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It happens every Sunday. The bell tolls across the street, an unspoken alarm that sends Goffredo into position. He is no army man but he carries the role with diligence. There is a knock on the door a few moments later. Thomas owns a key to the building but not to the apartment, making the knock signal it's time.
It's a dance with the same steps. Goffredo opens the door to find him there, dripping in guilt for coming to him right after Mass. Goffredo savours every drop, a blood sniffing shark. He loves how it makes Thomas so pliant, so open to seek salvation beyond holy ground.
They don't speak. It's Thomas’ particularity, retreating into himself as if he's afraid of language. They kiss, which is never enough, all teeth and tongue, no massage behind it. It has been this way for a while, no love confessions but plenty of admission of desire. Their touches create a river of want for them to bathe at.
It was nothing but sex in the beginning. Fucking with closed curtains, face down on the bed, stifled moans not on a pillow but on skin. Bite marks, scratch marks, evidence of their most violent crime. It left them panting in a locked room, lungs asking for air while their bodies searched for release. They never listened, choosing to go another round between cigarettes.
It happened on Easter, their epiphany. Thomas was tense, shoulders up in retaliation, an animal waiting to attack or be attacked.
“Hit me, “ he asked. When Goffredo did, an open handed slap to the face, he didn't expect Thomas to hit back. It became a serenade of pushing and slapping until their fall to the ground, an entwined mass of limbs kicking and panting. Goffredo is still high on the euphoria of that first touch.
Thomas greets him with a chaste kiss on the lips before placing his coat on the back of a chair. Theatrically, he throws himself on the floor, extending a hand to invite Goffredo into their madness. Instead, he forcibly pulls him by the wrist, making him stand up. Goffredo's thumb parts his lips before he spits in Thomas’ mouth.
“Whore,” he says behind a malicious laughter.
Thomas pinches his ribs, making him wince in pain. His hands shift, becoming careful as he unbuttons their shirts. He places them neatly over the dining table, not wanting to ruin his white button down and Goffredo's pyjamas. He turns and bites Goffredo's shoulder, sinking the teeth into the skin.
“Magdalene.”
Goffredo knows he wishes he could control it, but Thomas’ breath hitches. It's easy to tell he loathes himself for it, succumbing to temptation so easily. “Heretic.”
He holds Thomas’ wrists a bit too forcefully, making sure it will bruise.
“Let he who is without sin among you be the first to throw a stone at her,” Thomas smirks.
“You are so petulant, Tommaso.”
Goffredo pushes him against the wall, head hitting the bricks. They have a single rule: no black eyes. It’s superficial, helping with the upkeep of appearances. He stares at his canvas, Thomas’ bruised torso, not too dissimilar to his own.
Their rough touches are enough to get him half hard. Goffredo knows their dance all too well. He strokes himself to full hardness, staring into Thomas’ pale blue eyes. It’s a weekly ritual. Thomas comes in ready to be fucked, preparing himself before mass, kneeling in God’s house with the knowledge of his perversion. He doesn’t cum on his own, that’s their agreement. His pleasure is Goffredo's to give and his pain is theirs to share.
He takes Thomas. legs wrapped around his waist, against the wall. Thomas is not an easy fuck. He pays for every thrust with a bite, scratching his nails down his back until it bleeds. He likes it rough, likes to fight.
“You ville whore. Puttana.”
Thomas replies by biting his Adam’s apple, melting under Goffredo’s touch. They enjoy the winter the most, when they can be creative with their violence knowing it will be covered by layers of wool clothing. He doesn’t curse, he barely utters a word. When he comes, panting with a cramp in his leg, he closes his eyes and sits in silence. Goffredo fetches a rag to clean them, watching Thomas as he regains the ability to breathe. He gives him space, wondering if Thomas is praying or cursing himself in Latin. It doesn’t take a good observer to see he hates himself.
-
Next Sunday, something is off. Thomas takes longer than expected to get up the staircase. When he arrives, his eyes are rimmed with red, the same colour of his nose. He shivers when taking his coat off, avoiding Goffredo’s eyes as if he knows he did something wrong.
“You are sick,” Goffredo states. “Go home.”
Thomas laughs, putting a hand on his chest and pushing him. Up close, Goffredo can see how he trembles, how his hands are. “I am fine.”
God, wanting to reward his most devout sinner, makes him cough. It’s intense and he falls to his knees in an almost rehearsed collapse. Goffredo rushes to his aid, helping him to stand up again. He hugs him, a cheap excuse for contact, and checks his temperature.
“God, you are burning up.”
“Don’t-”
“It’s not in vain. I’m using it to express my concern for you. I worry, Tommaso. I don’t wanna see you hurt.”
Thomas laughs dryly before erupting into another coughing fit.
“It sounds painful.”
“It is,” he whispers in a rough voice. Thomas rests his head on his shoulder, as if they were slow dancing.
“How long since you’ve been feeling poorly?”
“A couple of days. It’s nothing serious.”
“Come,” he says, walking towards the corridor. “Let’s go to bed.”
Thomas has never seen his bedroom. Theirs more traditional fucks are on the guest bedroom, reserving the privacy and space of his own bedroom for sleep. Some lines don’t need to be crossed.
“I am cold,” Thomas mutters into his neck. “Let me grab my coat.”
“Get under the covers, I will get you a sweater. It's much more comfortable.”
He helps Thomas under the covers and slides into the bedroom, searching for medication in the cabinet. Goffredo goes to the kitchen and grabs a glass of water, making sure it's not too cold, and puts the kettle on, unsure of what to do with the sick man in his bed.
He wouldn't describe himself as a particularly caring person. It's difficult to see Thomas in such a state. Goffredo is used to seeing him fight, a street dog that doesn't bark but knows how to bite until he draws blood. That's what they are for, violence. Two kindred souls united by their lust for pain.
The yelling sound of the kettle takes him out of his thoughts. He finishes making tea and places it on a tray, one he bought to take breakfast in bed for a lover that never existed, along with the pills and the water.
“Here,” he says, placing the tray on the other side of the double bed. “Drink it. You will feel better soon.”
He turns his back to Thomas before he can look at him and begins searching for a sweater in his closet. He grabs a red one and hands it to Thomas, who quickly puts it on.
Goffredo considers walking to the kitchen and cooking just to take his mind off things. His mother never taught him how to deal with this. As much as he cares for Thomas and their twisted relationship, he fails to understand how to proceed.
“It smells like you,” Thomas murmurs, in a haze.
“You are still shivering.”
“It's the fever.”
Goffredo shrugs, shocked by his lack of self-care instincts. “I can't believe you left the house like this.”
“It's Sunday,” he replies, as if it explains it all. His cheeks are red, making his blue eyes pop even more.
He places the tea on the bedside table and puts the tray on the floor before sitting on the bed next to Thomas.
“It's your bed, Goffredo. Get under the covers. I am the intruder here,” he jokes before coughing. “Or don't, you will get sick.”
“Too late for that,” Goffredo replies, sliding under the covers.
He starts telling Thomas about his week, mindless anecdotes about dealing with students and his work colleagues. They rarely discuss work, often choosing to spend their Sundays in silence except for the occasional moans that escape their lips.
Goffredo doesn't run out of stories but he runs out of will, preferring to sit in silence and stare at Thomas’ face. He's half asleep, eyes closed, making his long eyelashes cast a shadow in his cheeks. It's an endearing sight. For the first time, Goffredo wonders how it would be like to wake by his side every day. It's a fulfilling thought.
-
Thomas doesn't come in next Sunday. Nor the next one.
On the third Sunday, Goffredo decides to walk across the street and go to church. He bites his lips as he walks in, expecting to burn for being a heretic. Nothing happens. He sits and stands and sits again, going through all the rites of a mass in silence.
He understands why Thomas likes it, how comforting it must be to believe. His eyes spot him in the first bench, kneeling with his head down. When it's time to consecrate, he takes the Eucharist with closed eyes, as if he is hiding something from God. Goffredo doesn't know much about Catholicism but he is aware that taking the body of Christ while not keeping celibacy outside of a marriage is a mortal sin.
Once the mass is finished, he leaves some change in a box and waits outside for Thomas. When they cross eyes, he looks startled by his presence, as if he has trespassed into private property.
“What are you doing here?”
“Praying I would see you again,” he says with a smirk. “Looks like God listened to me, after all.”
“It's finished,” Thomas replies, adjusting the collar of his coat.
“Come upstairs,” Goffredo demands, grabbing his wrist. “At least for lunch. And then we will be done forever.”
Thomas stills before nodding. Goffredo tries to get rid of the ache in his chest that comes when he thinks of the possibility of having empty Sundays again. He has grown to like Thomas, even if they barely know each other. He doesn't know his middle name, his birthday or what he does for fun outside of getting beaten up. Goffredo can't even say it's an exclusive thing, if he is the only one Thomas goes to for pain.
They make their way across the street and into the building. Thomas keeps his distance, gazing into the floor.
“You look well,” Goffredo says, opening the door. “Do you feel better?”
Thomas shrugs, taking a seat by the dining table. “I do, thank you for asking.”
“You don't have to do this. This false politeness. I know you,” Goffredo says, looking for a drink. Champagne is too celebratory, wine is too sensual and whiskey is for hard conversations only. He pours cherry liqueur in two small glasses and hands one to Thomas. They sit face to face.
“You don't.” His voice is gentle, almost a whisper. “We are acquainted.”
“You own a key to my home.”
“And you don't even know where mine is.”
Goffredo drinks all that's in his cup like a vodka shot. The liqueur burns his throat and he does his best effort to not twist his face. “You won't tell me.”
“Well, I've grown tired of it. I am exhausted of whatever this is.”
Thomas turns his face away, staring at the wall. Goffredo doesn't blame him, he knows it must be complicated to try and break up a relationship that doesn't exist. He is in the more difficult position, trying to keep whatever they have alive, a blind man glueing down a base.
“Well, it's not over. I don't want it to be.”
“It doesn't work that way,” Thomas states, drinking his liqueur.
“Tell me what changed your mind.”
“I am getting old. I am almost forty. I need to get a life, a real life. Not,” he gestures in the air, holding the crystal glass in his hand. “Whatever this is.”
Goffredo scoffs, offended. He stands up and brings the bottle of liqueur from the bar to the table, pouring himself another drink.
“I owe you nothing,” Thomas says bitterly. “I can leave.”
He stands up, straightening the coat he didn't bother taking off. Goffredo gets in front of the door, extending an arm to block him from walking out.
“Sit down. We are not done talking.”
“No,” Thomas states, trying to push him.
“If you wanna leave, fine, do it. But be honest.” He leans in, whispering in his ear. “You were fine with me hitting you but as soon as we stepped into something else, you left. You are a coward.”
“Fuck you.”
Thomas pushes him against the door, no longer focused on leaving but on hurting, a pleasant twist on their usual routine. Goffredo laughs, welcoming a sardonic smile on his face as he gets closer to Thomas. This is their domain, their dance.
“Hit me, then. I know you want to.”
And he does, a simple slap to the face that must've hurt his hand more than Goffredo’s skin. It burns pleasantly, nothing he isn't used to. Thomas hits him again and again, quick slaps in rapid succession that incite his arousal.
Goffredo slaps him as a response, with the back of his hand, knuckles knuckles hitting his nose. It's an uncomfortable fit for both of them, an unspoken compromise of their comfort for the greater good. The radio sings the song of a love affair that won't ever end as he bites Thomas neck, trying his best to take out his heavy black coat.
He knew from the start they were doomed. It's the kind of thing one never recovers from. Goffredo couldn't exactly tell his friends about it, explaining it would ruin the allure. He also carried the certainty it would be lovely, no matter what they tried, so kept experimenting with their casual violence, never thinking it would, one day, be enough.
There is honesty between them. You can fake a smile but can't fake a punch, violence is a medium of truth. No other lover or prostitute could make Goffredo feel this way. Whatever they have is precious. The threat of real, unfiltered violence can't touch their bubble of control, but it intensifies it. The thrill of being too rough with one another, of crossing a line, is what makes it interesting.
“Edward,” he moans as Goffredo punches his ribs. “My middle name is Edward. You know enough about me so let me go.”
“I don't believe in you, Tommaso. I think you are a scared little bitch who can't take anyone caring for you. Your masochistic brain only likes the pain. You are a coward.”
“I am not,” he replies, flustered. Goffredo can tell it's turning him on.
“You are such a miserable soul, not even God can save you,” Goffredo pants, opening his fly. “And that's what I like about you.”
He spits in his hand, taking Thomas' cock in it and jerking it off. Goffredo has cornered him against the door, trapping him in place. “I should keep you around. That's all you are good for. Getting hit.”
Thomas moans, throwing his head back to hit on the door. He does it on purpose, seeking pain when there isn't enough. If Goffredo gets close enough, he can almost hear his heart beating erratically in his chest.
“You’d look so good with a black eye,” he teases, thinking about their only rule. Thomas shakes under his touch, spitting at his face.
“Fuck you.”
“You'd let me do it. I know what you need.”
Thomas nods, biting his lip and arching his hips, trying to fuck Goffredo's hand. One, two, three thrusts and he is coming over his nice white shirt. Goffredo cleans his hands on his shirt, it's ruined anyway, and pretends to not notice the way Thomas looks at him.
“You can still walk away, Thomas. I just need to know if it's true.”
They sit on the ground, side by side. Thomas is catching his breath, letting his head rest on Goffredo's shoulder. His hands are still shaking from the adrenaline.
“You are rough,” he says, tracing a bite Goffredo left on his shoulder.
“You like it.”
He hums, agreeing with it. For a moment, the concerns of tomorrow can't get to them. The moment is all that exists. It happens every week. Only on Sundays.