between father and son, his gaze piercing. "I want you both to sit here, facing each other."
Reluctantly, Lionel and Tony adjusted their positions on the sofa and armchair, respectively, until they were directly opposite one another, knees almost touching. The air crackled with a suffocating awkwardness. Lynn sat beside Tony, her hands clasped tightly, watching with a morbid fascination.
"Now," Father Michael instructed, his voice gentle, "Tony, take Lionel's hands. Hold them firmly."
Tony hesitated for a fraction of a second, his face betraying a flicker of unease. But under the priest's unwavering gaze, he slowly reached out, his large, calloused hands enveloping Lionel's. Lionel's hands felt cold, clammy, and he resisted the urge to pull away, trapped by the bizarre authority of the situation. The contact felt profoundly unnatural, a violation of unspoken boundaries.
"Good," Father Michael murmured, nodding approvingly. "Now, I want you both to look into each other's eyes. No looking away. For two full minutes."
The instruction felt like an eternity. Lionel stared into his father’s eyes, a hazel shade so eerily similar to Paul's, yet utterly different in their current expression of strained discomfort and bewildered obedience. Tony’s gaze was equally pained, darting nervously around Lionel's face, trying to avoid direct eye contact, but held captive by Father Michael's silent insistence. Every flicker of an eyelid, every micro-expression, was magnified under the intense scrutiny. Lionel felt a growing unease, a deep, unsettling feeling burrowing into his gut. The silence stretched, filled only by their shallow breaths and the frantic beat of his own heart. The warmth of Tony's hands felt strangely oppressive, a symbol of the twisted connection they were being forced to confront.
When Father Michael finally broke the silence, it felt like a reprieve. "Excellent," he said, his voice surprisingly pleased. "Now, for the next step towards true honesty and healing." He looked directly at Tony. "Tony, I want you to lean forward. And I want you to kiss your son, Lionel, on the lips."
The words landed like a thunderclap. Lynn gasped, a sharp, choked sound. Tony’s eyes widened to saucers, his face paling, then flushing a deep crimson. "Father Michael!" he sputtered, horrified.
"It is an act of love, Tony," the priest said calmly, his gaze unyielding. "A symbolic breaking of unconscious barriers. It is essential for Lionel to confront these feelings in a safe, spiritual context. Do it for your son's soul."
Tony looked at Lionel, his face a mask of profound revulsion and desperate hesitation. Lionel stared back, a terrifying mix of fear and morbid curiosity gripping him. The air was taut with an unbearable tension. Slowly, agonizingly, Tony leaned forward, his eyes squeezed shut, a look of profound suffering on his face. Lionel, frozen in place, felt his father's warm breath on his lips, then the soft, fleeting pressure of Tony's mouth against his own. The kiss lasted just long enough to send a tingling feeling all over Lionel's body. After a few moments, Tony pulled back, his face beet red, his hands trembling as he released Lionel's.
"There," Father Michael stated, his voice satisfied. "Now, Lionel. Tell us. Truly. What are you feeling? In this moment. Be honest with yourself."
Lionel’s chest heaved. He looked at his father, then at Lynn, then at the priest. The confusion, the humiliation, the sheer bewildering absurdity of it all combined with the raw, unsettling contact. He felt a deep, chilling dread. But beneath it, a spark, an almost imperceptible flicker of something else, something shameful and forbidden, stirred in the depths of his being, a response he immediately despised.
He swallowed hard, his voice barely a croak, laced with a profound, bitter self-loathing. "Fear," he whispered, the word escaping him like a confession. He paused, his eyes falling, unable to meet anyone's gaze. The truth, ugly and unwelcome, forced itself from his lips. "And… desire."
The word hung in the air, a bell tolling a dark, devastating truth. Lynn gasped again, a choked sound of utter horror. Tony stared at his son, his face a grotesque mixture of vindication and profound sickness. Father Michael simply nodded, a look of solemn confirmation on his face. The "truth" they had sought was now laid bare, and it was far more monstrous than any of them could have truly imagined.
The word "desire" still hung in the air, a shocking, vile truth that Lionel had just uttered, wrung from him by the insidious pressure of the room. Lynn had gasped, a choked sound of horror. Tony stared, a complex mix of sickness and a perverse, terrified vindication contorting his face. Father Michael simply nodded, a look of profound, almost clinical satisfaction on his own.
"Desire," Father Michael repeated softly, his gaze fixed on Lionel, "Yes. It is brave to name it, my son. To truly be honest with yourself. Now, Lionel, tell us. If you were to act out these true feelings, this 'desire' for your father, right now, what would that look like? Use your words, Lionel. Be honest."
To Be Continued…
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