"Of course I'm angry. He used you. Used the fact that Azevedo cared about you, that the Church meant something to you, and he twisted it into a weapon.” There was a long pause before he said, "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
Silence stretched between us. Then: "Earlier. When you were taking care of me. Your hands were shaking."
My hand went still on his stomach. "I was trying not to hurt you."
"That's not why. You've done this before. Your hands don't shake from inexperience." He paused. "You were afraid."
"Yes."
"Of what?"
Of losing you. Of failing you. Of not being fast enough, good enough, strong enough to keep you alive.
"Of not being able to fix it," I said instead.
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, his fingers laced through mine.
"You did fix it."
"This time."
He squeezed my hand. "What are you so afraid of?"
Everything. Losing you. Becoming my father. Wanting you so badly it consumes me."I'm afraid I'll become like him." My voice dropped lower. "My father."
Lorenzo went very still. "Why would you think that?"
"Because when I look at you, I want to mark you. Own you. Make sure everyone knows you're mine. And I don't know if that's just wanting you or if it's something darker. Something inherited."
"You think wanting me makes you like your father?"
"He took what he wanted without caring about the cost. Without thinking about the consequences or who got hurt. And I'm lying here trying to justify why this is different when maybe it's not."
"It's different."
"How do you know?"
"Because you're asking. You're questioning." He shifted slightly. "That's not him."
"What if caring isn't enough? What if the capacity for that cruelty is just there, waiting?" I closed my eyes. “The Church teaches us about the concept of Original Sin, that all have fallen short of the glory of God. We are born sinners. But what if we’re born with more than just original sin? What if we inherit the sins of our fathers?”
Lorenzo was quiet for a long moment. The wind outside picked up.
“God’s a dick,” he said.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. "Lorenzo—"
"I don’t get it." His fingers tightened on mine. “The Church wants you to have this toxic relationship with your creator. Half your holy book is spent telling you what disgusting, wrong, and sinful creatures we are and so much energy is spent talking about how we’ll all go to Hell if we don’t repent and do everything exactly right… But the whole fucking reason we’re going there in the first place is because God engineered the whole damn thing. It’s a rigged game, Rafael. You play by the rules the Church sets out, you can’t fucking win. God is love, but he hates you for being born sinful. God is love as long as you’re white, and straight, and pay your fucking taxes and don’t eat shellfish or wear mixed fabrics or whatever else they’ve decided is a sin today.”
He turned to look at me. “But you tell me. You spent years studying this shit in seminary, right? If we were all born to fail, then what thefuck’s the point of getting up to try every day? Why even bother if we’re just going to be judged for the sins of our forefathers?”
"Because grace exists." The words came out automatically. "At least, that's what they taught me. That we're born sinful but God's grace can redeem us. That we choose every day whether to follow that path or not."
"And you believe that?"
Did I? A week ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. Now, lying here with Lorenzo's blood drying on my hands, Constantine's manipulation unraveling everything I thought I knew about my vocation, I didn't know what I believed anymore.
