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Chapter Text

Any reference to real people is purely coincidental, the facts, of course, are invented from scratch and a figment of our imagination. Even the places, mostly.
This is a romantic and sexy story and should be considered just that: a story. A story we had fun writing between friends, a story that is not to be taken seriously, an ironic story with equally ironic language. The opinions described here concerning religion and faith are not personal, but functional to the development of the story.
In this story you will meet a character entirely and consciously inspired by a particular part of the first sketch of 'I Corti' by Aldo, Giovanni e Giacomo, that you can find here (use subtitles):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldYy0WhYydw  (the important bits starts at 02:15)

Chapter Text

In Cerveteri, Sunday mornings always followed the same rhythm: families with children scattered around the square, in front of the municipal offices and along the large tree-lined avenue, elderly people stopping at the Rifugio degli Elfi for a cappuccino or coffee – the best cappuccino in Cerveteri! – and the smell of white pizza coming from Travagliati flooding the entire park in Piazza Risorgimento.

The May sun shone high over the Etruscan hills and the bells of Santa Maria Maggiore rang out loudly: the end of mass.

Inside the Romanesque church, light streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating the three naves.

It was not a monumental cathedral, though, but it had a warmth all its own: simple walls, side altars with fresh flowers, and a crucifix dominating the apse, both austere and welcoming.

It was vast but simple. It was first consecrated in the year 1000. Not much had changed since then.

Father David John McDonald, in his perfectly ironed black cassock, moved naturally between the altar and the sacristy.

The celebration was over, the parishioners had dispersed, but his work was never really finished.

In one hand he held a box of new hosts, in the other he checked the bottles of wine for mass, placing each object in its place with almost theatrical precision.

David was a tall man. Six feet tall. And lean. He was now approaching fifty, although no one would have guessed his age.

He still had light brown hair and a smooth, youthful face, sprinkled with freckles that the Italian sun brought out.

‘We have a Scottish priest’. Some parishioners said it with pride, as if it were something to boast about, a merit. Others said it with an ironic smile, as if they couldn't understand what had prompted a young man from northern Europe to settle right there, between the sea and the Etruscan necropolises.

Sometimes even he didn't understand.

The truth was that David had never imagined becoming the parish priest of an Italian village. It wasn't really in his destiny, but as we know, destiny does what it wants in the end.

He was born into a Protestant family, with a strict minister father who already imagined him following in his footsteps. Instead, as a teenager, David had dreamed of a different future: theatre, the stage, the limelight.

He had even chosen his stage name.

He was attending drama school in Glasgow when, during a study trip to Italy, something happened that changed his life.

He did not like to talk about it in detail, but there was always a flash of conviction in his words: “I heard the call. Not from the audience, but from God”.

So he decided to leave everything behind: Scotland, his friends, even the theatre.

He entered the seminary in Rome, despite the fact that his relationship with his father had suddenly broken down.

They had not reconciled before his father died almost ten years earlier, and for David it was still an open wound.

Despite this burden he still carried, David never regretted his choice. After all, God knew what he was doing, and the life he had chosen for him had always fulfilled him.

Italy had welcomed him, and he had discovered a country that was not only sun, art and food, but also community, oratories full of young people, village festivals, and a Catholicism that fascinated him.

Cerveteri had come about almost by chance. After his ordination, he had spent a few years in larger Roman parishes, always as assistant parish priest. Then, when the old parish priest of Santa Maria Maggiore retired, the diocese asked him to move there.

It was considered a quiet assignment, but no less demanding for that: the church was the centre of a town that never stopped asking for things, from catechism to sports teams to the thousand festivals in the surrounding area, each of which was always the most important of all!

And so, almost fifteen years after his arrival in Italy, Father David had become a point of reference for the people of Cerveteri: the handsome parish priest with a Scottish accent, an ironic smile, and a way of preaching that was more reminiscent of a Shakespearean actor than a priest.

“Father David!” The voice of the parish housekeeper, Mrs Deborah, rang out like familiar thunder.

She was a woman in her seventies – perhaps – with hair that was still black and curly. David knew it wasn't dyed because her moustache was the same colour. She wore glasses hanging from her neck on a chain and always had a grim and authoritative air about her. She was the real boss in the parish (and that wasn't a word chosen at random): if you didn't know where a key or a register was, all you had to do was ask Deborah – who wouldn't give it to you anyway.

“There are two people here who would like to speak to you,” she announced, entering the sacristy with a determined stride. “Young parents. They seem to have some questions about the oratory. Can you talk to them outside so I can clean this filthy floor?”

David looked up, smiling patiently. “You can't wash the floor now, there are still worshippers praying!”

The woman, who didn't even reach his chest, put her hands on her hips. “Listen, my dear Shon Conneri, I'll wash the floor when I say so!”

David threw his arms up in the air. “All right, all right, I'm leaving!” Deep down, he found her amusing – when she wasn't chasing him with a broom.

A few moments later, a couple in their thirties appeared at the church door, looking tired but friendly. The father was still holding the hand of a child who couldn't stop looking around curiously, while the mother spoke without beating about the bush: “Father, we wanted to know if there will be a football team for the oratory this year. The boys are hoping for it... and so are we parents, to be honest. And then, what other activities will there be? Acting classes, perhaps? Astronomy? It's already May, the programme should already be out!”

David sighed and brushed back his brown locks. He didn't notice, of course, but both people in front of him swallowed at that gesture.

“I'll be teaching the acting class myself, don't worry. As for football... well, I think we'll need some help. Finding a coach isn't that easy. Do you know any dads, or even mums, who might be willing to volunteer?”

He exchanged a glance with Deborah, who was already rolling her eyes as if to say, ‘We can't do everything ourselves, can we?’

The two shook their heads. Finding parents who would commit to spending the summer at the parish youth club was a daunting task, especially since the youth club was mainly used to dump their children, not to spend time together!

Father David put on his best smile, and the two wondered if the temperature had suddenly risen to thirty degrees.

“I promise I'll try to find someone,” concluded the priest, in that calm, friendly voice with the strange accent.

The two smiled back at him and left the church, almost reluctantly.

In Marina di San Nicola, summer always began earlier than elsewhere. The romans arrived in large numbers for their holidays, probably believing they were still in the 1960s.

The sea was a stone's throw away, and the salty smell mixed with the scent of pine trees wafted through the windows of Michael Sheen's villa.

It was not a luxurious villa: it was modern, bright, two-storeyed and had a small, well-kept garden. The bicycle leaned against the entrance wall, as in any other house in the neighbourhood.

If it weren't for the discreet plaque on the letterbox and the journalists who still sought him out from time to time to ask his opinion on the transfer market, no one would have guessed that a former major league footballer lived there.

Michael had stopped playing about ten years ago, shortly after turning forty.

He had resisted until the very end: ten minutes on the pitch, just enough time to score a goal and remind everyone why, even at forty, he was still capable of making a difference. Just like Francesco, his captain.

Then, inevitably, the permanent bench. But he had no regrets: football had given him everything, and above all, it had given him Italy.

He had arrived in Rome as a young man, bought from Manchester, and since then the city had entered his blood. He loved its neighbourhoods, its chaos, its markets, even its traffic.

Yet, when he decided to really stop, to live the rest of his life in peace, he chose something different: a smaller, quieter, more human-sized place.

San Nicola was perfect: sea, sun, no mundanity.

He had no shortage of money, but he had never been one for yachts and champagne. He used it for causes he felt were his own: he had just financed the Homeless World Cup, an international tournament for the homeless, in his home in Wales, and was looking for projects that could make a real difference.

He never donated to large associations: he preferred to look people in the face and understand where his money was going.

That summer was supposed to be a restful one for him. With his daughter Lily occasionally visiting him from England – the fruit of a fleeting relationship with actress Kate Beckinsale, back when he still had one foot in the theatre world – Michael just wanted to enjoy his days between the sea and his veranda.

But there was a problem: the mirror. Or rather, the belly that was starting to show.

In order not to let himself go, he joined the gym in the nearby town of Valcanneto. The Village was a complete sports centre but without any frills. Not to save money – although the reduced price didn't hurt – but because he didn't need red carpets: a weight room and a swimming pool were enough for him.

At first, it was hell: kids wanting selfies, nostalgic Roma fans asking for autographs between sit-ups, and failed champions talking about their cruciate ligament injuries.

Then the curiosity faded, and Michael became one of them: the handsome Welshman, a little out of shape, with grey curls, who still lifted weights with the ease of someone who had been playing sport all his life.

It was there that he met Father Ariel. An Argentine priest of his own age, with white hair and green eyes, and the physique of an athlete. At first, he too had asked for a photo, but without the insistence of the others: he had waited respectfully until the end of the training session.

From that day on, they became friends: two foreigners in Italy, both with the same desire to feel part of a community.

Ariel was also a very special priest, which didn't hurt.

And it was Ariel who, one day in May, changed his life.

And not just his.

“You know, there's a parish youth club in Cerveteri... they can't organise a football team... poor kids, no one looks after them... no money for kits, no coach... left to their own devices! Is there anything sadder in this world?”

Michael sighed with laughter, but Ariel added fuel to the fire, rolling his eyes like a consummate actor. “You are their only hope! With your experience, with your heart... think of how many smiles of gratitude, think of what you could give them!”

Michael chuckled. “Are you asking me to coach the Cerveteri parish football team?” The more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a sensible project.

The priest lay down on the bench and picked up the two six-kilo dumbbells. “No one has volunteered to do it for three years; it's shameful! Every year someone comes forward and then gives up when it's too late to replace them... Michael, please! Think about the kids!” As he said this, he seemed very busy admiring himself in the large mirror in the gym, and the Welshman shook his head.

He snatched the dumbbells from his hands. “All right, I understand. I wanted to rest, but I'll rest when I'm dead, I suppose.”

“Then it's settled,” concluded Ariel, satisfied, with a dazzling smile and a strand of white hair falling over his eye. “Tomorrow you will go to Cerveteri, to Santa Maria Maggiore, the church is in the square of the village, the one above the clock, in front of the town hall.”

Michael nodded to indicate that he understood. Every time he thought of the town hall of Cerveteri, he experienced flashbacks of post-traumatic stress.

It had taken them three months to deliver the five bins for separate waste collection. He had learned a whole new repertoire of Italian swear words during that time.

Ariel smiled even more, looking like a child who had just seen Batman pass by, and jumped up from the bench. “You have to ask for Father David. He's a little younger than us, but he seems like a kid. He's from Scotland, I think. He's a nice guy, tall, thin, friendly, a little shy but very kind, polite...”

“I don't understand, do you want me to look after the children at the oratory or are you setting me up on a date?” joked the former footballer.

Father Ariel shrugged. “I don't see why one thing should exclude the other.”

Michael remained serious and handed him the towel. “Do you know you're a really strange priest?”

“Everyone tells me that,” he replied as they approached the exercise bikes. “Did I mention he has a spectacular bum?”

“Ariel!” Michael scolded him, unable to remain serious any longer.

The next morning, Father David allowed himself a rare luxury: no running, no sacristy, just breakfast at the bar. Il Rifugio degli Elfi was right in front of the church, nestled among the ancient stones of the village. On the left, people were coming and going, cursing, from the local health authority offices.

The cafè was a tiny place, with bookshelves on the walls and shelves populated by figurines of fairies and goblins. The smell of warm croissants mingled with the intense aroma of coffee and tobacco coming from the outdoor tables.

David no longer paid any attention to it.

Sitting at a table near the window was that strange character Ariel, the parish priest of the diocese of Bracciano. His black cassock couldn't hide his athletic shoulders, and his white hair fell naturally over his green eyes, which he raised with a smile when he saw his friend enter.

“Finally!” he exclaimed, raising his cappuccino cup like a toast. “I found you a coach for the oratory.”

David quickly ordered a soy cappuccino and a wholemeal croissant, then sat down opposite him. “Don't tell me it's you, because I wouldn't be able to handle you every day.”

“Oh, I know you'd like that, mi querido,” laughed Ariel. “No, it's Michael Sheen. Yes, that Michael Sheen.”

David paused with his spoon in mid-air. “Who?”

Ariel slammed his hand on the table, scandalised. “¡¿Qué?! What do you mean, who? He played for Roma! Alongside Totti! A monster! He scored like God commanded! For goodness' sake, David, I can't swear!”

The Scotsman raised an eyebrow. “You know I'm not a football fan.”

“What does that have to do with anything? It's like asking me who Pelé is!”

“Who is Pelé?”

Ariel remained silent for a good three seconds, staring into space.

David burst out laughing. “I'm joking! So a former professional footballer comes to coach the kids at the parish youth club? He knows it's free, right?”

“He's a good Samaritan,” Ariel replied, in a calmer tone. “He's not religious, but he's the best person I know. He does charity work non-stop. Treat him well, he's a saint.”

David nodded, biting into his croissant. “All right, thanks. I owe you one.”

Ariel leaned forward with a smirk. “Are you kidding? It took me years to find him, but it was worth the wait! Get ready: he's really hot.”

David sighed. “So?”

“Eh... I mean, really really hot.”

“I'm a priest, Ariel! And so are you, in case you've forgotten!”

“God gave me two eyes, what can I do about it? And he gave them to you too. Come on, don't be such a moralist!”

“I'm a priest! It's my job to be a moralist!”

“Claro, but no one likes sanctimonious priests! God gave you two eyes and some plumbing, you're not going to criticise God's work!”

David didn't know whether to laugh or remain serious, and a strange expression halfway between the two came out. “Explain to me why you chose Catholicism? There are many denominations that don't require celibacy!” He knew that Ariel didn't respect that rule very much.

Not that it was such a scandal... David had realised very early on that priests in Italy were somewhat of an erotic fantasy for everyone and that the vast majority of the population was against imposed celibacy.

Ultimately, Italians did not care if a priest had a relationship with a parishioner.

Ariel laughed. “That's what makes it so much fun! Celibacy is a load of rubbish, come on, and no one respects it, except maybe you. And you're very sad, let me tell you.” Then he got up to go and pay. “Keep me updated on the team. I've got to run, my hospital visits are about to start. Have a good day!”

“I'll pretend I didn't hear half of what you said!” David's voice reached him from behind.

The Scotsman watched him walk away, shaking his head. However, a smile remained on his lips as he finished his cappuccino.

Chapter Text

Michael's e-bike rumbled slightly as it stopped in front of the rectory. It was an old Nilox-something model, which he had bought at a reasonable price. It made a terrible noise, but as long as it worked, there was no reason to change it. It still did its job without too much fuss, perfect for the narrow alleys and sunny streets of San Nicola.

Michael also had a car, of course, a beautiful blue Mini, but he tried to use it as little as possible. It wasn't good for the environment, and besides, he needed to get back in shape.

The man dismounted casually, leaving his bike right next to the church door.

He had never been there before. Never. It was a beautiful square, small, set in an ancient but well-kept village. It was quite crowded but not chaotic.

Everything was within a few metres: a café, a pharmacy, a bakery, a bistro and even a wedding dress shop...

– Right in front of the church, how classy!

He immediately liked the building. Michael looked at churches as he looked at works of art, especially Italian ones.

He had never been religious and had learned to swear before he learned to talk, and for him no place was sacred – apart from the Olimpico football stadium – but Catholic churches always made a certain impression on him, in a good way.

He didn't even have time to take off his helmet before a shrill voice hit him like a gunshot: “Move that bike!”.

Michael turned around: a very short, very old and very strange lady with black hair, matching moustache and a floral apron was staring at him sternly.

“I'm here to talk to Father David,” he replied, taken aback.

“Don't you say hello first?” she replied, hands on her hips.

Michael's eyes widened, then he hurriedly said, ‘Ah... I'm here to talk to Father David, good morning anyway.’

“Did you go to a special school? You put the greeting at the end?!”

Michael struggled to suppress a laugh. Before he could reply, however, someone came out of the church door.

“Who are you arguing with, Deborah?” The person was a very tall, thin man with thick brown hair and a strange accent.

Father David's voice was calm, almost annoyed. Michael noticed the white collar of his shirt and knew immediately who he was.

Michael also noticed that Ariel was right: that Scottish priest was rather likeable, so to speak.

“No one!” protested the parish housekeeper. “It's just that you can't leave your bike in front of the church, the rules say so!”

Michael shrugged, a little embarrassed. He kept staring at the brown hair of the man in front of him, barely moved by the wind. “I guess I'll have to move my bike.”

David sighed. “Mrs Deborah, can you please turn a blind eye?”

“I turn you a blind eye!” she retorted, pointing a finger at him. Then, grumbling to herself, she went back into the darkness of the church.

As soon as she disappeared, Michael tried not to burst out laughing.

David shook his head, with a half-smile, a beautiful half-smile. “Don't pay too much attention to her.”

“Ariel told me to come by today,” Michael explained, reaching out his hand to the man. “I'm Michael,” he introduced himself.

“Michael Sheen, of course,” David nodded. “You played with Totti and Cannavacciuolo!”.

The Welshman was taken aback and tried to say something, but all that came out was “Huh?”.

The parish priest frowned. “Cannav... Cannavaro! Oh dear, did I say Cannavacciuolo?!”

Michael tried not to laugh – well, not too much – and David rubbed his eyes. “Deborah always makes me watch Master Chef, I'm sorry”.

“Oh no, understandable mistake...” they chuckled together and finally shook hands.

Michael raised an amused eyebrow. “So you've seen me on the pitch?”

“No, I'm afraid not. I don't follow football,” David admitted without batting an eyelid. Michael had a firm grip and a soft hand, he noticed – who knows why.

“I mean, I watch the World Cup: we put up a big screen for everyone out here, it's always a great experience. But apart from that... I couldn't tell the difference between offside and a corner kick, or football and volleyball, I think.”

Michael laughed softly, thinking about how many things he would have liked to explain to him... “Well, at least you're honest. I'm glad you agreed to meet me.”

“I'm glad you said yes to the boys,” replied David.

They were still shaking hands.

Michael hesitated for a moment, looked at their still clasped hands, then shook his head and put them in his pockets, as if he had suddenly woken up.

– What the hell is wrong with me?

“Shall we drop the formalities, Father, or is that disrespectful?” asked the former footballer.

David shrugged, those beautiful shoulders, “It's not. Just call me David.”

“Perfect. Just call me Michael. We can speak English if you like. Although I have a ridiculous accent now.”

“That would be nice,” replied David, relaxing. “I'm Scottish, it can't be worse than mine.” He gestured towards the interior. “Follow me to my office.”

He led him down the right aisle. Michael glanced around. It seemed like a beautiful church, but he couldn't enjoy it at the moment.

They then entered a white corridor that seemed to go on forever and finally arrived at a small but cosy study: a tidy desk, shelves full of books, a cross hanging on the wall.

David sat down and pointed to the armchair opposite. “So, Michael. Thank you for offering to coach the boys. I must warn you, though: we have no funds. Everything is voluntary, no salaries and no budget for... anything! I understand if you want to reconsider.”

Michael listened, or at least tried to. His attention was captured by something else entirely: the blue shirt that outlined the priest's chest, the white collar that seemed more like a style detail than a symbol, the dark, tight-fitting jeans that left little to the imagination.

Ariel had said that David was very cute and had a nice bum... but neither of those things came close to what he had in front of him.

– I wonder if they put up signs before mass saying ‘Warning: sexy priest on duty’.

He thought, trying not to stare too much.

Not a particularly successful effort.

He cleared his throat. “That's fine. I'm not interested in being paid. In fact, I'm happy to help. Sport has given me a lot... and if I can pass something on to the kids, so much the better.”

David nodded, satisfied. Even though, inside, he had clearly felt the other man's gaze.

He had felt it on him, like a warmth that had nothing to do with the May sun.

And Ariel was right: Michael was a handsome man... he wasn't blind.

But Ariel hadn't been too precise, because Michael Sheen wasn't just ‘really hot’, as he had said... Michael Sheen was in a whole other league.

After a few minutes of chatting about where and what the San Michele Arcangelo parish youth club was like, Michael found himself blinking.

He realised that David was looking at him, waiting.

Panic: he hadn't heard the question, he was focused on staring at the third button of his shirt, the one on his chest, fighting for his life.

“Sorry, uh...” he stammered, “What was that?”

“I asked if you wanted some coffee,” repeated the parish priest, with an amused smile.

Michael looked down at his watch. Almost noon. His stomach growled, and it wasn't just because he was hungry. “Coffee? Better not... at this hour. But let's go to lunch, so we can continue talking about the details! It's on me! Priests eat lunch, don't they?”.

David raised an eyebrow, finding himself taken aback, but also pleased. He didn't think too much about it, as he would have had lunch anyway, because yes, priests did have lunch... “Why not?”.

He didn't think there was anything written anywhere that said he couldn't enjoy lunch with a parishioner every now and then. And if this parishioner had also offered to coach the children for free, it would have seemed completely out of place to refuse his kind invitation.

If he was also a former professional footballer with eyes the colour of the clear sky...

– McDonald! Down!

They tiptoed out of the rectory as soon as they heard Deborah's determined footsteps approaching from the corridor. They looked like two teenagers on the run, who knows from what.

David slipped the keys to his Ford Fiesta into his pocket with a guilty expression. “Let's hope she hasn't punctured my tyres...” he muttered to himself. Michael frowned, hoping he wasn't referring to Mrs Deborah.

Without saying much, they both got into David's metallic grey car.

It was a 2019 model, small engine, but had all the comforts.

Michael took the reins, like an expert navigator. “Do you know La Casetta? It's on the Doganale road, excellent food and inexpensive. I go there all the time.”

David thought for a moment. “I know where it is. I went there for a birthday party a couple of years ago.”

The restaurant was nothing pretentious, but the welcome was warm and the kitchen smelled of tomatoes and basil. There was a beautiful room painted in red and gold, full of old photos and frescoes on the walls. The wooden tables at lunchtime were often half-empty, so you could always find a seat.

In fine weather, you could also eat on the veranda, with your eyes fixed on the cultivated countryside.

It was a quiet, pleasant, intimate place.

When it came time to order drinks, David asked only for water. Michael, on the other hand, did not hesitate to order the house red.

“No wine?” he teased, amused.

“I have to drive,” replied the priest, serene.

Michael laughed and shook his head. “And you're Scottish too! Shame on you, shame on your cow!” he quoted Mulan, which Lily liked so much, and saw him chuckle.

A sound he liked more than he should have.

The conversation flowed with surprising ease.

Within minutes, it felt like they were two old friends. They talked about theatre, village stories, travel.

David explained that every summer he ran an acting course for the children at the parish youth club.

“Acting?” Michael leaned forward with interest. “I don't know if you know, but before football, I flirted with the idea of cinema. I was part of a Shakespearean theatre company, then the god of football called me to him.”

“Really?”

Michael nodded. “Life is made up of choices. Who knows what would have happened if I had taken the other path... My daughter's mother is quite famous. We were in the company together. Have you ever seen Underworld?”

David smiled politely and shook his head. “I'm not a film buff, unless it's the classics.” After that sentence, he quickly summed up in his mind: OK, straight.

– What's your problem, McDonald?!

“The classics are what got me into acting, my favourite films are all from the 1950s.”

“We could organise a themed film club. Great black and white classics!’”

“Audience: two. You and me.”

They burst out laughing, but both thought the exact same thing: it wouldn't be bad at all.

“So you're a dad,” murmured the priest.

Michael smiled proudly. “Yes. She's at university now, following in her mother's footsteps. Things didn't work out between us, but we've always remained friends. Lily comes to visit me in the summer, maybe I'll take her to the parish youth club.”

“Of course. It's a really pretty name,” they smiled at each other again, looking at each other for a moment too long.

Lunch passed too quickly.

By the time tiramisu was served, they were talking about 80s music.

“I was a pop guy, Madonna reigned supreme in my room, I don't think my father liked it very much!” said David.

Michael chuckled, “Pop me too, a true Duran Duran fan!”

“Oh no, team Spandau here.”

“What?! Oh my God, this is serious, David...”

Over coffee, they moved on to Walter Scott and Dylan Thomas.

“I once played Ivanhoe in high school, a wonderful experience,” said the Scotsman with a hint of patriotic pride.

“Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” 

recited the Welshman, in a warm, measured voice, with a wonderful interpretation.

David was left speechless.

“Sorry, when I start with Dylan Thomas, I can't stop. I didn't mean to show off,” Michael smiled slightly and took refuge in his cup of espresso.

David shook his head, he was literally spellbound.

“Whenever you want...” was all he could manage to murmur.

They could have talked until late into the night, but the empty plates and the clock left them no choice.

David walked him back to the church. Michael got back on his bike – which Deborah hadn't tampered with – and said goodbye with a smile so bright it outshone the sun.

– McDonald, no! I'll spray you with water, eh!

The next morning, the parish priest was back in action. He hung a poster with large letters on the outside wall of the presbytery:

‘Training sessions for the St Michael the Archangel parish football team – Starting on 1st June – Sign up now!’

He paused for a moment to look at it, then shook his head with an ironic smile. He would never have imagined that behind those words lay the beginning of something he did not yet know how to name.

Chapter Text

Ever since he saved Father David's number on his phone, Michael couldn't stop opening WhatsApp.

He wasn't obsessed — absolutely not! — but he kept checking to see if he was online, if he had read the messages, if he was writing.

– A perfectly normal thing to do!

Every time a reply came, his heart skipped a beat.

David's messages were always kind, almost too kind: full of gratitude, as if he wanted to thank him endlessly for agreeing to coach the boys. He didn't seem to understand that Michael wasn't doing it for anything in return, nor for money: quite the opposite, the fact that it was free was what had convinced him.

That and David's smile when he told him about the time he played Hamlet.

And his jeans.

And that slight lowering of his gaze when he mentioned his father.

As the days passed, the practical messages soon dried up. No more lists of subscriptions or technical questions.

Michael began to make up excuses: he asked for advice on what to cook for dinner, updated him on his battles at the gym, or simply asked if he had survived Mrs Deborah.

The reply never took long, even if it often came with what Michael called “clerical humour”: jokes so bad that they made him laugh precisely because of their naivety.

And the fact that David didn't understand the meaning of emoticons was the icing on the cake.

But what mattered was consistency: David always replied.

He even replied to flirtatious messages. Although he probably didn't realise it...

And why on earth was he flirting with a priest?

– I must be losing my mind...

Michael knew he didn't stand a chance with him. He was a priest. Period. But he couldn't help wanting to be a daily presence, as if somehow his voice — or his messages — could become a regular part of that man's life.

Maybe he was just an idiot.

An idiot who was falling head over heels for the most wrong person possible.

Yet, somehow, he felt at peace with that.

For many years, Michael had felt settled, calm, with no other plans or projects. It had been a long time since he had felt that little electric shock inside him.

And he wasn't ready to give it up.

One Sunday, after mass, they met for brunch at the Afrodite bistro in Piazza Risorgimento.

Officially, it was to set the days and times for training. In reality, after five minutes of discussion, the conversation had already derailed: now they were talking about when they had both played Romeo.

The coincidence made them laugh: two parallel lives that had narrowly missed crossing paths on the same stage.

The outdoor table at the bistro was covered with a checkered tablecloth and two plates of mini pizzas and sandwiches. In front of both men were two Aperol Spritz.

David sipped his, then looked up. “Don't you ever go to Mass?”

Michael smiled slightly, sincerely. “I'm not a believer. I'd say I'm an atheist, but I don't really have that kind of certainty, so I go with agnostic.”

David nodded. “I respect that.”

“I didn't grow up in a religious family. In fact... it was rather blasphemous. I swear I'm holding back a lot when I talk to you, I'm usually much more foul-mouthed.”

David looked down, an amused smile on his lips. “Don't... don't act any different than you are. I mean, you're a good person, that's obvious. And that's the only thing that matters. I envy you a little.”

“For what?”

“When I was little, if I dared to swear, my father would turn blue. I had no choice but to become a priest, really.”

Michael laughed, though he noticed a vein of bitterness in the other man's voice. “But you're not Protestant.”

David shrugged. “Strange, isn't it? I came to Italy on holiday and... I just felt the call. At St Peter's. Trite, perhaps, but that's how it was.”

Michael stared at him curiously. “And you don't... I mean... being a Catholic priest is tough, isn't it?”

“No, actually,” or at least, it never had been. Not until now.

– Not until Dylan Thomas...

Michael seemed disappointed by the answer, as if he had expected another confession.

– I'm a poor sod

“Never, ever? What if... you meet a beautiful girl?”

David smiled lightly. “If anything, a handsome boy...” He said it as if it were nothing, without thinking. Yet, as the words came out, he realised that he felt incredibly comfortable with Michael.

The Welshman lit up, a rush of euphoria coursing through his chest, immediately followed by a sense of guilt.

“I had a feeling... but I didn't want to be intrusive. My gaydar is never wrong!”

David laughed heartily. “You have gaydar?”

Michael shrugged. “Well, yes. How else would I know which men to hit on?”

David was taken aback. He's not straight. The thought hit him harder than he expected. Why did that discovery make him happy?

– Shut up!

He shook his head. “I thought you were straight. You have a daughter... and now that I think about it, it doesn't really mean anything.”

“No, well, it's a fair assumption,” Michael admitted. “I've never labelled myself. I like the person, what they have between their legs doesn't matter much. They're both fun anyway.” He bit his lip. “Sorry, I forget you're a priest.”

David straightened up, almost offended. “I'm a priest, not an alien! I know what sex is, eh.”

Michael burst out laughing. “Oh, then tell me... do you have any interesting stories from the seminary?”

David choked on his drink, turning purple. “What a direct question!”

“I haven't heard no yet.”

For the first time, David let a different smile surface: mischievous, enigmatic. One of those that could make you lose your head. And Michael's was already gone.

“I won't say yes or no. Certainly not after just one Spritz!”

They both burst out laughing, leaning forward like two accomplices.

The Valcanneto gym had never seemed so noisy. As soon as Michael crossed the threshold, before even putting down his bag, he found Father Ariel on his heels, his green eyes wide open like a detective.

“Hola! So?” he began without preamble. “How did it go with David? When are the three of us going out? I want to see you two cooing.”

Michael laughed, shaking his head, and walked past all the occupied machines until he reached the press. “Thanks for the warning, eh. You told me he was cute... not that he was drop-dead gorgeous. And I don't even want to get started on his backside!”

Ariel clapped his hands like a kid at Christmas, helping him load the weights. “Details, I want details! Come on, tell me everything: what did you say to each other, how did you look at each other, have you kissed yet? Is he a good kisser?”

“You two are bloody priests!” Michael protested, lying down on the machine with a smirk.

“That's the best part! No strings attached!” replied Ariel with feigned innocence.

Michael stared at him sideways. “If you want to go out with us just to see me drool over your colleague, stay home. Our meetings are professional!”

“And I'm an atheist!” retorted Ariel, shrugging his shoulders. “So when are we going out?”

Michael's mouth fell open and he began his first set of lifts with a sigh.

In mid-May, the triple date actually happened: a drink at Revé, a lovely bar in Valcanneto, right next to the gym. Michael liked it because it was all Disney-themed. He always went there with Lily.

The bartender was American, from Arkansas, which made all four of them laugh: in Valcanneto, a village of seven thousand souls in the province of Rome, and inside a seven-square-metre bar, there was a Welshman, a Scotsman, an Argentinean and an American: it sounded like the beginning of a joke.

They ordered three Aperol Spritz and at least two platters of cold cuts.

Ariel settled into a corner of the sofa, ready to enjoy the show, while Michael and David sank into a conversation of their own.

Now they were talking about the latest episode of Ninja Warrior after an interesting discussion about which was better, Nutella or peanut butter.

“Nutella, obviously,” Michael had declared.

But it wasn't so much the what as the how the two talked: it was the long looks, the overly long pauses, David's hand resting on the table and Michael's hand almost brushing it without ever touching it. It was the silly jokes that became excuses to smile at each other again.

He had a blast watching them: he laughed at the jokes, nodded at the meaningful silences, and in his mind he already saw them married.

At one point, Michael cleared his throat, serious for the first time. “David, I was thinking... I'd like to do more for this project. Not just coaching. I want to buy uniforms for the boys. I have the contacts, the money, and I don't care how much it costs. It's a sincere donation, with no ulterior motives.”

David remained silent, struck. He looked at him with slightly teary eyes. “Michael... I don't know what to say.”

“Just say yes,” replied the other, with a smile so beautiful it could light up a dark cave.

David was enchanted as he watched him.

Ariel began to think that he had never officiated a civil union before, but that there was always a first time...

Chapter Text

David's life returned to its usual rhythm, yet something had changed.

He had had friends throughout his life, many of them, some more important than others. But none had entered his life as forcefully as Michael Sheen. Perhaps it was because they were both foreigners who had chosen Italy as their home, perhaps because they were the same age with similar passions, or perhaps because there was something more.

– Maybe it was Dylan Thomas.

He discovered this when he found himself compulsively checking his cell phone, waiting for a new message. Even a silly meme he pretended to understand, or one of those short videos Michael sent him, was enough to make him smile.

The evening with Ariel and Michael had been different, almost liberating. For a few hours, he had forgotten his duties, allowing himself to be tempted by the pleasures of alcohol. Two Spritzes were enough to make him feel tipsy, considering that his body was now only used to two sips of wine during mass.

And it was in that daze that the thought struck him: what would it be like to run his hands through Sheen's beard?

He shook himself immediately.

– McDonald, no! Bad priest, bad! Go home right now!

Fortunately, Mrs. Deborah wasn't waiting for him when he got home. If she had found him with red cheeks and a guilty look on his face, she would have scolded him worse than a confessor.

He quickly undressed, letting the cold water of the shower wash away the images — utterly inappropriate — that continued to surface from the fog of intoxication.

Michael's mouth was so soft, with that bright smile. He had such a perfect Cupid's bow that it looked like it had been drawn on, tending to disappear under his long beard, but... the beard... no, better not to think about the beard, too dangerous. He had such perfect, white teeth and that nose with that delightful upturned tip... his half-gray hair was always tousled, and every now and then a white curl would fall over his forehead, how he would have liked to smooth it back with his fingers... no!

– Don't try it! Don't even think about it! Bad priest! Very bad priest!

Sleep. He just had to sleep.

There were just over ten days to go before the youth club activities began, and David was still undecided. He had a pile of scripts, photocopies, and notes in the sacristy, but nothing that convinced him.

Shakespeare was his passion, of course, but he couldn't give Hamlet to eleven-year-olds. And with Romeo and Juliet, he would have had a youth club full of teenagers fighting just to kiss on stage, so, as usual, he wrote to Michael.

The answer didn't take long to arrive. David smiled at the screen. The idea was tempting, not so much for the ribs as for the company. It was nice to have a friend.

Michael's house had the atmosphere of a refuge.

On the ground floor there was a bright, not too large living room with a kitchenette separated by a peninsula: there were always two glasses and a few bottles of wine on the shelf, as if he were ready to receive guests at any moment.

The rest of the room was dominated by a light wood dining table, marked by years of use, and a beige sofa with two matching armchairs, placed in front of a forty-inch television. Books, remote controls and a pair of reading glasses often piled up on the armrest.

Behind a door was Lily's bedroom, carefully tidied even when she was not there: framed photographs, a pink blanket on the bed, a few Cioè magazines left there for fifteen years.

Upstairs, Michael's room was large and airy, with basic furniture and a window opening onto the terrace. A long balcony ran along the entire front of the house, up to the bathroom. Outside, a couple of wrought-iron chairs allowed them to sit in the evening and watch the sea in the distance.

The garden, small but well-kept, was enclosed by tall, thick hedges: a green refuge that guaranteed all the privacy he needed. A cobbled path led to the garage, where his blue Mini was parked next to shelves full of odds and ends accumulated over the years: deflated balls, gym equipment, boxes full of memories.

It was a tidy but unpretentious house, rustic and lived-in. It was not the villa of a wealthy retired footballer, but the refuge of a man who had chosen simplicity. A house that, like him, had a warmth that money couldn't buy.

That evening, the garden smelled of barbecue, beer bottles lined up on the table like soldiers, and inside the house, the television was showing Some Like It Hot, and the two of them took turns repeating the lines, but only those of Osgood and Daphne, because they were the important couple, weren't they?

They talked about everything and nothing. About their courses, their days, their memories. With the light-heartedness of people who hadn't grown up together but felt like they had known each other forever.

“At least you don't fall asleep in front of films,” Michael joked, throwing out the line with an amused smile.

David laughed softly. “Usually, yes, to be honest.”

“Then it's a lucky night.” Michael paused, his gaze returning to the screen for a moment. “You know, sometimes I keep thinking that I could have been there. Playing who knows what roles.”

David looked at him sideways. Michael had a beautiful profile; he thought so every time he looked at him. “Do you regret not taking that path?”

“No, I wouldn't say so. Maybe... I'm curious. But in the end, I'm exactly where I want to be right now.” He said it naturally, and the smile he gave David left no doubt as to what he really meant.

The priest blushed slightly and looked away.

Michael didn't drop the conversation. “What about you? Do you regret not taking that path?”

David shrugged. “I wouldn't have gone anywhere, I wasn't any good.”

“That's your bloody opinion,” Michael replied seriously. “And I'm not even going to apologise for the swear word.”

David lowered his eyes, uncertain. “Sometimes I... feel like I'm not good at anything. Like I'm not... I don't know.” Why was talking to Michael so natural? So easy, as it had never been before.

The Welshman stared at him, sensing that hidden fragility. “You're a good person, a good friend. Your community loves you. That's more than many can say. And I thank you for... being here. It's quieter here than it seems, and I've always been fine with that, but... well, maybe I like a little noise after all.”

David sighed, a little taken aback, and after a moment asked, “Why did you never get married? Didn't you meet the right person?” A man like him, handsome, intelligent, funny, sweet, rich... it seemed strange that he was single.

“I found her,” Michael admitted, lowering his gaze. “But she found someone else. And then... I never felt that way about anyone else. In the end, it's better to be alone than to lead someone on. I've always thought I was fine that way...”

Even though there is a huge difference between ‘fine’ and ‘happy’, and Michael thought about that for perhaps the first time.

David studied him for a moment, then tried to lighten the serious atmosphere. “You're wise... is it because you're an old man?”

Michael burst out laughing. “You're a bit of an arsehole, but luckily you're cute,” and without thinking, he reached out his hand.

His fingers brushed David's, then squeezed them, and his thumb began to move slowly over the back of his hand, a simple gesture yet loaded with everything they had not yet said.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

David froze. For a moment, the room seemed silent: no film, no laughter, just that warm hand on his.

And the truth was, it felt good. Too good.

– Fuckfuckfuckfuck

Part of him wanted to let go, close his eyes and stay there, holding that hand in his. It hadn't happened in so long.

But it wasn't a film. It couldn't be.

Holding his breath, he pulled away, gently but firmly. “Michael...”.

Michael jumped to his feet as if he had been electrocuted, as if he had just woken up from a trance. “Oh my God, I'm sorry! It just came over me! I didn't even think about it!”

“Don't worry, nothing happened.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned! Confess me! Punish me! Whip me with a hair shirt!” he said with a contrite expression, and he succeeded: he broke the tension and made him laugh.

“You're such an idiot sometimes, you know?” said David.

“Much more than sometimes, get used to it,” he smiled sincerely, but a little wistfully.

They said goodbye shortly afterwards, without any tension. Two pats on the back, a brief hug. Then, each went home to bang their heads against the wall, cursing their fate.

The first of June arrived with generous sunshine, as always in that part of the world.

The Oratory of St. Michael the Archangel seemed to pulsate with new life. It was nothing fancy, but it had everything it needed to make it seem like a little world apart for the neighbourhood children.

Just beyond the rusty iron gate was a large courtyard with a few wooden benches leaning against the wall and the inevitable children's bicycles left everywhere (much to the chagrin of Mrs Deborah).

To the right was the football pitch: a rectangle with a few tufts of grass, imprecisely marked white lines, and two goals with only half new nets (the other half were makeshift repairs). Ivy climbed around the fence, and in summer the sun beat down hard, forcing breaks with water bottles and slushies.

Next to the pitch, a low building housed the changing rooms: small rooms with wooden benches, coin-operated showers that struggled to accommodate more than three boys at a time, and a persistent smell of bleach.

The most lived-in part, however, was the large hall of the oratory: a multipurpose space with shiny tiled floors and walls decorated with colourful children's drawings and posters of summer activities.

In winter, it became the place for catechism and bingo; in summer, it was the stage for shows, musicals and even a few improvised table tennis tournaments. An old wooden stage occupied one corner, with faded red curtains, and next to it were cupboards full of costumes, balls and musical instruments collected over the years or donated by someone who needed to clear out their basement.

It wasn't a perfect place: there were a few cracks in the walls, a neon light that had been flickering for months and doors that squeaked.

The boys were already on the pitch, wearing shorts and red and white shirts. Some were sitting on the dry grass chatting, others were running in circles, and others were busy passing a worn leather ball around, as if they were already in the World Cup.

Father David watched them from a distance, beyond the net, near the stone wall of the changing rooms. He enjoyed the spectacle with a sweet smile, almost incredulous that the project had finally come to fruition. It had taken three years, but here they were at last!

Then a sudden silence fell among the children. One had pointed towards the entrance, and like a game of Chinese whispers, the murmur spread: “Michael Sheen... it's Michael Sheen!”

David turned around. And he saw him.

And he held his breath.

– Oh sh-OOT. Oh shoot. Yeah, shoot is fine.

Michael was walking towards the pitch and David saw him as if in slow motion, thinking he might be having a stroke.

He had his socks pulled up to his knees, white shorts that showed off his sculpted quadriceps, and a tight-fitting red T-shirt that revealed the curve of his stomach. A whistle bounced between his pecs with every step. His salt-and-pepper curls fell over his forehead, and that smile... the June sun wasn't as bright as the smile of Michael-damn-sexy-Sheen.

David swallowed.

– Now I'm envious of a whistle...

He cursed himself and shook his head.

“When you're done drooling, let me know so I can come and clean the floor,” Deborah's voice startled him, and he looked at her grimly. He could have sworn he'd never seen her looking so sprightly; she'd even shaved her moustache.

Luckily, David was wearing his long black cassock that day: the trousers underneath were starting to feel a little tight in the crotch, and it would have been rather inappropriate, so to speak...

-Christ, McDonald, pull yourself together. Did I swear? Jesus, you're not helping either... What if he starts running... sweating... throwing water on himself to cool off?!

No, David shook his head. He had to collect himself. He was behaving like a thirteen-year-old going through his first hormonal changes. It was ridiculous.

– Did you hear that, McDonald? You're ridiculous!

Michael, meanwhile, had already won the hearts of the children, as well as those of their parents who had stayed to watch him play.

“My dad has your poster in the living room!” said a six-year-old with red hair and freckles.

“My mum too! But I don't know why, she doesn't like football!” replied another. Michael smiled, blushing slightly.

The coordination exercises were fun, even if they were challenging. Those children were already good; many of them had learned to kick a ball before they could walk.

–  Italy!

After a short match to assess possible roles, the coach suggested a series of penalties.

The children were good, both those who saved and those who kicked, and Michael tried to make everyone feel great. Believing in your own abilities was important.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed David watching from a distance, lost in thought. That day he was wearing a long black cassock, and it's better not to mention where Michael's thoughts had wandered.

He shouted, “Father, come and have a go!”.

The priest jumped, caught off guard. The children began to cheer him on loudly, and he could no longer back out.

David advanced towards the penalty spot with a smile. “I'm terrible, I'm telling you!” but everyone began to cheer his name, chanting the syllables.

Michael could only stare at the black robe that hugged his narrow hips. That slim waist.

– What a beautiful lawn, yes, let's look at the lawn... WHAT A BEAUTIFUL LAWN!

The Welshman caught up with him and, without even trying to resist, placed his hands on his hips to position him better - of course!

“Three steps back and then kick the ball. Straight into the goal. Maybe lift your skirt, eh?” he teased, continuing to hold his waist.

David looked down, tried to appear casual, and felt almost annoyed when he felt deprived of Michael's hands.

He snorted and set off with an awkward run-up.

Miraculously, he managed to hit the ball. He was surprised at himself and watched the ball end up, somehow, behind him. He tried to remember his physics lessons but couldn't explain how the ball had ended up there.There was a collective whistle and some laughter.

“Father David, you play like my granny!” said the red-haired boy from earlier.

Michael tried not to laugh too much. “That's not nice. Here, we reward effort! Father David tried, so he deserves a round of applause!” The children applauded him, while Michael approached his face. “Honestly, I think his grandmother plays better than you,” he whispered in his ear.

David nodded. “Yes, I have no doubt,” he admitted.

Michael then raised his arms and whistled. “We're not done yet, though!” he called everyone to order, while David left the field, relieved.

A priest never sits idle, after all, and David entered the inner hall of the oratory with a brisk step.

With the help – or rather, the shouts – of Mrs Deborah, he spent the rest of the afternoon decorating the main hall.

“I'll hang up the sign for the dogs.’”

“Deborah, dogs are allowed in the oratory, I don't intend to change that rule.” 

“Of course, I'm the one who cleans up while Mrs. ‘dogs-are-better-than-people’ goes up and down with her howling thing that shits like a lion!” 

David tried not to laugh, failing. “Mrs. Conti has a Chihuahua!”

“And who knows what she feeds it!”

He finally managed to convince the woman to go and make some coffee; he took the opportunity to hang up the detailed programmes for all the summer activities and filled the walls with colourful garlands and rainbow flags.

It was June, and he liked that his community was truly for everyone.

When he had arrived in Italy from Scotland, he had feared a backward environment, but he had had to change his mind.

His parish welcomed everyone, without turning up its nose even at the family with two mothers who always came to Sunday mass. David was proud of this.

This was how the Church should be.

He couldn't change the world, of course, but he could do his part.

From the wide-open windows came the joyful shouts of the children on the field, and a wave of serenity washed over him: he felt happy. He hadn't felt this way in a long time.

When the sun went down, the children were sent to shower, armed with tokens offered by the coach, who quietly joined him in the hall.

He smiled when he saw all those colours and a black spot in the centre, six feet tall, with his arms at his sides, staring at his masterpiece.

“Are you celebrating Pride Month at the parish youth club?” asked the Welshman.

David proudly showed off his work and nodded. “I know the Church needs to change a lot, but... luckily, things are fine here. Of course, there's always some idiot around, but they're usually silenced before I have to intervene.”

“Yes, well, not everyone who comes here is religious. Many come here mainly because it's a meeting place, like the sacraments... I didn't mean to offend.” 

“No, no, that's very true. Often it's just tradition or... the desire to get a new PlayStation for confirmation,” they chuckled, and Michael nodded. “Or the desire to see the sexy priest...” He was convinced he had only thought it.

David stood still, his gaze downcast and his cheeks red, trying not to listen to the part of himself that wanted to smile like a little boy.

“Did I go too far?” asked the older one.

David decided he could allow himself a moment of levity. “No, I am sexy, it's true,” he shrugged, and they chuckled again.

It was so natural to talk to this man that sometimes he hardly recognised himself.

Michael stretched loudly. “Now I'd better go and take a shower.”

The priest nodded. “Yes, I should too.”

“Doing it together would save a lot of water.”

David frowned, felt his body temperature rise by perhaps forty degrees, and didn't know what to say. For a moment, he hoped that spontaneous combustion would win out.

Michael pressed his lips together. “Okay, did I go too far now?”

“Well, maybe just a little,” replied the Scotsman.

The coach nodded. “But I was thinking about the environment, let's be clear! All right, I'll shut up! I'll try to control myself, but you know it's not fair that you're a bloody priest.” He put his hand over his mouth. “I said bloody priest. Oops. I said it again, sorry. Do you want to hear my confession?”

“You have to be truly repentant to receive confession.”

“Then I'll pass.”

They laughed again. “You're such an idiot...” David muttered. How long had it been since he laughed like that with someone? Like a boy, with that serenity, that electricity...

Yes, they were flirting, but for a few hours David decided he didn't care, that he deserved it, that it made him feel good and that was fine.

He saw him heading for the exit and something inside him stirred before his conscious mind could react.

He couldn't say what it was, he just knew he didn't want him to leave. They had hardly spoken that day, he didn't want to stop now.

He silenced everything in his head that was screaming at him to shut up and called out, “Michael!”

The former footballer turned around in the doorway and David shrugged. “If you're eating... I mean, I think you're eating, I mean, you'll have to have dinner tonight, I think, and so will I...” He bit the inside of his cheek. He hadn't invited anyone to dinner in perhaps thirty years; he was beyond rusty.

Michael smiled, his heart beating far too fast. “Yes, I want to have dinner with you.”

– IT'S HAPPENING IT'S HAPPENING. THIS IS NOT A DRILL!

They looked into each other's eyes, a moment too long.

Chapter Text

Michael had agreed to have dinner with him without hesitation, and now David had plenty of time to regret the invitation.

The pressure of the former footballer's hands still burned on his hips. He thanked heaven for wearing his cassock that morning, but now he couldn't wait to take it off. What on earth was happening to him?
Fifteen years of effortless celibacy, and all it took was one man to make him falter like this?!
Was it really enough to have blue-green eyes, salt-and-pepper curls, an upturned nose, a warm voice reciting poetry, a perfect beard...
– MCDONALD, FOR GOD'S SAKE!

When Michael had hinted at leaving, he had felt... abandoned. A sudden thought had crossed his mind: no, don't leave so soon. And before he knew it, he had thrown out an invitation for the evening. Or at least he had tried.
An innocent dinner, of course. Just a couple of hours at the pub. Two friends, among other people. Nothing wrong with that.
– Absolutely nothing!

The shower, which was supposed to wash away his thoughts, only fuelled them.
The hot water ran down his neck, slid over his tense shoulders, drawing hot streaks across his chest and back.
His skin burned under the touch of the water, but it wasn't just that: it was the memory of Michael's hands on his hips, still imprinted like a brand.
He closed his eyes and the image became clearer: those strong fingers that didn't just guide him towards the puck, but slid further down, almost naturally.
Michael's thick beard brushing against his neck, leaving behind a rough yet sweet shiver. His warm voice whispered in his ear, those soft lips grazing his earlobe.
That solid body pressing him against his own, too close, too real to be just a fantasy.

His breath became short, a suppressed moan mingling with the sound of the water. He knew he shouldn't, that every moment was dragging him further and further away from the “straight and narrow” path he had sworn to follow. Yet the need was there, fierce and uncontrollable, and the more he tried to suppress it, the more it grew.
His hand slid between his legs, on its own, as if it weren't his.
For a moment, he closed his eyes even tighter, imagining that it wasn't him, but Michael, touching him.
He squeezed his erection between his fingers, rested his other hand on the shower tiles and began to move his wrist back and forth. Slow, complete movements.
Each caress became a caress from Michael: the thumb pressing on the glans, the warm palm squeezing the shaft, the firm grip.
His fantasies intertwined with the steam, with the water that wet him, and pleasure rose within him, along with a tangle of guilt that made everything even more acute.
– It doesn't mean anything...
He repeated, panting.
– It's just the body. Just physiology.

But he knew he was lying. Because deep in his throat he heard his name, and in his heart he felt the sweet and painful pang of a desire he had never allowed himself.
He increased the speed of his wrist and bit his lip to keep from panting too much. The hand resting on the tiles moved to his side.
– No, Michael's hand...
It gripped the skin of his thigh and moved slowly towards his bum.
He continued to masturbate faster and faster and clawed at the flesh of his buttock, then moved towards the centre.

He was close to orgasm, he could feel it, he pushed his index finger onto the glans and the middle finger of his other hand onto the sphincter.
He imagined it was him, that he was there with him, to save water... he imagined being taken, right under that hot spray as his finger slid in, penetrating the ring of muscles.
"Fuck!"

He came in his hand, murmuring his name, and remained motionless, defeated.
When the water washed away the last drop of sin, he remained leaning against the cold tiles, his chest still heaving in confusion.
Drops and remorse ran down his face together, indistinguishable.
And for a moment, just for a moment, it seemed to him that the shower was not purifying him, but leaving on him the ghost of a man he should never have desired.

When he stepped out of the cubicle, he paused for a moment in front of the mirror. Water was still running down his temples, and in his eyes he saw reflected all the contradiction he carried within him.
He was a priest. He believed, truly.
He had not taken his vows lightly, and he knew very well what they entailed. Celibacy was not a folkloric trapping as many Italians seemed to think: for him, it had been a conscious choice, a promise made to God.

And yet... what was the point of that promise if it left him feeling empty? He didn't feel any less of a man just because he wore a collar. He wasn't an alien, he wasn't an angel.
His body craved, his heart craved. Maybe he was just weak. But he was also alive.
He shook his head, as if to dispel the thought.

He put on a pair of jeans that he knew would fit him well, the ones that hugged his hips just right. Then he picked up his favourite shirt — white, with those now-withered sunflowers on it, a little melancholic, a little theatrical.
Not that he wanted to please anyone.
No. It was just a random choice.

He looked at himself in the mirror once more and laughed softly, bitterly. Perhaps he should have shaved, but the slight stubble gave him a carefully scruffy look that he didn't mind.
Maybe someone else wouldn't mind it either...
– You'll pay the consequences, McDonald.

Michael was already waiting for him at the Quintet Pub. It was a nice place, with soft lighting, lots of wood and craft beer. His stomach was in turmoil.

He had eaten little in the last few days, the butterflies continued to torment him, which was ridiculous at fifty-something. Yet it was nice that it had happened to him again, just when he had stopped believing in it.
He still had to decide which of the two.

He didn't notice him right away: he was staring at his half-empty beer mug, lost in his thoughts.
Michael wasn't one to believe in fairy tales. Let alone love at first sight. But what had happened with David... well, he couldn't call it anything else. One moment, one glance, and the rest of the world had slipped away.
Childish? Absolutely. But there was no point in denying it: that's how it had been.

So what? So there was the small detail that the man who made him feel that way was a priest.
– A bloody priest.
Michael wasn't religious, and celibacy was just a rule invented by the Church, certainly not a divine law.
It wasn't a problem for him, he would continue to try without feeling guilty. But he wasn't blind: for David, it was different, and the idea of dragging him into a serious inner conflict certainly didn't appeal to him.

Part of him wanted to let it go, to protect him. Not to risk putting him in a difficult position.
Yet he couldn't. Every time he saw him, his head told him to stop, but his heart — and his body — laughed in the face of that caution.
– Because I'm a selfish bastard...

It was at that moment that David appeared in front of the table, and Michael stared at him in disbelief.
"That shirt is ridiculous," he finally burst out laughing.
David raised his chin indignantly. "It's art. Still life. It's original, you'll never find another one like it!" To reinforce his point, he even did a theatrical twirl.
Michael laughed again. "There must be a reason!" But his light eyes remained fixed on those tight jeans that hugged that perfect bum.
"Idiot! I have news for you: I've finally chosen the show to prepare with the children!" David proudly announced that he had chosen Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
"There are enough roles for everyone, including children, parents, Oompa Loompas, grandparents... it'll be fun!"
Michael smiled and began to sing Gene Wilder's song. "Damn, I love that film, it was one of my favourites as a child."
David's eyes widened and he reached across the table to touch his hand. "Me too!" Then he pulled back, his cheeks red. "I mean... yes, mine too."
Michael tried to look away from those sharp cheekbones that had turned purple and also tried not to stare at those thin lips that curved slightly upwards. The lower lip was slightly fuller, and who knows if it was as sweet as it looked.
He shook his head. "Gene Wilder in that film was one of the reasons I got into acting. He was... you know, that mixture of madness and sweetness, I don't know, but he struck me right away. Him and Tim Curry."
David chuckled. "Can I tell you a secret?"
"Of course, what a question!"
"What pushed me towards acting was Doctor Who."
Michael raised his eyebrows. "You're a nerd! Well, nerd is the new sexy, see? It all makes sense!"
They laughed again and ordered two burgers and chips. Michael slathered them with mayonnaise and shrugged. "Well, then I'll tell you one of my secrets."
David leaned in, all ears.
"My biggest regret is never having played Frank 'n Furter. There, I said it."

The Scotsman stood motionless for a few seconds, his eyes wide.
–  No! No, no, no, no, don't imagine anything! Don't try it! Stupid imagination!
"Okay..." he swallowed. "You know, it's better if I don't think about... you in that outfit. No. Thanks for the information, though."
Michael tried not to gloat too much.

The streets were already empty when they left the pub. They walked side by side, Michael pushing his bike by hand. He would have liked to carry him on its back, but they were both too cheerful and too 'old' for such antics.
"Are you good at drawing?" David asked, almost to fill the silence.
Michael raised an eyebrow. "I'm okay at painting. Why?"
“Because I'm useless. If you'd like to help me with the set design...”
“What would you do without me?” He smiled slightly. There were no other commitments more important than spending time with him.

In front of the rectory, David hesitated, again.
Every sentence was an excuse to delay saying goodbye. In the end, however, he had no choice but to stop.
They hugged. Briefly, but with more warmth than necessary.
Michael then stood on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with his lips. He left a kiss right on that cheekbone that drove him crazy.
"That's how they do it in Italy, isn't it?" he said to ease the tension.

David returned the kiss, a little hesitantly but smiling: a light touch, his lips just above the edge of his beard. "Yes, that's how they do it," he was about to add that they kissed twice, once on each cheek, but he stopped just in time.

They stood still for a moment, closer than necessary, before finally pulling away.

Michael spent the night and the following day wondering what the hell had happened.
He had kissed David.
And David had kissed him back.
Sure, they had been two very chaste kisses on the cheeks, as all Italians gave each other every time they saw each other, but it seemed like such a big step forward to him.
Every now and then he would touch his beard again, almost as if to relive the light pressure of David's lips.
– Ridiculous.
He was completely smitten.
When had he last felt this way? Perhaps in the early days of his relationship with Kate.

He had had other girlfriends, of course, actresses and models, but he had never felt that special connection he had with her again. They were made for each other.
Until they weren't anymore.
He had also had a few men, but nothing he could go public with, especially since they were fellow footballers.
Homophobia in that environment was still rampant, let alone in the nineties.
But again, that electricity, that warmth in his heart he felt every time he saw his phone light up, he hadn't felt it in a long time.
Not for a long time.
He was in love. As stupid as it was. And he hadn't counted on it happening to him again.

He decided he needed to release the tension. The gym was the right place: running, sweating, thinking about his own body instead of someone else's — specifically, the priest's.

He hadn't even had time to get on the treadmill when, summoned like a demon, Ariel appeared on the one next to him. He adjusted the band on his wrist and looked at him with a mischievous smile. “So, ¿novedad? How are things going between my two favourite lovebirds?”.
Michael snorted, “Do you really want the details?”.
In the end, thanks to his confessional air and his Argentine ability to draw secrets out of people, Michael found himself telling him everything, in serious detail.
Ariel listened, nodding, with the air of a gossipy aunt who was enjoying herself more than she should.

"I feel like a real bastard," Michael confessed, drying himself with a towel. "I don't want to make things difficult for him. But I do! All the time! With terrible jokes!"
Ariel tilted his head. "Have you ever thought that maybe you're giving him a little peace of mind? A little joy. Because God knows he deserves it!"
Michael was silent for a moment. He realised that he didn't know much about David's past.
David was reserved, shy, or perhaps simply convinced that his story was of no interest to anyone but God.
Perhaps he could show him that he really cared, that what he felt was not just a stupid physical attraction.
Perhaps it would only make things worse...
– Serenity?
He wasn't convinced. "I don't know. He's not like you."
"And how am I, sorry?"
Michael laughed. "A dickhead? In a good way."
Ariel threw his arms wide. "Is there a bad kind?" They both burst out laughing.

"Couldn't he be like you?" Michael continued, raising the angle of the rug. "At least on certain issues... well, you know what I mean."
Ariel shrugged and took a sip of water from his flask. "It's a stupid rule. The good Lord gave us a body capable of feeling pleasure, a functioning body. They made up that as priests we mustn't use it, and do you know why? Because a priest cannot love one person in particular, he must love everyone equally. He cannot marry or have children, because then he would put them before his flock! But that's bullshit: there are always people we love more than others. Regardless of our partner or children. For example, I love my parishioners, yes, but I love my mother much more! And Maradona, of course."

Michael laughed, but he didn't let up. "Then explain to me why you became a Catholic priest if that's how you feel?"
"Simply because I am Catholic!" Ariel replied with disarming simplicity. "I believe in the sacraments, in the Eucharist, in the saints. I am Catholic. And I am good at my job. ¡Soy maravilloso! You should see how many things I've done in Argentina. And here too: there are patients in the hospital who never get any visitors. Ever. You should see how they light up when they see me! Even the baristas... but that's another story."
They laughed again.

Then Ariel became serious again. "But David really believes it. But damn, I've never seen him smile as much as he has in the last two months. You're good for him, Michael. After all, he'll figure it out on his own. And believe me, he's had women and men dying for him, but he's never reciprocated in the slightest. Then you came along. God knows what he's doing," he paused for a moment, with a smirk, "And so do I!"

The acting course had started every other day, and Michael saw David becoming more and more relaxed in his role.
When he taught theatre, he was no longer the parish priest of Cerveteri, but an actor in his natural element. You could see that he had studied at drama school, you could see his mastery of gestures and voice modulation, he was good. Dead good. Contrary to what his insecurities had always led him to believe, he had what it took to really make it.
Who knows, perhaps if he had had someone by his side who was ready to believe in him, things would have turned out differently.

After rehearsals or training sessions, they would find themselves working on the set design for the show, side by side.
Huge sweets, candy canes, golden eggs, oversized fruit and rivers of chocolate. All made of acrylic and polystyrene.

One evening in late June, as they painted in silence in the main hall of the parish youth club, David turned to him with a twinkle in his eyes. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."
Michael looked at him askance, stifling a laugh. "And you're telling me that like that?"
David blushed to his ears. "Come on, don't be an idiot as usual. Look!“ He turned the cardboard he was colouring and proudly showed a giant pineapple – drawn by a clumsy monkey with little talent.

Michael clapped his hands with feigned enthusiasm. "Veery good, well done,” he said with the same fatherly face he showed Lily when she was five and made a mud cake.
David lit up, pleased. “And yours?”
Michael turned over his panel: a huge muffin, so realistic that it looked like it had just come out of a bakery. So beautiful that it made you want to eat it right away – the muffin.
David's mouth fell open. 'You did that!?"
"Of course I did!"
"When?!"
"Just this afternoon! Right next to you!"
"I don't believe you! You didnot paint that this afternoon!"
"Yes, I did!"
"No, you didn't!"
"You drew the pineapple!" Michael shouted, pointing to David's panel.
"My pineapple is shit!"
"It just need a bit of shading, a bit of colour!"
"Oh shut up! Where did you learn to draw like that?!"
Michael shrugged, amused. "Are you angry with me for having a hobby?"
David crossed his arms, feigning offence. "Evidently, yeah!"

They both laughed, their hands stained with paint and their hearts light.

The days continued to pass like this: with laughter, colours, jokes and casual touches.

And in a flash, July arrived.

Chapter Text

One afternoon, Michael returned to the youth club with a special delivery: the new footballs he had ordered weeks earlier, customised with the town's coat of arms (the stag with the spear and the red flag) and the name of the youth club. He had ordered about ten of them.
After putting them away in the changing rooms, he was drawn to the sound coming from the main hall.

Music.
Notes that took him back forty years, to the child he had been.

He entered quietly, without being noticed.
David was standing in front of a group of teenagers, with his back to them. And he was singing.

“Hold your breath, make a wish, count to three...”.
Michael stood motionless in the doorway, breathless and his heart beating too fast.

David, immersed in what could have been his own world, moved with almost unconscious grace.
Acting came naturally to him, it was like breathing. Singing a little less so, but he didn't hold back.
That day was dedicated to the songs from the show: he had already rehearsed Cheer Up Charlie, Oompa Loompa, I Want It Now, and now he had come to her favourite: Pure Imagination.

"Come with me and you'll be in a world of pure imagination..." he sang, his voice clear and confident, and you could hear in those notes how much he loved what he was doing.
The kids followed along with the sheets in their hands, but he didn't need them: he knew every word by heart.

That's when a hand grabbed his.

David spun around in surprise, almost falling backwards in shock. A second voice joined his: ‘We'll begin with a spin... travelling in a world of my creation...’
Michael was there, in front of him, his light eyes, a little green, a little blue, fixed on his.
Without stopping singing, the Welshman put his arm around his waist, pulling him into an improvised dance step. "If you want to view paradise, simply look around and view it..."

– Yes
David thought, his heart in his throat.
– Paradise.

"Anything you want to, do it..."
– No.
"Wanna change the world? There's nothing to it."

For a moment, the world really did cease to exist.
No kids, no youth club, no rules. Just two men dancing and singing along with Gene Wilder, suspended in a universe that smelled of candyfloss and overwhelming emotions.

When the music faded, an unreal silence remained.
For almost half a minute, it was just the two of them again, eye to eye, breaths intertwined.

Then, timidly but decisively, a solitary applause came from one of the boys. Others followed, uncertainly, until the hall was filled with clapping hands.
David woke up as if from a dream. He heard Michael's voice, a little distant, addressing the students: "You have just witnessed an important lesson: unexpected events on stage, never stop! Improvisation, guys! One of the most important things for an actor!"
David wasn't listening. His mind was still trapped in that embrace, in that twirl, in that sweet illusion that would not leave him alone for weeks.

By now, Michael could no longer deny it: he was falling in love. Like an idiot.
He wasn't a teenager, he knew what it meant. Yet, even though David couldn't freely reciprocate, he knew he liked him: the intense looks, the greetings that turned into chaste but prolonged kisses, the hands that brushed against each other for a moment too long. They were no longer accidents. They were no longer a coincidence.
But even though he knew he liked him, he didn't know what he really felt. Maybe it was nothing. It could just be attraction, it could be some silly thing, but he would take whatever he could or wanted to give him, anything was fine, as long as David was happy.
– I'm such an idiot.

At the end of July, Michael decided to stop by the parish youth club during his acting class. After all, he had built most of the set himself – luckily – so he was also an integral part of the show.

However, he was not prepared for what he saw before his eyes.
How could he have been?

He opened the door to the hall and his heart leapt into his throat. How did the Italians say it? It was a word that always made him laugh... when you get a shock... how was it...
– Coccolone! Yes, that's what they say!
Only this time, it didn't make him laugh at all.

The teenagers were in the middle of a scene. And in the centre, between them, was David. With the damn tunic tight around his hips.
Holding a dark blue handbag.
And on his feet... blue high-heeled shoes.
Pumps.
With narrow heels.
Twelve centimetres.
– Goodbye, world. It was nice. Killed by a priest in stiletto heels... it's a nice phrase for a gravestone though...

Michael was petrified.
David moved naturally, perfectly at ease in those shoes, as if they had been made for him. He laughed with the boys, acting with passion, totally immersed in the part.

Michael, on the other hand, began to wander down paths he should never have taken.
He imagined seeing him in those heels on other occasions. Maybe just with those... and nothing else.
He began to think about how good those shoes would look on his shoulders. On his back...

The forbidden dream was abruptly interrupted by a familiar voice: “The bicycle!”.
Michael jumped. “Mrs Deborah! Good morning!" He tried to wriggle out of it with a smile.
“You can't fool me, understand? My dear Gigi Riva!”
“I wasn't fooling you! I came to see if any of the boys had left anything for me.”
“You've been asking every day for two months if anyone has left anything for you. ‘Have they left anything for me? Have they left anything for me?’ No one has left anything in two months! It's obvious that no one cares about you! That bicycle there, next time you'll find it on the roof, understand? Just because you're handsome and famous doesn't mean you can do whatever you want!”
Michael raised his hands. “Mrs Deborah, but... how you've changed. You look so serene today.” He flashed a big smile and the old woman blushed slightly.
“Really? It must be the new cream...”
“I can see it, I can see it.”
“Listen, go and take your friend away, we need to tidy up here!”

David and the boys were chuckling: they had heard every word. There was no trace of the heels and handbag: rehearsals were over.
Michael noticed this with both bitterness and relief.
The boys were dismissed, and David turned to the man with an ironic smile. "So? Are you going to take me away?"
The coach laughed. "That's what the boss said," he said, nodding towards the door.
David ran a hand through his hair, tired but calm. "Hmm... I'm a bit tired. How about we get some takeaway and then come back here? I mean, not here here. To my place, maybe?"
Michael raised an eyebrow and smiled. "Netflix and chill?"
"Exactly!" replied David, convinced, without the slightest idea of the double meaning.
Michael struggled to hold back a laugh.

David hadn't quite grasped his enthusiasm for the idea of ‘Netflix and chill’, as Michael had called it. Maybe he would ask him for an explanation later.
For now, they had agreed to get pizza from Ciani's and eat it on the sofa in front of the telly.
Ciani's was the most expensive in the area, true, but it was also the best. And if you treat yourself to pizza every now and then, you have to treat yourself to good pizza, that was Michael's credo.

The sitting room of the rectory wasn't large, but it had a lived-in, cosy feel to it.
The walls, painted a white that had yellowed slightly with age, were dotted with religious pictures hung by previous parish priests: a dark wooden crucifix above the door, a print of the Madonna in a Baroque frame that seemed to have ended up there by chance.

David had not removed anything — out of respect for tradition — but he had added a lot of his own touches. A low bookcase, crammed with plays and classics in their original languages, with piles of DVDs and a few worn posters next to it. A record player with a handful of vinyls — Bowie, Queen, some jazz — coexisted peacefully with a stack of CDs of sacred music.

The sofa was the only real luxury: large, upholstered in dark fabric, covered with a tartan blanket that revealed its origins. In front of it was a small wooden table marked by time, with traces of wax from burnt-out candles and, that evening, pizza boxes and two Peroni beers.

An old air conditioner hanging above the window blew out cool air, making the noise of a helicopter taking off.
On the windowsill, next to a half-dried basil plant, was a jar of paintbrushes forgotten in turpentine, a sign of work on the set design.

The slightly outdated television dominated a low cabinet next to a couple of statues of saints and a photo frame containing an autographed photo of Tom Baker.

It wasn't an elegant living room, but it was the perfect place for that evening: intimate, comfortable, suspended between the sacred and the profane.

As they fiddled with the still-warm cardboard boxes, Michael finally asked him the question that had been bothering him all day: "Explain to me, why do you have a pair of high-heeled shoes in your size? Is it a 46?"
David laughed. "First of all, they're a size 43. Secondly, the girl who was supposed to play Violetta's mother broke her ankle playing volleyball. So I took her place. Thirdly, we organise drag shows from time to time, and there's always something in the warehouse."
"You should have told me right away!" exclaimed Michael. "Being a drag queen has always been my dream!"
David stared at him, puzzled. "Are you serious?"
"Absolutely!" he replied, laughing. "Ever since I was a kid! I was super jealous of my sister: she could wear lipstick, colourful leg warmers... I couldn't. I thought I was weird because I didn't understand what was wrong with it. But it's not something you can talk about in Port Talbot, especially in the seventies..."

David looked down. "Not even at home. I was terrified of being caught dancing Vogue in my bedroom. When I was bullied, I told my parents it was because of my Bono Vox look. They would have taken it better than... well, the truth."

Michael became serious. "Did you ever tell them? Did you ever come out to your parents?"
"I don't think there was any need with my mother. Mothers know, right? Not that she ever talked to me about it, but you can sense these things. She never said anything bad, she was always affectionate. She died in 2007. Cancer."
"I'm sorry," Michael murmured. "And your father?"
"He died a few years ago. Our relationship had deteriorated. When I converted... We didn't have time to make peace."
Michael placed a hand on his knee. "If you're sorry, it means there was affection. You would have made peace, I'm sure of it."
David thanked him with a faint smile. "I think so too... What about yours?"
Michael rolled his eyes. "My mother was making dinner and my father was at the shopping centre signing autographs dressed as Jack Nicholson half an hour ago. I hope they brought him home."
David was stunned. "What?"
"Never mind..." Michael took his smartphone out of his pocket and showed him some photos in the gallery.
David's eyes widened. "Wow, it's true, he's got it!"
"Please, don't ever tell him!" Michael scrolled through the gallery and a photo appeared: him and Lily, smiling. Perhaps from a few years earlier, judging by the darker colour of Michael's curls.
"You've done a wonderful job," David said gently.
Michael lit up. "Oh yes. It's the best thing I've ever done."

In the end, they chose the film Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, to stay on theme.
Michael sank into the sofa, his legs stretched out on the coffee table. David, unable to sit still, gathered them to his chest after changing at least ten positions in seven minutes.
They were sitting so close that, even though David's eyes were fixed on the screen, his attention was captured by the warmth of the body next to him.
He tried hard not to turn around. Not to look at the perfect profile of that man.
Finally, he felt a weight on his shoulder.
A soft snore.
Michael's wild curls tickled his neck.

David couldn't resist: he bent his head slightly, resting his cheek on Michael's forehead.
It was an intimate, tender moment, one he hadn't experienced in decades, and never with such intensity.
He couldn't remember what it felt like to fall in love. It had been too long. Perhaps he had felt something for John, many years ago, but what he was feeling now was something beyond that.
He had simply never felt so good in his entire life.
It lasted only a few seconds. Then he felt Michael move.

He raised his head, and suddenly their faces were only a few millimetres apart.

David could feel the other's warm breath on his lips. He smiled slightly, suddenly feeling so good he could have flown away.
He rested his forehead against his, their noses touching.
The kiss was there, within a breath's reach.

He just had to give in.

But he held back.
And Michael, though he wanted it just as much, didn't take the initiative. Because it wasn't his decision to make.

David pulled away, slowly.
There was no need to say anything.

Michael smiled bitterly at his friend. They had come so close.
He said goodbye with the promise to see each other in the next few days, but as always, David seemed reluctant to let him go.
“Are you going to the beer festival in Borgo? It's on in the second week of August,” he asked, almost as if it were a veiled invitation.
"Are you organising it?"
"No. The San Martino cultural association is in charge of it. You know... alcohol, rock music... all those fun things that send you to hell."
Michael laughed. "Then I'll definitely be there. Will you come with me?" He certainly wasn't going to miss the chance to see David on a night out.

On the way home, Michael's mind was filled with images.
David in heels, which he seemed born to wear.
David, who didn't know youth slang or emojis, and looked at him seriously when he said ‘Netflix and chill’.
David, who bit into pizza and got tomato sauce all over himself like a ten-year-old.
David, who struggled between Faith and instinct, two millimetres from his mouth, and chose Faith once again.

Each frame repeated itself like in a film, and Michael knew that this projection would not leave him alone.

Lying in bed on the second floor of his villa in San Nicola, Michael stared at the ceiling as if it were a screen on which the evening was repeating itself.
The images were clear, relentless, impossible to ignore.

Those damn high heels.
That confident, unnatural yet so natural walk that had taken his breath away.
He knew exactly where he wanted to see them: at the end of those long legs, wrapped around his hips, holding him captive and pressing him inside him.

The thought was enough to heat his blood. His body reacted before his mind, and Michael found himself already hard, an insistent erection throbbing under his pyjamas, demanding attention. He had no desire to ignore it.
Not with David in his head. In his nostrils. On his skin.

He breathed in deeply, closed his eyes, and let the memories overwhelm him.
His hand slid slowly under the elastic of his trousers, finding skin that was already warm and taut. He moved slowly, almost fearfully, as if afraid of breaking the spell.

He wasn't alone in his head. David was there.
David in heels, David in a black dress, David looking at him with those smiling brown eyes, which at the same time seemed full of bitterness.
David brushing his lips without kissing him. That “almost” that was driving him crazy.

Michael let out a low sigh that vibrated in the silent room. He quickened the movement of his hand, his breathing became shorter, hotter, and each caress became the illusion of another body: thinner, more delicate, tighter.
He thought of his hands on his slim hips, wondered if his body was covered in freckles like his face. If his skin was as smooth as it looked.
He imagined caressing it, holding him tight, clawing at those perfect buttocks and pushing himself inside him.

He imagined taking him on the sofa where they had almost kissed. He would lay him on his back and make him scream with pleasure, as he had perhaps forgotten he could do.
He clenched his hand around his erection, hard, simulating a tight, wet hole, and pushed harder.
– Inside him.
Again. Faster. He imagined that delicate neck throwing itself back on the armrest of the sofa as he sank into him, his hands clasped around his thighs.

"Dai..." The nickname died on his lips, a strangled whisper, as if it were already a sin to even say it.
Since when had he started calling him that in his head?

His skin burned, every fibre of his body tense with that forbidden thought. He could almost feel him on top of him: his aquiline nose brushing against his neck, the smell of shampoo mixed with incense, the weight of his body against his, pressed close to his.
A louder moan escaped him, and his fingers tightened, chasing that image.
What sound would his lips make at the moment of orgasm?

There was no longer any distinction between fantasy and reality. There was no longer the room, the bed, the dark ceiling. There was only him, there was only David, and the desperate desire to lose himself in it.

When the orgasm hit him, it was like a shock that ran through every muscle, bending him in a long, powerful, liberating tremor.
He lay there, his chest heaving rapidly, his heart pounding as if he had just played a full game.

A bitter smile twisted his mouth. His fingers were wet, his body satisfied, but his mind was more restless than before.
He was completely gone.
And he knew it: it wasn't just sex, it wasn't just desire. It was that damn sweetness that crept under his skin, squeezing his heart as he surrendered to pleasure.

He closed his eyes, exhausted, and let sleep take him, still hearing the sound of David's voice in his ears, still carrying the memory of a near-kiss that was slowly destroying him.

Chapter Text

It was the last evening of the beer festival in Borgo San Martino, 10 August, and as on the previous two days, David arrived in front of the villa in San Nicola to pick up Michael in his car.
It was a gesture that had become as natural as a ritual.

Marina di San Nicola was bustling with the usual summer life that evening. Children on bicycles raced along the clean streets, their bells ringing like the soundtrack to that summer; families, their skin still salty from the sea, dragged bags and umbrellas home, while the younger ones gathered in front of the bars with ice creams and cocktails in their hands.
The villas, all neat and tidy, as required by the consortium's regulations, had impeccable gardens: hedges trimmed with geometric precision, bougainvillea in full bloom, paved paths without a leaf out of place.

Despite the summer crowds, the air smelled of order, of the silent discipline imposed by the consortium, which gave the neighbourhood a picture-postcard appearance: everything perfect, everything in order.
– Even too much

During the car journey, the conversation naturally turned to the place.
“I've always liked San Nicola,” commented David as he turned the steering wheel, 'but it's too tidy and it's hell to find a parking space.
Michael laughed. “That's why I have a bike.”
“And how did you end up in this corner of the world?”
“I liked Rome, but it's too chaotic to live in. It's nice as a tourist. I wanted the sea, so I thought about Santa Marinella or Santa Severa, but here it's still close to Rome, and it's more practical. The airport is half an hour away. It's a fabulous place.”
David smiled. ‘Is that how the estate agent sold it to you?’
"Yes, those were his exact words," Michael confirmed, and they burst out laughing. Then he added, in a softer tone, "But I'm happy here. Even more so since a couple of months ago."
David looked down, blushing slightly, and it was in that heavy silence that they arrived in Borgo, greeted by the hubbub of the festival.

Borgo San Martino was quite different: low houses, some old and dilapidated, open courtyards, people occupying every corner with tables, chairs, crates of beer and children running everywhere.
The square was a mixture of loud music, laughter, and the smell of grilled sausage and fried food. Chaos reigned supreme, cheerful and intoxicating: the opposite of the controlled perfection they had come from.

That evening, on the stage set up in the centre of the square, the Innuendo band blasted out covers of 80s songs at full volume.
The first notes of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” were lost amid the laughter, improvised choruses and the clinking of hundreds of beer mugs.

The square, right in front of the church, had become a small village within the village. Long, rickety wooden benches filled every free space, some new, others rickety, salvaged from who knows where.
At the sides, improvised parking attendants managed the chaos as best they could: the Doganale divided the squares, which had been transformed into temporary car parks, and the traffic wardens were there just for show, as the motorists managed themselves in a perfectly orderly chaos.

Michael and David had managed to get a table a little off to the side but with a view of the stage. At first, they sipped calmly, looking around with a certain detachment. Then, glass after glass, they let themselves be swept away by the rhythm.

Their voices joined the collective chorus, and now they were singing the songs of their youth at the top of their lungs, laughing like children between sips.

David felt light. Free.
When, just before leaving, he looked in the mirror to fix himself up, he did something unusual: he took off his white collar.
A tiny detail, but one that had made him tremble inside. For years, he had worn it like an armour, a security blanket. That evening, however, it had felt like a choke collar. Taking it off had left him naked, vulnerable, but also incredibly himself.
Less Father. More David.

And when Michael put his hand on his thigh, laughing and singing in his ear, “I look at you and I can't disguise... I've got hungry eyes...”, it was David — not the priest — who replied, “I feel the magic between you and I”.

It was David who responded with a mischievous smile, his eyes shining with something that was anything but sacred.

It was David who let his fingers slip onto Michael's neck, as if by mistake, when the other shouted at him if he wanted another round of beer.

Finally, it was David who said “Yes” when Michael suggested a quieter place.

They got into the car, still laughing like two boys who had run away from school.
The road from Borgo to San Nicola was short, lined with fields and pastures immersed in darkness, with the moon occasionally peeking out from behind the clouds and illuminating the asphalt. The radio was still blaring 80s music, and Michael kept the window down, letting in the smell of wheat and embers.

When they arrived in San Nicola, David parked at the beginning of the pedestrian avenue leading to the beach. It was almost ten o'clock in the evening and the avenue was still full of life: children on the merry-go-rounds, young people queuing for ice cream, couples walking hand in hand.

David and Michael walked side by side. They weren't actually holding hands, but their fingers kept brushing against each other, and David's heart raced with every touch.
They were both tipsy, but not so much that they didn't realise what they were doing: two men seeking each other out at night, in the midst of a crowd that couldn't see them.

The avenue ended, and the sea opened up before them. The sound of the waves and the smell of salt. The stretch of public beach was still bustling: young people camping in tents, improvised bonfires, guitars and chatter until late. Michael stopped, scanned the horizon, then nodded towards the beach club further away.

They walked along the shore, their feet sinking into the cool sand. The further they walked from the public beach, the thinner the crowd became. All that remained was the steady sound of the waves and the excited, breathless panting of their bodies walking side by side.

Michael found what he was looking for: a secluded niche, sheltered by the changing room wall and the shed on the left, a corner that isolated them enough from the rest of the world. He stopped there, leaning his hand against the wall, and turned to David.

The priest's heart skipped a beat. He was excited, nervous: he hadn't been with anyone for at least fifteen years. But he wasn't afraid, not really.
He was happier than anything else. Happy to be there, in that hidden spot on the coast, with Michael beside him.

And that happiness, for a moment, was enough to erase everything else.

They pushed two sun loungers together, turning them into a single makeshift bed.
They lay down side by side, their eyes fixed upwards.
"Usually the peak of shooting stars is tomorrow," said Michael.
David smiled, in a whisper, ‘We could come back tomorrow... if you want.’
"I always want to, if you're with me."

The priest did not reply. He just turned for a moment to give him a smile that warmed him more than the August sun. Then he looked back up at the sky, and in the silence their hands sought each other out, slowly intertwining, as if it were the only natural thing to do. A light caress, a thumb sliding over the back of the other's hand. More eloquent than a thousand words.

A bright trail streaked across the sky, quickly. Michael felt David hold his breath.
He leaned towards him, until he was brushing his ear: “Hold your breath, make a wish, count to three”.
David turned.
Michael was so close that David could smell him: a mixture of beer, sea salt and that light scent that he now associated only with him. The sound of the waves drowned out everything else, as if the whole world had stepped aside to leave them alone.

They looked into each other's eyes, a breath apart. That moment was enough for David to feel his heart beating so hard it almost hurt.
He could have run away.
He could have turned away, laughed, changed the subject.
Instead, he stood still. He had never wanted anything so clearly in his life.

Their foreheads touched. Michael tilted his head slightly, with a smile that betrayed both fear and excitement. His warm breath brushed against his skin, and David closed his eyes for a moment, holding the air in his lungs as if to prolong the wait.

Then there was no more room for doubt.

Their lips met slowly, delicately, almost hesitantly.
A first contact that made them both tremble. Soft, warm, they still tasted of beer.
A kiss that tasted of life, of freedom, of everything they had repressed.

David felt a shiver run down his spine, as if every nerve in his body had been ignited at the same time. Michael took his face in his hands, with a tenderness that almost made him falter, and the kiss deepened.
It was no longer shy, no longer restrained: it was hot, urgent, charged with months of unconfessed desires.

David's hands clung to Michael's shirt, pulling him close, as if afraid of losing him. Their bodies pressed against each other, the heat growing between them almost unbearable.

It was as if they had finally found each other.

David felt the blood pounding in his temples. He didn't want to let go, he couldn't. Every extra second on Michael's lips was like breathing after being underwater for too long.

He moved instinctively, without thinking. Pushing Michael back slightly, he laid him down on the sunbed, and a moment later he was on top of him, straddling him, his knees sinking into the rough fabric of the lounger.
His body covered his, his chest pressed against his chest, his curly hair tickling his forehead.

Michael raised his hands slightly, almost incredulous, and then touched him.
He really touched him.
His fingers grabbed his strong arms, moved up his back, traced the curve of his shoulder blades through his shirt. And finally they moved down, unchecked, to grip his hips, to feel that firm bum he had imagined squeezing a thousand times. A low moan escaped his throat as he held him close, finally.

It was all there, all real: David's weight on top of him, the heat of his body, his breathless breath on his neck.

And then he felt it.
He felt him hard, alive, burning against him.
No longer a dream, no longer a fantasy: tangible proof that David wanted him as much as he wanted David.

David clung to his body, his fingers sliding under his grey T-shirt, playing with his nipples, moving down to his belt.
Michael let him do it: he knew it wasn't an unconscious gesture. He had seen it in his face all evening, in his smiles, in his looks.

David won the battle with his trousers, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulled them down just enough.
A deep, almost surprised groan escaped his lips when he took his cock in his hand: hot, taut, throbbing. Michael was well-endowed, and that was an understatement. It was definitely the biggest cock David had ever dealt with in his life.
– But this man must have a flaw!
He squeezed it gently, as if he wanted to memorise every detail, then licked his lips, an instinctive gesture that did not escape the other man's clear eyes.

The tip of Michael's erection was already wet, and David was tempted to push his thumb over it, but he stopped himself. There was something else he wanted to do.
He had thought about it before, yes, but holding it in his hand, so hard and big, had awakened something he hadn't felt in a long time: need.

He bent over his body and brought his thin lips to the tip of Michael's cock, licking those first drops.
A tiny gesture and then he pulled himself up again, with a bright, amused smile.
Michael inhaled sharply, as if the air were suddenly no longer enough. He felt David's lips move up his skin: a light bite on his neck, hard enough to imagine it would leave a mark; then scattered kisses on his chest, his tongue lingering on his nipples, hot and insistent, until he moaned through clenched teeth. He moved down again, a slow torture, to his stomach, and Michael lifted himself slightly, unable to stay still.

Then he felt it again.
His mouth closing over him.
David opened his lips and let him into his mouth. He savoured every moment and every inch that rubbed against his tongue, against his cheek.
He pulled back and then forward again, letting him in a little more. And then again. Again.

Michael opened his eyes wide to the starry sky, but he saw nothing. There was no beach, no waves, no shooting stars. Only pleasure, pure and blinding, running through every fibre of his body. David's tongue enveloped him with a sweet and fierce voracity, the heat of his mouth more than he had ever imagined.

He bit his hand to keep from screaming. His body trembled, shaken by shivers he couldn't control, every muscle tense, every breath broken.
David tried to relax his throat, he hadn't done this in decades... but it had to be like riding a bike, right?
No.
Not at all.
He felt his gag reflex and pulled back slightly. Michael's hand caressed his brown locks. ‘That's fine, I'm about to come,’ he heard him murmur. He smiled to himself, clenched his lips halfway down the shaft and sucked hard.
Michael gritted his teeth and pushed gently, so as not to hurt him too much. He could feel David's saliva dripping onto his testicles and saw his head moving up and down.
It was too much. Definitely too much. He gently grabbed his hair and tried to pull away, but David's hands held him back, clawing at his thighs.
Michael understood, felt the excitement rising just thinking about it and let himself go.
In his mouth.

The orgasm hit him under the August sky, strong, overwhelming, liberating.
He lay there, exhausted, his heart pounding and his breath short.

David found himself with warm liquid in his mouth and without even thinking about it, he swallowed it.
– Twenty bloody years.
It wasn't enough to make up for it.
He was euphoric. He hadn't felt that way in... perhaps ever.
For months he had built walls, made excuses, told himself he couldn't.
But every joke exchanged, every stolen glance, every shared laugh had slowly chipped away at the cracks.
Michael hadn't been a sudden temptation: it was the constancy of an affection that had won him over day after day, until it became impossible to deny.
Letting go was not madness, it was not weakness: it was the truest choice he had ever made.
And instead of the guilt he feared, he felt something else.
Warmth. Relief. Pure joy.
He was a priest, yes. He believed in his vocation. But he was also a man, in love. And in that moment, he saw no sin, he saw only truth.

Fortunately, the cottage was not far away: this time there was no robe to hide his desire, and David felt himself literally burning.
During the short walk, they behaved almost exemplarily, two composed men walking side by side in the summer night. But as soon as the front door closed behind them, everything collapsed.
They were immediately on top of each other.

Michael's T-shirt was the first to fly, followed by David's shirt. The sound of fabric falling to the floor was the prelude to a revelation.

For the first time, they found themselves skin to skin. The sensation was so intense that David let out a low, involuntary moan, almost in surprise.
Michael was warm, alive, with that mature, robust body that David had imagined a thousand times. Broad shoulders, strong arms, a hairy chest that smelled of salt and talcum powder. A soft belly that did not detract from his beauty, but rather made it more real, more desirable. A man's body, full, to be held close.

David, on the other hand, was tall and thin, but not as slender as he appeared when dressed. His jeans had hidden his shapely legs, straight shoulders and compact chest. His skin was smooth, dotted with freckles that Michael stopped to count with his fingers, smiling between kisses. Every touch was a little surprise.

Climbing the stairs, they kissed passionately, laughing like teenagers, stumbling on almost every step, never really breaking apart, never allowing themselves a full breath.
But in the bedroom, the pace changed and the passion turned to slowness.
It was no longer just urgency. It was a need to look, to touch, to remember.

Their hands explored carefully, moving up their sides, caressing shoulders, backs and necks. Fingers intertwined in Michael's chest hair, sliding down David's strong thighs.
Their eyes studied every inch of bare skin, as if they were memorising each other's bodies: the bodies they would feed on in their memories, if this were the first and last time.

The room seemed to be waiting for them. The light-coloured sheets were rumpled, the wooden floor creaked softly under their footsteps. And in front of the bed was the wardrobe with the large mirror.

When David looked in it, a shiver ran through him.
He saw them both, naked, close, alive.
He saw love.
There was nothing dirty, nothing sinful.
It was beautiful. Just beautiful.
And for the first time, he felt no need to hide.

Their mouths were glued together, but they weren't just kissing: they were lightly biting each other's lips, caressing each other's necks with wet kisses, their tongues exploring each other impatiently. Their hands were grabbing everywhere: backs, hips, buttocks.

Their erections brushed against each other, rubbing through the little fabric that remained, and every touch made them moan softly, too softly for what they were feeling inside.
David let himself be pushed back until he was lying on the bed. He lifted his legs and squeezed him between them, his body vibrating with urgency, his eyes brighter than they had ever been.
"Are you sure?" Michael murmured, almost trembling with tension.

David laughed, blushing, but his voice was hoarse with desire: "No one's touched me in almost twenty years, Michael. What do you say?"

The Welshman took a deep breath, then opened the bedside table drawer. He found only a small bottle of leg massage oil. It wasn't ideal, but it would have to do. With an almost embarrassed expression, he added, ‘I don't have a condom. I have my blood tests somewhere, if you want, I'll get them for you...’ He didn't have time to finish. David grabbed him by the nape of his neck and kissed him forcefully.
"As if I'd agreed..."

Michael slowly moved down, kissing more and more boldly, all over his body, until he lost himself between David's legs.
He licked, explored, tasted every inch with a dedication that made the priest blush and moan with his eyes closed. It was the first time in twenty years that someone had worshipped him like this, without restraint.
He found his legs pressed against his chest and Michael's mouth moving down from his testicles to his perineum. He felt a whimper escape his throat. He knew what he wanted to do and didn't know if he was ready.

Michael separated those perfect apples and buried his face between them, licking every inch of skin.
The tip of his tongue passed the ring of muscle and entered slowly.
David clenched his fingers on his own legs and swore in Scottish. How long had it been since he'd had rimming? And how could he live without it?
Michael's tongue moved in and out of his body and his mouth sucked gently on the skin, wetting and relaxing his anus.
David's erection throbbed against his stomach, hard, red, wet.
He was close to orgasm when Michael suddenly pulled away.
The Welshman laughed at the disappointed sound that came out of the other man's mouth.

Then he opened the bottle and poured generous drops of oil between his fingers.
He prepared him slowly, carefully, letting the heat and pleasure grow together. First he inserted his index finger, then his middle finger. He began to move them together, entering and exiting his tight body.
His fingers slid in easily, too easily, and David, red to the ears, interrupted him with a desperate whisper: “Michael... twenty years of fingers. I can't take it anymore”. He took himself in his hand, seeking impossible relief.
The sight almost drove Michael crazy, he had to restrain himself, biting his lips to keep from getting carried away right away.

As gently as he could, he positioned himself against his bottom and pushed himself in just a little. Centimetre by centimetre. Entering just a little and then pulling out again. With all the patience in the world.
He couldn't mess up. Not now. He couldn't be rough, he couldn't grab him by the hips and fuck him until he forgot his own name.

David's breath broke into a strangled moan. Not pain, not hesitation: pure surrender.
He clung to the sheets, then to him, and took him all the way in. Until he felt his thighs slam against his bum.

Being inside David was an almost transcendental experience: for a moment, Michael had the feeling that he too would receive the call from the Lord at that very moment.
David glanced to his right and saw his reflection in the wardrobe mirror.
He saw his own body bent over, his legs wrapped around the hips of the man who was taking him, and he saw Michael's tense, incredulous expression as he looked at him as if he were the greatest gift he had ever received.

Just two men making love.
– Just beauty.

The thought was like a spark: David let himself go completely.

A moan exploded from his lips, loud, full, liberating. He grabbed Michael's hair and pulled him closer. "Don't hold back," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Harder."

Michael obeyed, breathless, his body trembling to contain him. He held him tightly in his arms and lifted his hips slightly to penetrate him deeper.
He thrust hard and David thrust back, clinging to the bed rail behind his head.
He would never have imagined David like this.
Not the shy vicar, not the cautious man he had known. But someone who took up space in bed, who demanded pleasure, who after twenty years of chastity wanted to make up for lost time all at once.

"God, David..."
"Yes," he gasped, pushing back against his thrusts, his fingers now white as he gripped the iron, his legs clamping down on him harder. "Don't stop!"

Every thrust was a strangled cry, every thrust a moan that made his chest vibrate.
It was hunger, it was thirst, it was liberation.

Michael was overwhelmed: not only by the body he held in his arms, but by that furious and sweet energy, by that man who moaned his name as if it were both a prayer and a curse at the same time.
David didn't stop. He wanted it all, he wanted it hard, and Michael loved him even more for it.

He increased his pace, his breath broken, his body thrusting with all the strength he could control. David moaned without restraint, pulling his hair, scratching his back, urging him on with a hoarse, desperate voice: "More... harder... don't stop!" His eyes turned back to the mirror.

He saw himself, his legs wrapped around Michael's hips; he saw the man on top of him, his muscles tense, his face contorted with pleasure; he saw two intertwined bodies moving together.
And that sight overwhelmed him.
David cried out as a wave of pleasure washed over his body. The orgasm bent him double, violent, liberating, making him moan loudly, without fear of anyone hearing him.

The sight of David enjoying himself so much, reflected in the mirror, made Michael lose all control too. With one last thrust, he let himself go, moaning his name, feeling David's legs squeeze him even tighter as if to hold him inside him.

They remained embraced, exhausted and trembling, their hearts beating in unison. David, still staring at the mirror, smiled.

"Stay," Michael murmured, his lips resting on his neck, a sound that seemed to come from another dimension. "At least for tonight. Or what's left of it."
David lifted his head slightly, his clear eyes lost in his. He should have said no. He should have got up, got dressed, gone home, gone back to being Father David. Gone back to wearing the collar, praying, atoning.
But at that moment, he wasn't ready to let go of all that madness.
He had waited his whole life to feel this way, in those arms, and he didn't want to give it up. Not yet.
He pressed himself closer to Michael, hiding his face in his neck, and whispered, "Okay," and for the first time in years, he didn't feel guilty.

Chapter Text

Dawn arrived, inevitable, tinging the room with shades of pink.
It was time for David to return.
He turned over on the mattress, caressing the sleeping figure next to him for a moment. Michael slept peacefully, breathing slowly, his naked body stretched out without shame. He placed a light kiss on his lips, gentle enough not to wake him, and got up quietly.

He began to gather up the clothes scattered around the house, putting them on as he found them: the crumpled shirt on the chair, the trousers near the sofa, the shoes abandoned in the hallway. The car keys were still in his pocket. He was about to reach the door when a sleepy voice stopped him.
"Are you leaving already?"
David turned around. Michael was looking at him from under heavy eyelids, a veil of disappointment in his voice.
"Work calls," he said, approaching him. Their hands intertwined, embracing his hips, and the kiss that followed was slow, sweet, almost lazy.
"But I'll never leave like this," David murmured, without pulling away.
Michael smiled. "That's the point."
For a moment, the footballer became serious. "Is everything all right?"

David hesitated.
He knew he had broken a vow, crossed a line he should never have crossed. He had spent twenty years saying no, repressing, convincing himself that desire was a test to be overcome.
Yet now, with his breath still broken and his body burning with pleasure, he did not feel the guilt he had always feared.

On the contrary.

He felt good.
– Too good.

It hadn't been a stumble, it hadn't been weakness: it had been a choice.
There was no shame, there was truth.
He had loved with all his heart, and for the first time in decades he had not felt torn between faith and flesh.

He looked at Michael, naked in his arms, and a smile escaped him.
That was not a sin.
It was a gift.
A reward he did not believe he deserved, but had waited for all his life.

– Screw it.

With a sudden gesture, he took off his shirt again and pushed Michael towards the living room.
“Didn't you have to go to work?” laughed the other, feigning resistance.
“I can be late. For once.”

The sofa stood by, a silent witness, as the two kissed in the middle of the room, unable to tear themselves apart.
A slightly stronger push sent them crashing into the dining table: a sharp thud, a moment of hesitation, and then Michael chuckled, excited like a twenty-year-old.
He turned him decisively in his arms and bent him over the wood. One hand in his brown hair, a light tug that made him moan, and the other already descending, confident. Two fingers slipped inside naturally: David was still ready from the night before, and his body welcomed him without resistance.
"Michael..." he whimpered, his voice broken.
"Enough with fingers?" he whispered, amused.
David nodded without raising his head, clutching the edge of the table with white knuckles. Then Michael grabbed him by the hips, spread his legs, and took him again.
He penetrated him all the way, with a single thrust.

David opened his mouth wide in a strangled moan. The movements were immediately strong, fast, deep.
Each thrust was complete, decisive, and he responded by moving against him, as if in a silent competition – well, not so silent – to see who could go faster. His nails scratched the wood, Michael's bite marks accumulated on his neck and shoulders, and the sound of their bodies colliding filled the room.
Michael, increasingly lost, slid his hand down to the front, took David's erection in his hand and began to stroke him in time with the thrusts. He leaned over his shoulder to see him and squeezed him harder.
David pulled his torso up and the penetration became more difficult, the friction became more painful, he tightened his internal muscles slightly and felt Michael moan loudly and bite his neck. In response, he pulled those impossible curls and raised his face to the ceiling, his mouth wide open: he was close.
Michael noticed, felt him hold back and pushed him back down onto the table. ‘Come,’ he murmured, in a tone that brooked no argument. With his cock motionless, completely inside him.

David obeyed.
The older man felt him explode between his fingers, tremble, moan his name. A moment later, Michael joined him, with two deep, final thrusts, holding him so tightly that he left marks on his hips.

The table creaked, seeming tired too.

– A great way to start the day.

When their legs stopped shaking and their breathing calmed down, they dragged themselves into the shower together. And it was really just a shower, quick and necessary: David had to run, time was running out.

Michael threw him a pair of clean boxer shorts. "They'll be a little loose on you, but at least they're fresh. Give them back to me tonight."
David laughed, quickly slipping them on under his jeans. Once dressed, he let himself be accompanied to the door.
Michael said goodbye with one last light-hearted gesture: a hearty slap on the bum.
"Go, Father. See you later."
David left the house with a heavy heart and the smile of someone who knew he had chosen sin — and did not want to regret it.

Michael went out into the garden instead, flopped down on one of the deckchairs and closed his eyes, enjoying the first rays of morning sun that were not yet scorching. The air was warm and smelled of the sea. He took a deep breath.
"Holy shit..."
It had happened.
It had really happened.
So quickly, and yet so slowly.

David had given in. Not hesitantly, not by mistake: it had been like watching a dam collapse. Overwhelming, unstoppable, fatal.
Christ, sex with him had been even better than he had imagined. In fact, better than any other time he could remember.

Michael, lying next to him, felt ecstatic.
He was fifty years old, yet his heart was beating like it did when he was twenty. He couldn't remember the last time he had fallen in love like this, with such force, with such urgency that it filled his every thought.

Yet, in the midst of that happiness, part of him remained alert.
He wondered if at any moment David would have some kind of mystical crisis, if he would jump up to recite a rosary and ask God for forgiveness.
But David didn't seem repentant. He didn't seem scared. In fact, he seemed... alive.

Michael couldn't help but smile.
He was happy. Completely, stupidly happy.
The only thought he could have was that he never wanted to stop feeling that body next to his, he never wanted to give up that voice moaning his name, those hands holding him as if he were the only thing that mattered.

The night they had just spent together still burned in his skin and in his heart.
And if it really was an impossible love... well, then let it be impossible.
They were going to have it anyway.

The ring of his mobile phone brought him abruptly back to Earth.
– Lily!
His daughter was reminding him that she would be arriving at the weekend. Michael ran a hand through his hair, laughing to himself: he had almost forgotten. He would have to do some extra cleaning, fill the fridge, and prepare to be a father again, not just a man overwhelmed by a clandestine passion.

The eight o'clock mass was over.
David put the chalice away, carefully arranged the vestments on the coat rack in the sacristy, and slowly unfastened his cassock, leaving him in his sweat-dampened shirt. In August, even the evening air was unbreathable, and the voice he had raised for over an hour left his throat dry.
Whoever had had the idea of holding outdoor Masses in August was either mad or a lizard. Or simply hated the parishioners very much.

He greeted the few who lingered in the churchyard, smiling and exchanging the usual pleasantries:
“Have a good evening”.
“See you on Sunday”.
“Give my regards to your family”. Small gestures, small daily bonds that he loved to cherish.

Then, finally, he turned into the corridor of the rectory.
His pace slowed without him noticing: he was tired, yes, but that wasn't all. For days he had had the feeling that his office was no longer his alone, that every time he opened that door there was a risk — or a hope — of finding someone else waiting for him.

He pushed the handle.

The room welcomed him with the familiar smell of books, paper and worn wax. The shutters were half-closed and the orange light of the sunset cut through the air in slanted stripes. For a moment, he didn't notice anything strange. Then his heart leapt into his throat.

Michael was there.
Sitting in the chair in front of the desk, relaxed as if he were at home.
David started, instinctively putting a hand to his chest. “For a moment I thought it was Deborah!”.
Michael smiled wryly. “I don't know whether to laugh or be offended. She has a much nicer moustache than mine, anyway.”

They told each other a little about their day.
David sighed, smiling wearily. “It was a long one. This morning a funeral, then confessions until lunchtime. In the afternoon, catechism for the little ones, a meeting with the parents of the children from the oratory... and of course Mrs Deborah shouting at everyone. Today she was angry with one of the parents because, according to her, he had broken the cellar key. Whatever."
Michael laughed softly. ’Have you ever suggested an exorcism?"
“I had thought about a psychologist, but now that you mention it...” They laughed again and David yawned, “In the late afternoon, I brought Communion to two elderly people who can no longer leave their homes. It's one of my favourite things to do, but I always come back exhausted: they're always alone, they have children and grandchildren, and they're always alone!”.
Michael looked at him seriously, gently. "You can't carry the weight of everything on your shoulders, you know that, right?" He got up and approached him.
David made a quick gesture with his hand. "It's my job. Then Mass tonight and now... here I am."
"Dead tired," said Michael, squeezing his shoulders.
"Wrecked. But happy. Not every day is so busy, but lately... yes, August is always a busy month. Between tourists, festivals, weddings and baptisms, there's never a moment to rest."
Michael smiled and pushed him back into his chair. "Get on with your work. I'll keep you company."
His hands began a slow, warm and relaxing massage.

David tried with all his might to concentrate on the papers in front of him. Five minutes.
– At least five minutes of resistance. McDonald!
Impossible.
Michael dropped a pen on the floor. ‘Oops!’ He bent down to pick it up, but didn't stand back up. He remained kneeling on the floor, under the desk, his eyes shining and a smile already on his face.
David snorted, but that smile already betrayed his surrender. "Do you really need these tricks?"
"They always work," Michael replied, laughing as his quick fingers already unbuttoned his trousers.

David should have stopped him. He didn't.
He was already hardening.
All it took was looking at that man kneeling between his open legs.
Work could wait.

A shiver ran down his spine when he felt the first caresses, light, like a warning.
Michael's full lips on his stomach, on his warm skin, his hands on those few inches of thigh peeking out from his newly lowered trousers.
Hot breath on his glans.

Michael watched David's cock become completely hard under his lips, which barely caressed it. David couldn't stop looking at him. Then his mouth took him in.
Warm, wet, enveloping.
It wasn't just physical pleasure: it was intimacy, devotion, a contact that went straight to his stomach, his chest, his heart.

He clung to the armrests of the chair, letting himself slide backwards, unable to contain his moans.
Michael's every movement was slow and deliberate, as if he wanted to imprint a rhythm on him to remember. His tongue caressed its entire length, changing pressure, driving him crazy.
He felt his neck in contact with his swollen testicles: he was deep in his throat and Michael was sucking him at the base, squeezing his thighs tightly.

David bit his lip. He watched that grey head go up and down and heard the sounds of appreciation coming from Michael's throat as he tasted him with relish.
– Holy shit...
It was a rising wave that clouded his vision, and the more he tried to resist, the more useless it was. It was too much.
Under the desk, Michael was focused only on him, and that thought alone was enough to drive him crazy.
It had been a while since the footballer had given anyone a blow job, but he remembered being particularly good at it.
He felt David's fingers grip his hair and finally his pelvis began to move against him.

The priest began to fuck his mouth passionately, his lips pressed tightly together, struggling to contain his moans.
He was enjoying that warm mouth, which left him no escape, when the door suddenly flew open.

Michael remained motionless under the desk with David's cock in his mouth, and David, well, rested his elbows on the wood and did his best to hide whatever his face was revealing at that moment.
"I'm going home," Deborah announced, without batting an eyelid.
The Scotsman nodded and smiled slightly, his heart pounding in his chest and Michael's saliva dripping onto his penis. "Of course."
"When you're done in here, tidy up. I don't want to work overtime tomorrow. Have a good evening, Mr Sheen." She closed the door and left, with the calmness of someone who had already seen and heard everything in life.

Michael remained on the floor, doubled over with laughter, unable to stop.
David, half exhausted and still panting, covered his eyes with one hand.

It was official: their secret was no longer so secret.

Chapter Text

At midday, Fiumicino airport was buzzing like a beehive.
The sun was beating down on the terminal windows, which were blindingly bright, while the hum of the crowd mingled with the noise of trolleys, cars, aeroplanes and crackling announcements.

Michael waited at the short-stay car park in Terminal 1. He nervously checked the time on his smartphone, then looked up towards the Terminal 3 walkway, from where Lily would be joining him any moment.

And indeed, she appeared.
She walked briskly, dragging her 20-kilo white trolley bag decisively across the tarmac. She was wearing a light dress, already prepared for the Italian summer climate, and her brown hair fell loosely over her shoulders. A pair of dark sunglasses covered half her face, but they weren't enough to hide the truth: Lily Sheen was practically a carbon copy of her father.
Beautiful, yes, with something of her mother in her features, but looking at her, it really seemed as if she were a female version of Michael.

She was perhaps a little too thin, her father thought, yet she walked with an energy that reminded him all too well of whom she belonged to.

When she saw him, she smiled, melting away all his thoughts. Michael went to meet her and hugged her tightly, the trolley rolling to one side, forgotten for a moment.
She looked him up and down after hugging him. "You look fit."
Michael laughed and picked up the trolley. 'I've lost a few pounds. I've started going to the gym again and then... coaching kids is pretty tough, but it's rewarding.
"Mm-hm," she stared at him mischievously as her father loaded the suitcase into the Mini. "Do you do any other kind of physical activity?"
"Lily!"
"What?" she said, shrugging her shoulders innocently. "I'm your daughter, what do you expect?"
Michael sighed, defeated. "Touché."

The two got into the car. "So?" Lily didn't let go and fastened her seatbelt.
He ran a hand through his hair, uncertain. "I'm very... busy. You know what?" He smiled decisively. "I'm fifty years old, and I didn't think I'd do anything else. By now, you think you've had everything life has to offer, and all that's left is to relax and grow old. But no way! I want to do things. I want to start over. I want a future, that's it. I don't feel like I've arrived at all!"
His daughter's eyes sparkled. "Bloody hell, Dad, you're in love."
Michael smiled slowly. "I won't... I won't deny it. I want a future with this person, yes."
"Oh my God, you got her pregnant."
"You're a bit off track." He tried not to get distracted so as not to miss the roundabout exit and get back on the A12. 
"Contraceptive methods aren't 100% reliable, eh?"
"In this case, yes." As soon as he got on the motorway, he turned his face slightly to look at her. "It's a man."
Her eyes widened. "You got yourself a toy boy?"
"He's two years younger than me, so no."
"Is he handsome?"
Michael sighed, but couldn't help smiling brightly. "He's a work of art."
"Damn... will you introduce me to him?"
"It's complicated."
"Is he married?"
"Eh..." In a way, yes, actually. "I don't even know where we stand, really." As he said those words, he felt them to be true for the first time.
Where was his relationship with David? Was it even a relationship?
They had never talked about what they really wanted, what they expected, they had never even confessed their feelings to each other.
Was David as in love as he was? And if so... what were they doing?

Lily shook her head. "Because you men are idiots. Do you love each other? If you love each other, it's not complicated."
"You can't change your whole life for a relationship you're not sure about in the future."
"What an idiotic thing to say! You can never be sure of anything, Dad. What certainty did you have when you gave up acting for football? When you left Wales for Italy? None. Anything can go wrong at any time. I have no certainty that I'll pass the auditions, that I'll be able to follow in Mum's footsteps. What should I do? Do nothing for fear that it will go wrong? With that kind of reasoning, you'd never do anything!"

Michael stared at the road for several minutes, his eyes narrowed and the cold air moving a curl of his hair.
His daughter's words had struck him and he couldn't find a way to respond, so in the end, he smiled. He looked at her sideways. "Since when are you more mature than your parents?"
"Since always."
"Fair enough."

When they arrived in San Nicola, Lily wasted no time: she immediately went down to the beach.
Fine white sand, blue sea as calm as a table. Italian beaches were on a whole other level.
Michael accompanied her, happy to spend the whole day with her, even though he missed David terribly. But he knew that he had his own business to attend to.

Sitting on the sand on two Lilo & Stitch towels, Lily told him about university, her mother, her mother's cat in particular, and the thousand auditions she was doing for anything and everything.
Meanwhile, Michael's mobile phone began to vibrate incessantly.
“You should answer it,” Lily said with a smirk. "It looks important, maybe it's your boyfriend."

Michael looked at the screen: a barrage of messages from David.

And, to top it all off, an unmistakable photo of his cock.

Michael immediately locked the screen, his heart in his mouth, hoping Lily hadn't seen it. But she was staring at him with an amused look on her face. “Sexting? At this hour? You know I'm jealous, right? Do you know how long I've been single?!”
Michael covered his face with his hand.

After a refreshing dip, Lily went to the beach bar to get a drink. When she returned, she casually informed him that she was going out that evening with some friends she had met in previous summers.
Michael grabbed his phone and quickly texted David to ask if they could meet up.
"Maybe this is your chance to get married," Lily commented, grinning. "You'd make Grandma very happy!"

David knew he wouldn't see Michael, at least not that morning. Lily had just arrived from England, and if there was one person in the world who could occupy all of Michael's attention, it was her. He didn't mind: after all, it was only right.
But that didn't stop him from writing to him, letting him know he missed him. And telling him how he missed him.

He had just finished Mass, said goodbye to the congregation and put away the vestments. The rectory was quiet: Deborah had gone out for groceries and wouldn't be back for a couple of hours. After last time, David had learned his lesson: before sitting down in his study, he turned the key in the lock.
He let himself fall into his chair, the phone still in his hand.
He tried to imagine Michael on the beach, lying on the sand with his eyes closed, or perhaps laughing as he ran along the shore after a ball. The image set his stomach on fire.
He sighed, and before he knew it, he had already slipped his hand into his trousers, squeezing himself.
Desire was now a reflex: a need that shook him to his core. With his other hand, he still clutched the phone, as if it were a physical link to him.

He closed his eyes. All it took was a memory — Michael looking up at him, Michael laughing with his mouth full of pizza, Michael moaning his name on the night of the shooting stars — and his breathing became irregular.
He found himself fully erect in his own hand, barely brushing his thumb over the glans and already feeling it wet.
He let himself go, quickly and guiltily, biting his lips to stifle any sound.
His skin became hot and taut, red, he tried to spread his legs wider and pulled his pelvis up slightly, beginning to thrust into his own hand.
He wanted to penetrate himself with his fingers, but he couldn't undress, so he quickened the movement of his wrist.

He stayed there for a moment, panting, his chest rising with difficulty. Then, without thinking too much about it, he looked down: his cock was standing out of his trouser fly, and he found himself thinking that it looked good.
He picked up his phone, opened the camera, and with a gesture he would have called crazy if it had been anyone else... he took a photo.
He sent it to Michael before he could stop himself.

For a moment, a shadow of anguish crossed his stomach. He was a priest. He had sworn chastity. And now he was sending indecent photos from his office in the rectory. God, what the fuck was he doing?

Yet when Michael's reply arrived shortly afterwards, brief but clear — my house is free tonight, come to mine — his heart leapt into his throat and his hands trembled.
The guilt hadn't gone away, no. But it was buried under a wave of excitement, of feverish anticipation.

He took some tissues from his desk and continued to touch himself, thinking about Michael, about that evening, about when he would be in his arms. When he would kiss him and when he would feel him enter his body.
He gasped and came shortly afterwards.

That afternoon, David approached him as if it were Christmas Eve. With new energy, a smile he couldn't wipe off his face, and a fixed thought that tormented and delighted him at the same time.

August was coming to an end, and with it, summer. The recital was just around the corner, and David, watching the boys during rehearsals, couldn't help but feel a surge of pride. They had been excellent: some of them, if only they had the patience and discipline, could really make it in show business.

When the rehearsal was over, he rushed to get ready for evening mass. He put on his cassock over his jeans and T-shirt, ready to rush off as soon as the parishoners had left.
“Go in peace,” he said at the end, adding in his heart 'and hurry up, I've got things to do'.
As soon as he turned towards the sacristy, he lowered his eyes.
– Lord...
He didn't even ask for forgiveness; it seemed disrespectful.

But the road to Michael's house immediately erased any scruples. It was only a few kilometres, travelled with his heart beating faster at every turn. Only when he arrived at the gate did he realise that, in his hurry to leave, he hadn't taken off his cassock. But it didn't matter: he already knew who would take it off him soon.

The gate opened as soon as he rang the bell. And, as always, the front door was wide open, waiting for him. No keys were needed, no words were needed. Entering Michael's house had become as natural as breathing. All it took was a special ring. Three repetitions a few seconds apart. It was their signal.

Michael heard the door close. “In the kitchen!” he shouted, directing David.

He had prepared a cheese board and was pouring wine into glasses, the aroma of pecorino cheese mingling with that of warm bread and olives. He looked up and saw him: David leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He was still wearing his cassock, unbuttoned at the neck, without collar. The 'priest on leave' look made him even sexier.

“What have you prepared for me?” he asked, approaching with feline calm.
“Something fresh, all local produce, taken directly from the producer!”.
David hugged him from behind, his warm breath on the back of his neck. “There's only one thing I want to eat, and it's not on that platter,” then, in a low voice, he added, “But first I need a shower”.
Michael didn't even let the glasses touch the table: he left them there and followed David upstairs.

The bathroom filled with the sound of water and the scent of citrus shower gel.
Michael unfastened his smock and let it slide to the floor, along with his jeans and T-shirt.
The warm water ran over David's smooth, freckled skin, making it glisten. Michael slowly soaped him, his hands running over his shoulders, down his chest, down to his thighs. He washed his hair, sinking his fingers into that thick hair, and David closed his eyes, letting himself go with the touch.

Then the rhythm changed. The hands became bolder, the mouths hungrier.
David felt bites on his back and Michael's palms pressing against his thighs and stomach, pushing him towards him.
The vicar placed his hands on the wet tiles of the shower and pushed his pelvis outwards, spreading his legs.
The Welshman smiled to himself, David's body was always so responsive to his touch, it was wonderful. He lowered himself to his knees, continuing to kiss his back, and separated his buttocks with his thumbs.
David bit his lip to keep from moaning too loudly, a resolution that went out the window as soon as he felt Michael's tongue begin to fuck him without ceremony.

His gasps were drowned out by the roar of the water, and the vicar's legs began to give way with spasms, yet Michael showed no sign of slowing down, and David would never have asked him to.
Saliva mixed with the warm water, and soon his fingers joined in.
He penetrated him with his index and middle fingers, in a single movement, all the way in. He pulled them out and did it again, and again, hitting his prostate each time, sending David's nerve endings into overdrive. David didn't know how much longer he could stay on his feet.
When he couldn't feel anything anymore, he waited.
But his wait was betrayed, because he felt himself being turned and lifted.

Michael picked him up, David's legs immediately clinging tightly to his hips, his back pressed against the cold tiles as the hot water continued to pour down.
Michael pushed himself inside immediately and felt his curls being clawed, so hard that it almost hurt.
The thrusts immediately became decisive, the steam fogging up the mirror and erasing the outside world.
Only the sound of their names and the curses that followed.

Michael thrust into his body over and over again, holding him tightly by the bum, almost managing to pull out completely and plunge back in, each time harder, faster, following his partner's encouragement.
The sound of their thighs slapping together had become their favourite soundtrack.

"You know," David gasped, with a half-smile, when his feet touched the shower tray again, "I was afraid I was going to die slipping and I thought about how the forensic team would find us, then I thought about the headlines."
Michael laughed and handed him a bathrobe. "There's a reason I go to the gym."
"To have sex with me in the shower?"
"In the shower, on a table, on a wall, wherever you want!"

Later, in the living room, the sofa welcomed them. They ate between glasses of wine and caresses, the television on low volume, Michael's arm around David's shoulders, who let himself be cuddled without any defences.
"You know," Michael murmured after a sip of wine, "when Lily was little, I was afraid of ruining her. I didn't even know how to change a nappy, let alone raise a daughter. Sometimes I wonder if I did enough."
David looked up, serious. "Just look at her now to get the answer. She's a wonderful girl, even too smart from what you've told me. I'm afraid she thinks I'm an idiot! And you can see she adores you. So I'd say you've done a great job. 110 with honours in fatherhood!"
Michael smiled, but his tone remained thoughtful. "Yeah. Although sometimes I think she's the one who raised me. You know what else? I never realised how... lonely I really was. I didn't think I was, but when I think about four months ago and now... fuck, I was!"
David looked down at his glass. "I was too. I... even though I'm always surrounded by people, by the community, by the kids, sometimes I feel terribly lonely. As if there's always a part of me that no one knows."
Michael gently squeezed his shoulder. "You're not anymore. We're not anymore."

The priest smiled, trying to lighten the mood. "Of course, I can't promise you great adventures. I only travel between Cerveteri and Ladispoli."
Michael laughed, shaking his head. "Those are my favourite places! Although... we could make them into trips, right? I'd like to take you to Wales one day, show you where I grew up."
"I'd like to take you to Inverness. You'd love the moors, they're rough, wild and romantic, just like you."
"Thank you!" replied Michael, with a half-smile. "We'll take a nice tour of Great Britain, bypassing England. Then maybe I'll teach you how to cook something other than overcooked pasta."
"I make excellent cakes!"
"Not as good as mine! I'm a master baker, I could win Bake Off!"
"Are you challenging me? I'll remind you that I've seen every season of Master Chef."
"Absolutely."
David laughed, almost surprised by his own laughter.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock. David shifted slightly, as if searching for words. "I didn't think I'd feel this way again... after all these years, I thought it was a closed chapter."
Michael tilted his head, intrigued. "I hope you feel the same way I do."
David was silent for a second, then let out a shy smile. "I feel happy, really."

Michael didn't answer right away: he just touched his hand. David lowered his eyes, and that's when Michael intertwined his fingers with David's, caressing his palm with his thumb. A simple gesture, yet loaded with more than words could ever say.

It was Lily who broke the silence.
She entered with the energy of a twenty-five-year-old and found her father and the priest sitting together.
David quickly got up, retrieved his cassock from the armchair and put it on awkwardly, without saying a word.
Lily watched the scene with a raised eyebrow, as if she were watching a film.

The priest waved his hand and when the door closed behind him, the girl burst out laughing. “Dad, it's the priest! The sexy priest from Cerveteri that all the girls on the beach talk about!”.
Michael ran a hand over his face, not knowing whether to laugh, run away, deny it or throw himself out of the window. "Yep..."
She put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm really proud of you, you dirty old man!"

Chapter Text

Finally, the evening of the show arrived.
The square was packed, the chairs filled with parents, grandparents, friends and curious onlookers. The children ran around between the benches, the buzz of anticipation was continuous and only subsided when the improvised curtain opened.

The show got off to a good start: the songs, the choral numbers and the memorised lines drew smiles and applause, especially when they went wrong. 
Then came the most eagerly awaited moment, the one that no one could have imagined.

David entered the stage wearing a leopard-print dress, a blonde wig and a pair of blue high heels, matching his handbag.
For a moment, the audience held its breath. Then a wave of laughter and applause exploded in the hall. Even the elderly, usually inflexible, nodded in amusement: "Eh, Father David looks really good in those heels! He was an actor, you can tell!"
"Yes, my goodness, he looks like Tony Curtis in that film, what was it called?"
"Some Like It Hot!"
"Well done! My goodness, he was handsome!"
"He was handsome as a woman too!"

Michael almost fell off his chair. He chuckled nervously, pressed himself against the backrest and crossed his legs, as if that trick could really save him. Every step David took, confident and natural, made his heart skip a beat. He sought refuge in the scenery, staring at giant sweets and chocolates with incredible concentration, just so he wouldn't have a heart attack every time the priest appeared on stage.
– What a beautiful muffin... that cherry is the wrong colour... what an ugly shade... -oh those fucking thin ankles- ...ugly shade, yes...

He knew the show by heart by now and knew that this was David's last scene, because Violetta had become a huge blueberry. A sponge costume that had made everyone laugh. 
So the Welshman got up, taking advantage of a side passage, and joined him backstage. He wanted to congratulate him — in a special way.
– Those bloody shoes...

He didn't even have time to open his mouth before a voice froze him in his tracks.
Deborah, armed with a mop and an unyielding gaze, emerged from the corridor. "The broom closet has enough space to compliment the actors. Shoo! I have to mop here and no one can pass!"
Michael smiled and resisted the urge to kiss her on the forehead. He turned towards the small door of the closet, looked right and left, and then went in.

The broom closet was tiny, permeated with the smell of detergent and wet wood. The stacked handles swayed and banged against the walls as David dragged him inside and closed the door behind them.
There was no time to talk. Michael pushed him against the wall and kissed him passionately, swallowing his breath. David responded with equal urgency, still half-dressed, as their bodies pressed against each other in the cramped space. 
There was no freedom to move, which is why they ended up rubbing belly against belly, cock against cock, their hands holding them together to increase the friction.

They chuckled between muffled moans, biting their lips to avoid being discovered, their hearts beating like crazy drums. Every creak in the corridor, every step Deborah took beyond the door turned them on even more, making the risk part of the pleasure.
Their hot skin continued to rub together, drops of cum mixing and dripping onto their intertwined fingers. 
Michael's right hand held David's neck firmly to press against him, the priest's hands clutching the other's shirt as his hips moved frantically against his, seeking more contact, more friction. 
It wasn't enough because he needed to feel his skin under his hands, so he lifted his grey T-shirt, sank his fingers into the hair on his chest and squeezed the flesh hard, making him moan into his mouth. 
Michael's hand moved from the back of his neck to his bum and pressed him against him as he continued to masturbate them both faster and faster. 

David moved his hand blindly and picked up a roll of kitchen roll from the shelf, tore off a few sheets and brought them down. He then clung to Michael's chest again and let himself go with a strangled moan in his mouth. 
Michael followed him shortly afterwards, panting, as he clutched those tissues tightly, which proved to be their only ally.

They stood still for a moment, sweaty, dishevelled, breathless. Then they composed themselves as best they could, trying to straighten their clothes with trembling hands. When their eyes met, they burst into stifled laughter.

A few days later, it was Michael's turn: the long-awaited friendly match with the boys from Borgo Palidoro.
Now, Palidoro was a real team and was always active, but the Pulcini had offered to play that friendly match with what were basically their schoolmates, and the coaches had started crying in front of Michael Sheen when they saw him. 

The pitch at Palidoro, much more professional than their parish hall, was bubbling with enthusiasm: perfect kids in their burgundy uniforms against kids in red and white uniforms, parents crowded around the edges who would have liked to be anywhere else but there, and the unmistakable smell of grass and sweat.

David was in the front row, sitting with his hands clasped on his knees. He didn't understand a thing about football, but he could see the discipline Michael had instilled in the boys. He noticed how, even in the heat of the game, they followed the coach's verbal instructions whenever someone was within earshot. There was obvious respect, a trust that usually doesn't build in a few weeks.
Michael had a real talent with children. 
He was a 110-point dad, after all. 

The match ended in a hard-fought 2-2 draw, which the boys welcomed as if it were a victory. Michael, true to his promise, led the jubilant troop in a minibus rented for the occasion to the pizzeria in Torre In Pietra. 
David also found himself sitting among long tables of steaming pizzas and deafening laughter, watching the children's flushed faces with satisfaction. That, after all, was the whole point: to give them a different kind of summer, full of memories.

Yet, as he returned to his office that night, a veil of melancholy accompanied him. 
Summer was ending. The days would get shorter, the children would go back to school... and Michael? What would become of his daily visits to the parish youth club, the unexpected laughter, the improvised scenes? What excuse could he come up with to keep him close?

He was still mulling it over when the door opened and Deborah entered, without knocking, as always. She sat down in front of his desk with the air of someone who already knows everything.
"You look like someone who has too many thoughts and no desire to say them out loud."
David smiled slightly, but she didn't give up. She knew him too well, better than she had ever admitted. She seemed like an unbearable shrew, and perhaps she was, but behind her huffs and puffs – and her stache – there had always been rock-solid loyalty. Now, for the first time, David realised how precious that was.

"A word of advice?" said Deborah, resting her elbows on the desk. "Don't talk to your boyfriend. Talk to a friend. You know... even psychologists need a psychologist sometimes. And confessors need a confessor."
David hadn't had time to open his mouth when Deborah, looking like she had already won the game, stared at him and said: "Do you know why I'm a housekeeper?"
He raised an eyebrow. "For the thrill of power, right?"
She smiled crookedly. "That too. But mainly because that way I could entertain myself with the parish priest without any commitment. He would never ask me to marry him or have children. We just had fun. I was a pretty girl once, you know?"
"You still are," David replied instinctively.
"I know," she said, with a naturalness that made him smile. Then, becoming serious again, she said, "What I mean is that God has other things on his mind. He doesn't give a damn whether you're in love or not, whether you have sex or not. The Church has its rules, of course, but they're not always the same as God's. Look at how awful the world is and how much shit there is around. Do you really think you're even remotely on his mind? Aren't you being a bit presumptuous?"

David looked down at his clasped hands. Her words fell on him like pebbles, one after the other, cracking the wall he had built around himself.
"Thanks... I guess. But... maybe I should make a choice. Either him or this," he paused, searching for the words, "I mean, I feel like I'm trying to have it both ways."
Deborah shrugged. "That's for you to decide. Is it worth giving up everything you are for that?"
"Maybe? What if... what if it goes wrong, what if I realise I've made a mistake?" 
"What if a tile falls on your head? The path is not synonymous with safety! You could die tomorrow, the point is: would you die happy? I would."
David stood there with his eyebrows raised, not knowing what to say. "You're... more normal than you seem." 
"If you leave, they might send an old heterosexual priest. I wouldn't mind enjoying my old age a little." 
"I take back what I just said." In fact, he saw her laugh. 
He laughed with her. 

The next day, he took the car and drove to Bracciano.
Towards Ariel.

The chapel of the Bracciano hospital was located on the ground floor, in a quiet wing away from the hustle and bustle of the wards. 
As soon as he entered, David was struck by the almost unreal silence, broken only by the soft hum of the neon lights in the corridors and the distant breathing of the hospital machines.

Inside, the space was intimate: barely twenty seats, rows of simple light wood benches. A modern bronze crucifix dominated the bare altar, behind which a stained-glass window filtered the afternoon light in shades of blue and gold. A small golden tabernacle, a lectern, two candlesticks. Everything was essential, almost austere.
When Ariel took over from Don Giuseppe, he revolutionised the environment somewhat. At first, many frowned, but then Ariel smiled and no one gave a damn what the hospital chapel looked like anymore. 

At the back, next to a side door, was the confessional: not an ancient, imposing booth, but a simple structure in light wood, with two entrances separated by a grille. A sign read 'Available for confessions'. Next to it was a small table with a box of tissues and a prayer book, left for those who needed them.

A few worshippers sat in silence, absorbed, their gaze fixed on the Almighty. The air smelled faintly of incense and hand sanitiser. David took a deep breath: inside, it felt as if time had stopped, as if he were in a place that existed only for prayer and troubled consciences.

David made sure that all the worshippers entered before him. He wanted to be the last, not out of scruples but because he knew that what he had to say would not be brief.
He finally knelt behind the grille. He took a deep breath. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned"
On the other side, the silence was broken by a stifled chuckle. "¡Lo sé!"
David snorted, "Come on! Be serious for once," but he couldn't help smiling too.

The playful moment quickly faded, giving way to a heavy silence. David ran a hand over his face, as if to find courage, then let the words pour out. 
He spoke of the weeks he had spent with Michael, of the desire that burned within him, of his fear that he had betrayed his vocation. And finally, in a low, trembling voice, he uttered the truth that weighed on him more than anything else:
"What I feel for him... is similar to the love I feel for God. Perhaps... perhaps it is even more."

On the other side of the grille, Ariel no longer laughed. His silence was long, attentive, almost respectful. Then, with the calmness of someone who has no doubts, he simply said, "Then go and tell him."

– Then go and tell him

Those words hung in the air, simple and definitive as a verdict.

David left the confessional slowly, his heart beating too fast, while Ariel reminded him to say ten Hail Marys and three Our Fathers, just to keep up appearances. He had hoped to feel relieved, but instead the weight on his chest was even greater.

Admitting aloud that he loved Michael was like breaking a seal: now he could no longer pretend, he could no longer hide behind his cassock, the rules or silence.

Walking towards the chapel exit, the empty room amplified his footsteps, and he felt frightened. 
Frightened by the clarity of his feelings, frightened by the idea of having to choose.
It was no longer just a game of glances or a temptation to be suppressed: it was love, and it was real.

And that was precisely why it was frightening.

David returned to Cerveteri with Ariel's words hammering in his brain like a litany. 
– Go and tell him.
They gave him no respite that night or the next day. Every gesture of the day — mass, chatting with parishioners, even Deborah's usual reproach — slipped over him with a single insistent background noise:
– You have to tell him.

He wrote the message he was afraid to write: We need to talk. He immediately regretted it, aware that it was one of the most annoying and anxiety-inducing phrases to receive. But he couldn't just type a cold, flat 'I love you' on his phone screen. Those two words demanded the warmth of his voice, the courage of his eyes.

Michael spent the day in turmoil because of that bloody message. 
That 'we need to talk' dug into his head, gnawing at him relentlessly. 
Lily was at home, of course, but it didn't matter. He would find an excuse, ask his daughter to give him some time: he knew she would understand, in fact, she would encourage him.

When the doorbell croaked its usual three quick notes, Michael and Lily exchanged a knowing glance. She smiled mischievously, gave him a pat on the shoulder and ran upstairs, taking refuge in the bathroom to get ready to go out with her friends.

David entered the house with an ease that had become second nature to him. It was almost as if it were his own home. But his hands were sweating, his breathing seemed too rapid, and his heart was pounding like a drum. His cheeks were flushed and his throat was dry. 
He only had to say a few words, but it felt like he had to do something incredible.
– A few syllables. What's the big deal?

Michael immediately noticed that something was wrong and began to sweat himself. 
"Would you like to go outside for a moment?" he suggested. "Maybe some fresh air will help you."
– Will help us...

They went out into the garden through the front door, the tall hedges protecting their privacy. The smell of the sea lingered in the evening air, mixed with the resinous scent of pine trees. 
Michael turned to him, his gaze serious but kind. He had no intention of beating around the bush: he had spent hours agonising over it, now he wanted to get straight to the point.

David took a deep breath. He tried to pluck up his courage: you're an actor, fake it, recite it. But he soon realised that it wasn't working. 
This wasn't a line he had memorised, nor a part he had to play. Saying 'I love you' for the first time in his life, truly feeling it, couldn't be treated like a scene in a play.

It was real. It was him.
Him and the feelings he had for the man in front of him. And whom he had probably scared to death with that message.

Ariel's voice echoed in his head again, like an invisible push: 
– Go tell him. It's now or never...
The worst that could happen was that Michael wouldn't reciprocate. It would be painful, even devastating... but it wouldn't erase what had already happened between them. It would never extinguish the passion that had overwhelmed them.

David looked up from the lawn, meeting Michael's anxious gaze. The dam inside him was breaking.

The priest's blessed hands wouldn't stop shaking. He clasped them together, then let them go, ran his fingers through his hair and clasped them again. He couldn't seem to stop the nervousness that was creeping inside him. 
"I..." he finally said, his voice weak. He cleared his throat. "I've never said these words to anyone," he began, his voice breaking. "And I won't say them to anyone else. At my age... I never thought I'd find myself in this... this situation, but here I am, Your Honour! It was completely unexpected. I don't know..." He gave a bitter half-smile. "It's just two words, damn it..." he shouted to himself. He was making a fool of himself, that was for sure. 
He cleared his throat and straightened his back.
– That's enough.
"David..." Michael interrupted him, trying to ease the tension.
"I love you," the priest finally said.

The two syllables fell like boulders, yet they lightened his chest. 
"There, I said it. Happy? I fell in love with you, okay? Well, I said it. You don't have to answer, but I told you, now I'm leaving, good night, bye," he waved his hand in a way that Michael found funny and adorable, and he smiled, smiled with his whole face.
His clear eyes sparkled with a euphoria he was trying to contain. He knew how much it had cost David to admit those words. 
"David, I don't think I've been very subtle these past few months," he said, searching for and finding his hands. "I've basically turned off my brain filter since I met you. You should know that I fell in love with you. Like, right away." 
He squeezed his hands, which had stopped moving, and tried to meet his gaze, but David kept his eyes downcast.
The priest curled his lips into a nervous smile. "You're not just saying that because you're too polite, are you?"
Michael chuckled. "Dai... you know I call you that, and you know what it means."
David shrugged, feeling his face flush as Michael spoke to him with that bright smile just inches from his face.
"Well, if you want to repeat it..." he muttered.
They both chuckled, and Michael took his face in his hands. He kissed him softly, gently, lips on lips, before murmuring, "It means my beloved David. And in my head, I've been calling you that for sooo long."
They looked into each other's eyes, suspended in that moment, and then Michael continued, more seriously: 
"So? What do we want to do?"

David stiffened. That was the question he had feared from the beginning. He had expected it to come, but for some reason he had hoped it wouldn't. "What do you mean?" he tried to gloss over it, but it didn't work.
Michael let go of his hands and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, we're two men in love. Personally, I'm very serious. And I'm fifty, David. I'm not getting any younger. Having sex in the rectory is fun, but when I think of you, I think of the future. Holidays, dinners out, barbecues, taking you to meet my parents. Family, in short. That's what I want. For the first time in so long that I can't even remember when it last happened."
David nodded and bit the inside of his cheek. It was a beautiful speech, but there was only one issue:
"So you're telling me to choose between you and the Church?"
"Not tomorrow, obviously. But yes. Don't you want a future with me?"
The priest lowered his gaze. 'I would like that, of course. But it's not easy to give up everything I am. It's the only life I know. To change for... for a man I've known for such a short time...' he didn't want to hurt him, that was absolutely not his intention. 
He had thought about that possibility, of course, but he had never come to a decision. 
Every option seemed wrong.

Drastically changing his life for a man he had known for only a few months?
Was it wise? Was it right? Wouldn't it be an irrational decision based on a feeling that, as far as he knew, could fade away sooner or later?

But continuing to declare himself a man of God when his heart clearly belonged to someone else and continuing to lie constantly to everyone... was not fair to anyone.

Michael ran his hand over his face in exasperation. 'That's what relationships are for: getting to know each other. Little by little, you take steps, then maybe you move in together, then, if everything goes well... you get married, at least that's what most people do, I don't care. I mean, I'd like to do it with you! See? I've always been against marriage, but I'd do it tomorrow with you! And I don't care if I look like an idiot! That's how relationships work.‘
"What if it goes wrong? What if... what if you don't love me anymore in two years?"
“What if a meteorite falls?” Michael retorted. “What if a Dalek comes and exterminates us all? Of course it can go wrong, that goes for everything. But you can't not try to love because you're afraid,” he sighed and reached out his arms to him. 'Look, I don't know if we'll still be together in twenty years. I just know that I haven't felt this way in at least thirty. And I didn't think it would happen again. You literally resurrected me, Dai. I'm Lazarus!‘ He raised his hands to the sky, shouting about miracles, and David laughed, shaking his head.
"You're... really stupid."
– And really wonderful...

Michael nodded. "Also. But tell me it's the same for you."
David swallowed. "That I'm Lazarus? Yes, but..." He couldn't go any further. Fear took over.
"I need time. It's not an easy decision. I don't know what to do with my life, Michael. The priesthood is the only thing I know. The outside world... is unknown. You're there, yes, but I have nothing else..."
Michael stiffened, trying not to, really, but he felt hurt and couldn't help it. "So you don't know what to choose," because that was the truth.

At that point, David stiffened too, feeling misunderstood, almost on trial.
"Why are you giving me an ultimatum now?" he asked, his voice louder than normal.
"It's not an ultimatum!" Michael defended himself, that wasn't what he wanted to say. "But first you tell me that you love me and that you want to be with me. How? Between one mass and another? If you really love me, it should be an easy choice! I need to know that I have a future with you. A real future. Not 'tomorrow we'll fuck in the closet'. Tell me you at least understand that."
David nodded, yes, he understood, but it had to be mutual to be fair. "But you have to understand me."

From upstairs, Lily peeked out onto the balcony from the bathroom. She didn't want to spy on them - well, maybe just a little - but she sensed that the atmosphere had changed. She wanted to make sure everything was going well.
It wasn't going well.
She couldn't hear their words, but the physical distance between the two men spoke volumes.
And then David left. Head down, striding away, the gate slamming shut behind him.

Michael went back into the house and collapsed on the sofa, his head in his hands. Lily ran downstairs. She saw her father and understood. Something had gone wrong.
"What did you do to him?" she asked bluntly.
Michael looked up, already on the defensive. "Why should it be my fault?!"
"Because you're super emotional and reactionary," she retorted, crossing her arms. "And you expect everyone to be like you. You're a bulldozer, Dad. You don't take into account that many people are cautious and rational."
Michael jumped up and started pacing back and forth in the living room. ‘He said he loves me and wants to be with me!’
"Bloody hell," Lily laughed. "You defrocked a priest! You saved a man!"
"That's exactly the point: he's still undecided," Michael snapped. "He wants to have it both ways!"
"Sorry, but how long have you known him? Five months? He's right! Should he change his whole life for a man?! I wouldn't do it!"
Michael stopped and spread his arms. "I didn't tell him to fall in love! If we want to be together, well... we have to be together! But seriously! I'm ready! If you want, I'll grab my phone and come out on Twitter!"

Lily raised an eyebrow. "It's called X, don't deadname on social media!"
Then she smiled mischievously. ‘But you know, that's not a bad idea. If he wants proof of how serious you are, it wouldn't be a bad idea to make a statement to the whole world. And you should have done it already, in my opinion. Athletes who have already come out need support!
"But please wait until I'm gone, I don't want to be mobbed by journalists on holiday!"
"That sounds fair..."
"And maybe tell Grandma first, it's not nice to find out from your horny group on Facebook!"
"Tsk," he said, "Your grandmother has known since 1976!"
Father and daughter laughed together, and for a moment the anguish eased.

David returned home feeling bewildered.

He had always imagined that a declaration of love should be romantic, perfect, like in the movies: the right words, a kiss, fireworks in his chest. Instead, he was left with a broken heart. And he knew he wasn't the only one: he had seen how much it had cost Michael to say those words, how much sincerity and fear there was in that look.

And the worst thing was that, deep down, Michael was right.
He couldn't continue to serve the Lord in that condition: a priest torn in two, his soul in tatters, his foot in two shoes. He knew it well, and yet... he needed time. Time to figure out what to do with his life.
He couldn't think of living off Michael, and on the other hand, he didn't know how to do anything else but be a priest. He had never done anything else in his life.
How do you reinvent yourself at fifty?

Chapter Text

The next two weeks were a real ordeal for David.
He missed Michael more and more every day. He couldn't sleep at night: he tossed and turned in bed, stared at the ceiling, prayed and whispered silently, wondering if he was making a mistake. If it was all just a big – wonderful – mistake.
During the day, he forgot his sermons, mixed up his readings, forgot his appointments.
The churchgoers noticed, and rumours began to spread around the village.
Father David is going through a bad time.
He was no help to the parishioners. He was practically nothing anymore.
Perhaps those people needed a better priest than him.

One evening, he took refuge in his office, safe behind the closed door. He was bent over his desk, his head in his hands, a pile of papers scattered in front of him. He didn't even have the strength to tidy them up.
The handle turned suddenly: Deborah entered without asking permission, looking like she had no time to waste.
Behind her was Ariel.

David's eyes widened. “Ah, chivalry...”
“Stop it,” Deborah interrupted, planting her fists on her hips. “You look like the main character in a Harlequin romance novel! You're ridiculous!”
Ariel nodded, with a slight smile, serious but sympathetic. “A bit like Bella from Twilight, too. Yes, I've read Twilight! Team Jacob!”

David took a deep breath, as if gasping for air. He suddenly felt naked, caught in the act. For the first time, he didn't even try to defend himself, either with a joke or a fake smile. He stared at them both and simply opened his hands, not knowing what to say.
Deborah left them alone, shaking her head as if to say, “Now sort it out yourselves”.

Ariel sat down in front of David, adjusted his frock and looked him straight in the eye, without mincing words. "So," he began calmly, "take off that white collar and go have mucho sexo with the man you love. I'll take care of the wedding: I'll officiate it myself. I already have the whole speech in my head. Deborah will be your maid of honour. I know it's a civil union, but it doesn't matter: I'll do it anyway."

David's eyes widened, a little amused, a little incredulous. "And then what do I do? Become a kept man?"
"You remember you're English, right?" Ariel replied with a smirk.
"Do you realise you just called a Scotsman English?"
"It's the same thing."
David laughed and raised an eyebrow. "So, you're Spanish."
"Easy with the insults!" Ariel raised his hands. "All right, I'll watch Braveheart tonight as penance. Happy?"
Then he became serious again, tapping his finger on the table. "The point is, you can teach. Religion, English, theatre: choose a state-approved school and go for it. You're not just a priest, you have a job! Or go and flip burgers, open a kiosk, take a course to become a healthcare assistant. They're always looking for loads of them at my hospital! I know you've always been a priest, but there are a myriad of things you can do or learn. You can't stay a priest just because you're afraid of being unemployed, that's stupid!"

David sighed. "That's partly true, but you make it sound so easy... who's going to hire a fifty-year-old with no CV? Not to mention that it's not my only problem."
“I'll pretend to believe you,” Ariel replied curtly. 'Okay, I'll play my card then, porque eres estúpido! Il Carmelo, the Santa Teresa del Bambino Gesù school.
"The one in front of the ASL? On the hill?"
"No, that's a nursery school. In Santa Marinella, the Carmelites have a state-approved school that goes from pre-school to secondary school. There are lots of classes, it's a beautiful school and it's a fixture in the community. Now, follow me... How long do you think it will take the lovely Sister Amalia to hire you as an English teacher for the elementary sections? That's ten classes, twenty hours a week of work. A nice part-time job if you ask me."

David's head was spinning. “Who the hell is Sister Amalia?” was all he could ask.
"The headmistress and mother superior. The boss. The big boss, one step below God, but I'm pretty sure she can keep even Him in line."
David burst out with a nervous laugh. "And this nun would hire a former gay priest as a teacher in her school?"
"Look," Ariel crossed his arms, "first of all, don't call Amalia 'this nun'. Amalia is The Nun. And it may seem absurd in a country that still argues about emotional education in high school, but Sister Amalia was already teaching sex education in the 1990s. Sexual. On a biological, scientific and emotional level. The various nuances. She also gave great political speeches at the time, she hated Bossi, but that's another story. The point is that she's una mujer dura!"
"And the parents of these pupils? Will they all be happy? Because if I go through with this, it's not to hide myself away again."
"You'd be an idiot. Today's parents..." Ariel explained, "are those very children from the 1990s. And they're almost all atheists. They go there for the academic preparation and... because they can afford it. Which means a high salary with few hours of work. Anything but kept! Even if there are some homophobes, they're more terrified of Sister Amalia than their phobias, believe me, I've seen those kids, they're in their thirties and forties and still sweat when they hear her name!"

David laughed, then stared at him, narrowing his eyes. "You talk as if you've been planning this for who knows how long."
Ariel smiled, without denying it. "I'm always one step ahead of you, remember that. The English teacher wants to retire. I may have mentioned something, yes. But you have to give an answer by Christmas. We have time," he took his phone out of his pocket, already dialling a number. "In the meantime, I'll call Amalia to offer her a nice dinner at 58. It's an excellent seafood restaurant at the beginning of Santa Marinella, near the roadman's house at kilometre 59. Why don't you take Michael there? Mention my name," he got up from his chair and straightened his robe, while the phone continued to ring. "I'm taking a poor woman out to relax, but you... do you have more pathetic excuses to give me, or do you want to write to the Bishop? Because you can't go on like this. Word is getting around and we risk a scandal that wouldn't do anyone any good. So stop being an idiot!"

David remained silent. He watched him leave without saying a word.
He sat in his study until late.

The lamp on his desk, a plastic piece with an absurd name from Ikea, cast a cone of yellow light on the white paper, leaving the rest of the room in shadow.
The sheet of paper in front of him had remained blank for at least half an hour: the pen clenched between his fingers trembled, but no words wanted to be written.

He had prepared a couple of opening sentences in his head, but every time he wrote them down, they seemed cold, formal, unsuitable. He wasn't leaving just any job.
He was leaving his life.
Because Ariel was right: he was being a jerk and acting irresponsibly towards pretty much everything and everyone.

He took a breath, closed his eyes and thought of Michael. Of their embrace that evening, of the smile that had made his knees tremble. Of how he had felt afterwards, his heart full and light as never before. That was what he wanted to hold on to.

That was what he wanted to choose.
And it didn't matter what would happen in the future.
Michael was his choice.

The pen finally slid across the paper.

‘Your Excellency, with deep gratitude for these years of service to the Church, I ask you to accept my resignation from the clerical state...’

Writing those words was like breaking a seal. The rest came pouring out.

He confessed that he could no longer respect his vow of chastity – he did not write that he had already broken it, but something in his head told him that it was not necessary... – that he could no longer live a life that did not belong to him. He declared that he loved a man and wanted to share his future with him. He was not seeking indulgence, only truth.

Each sentence was a stab and a caress at the same time: painful to write, but liberating once put down on paper.
When he put down his pen, the paper was stained with a couple of drops. He couldn't tell if they were sweat or tears.

He reread everything from the beginning. It wasn't perfect prose, but it was sincere.
He signed with a steady hand: Father David John McDonald. Then he paused for a moment, smiling to himself.
Soon he would be just David again.
– Or Dai...

He folded the letter, slipped it into the pre-addressed envelope and wrote the name of the Bishop of the Diocese of Porto Santa Rufina on it. He stood up, tired but strangely light, and left it on the table in the hall, ready for the registered post the following morning.

He slept little that night, but for the first time it was not insomnia that tormented him: rather, it was the electric anticipation of a new beginning.

The next morning, David walked to the post office in Cerveteri with the envelope clutched in his sweaty hand. Although it was now October, the air was still warm, and he felt his neck burning under his shirt.
Each step felt heavy, as if he were carrying an invisible boulder.

The post office was already full. Pensioners were queuing, mothers with preschool children were running around, and a man was complaining about his electricity bill being too high. David thought about going to the post office in San Nicola, which was usually empty, especially since summer was over.
But it was better not to go to San Nicola, not yet.
So he joined the queue, the envelope pressed against his chest, as if it contained an unmentionable secret.

When he reached the counter, the clerk asked him in a bored tone, “Standard registered mail or with return receipt?”.
David took a deep breath. “With return receipt”.
The clerk took the envelope, stuck on the label and handed him the form. David signed with his still trembling hand. Then, as the envelope disappeared behind the glass, he felt a blow to his stomach.
It was done.
His letter no longer belonged to him: it was already on its way to the Bishop, and from there to Rome, to God.

When he left the post office, the sun was already high in the sky. The street, crowded and noisy with constant traffic, seemed different to him, as if life around him had gone on and he had finally caught up with it.

He walked towards the rectory with a light step, along the entire climb up the village to the centre. He no longer had the envelope with him and had never felt so free.

Michael hadn't been back to the youth club.
At first, he thought it was for the best: giving David space, letting him have time to understand, to choose. But now, with Lily back home and the house suddenly empty, the silence weighed on him more than ever.

He spent his days between the gym and the beach, pretending to himself that he had a full schedule, when in reality he lived by the rhythm of his phone. Every vibration made him jump, every notification set his heart racing for a moment, until he discovered it was an advertising email or a message from his old teammates' WhatsApp group. Never from David.

His mobile phone lay next to him everywhere: on the table while he listlessly ate a salad with too much dressing, on the deckchair when he stared at the sea without really seeing it, on the bedside table at night, when sleep never came. He looked at it as one looks at a closed window, hoping that at any moment someone would knock on the other side.

He missed him. He missed him in a way he never thought he could miss someone at fifty. Not just the sex, not just the euphoria of those sudden nights, but David's voice, his awkward manner, that laugh that always seemed to come out crooked, as if he were ashamed of his own happiness.

That was what hurt him the most: not knowing for sure if he would ever see that smile directed at him again.
Yet he didn't want to give up, not yet.
He told himself that David needed time, but in the meantime he felt empty, alone, with a future slipping through his fingers like sand.

Among other things, Michael had a draft saved on X.
He hadn't written it at night, in a fit of desperation, but on a random morning, over coffee, when the thought of David seemed stronger than anything else.

His finger hovered over the publish button for at least ten minutes, but in the end he closed the app. Not because he was afraid of judgement, not because he feared the front pages or the haters: he had been used to those all his life.
It was just that, for the first time, he liked the silence.

It was nice to be invisible. No press conferences, no screaming headlines, no cameras to disturb the peace he had found in San Nicola.
It was nice to have a secret love, hidden among the tall hedges of his garden and the quiet corridors of the oratory.

One day he would publish that post. He was sure of it. But for now, he wanted to enjoy a few more moments of that fragile anonymity, which made him feel young and free again.

David stared at his phone, Michael's chat open before his eyes. His fingers hesitated on the keyboard, the message half-written: ‘I've made my choice...’.
He couldn't press send, yet he wanted to with all his heart. He was tired of silence, tired of fear.
He wanted to wait for the Pope to give him permission to return to lay status so he could present himself to him as David and nothing else. As his man.
But those procedures were long, they could take months if not years... Even though David had been clear when Monsignor Baldassare had called him: he was gay, he loved a man, he wanted to come out and that was it.
The bishop had said he would speed up the process, given that David was now incompatible with the exercise of his duties. The last thing they needed was for such a scandal to come to light!
If not the final act, a temporary dispensation would surely come immediately!
"A provisional dispensation?"
David had asked, Baldassarre had nodded. "Eh, son, what can we do, are you in such a hurry? Can you hold out for another couple of weeks?"
"Of course!"
– Sure, indeed...

One night, one of those that seemed to never end, a sudden noise coming from the church made him jump: a sharp, persistent alarm pierced the quiet of the rectory.
David stiffened, his heart in his throat. For a moment, he thought of a theft — although, really, who would ever be interested in stealing from a church? It wasn't a precious cathedral, what could they steal? Holy water? The wooden pews?
Then a glimmer of insight struck him in the stomach: the baby hatch.

He threw on the first sweatshirt he could find and rushed outside, his soles pounding on the tiles of the corridor. In the silence of the night, the alarm seemed even more deafening.
The night air was beginning to turn cold, and the square was deserted.
The red light flashed above the cubicle. He entered through the door, trying to calm himself.
He froze for a second, unable to breathe.
Then he plucked up his courage: this was no time to hesitate.

He turned off the alarm, opened the door with trembling hands and saw it: a tiny bundle, wrapped in a pink blanket.
A newborn baby. It was breathing. That was the first thing he noticed. So he started breathing again too.
It had two beautiful chubby pink cheeks and was asleep. It was sleeping peacefully.
It couldn't have been more than a few weeks old. Maybe a month... but in the end, he didn't know a thing about newborns. People took them to him at six months to be christened, so what happened before that age remained a mystery.
It looked so damn fragile.

David cautiously reached out his arms, gathered it up against his chest, and the baby yawned, which made him smile. It was then that he noticed the note tucked into the folds of the blanket.
He opened it with fingers that refused to obey. 'She is Eva.'
Nothing else.

His eyes filled with tears, and a silent thank you passed his lips: to Deborah, who for fifteen years had insisted that the cot be kept, cleaned, ready, even though it had never been needed. Until that night.

– Eva.

Panic immediately seized him. He had never held a newborn baby in his life, except for a few seconds after baptisms.
What should he do? Call the police? Social services? The curia? Captain Kirk? The Doctor?
What if she woke up? How did you change a nappy? And where did you buy them? And how did you know if she was hungry?
What if she had a tummy ache?
– How does a newborn baby work?!
Everything seemed terribly confusing and he felt his heart pounding. He felt his legs freeze and mentally scolded himself.
This was not the time to have a fucking panic attack!
There was only one person he wanted by his side at that moment.
A dad with a 110 and honours.

Chapter Text

David didn't think about it too much. Or rather, he didn't think about it at all.
He put the keys in the Ford, hugged Eva close and set off for San Nicola, driving through the night with the feeling that his life was about to change forever.

Michael stared at the television without really watching it. It was yet another political debate on Rai3 – honestly, the only decent channel on Italian television. The low volume now served only to fill the emptiness of the house.
A sudden buzzing sound startled him: bzz bzz bzz, three quick beeps on the intercom, which he now recognised as David's signal.
He jumped up, running a hand through his unkempt curls and smoothing his beard, aware of his dishevelled appearance (much more so than usual).
He opened the door and found David in a similar state, but with something extra: a bundle wrapped in a pale pink blanket, clutched to his chest.

"I need help," said the priest, in a faint voice.
And as if to confirm those words, the bundle let out a sharp, desperate cry.
"Oh, fuck!" Michael muttered, unable to hold back.

David practically threw her at him, agitated, and quickly told him about the Cradle for Life, about the panic that had gripped him when he saw it occupied for the first time. And how the only person he could think of at that moment was him: Michael.

The former footballer took the baby in his arms, trying to calm her down. She was small, perhaps less than a month old, with a sweet face that already showed the characteristic features of Down's syndrome. He smiled.
"So, instead of calling the police, an ambulance, a paediatrician, a neighbour, the CIA, you picked up the baby and ran here? Just like that, at random?!‘
David looked down, almost guiltily. "I was having a panic attack! I've never found a newborn baby before... I don't know how it works! They're strange creatures! And I thought you would know what to do! And besides, you're a dad with honours."
"That's... adorable, okay... but this is a newborn baby, David! She's delicate as can be! And she could have other problems too, we need a doctor fast!"
David bit his lip. "Maybe that's why the mother didn't feel up to it... it's possible."
Michael held her tighter, looking at the neatly arranged pink blanket. "She's well covered, well fed... she's definitely loved."
"Well, the Cradle for Life is a gesture of love," whispered David.
"Yes, okay, perfect, it's all wonderful and poetic, I'll write a tear-jerking post about it, but right now we need help! Is she dry, for starters?"
"Of course, it's not raining."
"The nappy, David! The nappy!" Michael shook his head, exasperated but touched. "Come on, it'll be quicker for us to take her to Bambin Gesù than to call an ambulance. They'll take care about the police and everything else."

Shortly afterwards, they found themselves at the hospital in Palidoro. Bambin Gesù was a huge facility in the middle of nowhere where people came from all over the world; there were no better hands.
In the waiting room, Michael turned to David, his eyes still burning with emotion and reproach.
“Thanks for thinking of me. You're an idiot, but a lovable idiot. But, bloody hell, I haven't heard from you in weeks and you come back like this!”.
David lowered his eyes, then smiled. “I was about to write to you. I swear,” he said, taking his smartphone out of his jeans pocket. "I still have the message in my drafts. Then everything happened... I resigned. I mean, I sent the letter to the bishop and he sent it to Rome. I'm just waiting for their confirmation. I wanted to tell you after everything was done, I wanted to see you again as a man, as a man only yours. But I don't know when the Pope's reply will arrive, and I couldn't wait any longer. I hope it's not too late..."

Michael didn't reply with words. He kissed him, there, in front of all the other waiting parents.
And David kissed him back, no longer caring who might be watching. Because, really, he didn't give a damn anymore.
– Only his...

"The serpent was the most cunning of all the animals that the Lord God had created..." David's voice filled the aisles with measured cadence, as if he wanted to speak to everyone, even those who were not there.
He read the passage from Genesis calmly, letting the words fall one by one into the silence of the church.
It was not a usual reading for Sunday Mass, and perhaps that was why the eyes of the congregation were glued to him.
This and many other reasons, as always.

He lowered the missal, took a deep breath, and began, ‘Eve trusted God. She trusted him when he said, “If you eat that fruit, you will die”. Yet... after tasting it, she discovered that this was not true. She did not die. She continued to live. And at that moment, for the first time, she opened her eyes.’
The buzzing from the pews grew louder, someone coughed, someone else lowered their gaze.

David continued, his voice steady. "Why would a God who loves like a father want to keep his children in a gilded cage? Why should the fruit of knowledge be forbidden?
It is ignorance that makes us prisoners. Not God. Not love.
It was men, over the centuries, who painted him as a vengeful judge. Because a free people, capable of thinking and choosing, is frightening."
A heavy silence fell over the nave. He could even hear the wood creaking under the weight of the faithful stirring in their pews.

David looked up at the crucifix above the altar and concluded, "If God truly loves us, and He does, His only desire is our happiness. God does not forbid knowledge. God does not forbid love. It is men who do so, and they do so against themselves. We have always been our own worst enemies.
That is why I say to you: choose love, always. Even when they tell you it is wrong. There is nothing wrong when two people, consciously, understand that they are good for each other. God is there with them."

He paused for a moment, his gaze passing from face to face. Some seemed enraptured, some smiled, some weighed his words, and some looked at their smartphones, thinking about the sauce they needed to put on the stove.

That was his last sermon.
His successor had already arrived, ready to take possession of the rectory.
He had seen him briefly, a big man, two metres tall and as broad as a wardrobe, but with a good-natured face. He had immediately taken a liking to him.
Deborah had too, but for quite different reasons.

He had now made his choice.

At first, he had resisted, starting to look for furnished flats to rent in the surrounding area.

Well, to tell the truth, he pretended to look for them.
He said it wasn't right to turn up in San Nicola with suitcases and discarded cassocks. Michael had let him talk, nodding sympathetically, until he had pushed him against the corridor wall and silenced him with a kiss that had taken his breath away and his desire to open his mouth – to open it to speak, at least.
The rest of the discussion had melted away in the bedroom, along with any resistance.

David was straddling him, already breathless, his palms planted on Michael's bare chest to keep his balance. His eyes were shiny, but not with hesitation: there was fire, desire, and the certainty that he no longer wanted to run away.
Michael held him by the hips, guiding him slowly, without stopping whispering through clenched teeth: ‘I'm not letting you out of here, give it up.’
Each word fell authoritative and sweet at the same time, and David moaned as he felt him push deeper and deeper inside.
He felt his waist tighten and screamed with pleasure when he penetrated him all the way, smiling as he tugged at his curls. "Actually, I'm the one who's not letting you out..." he muttered.
Michael chuckled, "That joke is really cringe..." He nibbled his neck and shoulder.
David's skin glistened with sweat, the freckles scattered across his body looked like little stars, and Michael couldn't take his eyes off him.
David continued to rock on his knees, up and down, with increasing force and speed, practically fucking himself. "It's not as cringe-worthy as having sex in front of a mirror... why don't we move the bed?"
The Welshman grabbed him and pushed him onto the mattress, turning him onto his stomach, gripping his hips and forcing him onto his hands and knees.
He penetrated him hard, pushing all the way in, and heard him moan. He pulled back and did it again, chasing his partner's gasps.

"Look," Michael murmured, grabbing his jaw from behind and turning it towards the mirror reflecting the scene. "Look at yourself. Look at us."
David sat up, obeying almost fearfully, but when his gaze met the reflection, his breath caught in his throat.

He no longer saw the uncertain man who always lowered his eyes. The one he had seen for years, for decades.
What the mirror reflected back to him was a living, desired, beautiful body. Strong shoulders, a chest that rose and fell rapidly, freckles, a deep scar from appendicitis, not flaws, but unique marks.
He saw himself being held in the strong arms of the man he loved, and he felt like he was finally himself, without masks, without veils.
Sexy, powerful, free.

For the first time, David liked himself.
And that thought, new and intoxicating, made him moan louder, made him bolder in his movements, as if he wanted to carve that image into his memory.
Michael watched him smiling, recognising that different gleam in his eyes. "Like that..." he murmured softly, thrusting harder into his body. "Good boy... look at yourself..."

David stifled a choked moan, almost surprised at himself. Every thrust shook him, every caress of Michael's hands on his thighs made his skin tingle, but it was the reflection that glued him there: the man in the mirror was not insecure, he was not divided. He was desirable.
He was his.

"Can you see yourself?" Michael continued, his voice hoarse. "This is you, Dai. Strong. Magnificent. Mine."

Those words made him blush and tremble at the same time. Instead of looking down, he kept his gaze fixed on the mirror, pushing his hips more decisively, discovering that confidence could excite him more than any prohibition.
For the first time, he didn't care about sinning or atoning: he just wanted to live that image.

"Don't look away," Michael whispered, his voice capable of making legs tremble at a table. His hands gripped his hips, strong, leaving marks on his skin, guiding him into a rhythm that made the bed creak beneath them.
"I want you to watch me come inside you."

David gasped, breathless, yet unable to stop staring at the mirror. He saw his shoulders glistening with sweat, his damp hair stuck to his forehead, his tense arms trembling slightly.
He saw the way his body reacted to every thrust, and fuck, it was beautiful.
He was alive.

Michael, behind him, kept kissing his flushed skin. "Fuck... you're gorgeous... You have no idea how crazy you make me..." Then, leaning over him, he bit his neck. "Look how well you take it..." He reached out and wrapped his hand around his erection, starting to masturbate him forcefully.

A moan exploded from both their throats. Their hands trembled on the glass, their legs gave way, and pleasure washed over them in a violent wave. In the mirror, he saw himself coming, his semen staining his stomach and dripping onto Michael's hand, his mouth wide open, his body shaking with spasms, and he knew that image would remain etched in his mind forever: not the sinner, but the man who loved himself through the eyes of the one who truly loved him.

For a moment they remained there, bent over in front of the mirror, their breaths intertwined, their hearts pounding in unison. And David never looked away. “Okay, the mirror stays,” he decreed.

The neonatal ward at Bambin Gesù Hospital in Palidoro was a place suspended between the noise of life and the silence of fear.
It was a long, light green corridor with soft lights always on and the rhythmic sound of monitors recording the babies' heartbeats.
Behind the frosted glass, the rows of incubators looked like small, luminous spaceships, each protecting a fragile universe.

A pungent smell of disinfectant permeated the air, softened by human touches: a soft toy resting on a cot, a colourful note left by an older sibling, a pencil drawing hanging on the wall with the words “Be strong, little warrior”.

In that room, Michael and David had found a new rhythm. Volunteers who rocked the newborns were always welcome, both to cuddle the babies and to give the parents a break.
After a series of police, social workers and paediatricians, the facts had been ascertained and Eva had been turned inside out like a sock. Her general condition was good, but her fragile immune system and slight congenital heart defect kept everyone on their toes.
The biological mother had two months to claim her, after which the baby would be declared adoptable.
In the meantime, she would remain in hospital.

David often asked himself: why did he go back there, day after day, to take care of a baby who was a stranger to him? He had never been a man who liked children.
Yet with Eva it was different. Perhaps because he had found her that night: he had been the first to pick her up, fate had placed her in his arms at a moment too special to ignore.
– Or God...
But it wasn't an abstract duty, it was a concrete desire: he had found her and he had to be there for her.

For Michael, it was natural: he had already been a father, he knew how to change a nappy or calm a crying baby. For him, it wasn't just responsibility, it was spontaneous love, almost a reflex.
– Imprinting...

Small, fragile, with diaphanous skin and a pink blanket that made her look even smaller. Michael held her in his arms with a naturalness that took David aback, passing her from one shoulder to the other as if he had always done so.
When it was his turn, however, his hands stiffened and his arms tensed, as if he were afraid of breaking her.

Almost all the staff in the ward – and in the café, and the cleaning department, and other departments – had already taken the opportunity to take a selfie with Michael, but everyone had respected his request not to post anything on social media.
No one wanted to risk turning the ward into a media circus with paparazzi lurking at the doors.

One afternoon, as soon as Michael managed to hand Eva over to David without triggering a panic attack, he decided to treat himself to his sixth coffee of the day.
He took off his gown and mask and stood outside watching his partner ask a nurse for help with who knows what.
Next to him, Michael saw a tall man, perhaps his own age, with his forehead pressed against the glass.
“Premature,” he said, without taking his eyes off the baby, shrugging his shoulders. He had dark circles under his eyes that almost reached his chin. He probably hadn't slept in weeks.
The Welshman touched his shoulder empathetically. “He's in the best hands in the world,” he replied, trying to convey the same calm he would have wanted to receive in a similar situation.
The other man smiled wearily. “And how is your daughter?”.
Michael looked at him, puzzled. “Who?”.
“Your daughter. The baby in your husband's arms. First child, eh? Your husband looks a little awkward, but he'll learn quickly!”.
Michael hesitated. His heart leapt in his chest. "Oh, no, you see..." He smiled awkwardly.
"Do you prefer to say companion? Partner? I never know which is the right term!" the man continued. "May I ask how you went about the adoption? My brother and brother-in-law are trying, but in Italy there's not even stepchild adoption!"

Michael opened his mouth, ready to correct him, but the words wouldn't come out.
He didn't want to deny it. Not at that moment.
Because to be called husband...
– And father...
He just nodded slowly, stroking his beard.
– I'm fucked...

Chapter Text

Dinner was simple: toasted bread, a mixed salad, two grilled fillets and red wine. And a caramel Viennetta waiting for them in the freezer.
Michael had put the seasoned cherry tomatoes on the bread and handed him a slice, dropping them all on the tablecloth, of course.
(Bruschetta tomatoes are designed specifically to end up everywhere except on the bruschetta).
It was such a domestic scene that it still seemed surreal to David.

"Eight months ago, you were happy in your single life," said the former priest, staring at his wine glass. "And now you find yourself living with a man and wanting to become Eva's guardian? Are you sure? It's not something you can back out of later."
Michael looked up, serious but with a half-smile, and decided that the tomatoes were fine where they were after all: on the tablecloth.
"I wasn't happy, Dai. I was... calm, maybe. Or resigned. I don't know. But happy, no. I'm happy now. When we started dating, I felt that life had another chapter in store for me, and that chapter was you. And now a child comes out of nowhere. I'm not a believer, but you shouldn't believe in chance, should you?" He leaned forward a little. "Eva will be discharged soon. And she needs a place to stay. It's been almost two months and no one has claimed her."

David looked at him and nodded. "She'll be declared adoptable, and in the meantime, until two parents come forward, she'll have to stay in a foster home..." As he murmured those words, he realised he didn't like them very much.
It was as if part of him didn't think it was right for Eva to have other parents. He had found her, he and Michael had taken care of her for weeks...
He shook his head. Not even two months as a layman and he had already become a selfish bastard.

"Should I say it or will you?" Michael replied, without taking his eyes off him, then sighed.
"She won't be adopted, Dai. She'll probably stay in a foster home for years, or forever, and then live in some institution, I don't know. And I'm not judging anyone, God forbid: if you don't feel up to it, you don't feel up to it, and that's fine."

David sighed and stared at him, the voice of reason inside his head screaming not to act on impulse.
His faith, and perhaps also the fact that he was a little selfish, continued to scream that Eva had arrived at too perfect a moment for him not to think that God had decided for him again.
For them.
Every time his mind tried to slip into fear, his heart brought everything back to one point: it was no coincidence. It couldn't be.
"I think she's getting used to us..." he murmured with a smile. "She hardly cries anymore when I pick her up! Yesterday I changed her nappy with one hand! One hand!"
Michael turned his lips downwards and clapped his hands in satisfaction, then shrugged. "Look, if she's adopted by a good family, I'll be happy, of course. I'm just saying that in the meantime, she can stay here. Right? You're about to start working, that teacher ran off to retire right away, and it's Ariel's fault, I'm telling you! And what am I supposed to do? Get bored?"
David gave up, raising his hands. "Well, there's room. But I have no idea how to do the paperwork, I don't know where to start."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "What am I paying my solicitor for, then?"

Thanks to his fame, his connections, his bank account and the Italian system that often bends to the right name – which can be circumvented, yes, especially if you're famous and rich – Michael wasn't too worried about the matter.

The following Sunday, David attended Mass as a spectator for the first time. He had waited a while, but finally found the strength to go.
And he was glad he did.
Don Antonio was good, he had a nice Neapolitan accent and spoke to everyone as if they were friends.
Deborah stood outside the door with the former parish priest, watching him greet the congregation.
“You seem happier than you ever were with me,” David muttered, looking at her strangely dressed up.
She waved her hand. “Look who's talking. Did you adopt that child? If you need a babysitter, I charge twenty euros an hour.”
David raised an eyebrow. “We're not adopting her. Michael has applied to be her foster parent until a family comes forward.”
“Yeah, right. I raise a child for months and then you take her away from me? Over my dead body!”
“Being a foster family is wonderful and usef-...”
"Shut up, you're stupid even as a layman. They're looking for a family to take in a child who is already growing up with a family, and one that's loaded with money at that Seriously?"
David rolled his eyes. Strangely, that argument was embarrassingly convincing. "They don't allow adoption by rainbow families or single people in this country, you know that, right?"
But the woman just shrugged in response. “Where there's a law, there's a loophole. Come on, laws don't apply to rich people. I know, it's disgusting, but hey, you've got to make a living!”
“Okay... anyway... You're... incredibly expensive as a babysitter.”
“Shut up, Don Antonio is coming!”

Then the church emptied. The churchyard was deserted, the voices died away. David returned in silence. Every step along the aisle felt like a farewell: his hand brushed the pews, his gaze fell on the crucifix on the altar. He stopped to listen to the echo of his footsteps.
From now on, he would be one of the many faithful. Well, maybe a special one...
He said goodbye to Deborah, then shook hands with the new parish priest of Santa Maria Maggiore, wishing him good luck.

The social services office in Civitavecchia was bare, with cream-coloured walls and a slightly dried-up plant in the corner. Michael felt almost more nervous than he would have in front of a packed stadium. At least there he knew what to do.
Next to him was his solicitor, Carlo, elegant and composed, almost at retirement age, who had been looking after him for decades, dealing with every little problem. In exchange for substantial cheques, of course.
Facing them were two social workers: a woman in her fifties with the practical air of someone who had seen it all, and a younger man taking notes on a tablet.

“Mr Sheen...” the woman began, 'We have assessed your request for temporary custody of the baby girl found at the Cradle for Life in Cerveteri. We would like to clarify a few things before making a decision."
Michael nodded, his hands clasped in front of him. "Of course. I'm ready."
"First of all," she continued, "your living situation: you live alone in a small villa in San Nicola. Have you confirmed that you have a room available for the child?"
"Yes. It's already arranged. We used a partition and created a nursery in the master bedroom. My adult daughter insisted on furnishing it, she's certainly better at it than I am. But I put a Welsh flag in there, I don't know if that's useful information, sorry, I'm nervous, I'll shut up now."

The young social worker looked up and smiled. "So your daughter approves of this choice?"
Michael nodded. “Well, yes. She also wrote a letter for the records, which was very explanatory. She's twenty-five, financially independent, normally lives in London but is travelling back and forth at the moment because... well, for obvious reasons.”
The woman took note and continued, “Let's move on to the financial aspect. Are you able to provide for and care for the child?”

Michael nodded to the solicitor, who opened the folder and showed the documents: bank statements, sponsorship contracts, property deeds.
"Not only can he support her..." Carlo interjected, "but he has more than enough resources to ensure the best possible future for this child. We're talking about a former A-league player, ladies and gentlemen. Are we going to pretend that's not important?"
Michael looked down, almost embarrassed. "I've never been a perfect man, but it's in my nature to be thrifty. I'm currently involved in charitable activities, but I still have my income. I don't like to call myself rich, but, well... I am rich in the end... And I challenge you to find a single scandal linked to my name, apart from that time I got into a fight with Prince William b–" He felt a knee to the shins from his solicitor. "Okay, I'll shut up."

The young man smiled again, but his colleague maintained a professional tone. "There are factors that could be an obstacle: your age, fifty. But, as this is a minor with special needs, the law allows for more flexibility. It is not unusual for children like Eva to be placed with families who are no longer young."

Michael held his breath. The woman continued, "Furthermore, your notoriety could be a risk: media exposure, journalists' curiosity..."
"Mr Sheen has already asked the hospital for confidentiality and has no intention of making the matter public. You can count on his discretion," the solicitor interjected. "That doesn't mean the news won't come out anyway, but... while always safeguarding the child's welfare, it could have positive implications, it could be an inspiration to others, a good image for the system, couldn't it?"

There followed minutes of silence that seemed to go on forever. Then the younger social worker looked at her colleague. "I see no reason not to accept the request. He has a suitable home, solid financial means, family support. And above all..." she added, staring at Michael, "he has already shown sincere affection for the child. That is not something we can ignore."
The woman nodded slowly. "I agree. Mr Sheen, temporary custody will be granted. Until an adoptive family is found, Eva can stay with you."
Michael took a deep breath, as if after scoring a last-minute goal. "Thank you. Really. Gosh, I'm sweating like I was at the 2006 World Cup!"

They said goodbye politely and shook hands, and as Michael was walking out the door, starting to breathe again, he heard the woman's voice call out, “Mr Sheen...” His breath stopped again and he turned to look at her.
“Would you give me your autograph?”.

The case had been closed in a timeframe that would have been unthinkable for anyone without his surname and contacts.
Ten days of rushing between hospitals, solicitors and social services. It had been an exhausting process, but in the end he had obtained the signed document: temporary and urgent custody to Michael Christopher Sheen.

And when he returned home with Eva wrapped in her pink blanket, with David walking beside him, still looking incredulous, Michael thought that no match, no goal in his career had ever given him the same feeling of victory he felt at that moment.

Weeks passed, and David's secular life had begun to take shape in a way that was almost surprising to him.
Every morning from Monday to Friday, he would put on a carefully ironed shirt, take his Fiesta and go to teach English at the Carmelite school in Santa Marinella.
At first, it had been strange to be called “professor” and no longer “father”, but over time he had learned to appreciate this new title, almost like a medal marking his present and no longer his past.

When he returned home, he was no longer the teacher. He was no longer the former parish priest. He was simply Dai.
He took care of Eva with an enthusiasm he never would have expected: he changed nappies without hesitation, warmed milk as if he had done nothing else in his life, and fell asleep rocking the baby on his chest – and Michael scolded him because it was very dangerous!
For the first time in his life, David could see the future.

He saw Eva's first days at school and smiled at the thought of having her in his class for all of primary and secondary school: “I'll be the most annoying father in the world,” he said with a laugh. Then he became serious again.
Because there was no guarantee that the future would be like that. Because that life could be just a brief moment.
Because that child could be given to someone else... at any moment.

A thought that both of them were beginning to find unbearable.

Their first Christmas together had arrived quietly, without much fanfare, yet with a significance that none of the three would ever forget.

Michael had given up on his trip to Wales, the one he had dreamed of: introducing Eva to his parents. It wasn't the right time. He couldn't take a child with him who, on paper, wasn't his daughter.

So they stayed in San Nicola. And it wasn't a fallback: Lily was still there with them. Kate, from London, joined them on a video call, laughing and raising her glass, as beautiful as the sun and as crazy as ever.

Christmas dinner with the parish was an unexpected surprise: Deborah sat next to Don Antonio. They even seemed to get along, perhaps a little too well. Ariel, on the other hand, had returned to Argentina to be with his mother: the official introduction to Eva was postponed, even though he had seen so many photos that his phone's gallery was clogged. ¿Cómo está la niña? It was always the first thing he said every time he answered the phone.

Meanwhile, time was passing.
The days were filled with work, nappies and walks along the winter seafront. David was getting used to his new life as a teacher, discovering with surprise that capturing the attention of the children in class was not so different from preaching a sermon.
Michael, for his part, had now incorporated Eva into his routine as if she had always been there.
Once he had paid Deborah three hundred euros for four hours of babysitting. But it was worth it because she had also turned his house upside down, cleaning things he didn't even know needed cleaning.
“The light switches! They're touched all the time! Do you know how many germs are on them?! There's a creature there!”
“But she can't reach the switches!”
“Shut up, for God's sake, shut up!”

Yet, above all the smiles and laughter, the anguish remained.
That life had an expiry date.

The table was set simply, under the chandelier that had been missing a bulb for months.
Michael's open-plan space was no longer the tidy, almost minimalist space it had been a few months earlier. Now it had taken on the warm, slightly chaotic look of a home with a newborn baby.

The faux Persian rug in front of the sofa was gone, replaced by a soft, padded mat with colourful animals and numbers printed on it, over which hung a play arch with rattles, mirrors and soft toys dangling from it.
Next to the sofa was a vibrating baby bouncer with the straps still open, as if the baby had been placed there a short while before.

The low table was no longer dominated by magazines and remote controls, but also by a couple of sterilised baby bottles, a box of dummies – about which opinions were divided – and the inevitable wipes left within easy reach.
Behind the kitchen peninsula, on the other hand, you could see the bottle warmer and steriliser.

In a corner, tucked away near the window, was a foldable playpen ready for use, still empty but with a folded blanket and a few soft toys inside. Next to it was a basket of soft toys: gifts from friends, neighbours and parishioners, who had clearly gone to town.

The shelves and low cabinets had undergone a slight “clean-up”: fragile ornaments had been removed and replaced with neat piles of colourful muslin cloths, bibs and an endless supply of nappies.

The smell had changed: less coffee and waxed wood, more powdered milk, talcum powder and that sweetish scent typical of baby creams. A fragrance that, ultimately, said only one thing: the house no longer belonged only to Michael, it now belonged to the three of them. Or four, like that evening.

They were laughing and talking nonsense when Lily suddenly stopped and put down her fork.
“Well, if you're not going to say it, I will,” she said, looking first at one and then the other. "I don't want another family coming to take her. She already has a family. A family that loves her. What the fuck! Who better than you, excuse me? Seriously, if a social worker came tomorrow and said, 'Hey, we found a mum and dad, give her to us,' would you give her to them? Come on! She has to have surgery and then physiotherapy, and you're already training for that, I mean, come on, it's unthinkable to take her away from her home!"

Michael coughed, caught off guard. "Lily... it's not... that's how foster care works, we knew that, didn't we?"
"Fuck that then!" she retorted, with the same fire she had inherited from her father. "Adopt her yourselves!"
David looked down at his plate. "We're not in the UK, it's not possible here."
"But have you looked into it? Do you know for sure? Or maybe there's a way? Have you at least tried?"
The silence that followed spoke louder than a thousand words. Neither of them answered. They hadn't really looked into it. They didn't even know where to start. It was obvious: they didn't want to give up that child, but they certainly couldn't kidnap her.

The baby monitor crackled, followed by a sharp cry. Lily jumped up. "I'll go."
She went upstairs, leaving Michael and David alone, staring at each other.
There was no need to speak: they both knew that the girl had just said what they hadn't yet had the courage to admit.

Chapter Text

When David entered the house with what were now his keys (he hadn't needed to use the intercom for a long time), he paused for a moment on the threshold. He heard Michael's voice and Eva's slight whimpering, followed by sudden silence.
He smiled to himself: he had left his life as a Father to become a father, and the most surprising thing was how well this role suited him. This was his new parish: Michael, Eva and him (Lily when she was there). A family.
– My family

Michael saw him appear just as he was finishing changing the nappy on the sofa. “You're finally here!” he sighed, and without giving him time to reply, he put the baby in his arms. “Here she is, all yours now. Tell her one of your amazing parables, so maybe she'll fall asleep for a while.”

David laughed, rocking the little girl, who was already blissfully falling asleep. Michael took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss and whispered, “I'm going to take a shower before Lily comes back and locks herself in the bathroom for forty minutes!"
"Aren't you waiting for me?” replied David, raising an eyebrow.
"There's a minor in the house!" Michael teased him, already on the stairs.
"If the minor is asleep, I don't see what the problem is..." David retorted, with that mischievous air that was becoming all too natural to him.
Michael laughed. "You said your last mass three months ago and you already have a one-way ticket to the circle of the lustful. Shame on you."
"I had that before..." David followed him down the stairs. "I left the Church to... well, to be with my... fiancé, right?"
Michael turned abruptly in the bathroom doorway. "Did you ask my father's permission before calling me that?"

David entered the brand-new nursery, converted from the enormous master bedroom.
That room had always been disproportionately large and useless.
A simple but sturdy plasterboard partition had created a new room opening onto the corridor through a newly installed door: white, with a new handle that still smelled of hardware.
Michael had obtained permission for the work fairly quickly; after all, it was a minor internal job, and the consortium had no reason to object. Especially since the AS Roma flag was flying in their office.

And so Eva's nursery was born.
Lily had taken charge of the project with enthusiasm: white furniture, clean and reassuring lines, a small cot with bars next to a padded nursing chair that looked more comfortable than any sofa. Above the changing table, she had hung shelves with picture books, soft toys and a row of wicker baskets containing creams, nappies and wipes.
Everything was meticulously tidy – unless the father was around.

Next to the cot, in plain view, was the Welsh flag.
On the opposite side was the St Andrew's Cross of Scotland.

It was a newly created room, yet it gave the impression of having always been there.

David joined his partner in the bathroom shortly afterwards. He placed the baby monitor on the sink and slipped under the hot water with him. If they were lucky, they would have at least half an hour to themselves.

The water ran hot, enveloping them like an embrace.
Michael held him tight, his forehead against his, his lips seeking every inch of skin. David reciprocated, but this time there was something different in the way he kissed him: more decisive, more hungry.
His hands, usually cautious, slid down the other's hips, following the curve of his buttocks.
Their erections were already rubbing against each other, and David took them both in his hand, squeezing them together.

They bit each other's lips and the Scotsman disappeared, bending down on his knees. He helped himself with his hand and took him in his mouth, sliding him over his tongue, all the way to the base, all at once.
Months and months of practice and finally he was able to sink him deep into his throat, until he felt the curly hairs tickling the tip of his nose. And he had learned to enjoy that feeling.
The feeling of it filling him up like that, its taste on his tongue, the warm skin sliding over his cheeks, he liked everything about it.
Michael's hand gripped his wet hair and his hips immediately began to move back and forth, fucking his mouth.

David let him do it, feeling the first salty drops fall onto his tongue. His hands moved to his bum, he pushed him against him and heard Michael moan loudly, his cock throbbing in his throat.
One of David's hands then moved along his partner's perineum, stroking it firmly. He pushed two fingers against his anus, without entering, until he felt Michael spread his legs slightly, as if inviting him in.

The Welshman moaned as his cock sank into the other's mouth, looking surprised but amused. "Fuck, do it now, Dai," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
David responded by sinking two fingers into his tight hole.
He felt him stiffen slightly but began sucking him hard again, barely moving his fingers.
He went deeper, then pulled out, then penetrated him again. He caressed, explored, prepared him patiently.
The hot water helped, but it was David's slow, insistent, almost adoring touch that made him swear with need.

Michael let him take the lead for once, but without relinquishing control of the pace. He turned slowly, resting his hands against the steamed-up glass of the shower cubicle. "Let's see how hard you can fuck me," he murmured, and his tone conveyed his dominant nature, even though he was giving way.

David followed him, pressing his body against his, his smooth face barely caressing the damp skin of his shoulder. He kissed him there, between the sliding drops, and finally took what he wanted.
He entered slowly, breathless, and Michael moaned, lowering his head but pushing his hips back, guiding the speed and depth of the thrusts himself.
"Like that..." he urged him, his voice low, scratched with excitement. And David followed, obedient and hungry, each thrust more confident, each hip thrust more decisive.

Michael's hands slid down the wet glass, then back to grip David's thighs, guiding him again.

The steam enveloped them, erasing the outside world, leaving only their heavy breathing, their moans mingling with the sound of the water. Each thrust was a crescendo, hands gripping flesh, mouths biting it, and the thrusts growing stronger and stronger.

They came together: Michael stiffened, his forehead against the glass, and David moaned his name, clutching him with all his strength, savouring the feeling of emptying himself inside him.
They remained like that, glued to each other, their hearts beating wildly beneath their wet skin, until the water gently brought them back to calm.

Afterwards, still wet and leaning against each other, David rested his forehead against Michael's. “You know Lily's right, don't you?”
And Michael laughed, running a hand through his wet hair. “It could go wrong, we have to take that into account,” he kissed him softly.
“I love you,” said David, in that hoarse voice Michael had grown to love.
"You're right," he smiled, hugging him again. "I'm fucking fantastic!"

Doubt and concern about the whole situation had led Michael to postpone a step he had been putting off for months: coming out publicly.
It wasn't a question of shame, nor of personal hesitation: he knew that such a statement would end up in every newspaper and on every social media platform, that it would become a topic of debate and gossip. And he feared that the uproar might influence the judge's decision.
Better to continue with the open secret: everyone in town knew, everyone had seen David living with him, but officially he was just his flatmate, his 'best friend'.
– Cousins!

There was nothing majestic about the Juvenile Courtroom: beige walls, shelves full of files, an oval table more suited to a meeting room than a courtroom. Sitting next to his solicitor, Michael felt strangely calm.
Carlo had given him a hard time about what to say and what not to say, the strengths and weaknesses of his case. But he was calm, optimistic about the situation.
Michael was rich, famous, popular, and had played for the team that everyone in the area supported.
"It may be bullshit, but trust me, it helps," he had said before entering the courtroom.
Michael was wearing a beautiful beige suit with a white shirt, his curls neatly combed, his beard well-groomed. David had said he would charm the judge. That wasn't his intention, but if it helped...

In front of them sat the social worker and the deputy judge, a man of his own age with blondish hair and a tired look, but strangely excited.
After leafing through the papers, the woman spoke:
"Mr Sheen, we will evaluate your application to make you an official applicant. Since Eva is a child with special needs, the law allows adoption by a single person. It's what's known as a 'special case'."
Michael leaned forward. "What if I'm not single?"
A raised eyebrow. A quick glance at Carlo, who nodded.
"Mr Sheen, I know you live with a man, it's on record. No one here is today years old. But on paper, your partner cannot be listed as an adopter. The law does not allow two men to adopt in Italy."
Michael nodded, clenching his jaw. "I know. But can the fact that I live with a man work against me? I haven't come out publicly yet for this very reason, but I intend to. We don't want it to be a secret."

The judge stared at him for a moment, then softened. “Honestly, it does you credit. And this court cannot discriminate against you as a single adopter because you are homosexual. That would be discrimination pure and simple, and whatever anyone says, even that is not allowed in Italy.”
Michael lowered his gaze, then muttered, "Bisexual..." He felt another knee to the shins. "I just wanted to clarify—Ok, I'll shut up."

A half-smile crossed the social worker's mouth. "The important thing is that you understand that only you will be the recognised parent. With special adoption, however, there are tools such as special powers of attorney or stepchild adoption abroad. This would not be immediately valid in Italy, but the European court has already reprimanded us for this. So if you were to take legal action, you would ultimately win. It is a long and stressful process, but it has already happened and, without a doubt, you should take it into consideration. If your adoption is successful, that is. Your solicitor will be able to advise you on the best course of action.
For the rest, since you are already taking care of the child and it is a special adoption, I don't foresee too many problems, honestly. The court tends to close these cases quickly.
Of course, after the usual interviews and checks.“
“Of course,” replied Michael, with a hint of gratitude in his voice, “'That goes without saying.”
The judge closed the file with a sharp snap.
Then, almost without changing his tone, he said, “Right, one last question... Would you pick Lukaku or Dybala for your fantasy premiere league?”.

Michael blinked, taken aback. Carlo struggled to suppress a laugh.
The judge smiled, waiting for his answer. Michael couldn't see it, but under his black robe he was wearing a yellow and red shirt...

It was evening, and the house was immersed in silence, broken only by Eva's regular breathing in the cot next to the sofa.
David and Michael had glasses of wine in their hands and were more sleepy than lively.
“There's one thing I care about,” said David, absent-mindedly stroking the little girl's blonde head. "If everything goes well, we'll have the new birth certificate. I'd like her middle name to be Helen."
Michael looked at him curiously. "Helen?"
"I can't give her my surname, but I can give her my mother's name," he explained, his voice low, almost shy. "I think she would have been happy. I mean, I believe in life after death, so I imagine she's happy wherever she is, but... well, you understand. And then she'll have something of mine. Apart from the extraordinary intelligence that I will obviously pass on to her."
Michael smiled. "Obviously. No objections there. Then we'll think about that stepchild adoption thing, maybe in the UK. What do you think?"
David shrugged. ’Maybe we'll think about it, eh? One step at a time. If it goes well, do you really want to start all over again with courts and solicitors? I honestly don't, and neither does Eva."
"That's why I said 'later'," Michael replied, shaking his hand. "In any case, it doesn't matter, you'll be her father, period. Fuck the law and its bullshit."

There was a brief silence, interrupted by the baby's breathing. Then Michael said, "And maybe we should have talked about this before. How do a Catholic and an atheist raise a child together? For example... do you want to baptise her?"

David hesitated. It might seem natural for a former priest, yet he shook his head. "No. That's not a decision I can make. I chose my faith as an adult, and it's only right that she does too. God doesn't need a certificate to love her, and Christ was baptised at the age of thirty, you know that, right?"

Michael nodded, almost relieved. "God, you're so sexy when you're wise..."
David smiled, lighter. "You mean always?"
"She's asleep. How about going to the kitchen with the baby monitor and, I don't know, getting down on all fours on the peninsula?"
"Oh, I think that's a great plan..."
"Watch out, I'm right here!" Lily shouted from the stairs.

Ariel was lying on the rug in Michael and David's living room, his legs stretched out and little Eva clumsily trying to grab his fingers. He was chuckling to himself, speaking Spanish to the baby, who was staring at him with her big blue eyes wide open as if she really understood every word.

The door opened and Michael came in with the shopping bags. He shook his head when he saw the scene.
"How did it go? How much damage did you do?"
Ariel sat up, the baby on his lap. "A lot. What did you buy for dinner? Can we get pizza?"
Michael placed the bags on the kitchen island. "When did I invite you to dinner?"
"You didn't, because you're very rude. I'll have a capricciosa and two supplì."

Michael laughed, pulling out three packets of fusilli. "Did David tell you? If everything goes well..."
"It will be fine. There's no 'if'."
"If everything goes well, we won't baptise Eva."
Ariel's eyes widened in feigned indignation. "You two are such miscreants!"
"Look who's talking! Of all the things you don't believe in, this is the one you cling to?!"
"I'm just saying that a few drops of water on her head can't hurt her."
"It won't do her any good either."
"You don't know that."
"Anyway, that's how it is. She won't be baptised. She'll decide when and if she wants to, or if she wants to be Anglican, atheist, Muslim, Wiccan, Buddhist... whatever she wants."

Eva began to cry, pouting her little mouth. Ariel picked her up naturally and began to rock her. "Estrellita, ¿dónde estás? Me pregunto qué serás. En el cielo y en el mar. Un diamante de verdad,’ he hummed, then shook his head. ‘Little one! You're crying because your dads won't baptise you."
"Don't say that crap!" protested Michael, running a hand through his curly hair.
"And don't swear, children repeat what they hear!"

Michael sighed, lowering his voice. "I hope so... Not that she swears, but that... well, that everything goes well. They've already told us she'll need speech therapy."
Ariel looked at him seriously for a moment. "She's already started babbling, and the neuropsychomotor therapist says she's following all the milestones. Stop worrying so much."
"She's also started rolling over! But I can't just bury my head in the sand, it's not good for her. I have to be... vigilant."
"You are, papi."

Michael chuckled. “Don't call me that, not you. You creep me out!”
“You really are depraved,” replied Ariel. “Anyway, I've changed my mind, I want sushi.” He got up with Eva clutched to his chest. “I'm going to change her, I'll put her in the new romper I bought her. The one with Ariel on it! I know, I'm predictable, but that way she'll always know who her favourite uncle is!”
"But don't change her before her meal! Do you have any idea how messy it gets?"
"You'll wash it, so what do I care?" He chuckled and walked off towards the nursery.

And then it arrived.

It was a quiet afternoon, one of those that seem to have nothing special about them.
Eva was sleeping peacefully in her cot, David was in the kitchen making tea, and Michael was tidying up some papers left on the table. The postman rang the gatebell and left a white envelope stamped with the seal of the Juvenile Court of Rome.

Michael recognised it immediately and his heart leapt into his throat.
He placed it on the peninsula and stood motionless for a few seconds, as if the paper had burned his hands.

A few minutes later, all three of them were in the living room, with the envelope in the centre of the coffee table, staring at it as if it were a dangerous relic.
Eva, unaware, continued to sleep.

“Do you want me to open it?” asked David, who was also visibly agitated.
“No, no...” replied Michael, taking a deep breath. 'I'll do it, just give me a moment.
He sat down on the sofa, slowly tore open the edge of the envelope, and pulled out the sheet of paper folded in three.
His hands were shaking so much that Lily gave him a slap on the head. "Go on, Dad. It's not anthrax!"
Michael chuckled nervously, then opened the paper and began to read aloud.

"The Juvenile Court of Rome declares the adoption of the minor Eva by Mr Michael Christopher Sheen.

From this moment on, the child assumes the status of legitimate daughter in all respects, with all the rights and duties that this entails."

David stood motionless, the paper still in Michael's fingers. His eyes were shiny and he had a hesitant smile, as if he were afraid to let himself go. But when Michael looked at him, he looked up and said softly, "It's real, bloody hell... I read it right, yes? Do you want to read it too?" He passed the paper to his daughter, who was already swearing in at least three different languages and ignored him completely.

From her cot, as if in response, Eva let out a small cry and turned over in her sleep, unaware that her life had just changed forever.

Chapter Text

Spring and summer slipped away faster than anyone could have imagined.
David had tackled and completed his first year as a teacher, with the surprise — almost incredulous — discovery that not only was he doing well, but he enjoyed it.
Michael, again that summer, devoted himself to the boys at the parish youth club with the same enthusiasm and discipline. He was now one of them, and it was not something he wanted to give up. He took home the satisfaction of seeing them grow not only on the field but also as people.
Finally, he had become the coach of the Cerveteri children's team, even in winter. He had given up his salary to allow children who could not afford the registration fee to join anyway.
In their first friendly match, they lost 16-0 to Borgo Palidoro, but they had fun anyway.

The real challenge, however, for both of them, was Eva.
The little girl had to undergo minor heart surgery, one of those procedures that doctors described as “planned, almost routine”, but which for two novice parents could only seem like climbing Everest. Yet, with visits, therapies and whole days spent between the hospital and home, they managed. It was hard work, of course. Sleeping little, living with schedules dictated by meals, medicines and check-ups. But every time the little girl laughed or grabbed one of their fingers with her little hand, the fatigue melted away in an instant.

That new life, full of commitments, sleepless nights and responsibilities, seemed as if it had always been there. It seemed as if it had simply been waiting for them. They had become a family, in the most concrete and everyday sense of the word.

So, when October came around again, they decided that it was finally time to take a breather, to take a break, all three of them together.
David had asked for a week off school – “But the year has only just begun!” said Sister Amalia, but a heartfelt plea and a dinner at 58 was enough to make her give in – and Michael had stopped shouting advice from the sidelines for a few days. It was time to take Eva to her grandparents, pack their bags and return to Wales.

The plane took off from Fiumicino while it was still dark, and the passengers were still too sleepy to talk.
Michael held Eva on his lap, and the little girl looked out of the window with curiosity, even though the clouds didn't allow her to see much.
"Let's hire a car in Bristol," said David, adjusting his seatbelt. "We can buy a child seat there."
"Why don't we take the bus?" replied Michael.
David turned slowly, raising an eyebrow. "The bus? Are you serious?"
"Yes, we'll sit at the back and throw paper balls at the nerds in the front row."
David remained serious. "I was the nerd in the front row, you know?"
"Exactly, don't you want to experience the thrill of the last one?"
"Do you want to experience the thrill of a three-hour bus ride with a one-year-old? We're getting a car, period."
"Okay, boss," Michael concluded, feigning resignation.

Eva began to whimper, pouting. David reached for the bag under the seat. “Pass me the Ariel doll.”
Michael rummaged for a moment and pulled out a mini plastic mermaid, complete with a rock. “Here it is.”
David stared at him as if he had sworn. “Not this one! The soft toy! This one is hard!”
"But it is soft!" Michael retorted, clutching it. "Give her this, at least if she bites it, it will soothe her teeth."

And indeed, Eva calmed down immediately, clutching the plastic Ariel and beginning to suck on it triumphantly. Michael smiled smugly. "See?"
David snorted and crossed his arms. "Do you realise how many Little Mermaid toys that psychopath has already given her?"
Michael laughed softly. "He said he wants it to be her first word, and he thinks this is a good method. You know? There might be some logic in his madness."
"Always."

Three hours later, they got off at Bristol.
The air was cold and damp with rain, something they were no longer used to. In Rome, it was still the height of summer at that time of year.
Michael took a deep breath. ‘Welcome home,’ he murmured to himself as he squeezed David's hand.

The fine rain beating against the windscreen did nothing to help David's nerves, as he gripped the steering wheel as if he were about to tackle a rally race rather than a quiet Welsh road. Michael watched him out of the corner of his eye, amused by the other's tic.
“Why are you so nervous?” he asked, resting his elbow on the door.
"I'm not nervous," David replied, his voice too loud to be convincing.
Michael looked down at his partner's hands and laughed. "You've no fingernails left. I hope they tasted good."
David snorted, letting go of the steering wheel for a moment. "OK, I'm nervous! Happy now? Who's ever met their in-laws?! Who's ever had in-laws!"
Michael frowned. "You've spoken to them on the phone countless times!"
"It's not the same thing."
"We've had video calls."
"It's-not-the-same-thing!" David repeated, banging his fist lightly on the steering wheel like a frustrated child.

Michael shook his head and smiled. "You already know them, you know what they're like. And anyway, sorry, we're bringing them their granddaughter for the first time. Do you think they'll mind you? They'll barely see us, come on!"
David looked at him sideways, pressing his lips together. "You're not helping."
Michael placed a hand on his thigh, squeezing it lightly. "Me? I never meant to!"
David grimaced, unsure whether to relax or tense up even more.

Michael's parents' house in Port Talbot was not an elegant mansion straight out of a magazine, but it had the warm, lived-in charm of a truly loved home. It stood not far from the beach, isolated enough from other houses to feel like a retreat, and the sea breeze carried the smell of salt into the garden.

The garden itself was large, but not excessive: an uneven lawn, a few flower beds tended with affection but without obsession. It was not a place that screamed perfection, but rather everyday life, with traces of past games, folding chairs faded by the sun, and the old wooden table under the pergola that had hosted more than one family lunch.

On the driveway, Irene and Meyrick were waiting for them as if it were Christmas, lined up in front of the door.

As soon as the car stopped, Michael reached for the door handle, ready to embrace his mother after almost two years. "Mum!" he said, spreading his arms.
But Irene, who had her son's smile and a bob of blonde hair, ignored him completely, leaning instead towards the back seat. "Oh my God! Hello, gorgeous!" she exclaimed in a ringing tone as she took Eva, still half asleep, into her arms. "Oh my God, I can't believe it! Just look at her!" She hugged her tightly, kissing her forehead, and without letting go of her granddaughter, she walked around the car and headed straight for David like a hunting dog.
"Finally! Wow, what a handsome boy! And you're so tall! You're even more handsome in person!" she declared, hugging him with one arm while continuing to hold Eva tightly with the other.

David stood still for a moment, taken aback, and Michael behind them raised his hand to the sky. "Hello, Mum!" he commented ironically. "Nice to see you too, eh."
His father didn't give him much satisfaction either.

Meanwhile, Irene was dragging David and Eva into the house. "I've made lunch."
"Mum, it's almost two o'clock! We've already had lunch!" Michael protested, to no avail.
"Michael, bring the bags in before it rains again, come on," she replied distractedly.

Michael stood watching the door close and glanced at his father. "Will you help me with the luggage?"
Meyrick stared at him with a wry smile and, shaking his head, muttered hoarsely, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," and went back into the house.

Inside, the villa retained the same rustic character it conveyed from the outside. The entrance hall was not large, a small space with a coat rack full of windbreakers and raincoats, old and new shoes left in a bit of a mess, and the scent of wood and salt that seemed to permeate everything.

The hallway led directly to the dining room, the heart of the house. A solid dark wood table occupied the centre, with mismatched chairs — some newer, others worn by the years. Above, a wrought-iron lamp diffused a warm light, making the room feel cosy even on the greyest of days. On the sideboard were family photographs in mismatched frames: Michael as a child in his football kit, Lily as a baby in Irene's arms, a few black and white portraits of her grandparents.

Next to it was the open-plan kitchen, simple and functional, with light-coloured wall units and a large wooden worktop marked by daily use. From the window, you could see the garden and, in the distance, the sea.

Irene had cooked as if she were expecting an army: there were plates of sausages, stewed leeks, baked potatoes, puddings, pot pies... it looked like the cover of a cookbook.
Michael smiled, “Mum, who's coming? The neighbours too?”
"Be quiet, can't you see how thin your husband is? You need to eat more, David. Do not make a fuss. Joanne gave me an old high chair and cot, so we have everything we need!"
David laughed softly, placing Eva in the high chair.

The afternoon lunch slipped by with jokes, stories and toasts, and Michael seemed more relaxed than he had been in recent months.

At one point, Irene asked Michael to help her clear the dishes in the kitchen. Michael protested, but his mother would not take no for an answer and dragged him away, taking the baby with her.

As soon as they arrived in the kitchen, the woman sighed, “OK, I didn't want to bring it up in front of your father, he already has enough on his mind. How is the baby?” She seemed worried, and he smiled slightly. "She's fine. She had that heart surgery at six months, we talked about it, didn't we? Now the doctors say she's strong, she's responding well, she's following her milestones. It takes patience, but... she's bright, alert. I'm not saying we're not worried, but..." He shrugged, not even knowing how to finish the sentence.
Irene nodded, very serious. "Don't get me wrong, I'm very happy that you've settled down. I mean, you were always alone over there, living the life of a pensioner! I'm happy you've started a family..."
"But?"
The woman shrugged. "You've never been the impulsive type, then you meet this man and bam! You move in together and then have a daughter in less than a year. It seemed risky to me, that's all. Of course, he's a really nice guy, damn it, you've always had impeccable taste."
Michael laughed. "Ah, thank you. What can I say? These things happen! It's not like we made the baby, she just fell into our laps and I just wanted to take care of her until she found a family, but... how can you part with her then?"
The grandmother smiled and hugged Eva tighter, who continued to look around with curious and overly alert eyes. "No, of course, in fact, I don't think I'll be giving her back to you in a week, you know? And... you were telling me about the papers, the documents? I mean, she still only has one parent, right? But here she could have two, you know that, right?"
Michael ran a hand through his hair. "Eh, this whole thing is a real pain in the arse."
"Michael! Watch your language!"
"Oops! I was saying... we should do the adoption here, yes, after we've been here for at least a year, and then we should contact The Hague... Look, it's a mess, I get a headache just thinking about it. Paradoxically, it would be quicker if we wanted to adopt another one directly here!"
Irene nodded. "I agree, it's a good idea."
"What?"
"Adopt another child! Where one eats, two eat! We're not so young anymore, eh, hurry up! Eva will need a sibling her own age. Of course, there's Lily, but look at you and Joanne, it's nice to grow up with someone your own age, isn't it?"
Michael stared silently at his mother as she rattled on, then finally interrupted her. "No... That's not what I was saying at all! It's not in the plans! Mum, stop imagining things!"
"Tsk, you can't stop me!"

Meanwhile, without even realising it, David and Meyrick found themselves alone in the dining room, in front of two half-full plates. The silence was brief, interrupted only by the sound of cutlery and crockery from the kitchen.
Meyrick stared at him calmly, tilting his head. "So, what are your intentions with my son?" he joked.
David cleared his throat. "Ah... the same as always, I guess. I mean... no..."
"Jesus, lad, relax, I'm joking! Oops, did I mention God's name in vain?"
David rubbed his neck with one hand and remained serious. "No, no, I know you're joking... but I wanted to ask you something... I mean, it was a joke from your son, obviously, but... well, I think I want to ask him seriously."
"Do you want Jack's autograph? I'll get it for you right away!"
David didn't know whether to laugh or remain serious. "Yes, of course. No, well, I..." he sighed. "I'd like to marry your son... in my head, this moment seemed less stupid..." he muttered to himself.
The father remained silent for a moment, then put down his glass and patted him on the shoulder. "Right! I would never want my son to live in sin!" But he couldn't keep a straight face for more than a few seconds.

After lunch, it was already dark. Eva had taken a bath and fallen asleep suddenly, something that obviously never happened at home with her parents.
David and Michael took advantage of their grandparents being there to have an evening to themselves.
And there was a place Michael had always wanted to take him.

Port Talbot beach, vast and almost deserted at that hour, seemed endless: a ribbon of damp sand reflecting the dull glow of distant streetlights and the lights of villages along the coast.
Behind them, the steelworks with its reddish lights and plumes of smoke reminded them that Port Talbot was also a place of factories and hard work, but in front of them there was only the sea, immense and gloomy, stretching to the horizon.
Michael had heard that they wanted to close the steelworks, and his mind was already working on what to do about it, for all those who would inevitably be affected.

The noise of distant machinery mingled with the roar of the waves: a contrast that had always seemed familiar to Michael, the sign of a city that never stopped working.
David, on the other hand, wrapped up in his coat with his hands deep in his pockets, shivered a little, but never stopped looking around: he found the beach bare and wild, but incredibly authentic and welcoming, just like Michael.

The air smelled of salt and iron. They walked, leaving footprints in the sand. Around them, only the distant cry of seagulls, the sea and the wind that forced them to walk close together, almost touching each other to protect themselves from the cold.

Michael walked beside David with a relaxed air. A little cold.
"I used to come here as a kid to think," he said, pointing to the horizon. "Or to escape, depending on the day."
David smiled. "And now you're coming back here with me. Do you realise how romantic that is?"
"Why are you surprised? Aren't I romantic?"
"Improveable."
"Listen, improveable, shall we get in the car before we freeze?"
David chuckled. “I guess we're not used to Britain anymore...”
“Or we've grown old.”
They walked back to the car, insulting each other a little more, and insulting the weather.
Then the silence became heavier, more intimate.
They sat in the front seats without starting the engine right away, and the tension slipped away.
Michael smiled, tilting his head. "What were you plotting with my father? I saw you whispering in the kitchen."
David shrugged. "Me?"
"No, me!"
"Nothing, you told me to ask him and I did."
Michael stared at him curiously. "But what?"
David took a breath, his heart in his throat. "Um... listen, I don't have a ring because I thought it was stupid, but... well... maybe I should have gotten one, I feel stupid without it now... I want to get married, seriously! Why don't we get married? I know you don't like it, and that's fine! But I'd really like to. There, I've told you, you can start the car, we'll go home and you can pretend I didn't say anything!"

Michael tried not to smile too much, but his red cheeks betrayed him. He shook his head. "First of all, you're the one behind the wheel, not me. And secondly... that's the worst marriage proposal in the history of marriage proposals!"
David frowned. "At least I proposed! I repeat, if you want to stay like this, that's fine..."
"Just tell me where to sign and I'll sign anything you want."

David was silent for a second, taken aback. Then he looked down and added quietly, ‘Well, since we're doing this, I'd actually like a nice party, some nice clothes... I already have the theme in mind... the tables and everything else. I don't plan on doing this again, so let's make it special. I mean, it already would be because you're there, obviously... okay, you get it, stop making me talk because I sound more idiotic with every word!’

Michael laughed again and pulled him towards him, holding the back of his neck.
The kiss was slow, almost shy at first, then deeper, warmer. David tried to move towards him without hitting the horn.

Michael's hands slid over his chest, then down his side, gripping his slim waist and trying to pull him on top of him.
"What the hell are you doing now?!" muttered the Scotsman.
Michael gave him an innocent look. "Improving my romanticism! You said so yourself!"
David pressed his lips together. "I didn't say to have sex in the car!" But Michael's mouth had already moved down his jaw and neck, forcing any resistance. "Because you've never done it! I have to let you experience everything you've missed! Don't you want to feel the thrill?"
"At fifty? It's complicated at twenty, come on, be serious!"
In response, Michael's fingers unfastened his jeans without further ado. "Now I take it as a personal challenge," he murmured, making him laugh.

They kissed again, more eagerly, their bodies pressed against each other in the cramped seats. There was no space, and for this very reason, every touch, every brush became more intense: their knees bumping, their short breaths mingling, their hands searching urgently.

Michael's palm began to press against his partner's groin, more and more decisively, as he kissed him. When he felt him harden under his touch, he smiled and lowered his head between his legs.
David closed his eyes for a moment and leaned back, his face flushed with pleasure as he felt him enter his mouth.
A low moan filled the cabin, mingling with the sound of the sea.

He ran a hand through his curly hair, gently guiding the rhythm, while the other caressed the back of his neck. "Like that... keep going..."
Michael sucked him passionately, devotedly, and David let himself go at a faster pace, with stronger, deeper thrusts.
The Welshman helped himself with his hand, caressing his testicles and moving his lips to the tip, pumping him with his hand.
He began to masturbate him vigorously, wetting his hand with his own saliva, while his partner's mood moistened his lips. He licked the glans, collecting those drops, and moved back up to his face to kiss him again.

Their lips opened immediately, their breaths overlapping in the confined space of the car.

The glass was now fogged up.

David's hands moved confidently: one sank into his hair, the other descended decisively to his belt, brushing against his crotch. Michael was hard, and he squeezed him through the fabric.

The fabric of his jeans was pulled down just enough, David's hand explored carefully, slowing down only to tease him.
Michael bit his lip softly, moaning when he felt his partner's palm tighten around his erection.
His hand, however, left the wet penis alone to slide lower, past David's testicles, finding him ready, hot.
He caressed it lightly from the outside, feeling David moan and try to open his legs, which were tightly bound by the fabric of his jeans.
Michael smiled and inserted first one finger, then two, slow but decisive movements, and David moaned into his mouth. He squeezed him and began to pump him to the rhythm of the fingers penetrating him.
Michael took him by the chin with his other hand, guiding him closer, and David tried to straddle him. "Pull the seat back," he murmured, his voice hoarse and his face flushed.
"It's already back."
"The backrest! Knock the backrest down!"
"But then I'll be uncomfortable!" Michael retorted as they tried to settle into a comfortable position, between bumps against the gear stick and the door.
"I think the handbrake is stuck somewhere..." muttered David, pulling himself up just enough to avoid hitting the roof of the car. He saw Michael open his mouth and closed it with his hand. "Don't make that stupid joke you're about to make, or I'll get dressed and get out of the car!" he threatened. Michael responded by squeezing him tighter in his hands, caressing his bare back. "Yes, I want to see you do that!" he said, moving one hand down to his bum and letting the other slide up his chest, under his striped jumper.
He pushed two fingers inside him again and began to gently suck on one of his nipples.
David moaned something in an incomprehensible language and began to masturbate him with his hand again.

The rhythm increased, the windows now completely fogged up. Michael's fingers moved confidently, his mouth devouring his moans until he felt him tense up. "Can't you put it in?" David muttered, his eyes moist with frustration.
"Not in this position, not with your bloody skinny jeans."
"You love my bloody skinny jeans."
Michael chuckled, it was absolutely true, as a rule. Although on this occasion he wondered why he wasn't wearing a kilt, after all, he was Scottish, he could have worn one sometimes, what the hell!
He squeezed their two erections together with one hand, also squeezing his partner's hand. A thought automatically formed in his head: there would soon be two wedding rings on those hands...
He smiled, on his lips.

When orgasm overwhelmed them both, they remained embraced, sweaty and panting, cleaning themselves up as best they could with the Pampers wet wipes left in the dashboard.
"This..." Michael murmured, caressing the back of his neck, "is the best marriage proposal in history."
David looked up. "Yes, well, you can still improve."