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Abbacchio’s not going to Heaven.
He wasn’t going to Heaven back then, when he joined Passione, and he sure isn’t going to Heaven now, spread out in another man’s bed, flushed, hot, in a daze.
He looks at the pomegranate laid on Bruno’s bedside table, the fruit cut across, red juice streaming down the drying skin. How ironic, he thinks, for the symbol of fertility to witness the atrocities he has committed.
“Here,” Bruno sits beside him, as naked as the day he was born, just the way God made him; he picks up the fruit, digging for the red seeds with his bare hands. “Eat,” comes the order.
And he does.
***
“You’re not going to Heaven, Leone.”
His mother’s voice cuts through the thick air, sharp like a razor. He doesn’t quite understand it yet. It’s hard for an eight-year-old to grasp the harsh reality of one’s spiritual purity.
He didn’t know it was a sin. Nobody told him that Sleeping Beauty had to be a girl for the game to work. Nobody told him a red lipstick didn’t make another boy a good enough play-pretend princess.
They’ll joke about it later. His mother will laugh. But here and now, it’s the end of the world for little Leone, and although the wound will heal, the scar is to stay forever. Perhaps if her words weren’t true, none of it would matter to the adult Leone. He wouldn’t even remember.
But they were.
***
“I don’t think I’m going to Heaven,” he admits.
The priest’s eyes are filled with confusion. “Why do you think so?”
There are only the two of them sitting by the wooden table; Leone’s gaze is lowered, lost. The priest can’t help him, Leone knows, but he comes for advice anyway. As if God could hear him through the old man’s ears.
“I’m a sinner,” Leone admits hesitantly.
There’s a common understanding, not a word more needed.
His eyes fill with tears, and his hand trembles as it rises to wipe the wet cheek. “I’m not going to Heaven, am I?” he asks, as if he didn’t know the answer already.
Priest’s hand rests on his, warm and big, and squeezes. “It’s up to Him,” he answers.
There’s no solace in his words, but the hand of another human on Leone’s is strangely reassuring.
“You’re still a child,” he continues. “You’ll learn.”
“I can’t live like this,” Leone interrupts. “I tried to push these thoughts away, but…”
“He made you this way.” The old man squeezes the hand tighter. “Never forget that, Leone.”
“What if it’s not Him who made me this way? What if I was born wrong?”
The priest’s grey irises darken. “Then we’re both born wrong.”
They’re both just humans. And Leone’s about to take it to his grave.
***
“We're not going to Heaven,” Leone stutters in a drunken daze.
Buccellati laughs sincerely. “I doubt we are.”
The bottle of red wine stands between them, open and nearly empty. The laughs can’t be heard by anyone else. A few balloons are still scattered over the ground, and the smell of alcohol fills the small living room. The radio that used to play upbeat hits now broadcasts white noise, but neither of them notices.
Leone wipes the tears of joy, still grinning. He doesn’t remember what made him so cheerful in the first place.
He stares at Buccellati. It’s impossible not to notice the tension growing between them, despite his best efforts to push certain thoughts away. He's getting closer — too close.
Leone doesn’t fight. He doesn’t want to fight it; he’s tired of fighting it, and the alcohol humming in his head makes it all too hard to refuse.
And so he doesn’t.
Their lips meet. Buccellati’s hands hold him gently, fingers tangled in Leone’s shoulder-length hair, pulling the overgrown strands delicately. He buries his mouth in Leone’s neck, kissing it until he gets a soft moan out of his lips.
Leone’s hands trace lines against Buccellati’s hot skin. That’s the closest he ever got to another being, he thinks. And if it’s against his nature, if it’s against God, why does it feel so human?
***
“Do you think we could go to Heaven?” Leone asks.
Buccellati lays in front of him. His naked body reminds him of Michelangelo’s Adam. It always has, but now, more than ever, he can’t imagine anyone but God himself could create a man so enchantingly beautiful.
He thinks. His muscles tense as he turns his head upwards, his gaze lost in thought. “I don’t think there is a Heaven to begin with,” he answers. “I don’t think there’s a God.”
“How could there not be a God? ” Leone wonders. He’s never considered the possibility. Always, all his life, there had been a creature above him, one far more significant than a human being.
But he’s not going to Heaven anyway. And he found another divine being to praise, he thinks. His own, personal golden calf.
“Do you?” Buccellati’s words bring him back to reality. They remind him of how faithless he’d become. And yet, when asked, he still responds with no hesitation.
“I do.”
Buccellati rubs his cheek. “It would be hard to get to Heaven with so many murders on our account, wouldn’t it?”
It would. But that’s not what he was asking, and he’s surprised Buccellati’s thoughts went that way. He doesn't even consider it to be a sin, but for Leone, the murders are comparable to what they'd done with each other.
He buries his face in Buccellati’s hand, chasing the closure and the warmth of another being. He has to cherish the pleasures he has here, on Earth, he thinks. Now that he got used to the thought of salvation being unattainable for a filthy sinner like himself, it doesn’t pain him as much. Perhaps Hell wouldn’t be as excruciating if he got to share it with Buccellati.
“Can we at least get a wooden house in the forest?” he jokes. “If we can’t have Heaven?”
Buccellati chuckles. “Once it’s all over, sure, love. We’ll get the house. And we’ll build it next to a stream so we can dunk our feet in the freezing water.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
***
“You’re going to Hell, Leone,” Bruno’s amused voice echoes through the empty chapel.
An old, possibly (hopefully) abandoned wooden structure standing alone in the middle of the forest was the only place they could find to spend the night. By Leone’s persuasion, Bruno opened a zipper across the door, allowing them to enter the shelter with no traces of intrusion left.
Leone laughs. He knows there’s no paradise awaiting him on the other side.
He grabs Bruno by the sides and kisses him passionately. Their breaths get heavy, and their legs are shaky. Thank God they’re alone, at last.
Leone pushes Bruno against the altar. The faded-red, old cloth adorning the wooden table wrinkles under his weight. Their lips are still entwined, but not for long.
Leone kneels. His hands are shaking; he barely manages to unzip Bruno’s pants, but he finally digs up what he searched for. And he takes it with no grace, like a starving animal.
“Good boy,” he hears Bruno whisper. His hand travels behind Leone’s head and pulls his hair. His hips begin to move against his face, slow movements quickly turning into harsh pushes. Bruno’s moans are Leone’s favourite melody.
He opens his eyes and looks up at his lover. In the backfield hangs a painting of some heavenly being. All that’s visible from behind him is a golden halo, fitting ideally, as if he were the creature wearing the heavenly crown. The sun peeks at them from behind the windows, thousands of colourful glass pieces creating a divine mirage on Bruno’s beautiful face.
Perhaps he kneels in front of the wrong god, and perhaps it’s not the heaven the Bible promised, but God, it feels just like the real thing; he’s sure of it.
***
“I think I’m in Heaven,” Leone whispers in Bruno’s embrace.
They lay in the shallow stream, water tingling their naked bodies. Leone’s head rests on Bruno’s thighs. He hadn’t felt this peaceful in ages.
Bruno’s gentle hand rubs his hair. He looks at him from above, harsh rays of sunshine peeking from behind him, preventing Leone from seeing his face in its full glory. “Maybe you are.”
Leone takes a deep breath. Clear spring air fills his lungs. “Can you dunk me in water?” he asks mindlessly.
“Dunk you?” Bruno’s amused. “Why?”
“Please,” Leone insists. “It feels right.”
And so Bruno obeys. He pushes himself up, kneels over Leone, and immerses him in the cold stream, covering his face in the water. He pulls him back up, cold hands caressing his face, and tilts to place a kiss on his lips.
The way Bruno looks at him makes his chest burn. His eyes are warm, understanding, filled with care. Bruno cares for him the way nobody else ever has.
“I’d go to Hell for you,” Leone murmurs against his lips.
Bruno chuckles. “I don’t think it will be necessary,” he says. “I think this is it, love.”
Leone looks around. He doesn’t know how they got here. The last thing he remembers is watching a man pick up the glass from underneath the table, but afterwards, there’s nothing.
“You’ve waited for me, remember?” Bruno keeps talking. His voice is soothing, peaceful. “And Narancia’s back there, in the shed.”
Leone pulls himself up on his elbows. There’s a wooden house behind Bruno, with brown walls covered in red flowers.
He freezes. “This is it?”
Bruno nods.
Whatever it is, Leone’s at peace. He gets to share it with God himself, after all, and it’s all that matters.