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Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Confession was never easy, it wasn't meant to be. To find yourself in the booth, it meant you had done something against the Lord's teachings. To have to then admit to it, why should it ever feel comfortable?

Attila Dorn, a respected member of the town for many years, had always been an honorable man. He went to church on Sunday, treated those around him with kindness and respect, he was well educated, well spoken, a businessman who was a shining example for the community. To think this man could ever sin beyond using the Lord's name in vain by accident… Greed, could that maybe get to him? Could living in wealth for so many years make him cling to money a little too hard? Or perhaps Envy? Thinking another merchant's success and riches should be his own? Perhaps, but it felt so unlikely.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

Attila longed for something he shouldn't, but it wasn´t money or any other material possessions. He hadn't soured with age into a man who wouldn't wish another their success. Neither Greed nor Envy were his sins, not even Wrath. He didn't have to anymore, but he still worked hard, Sloth didn't wrap its fingers around him either. And while he appreciated the finer things in life, he never wasted money on needlessly fine clothing nor did he overindulge… Not often enough for anyone nor himself to be concerned by it, a bottle of good wine shared with friends was hardly a sin. He was a man with more than enough coin to spare and yet it wasn´t the world's riches that would be his undoing.

The church had been silent for years after their organ player had died at a blessedly old age, though despite his many years he had never raised an apprentice to fill his spot after death. When the news came that they would finally be getting a new organist, it had spread like wildfire, everyone had heard of it within an afternoon. And on the day of the Mass, when the old organ would be heard again after so many years, there wasn´t a soul who didn´t come to listen. Many had never heard it and those who did had almost forgotten how the instrument sounded and whatever was left in their memory would never compare to what they heard on that day. The way the mighty tones carried through the chapel above their heads, it filled not only the entire church but their hearts and souls as well. The instrument sang with such power and beauty, and being unable to see the man who made it sing so masterfully, it made it easy to imagine God himself was bringing them this music.

“And what are your sins, my son? Tell me, so I may help cleanse your soul.”

Many people lingered around after the Mass, slow to filter out of the church and return to their daily tasks, many eager to catch a glimpse of the organist. Attila was among them. He had been a young man when their last player had left them, memories of the church choir singing together with the instrument now vague and muddied in his mind. But he was certain that had it been even half this good, he would have remembered it in detail. Truly, he couldn't recall a single time in his life when music had moved him in such a way, when it made his heart swell and for just a second gave him what could only be described as a touch of heaven. A man who could make a pipe organ sound like the singing of angels could be no ordinary person.

And yet he was, to everyone else at least. The man they came to know as Falk Maria, was by the judgement of the townsfolk an unremarkable, older gentleman. A kind, sweet, and incredibly talented man but by any other means, entirely ordinary. Blessed by God with the gift of music, in exchange for the lack of a memorable face. Or a handsome one, as some would say. Tall and thin, with hollow cheeks and a slightly crooked nose, plenty of wrinkles already etched into his skin. So why was Attila losing sleep over him?

“I have been… I have been having lustful thoughts, father, as of late.”

They had never spoken, he only ever saw the man when coming to church on Sunday. Sometimes he would catch glimpses of him when Falk entered the chapel and rushed to his place behind the organ or when he occasionally stood to the side of everyone else, listening to the words of Father Lukas. On rare occasions he would closely pass Attila when disappearing back into the privacy of the humble monastery where he lived.

But still, Attila slowly grew to know and appreciate the details of the man's features just like he appreciated his skills. Long nimble fingers he often noticed fidgeting with the stole around his neck, fingertips no doubt roughened by years of playing. He caught how Falk always mouthed to whatever passage from the Bible Father was reading. And he always tried to catch a glimpse of his eyes, those big warm brown eyes that seemed to be filled by nothing but innocence and love for their God. So why, why did Attila lay awake thinking of Falk Maria, a dutiful servant of the Lord, in the filthiest of manners?

“And who do your thoughts regard, my son? Have you been looking at another's wife or at an unwed woman? You must confess fully, every detail is important.”

His mind certainly knew how to conjure up thoughts in great detail and he despised himself for it. At first he was looking for excuses, blaming the fascination he had with the organist purely on his musical talent. Wasn't it natural to be drawn to someone who was a master in his field, playing like no one else Attila had ever witnessed? Who wouldn't be drawn to such an individual? There could be no other reason, any other explanation… Those possibilities weren´t natural. He´d be going against both law and God himself. To desire a man, a sin above sins.

But lying was also a sin, wasn't it? And Attila was being dishonest with himself, lying to his own face that thinking of Falk´s smile meant nothing. That he didn't find the creases around his eyes endearing. He didn't know the man, they’d never truly met, so why was his mind filled with him? Why, when he closed his eyes all he could see was him, that face haunting his dreams. A face on an angel, comparable in beauty to the old frescos decorating their church. Now when he looked at them during Mass, all his mind could picture was the organist.

“It is not someone I can have, Father.”

“A married woman then.”

If only he’d remained thinking simply about Falk´s smile, maybe then he could still pretend. The sin of a lie would weigh on him so much lighter than the sin of sodomy. But sinners never got to make demands. A sinner would never be granted peace of mind, certainly not when trying to distract himself from one by committing another. He paid a pretty tavern girl one night, a sweet thing with a shapely body, the sort of girl anyone would be lucky to call their own. So then why, why when he took her to bed, when he made her writhe underneath him in pleasure, why did he think of him? Why did he- He asked her to leave when they were done, thanking her, paying her extra even. She did what he asked of her, it wasn't her fault his mind was tainted.

He sat on the bed that night, head in his hands, rosary tightly clasped between his fingers as he uttered his prayers, seeking guidance and forgiveness. He should have prayed for protection against temptation a long time ago, but he had long lost that battle. Even then, with the Holy name on his lips, he couldn´t stop thinking about the organist. The whimpers he had drawn from the girl, would Falk´s be any similar? Would he squirm beneath him the same way, face twisted in pleasure, those long nimble fingers gripping the sheets? He looked so slender in his robes, the belt of his cassock hugging the thin waist. Would Attila be able to wrap his hands around it as he manhandled him about?

“Have you acted upon your thoughts, my son? Have you given in, did she sin with you?”

No, no he could never, he could never sully such a pure creature. The organist was a man of God, one hidden away from their polluted world behind walls, in the safe haven of the church. Attila felt sick even thinking about him in such a manner, guts twisting with disgust as impure thoughts kept flooding his mind. But no matter how much he tried to deny it, how much he prayed and cursed and looked for distractions anywhere he could, he always ended up where he started.

He could not escape him, he could not hide, not going to church was not an option, he couldn't anger God more. If this was a test of his will, he needed to learn to face his demons, to look upon the man and find himself feeling no desire towards him. He prayed for guidance and strength the morning before Mass, kneeling by his bed even before the sun rose. It was one of the days Falk stood off to the side, as serene as ever consumed by the Holy word, this time holding a book between his hands, one Attila could only presume was a book of hymns. The words of Father Lukas drifted out of focus as he took notice of the way Falk ran his fingers over the spine of the volume, following the ridges, tracing them, always running down the whole length before going back up, repeatedly.

“I have not, Father, I would not dare… I keep praying, Father, I pray to our Lord for guidance every day, for strength, and yet these thoughts persist. I do not know what to do anymore, Father.”

He would never approach the other, but that didn´t mean his mind stopped wandering and those thoughts were exactly why he could never face him. He couldn't imagine looking Falk in the eyes, not after everything, pretending like he had not defiled his image. What he had seen that day in church haunted him, he felt it burrowing deep into his mind, crawling under his skin, leaving him with an eternal itch that could only be scratched in one singular way. It wouldn't leave him, if he did nothing, the way the organist´s fingers moved and caressed the old leather, tracing the cracks so precisely. His movements were fluid, steady and he had held the book so firmly yet Attila was sure his touch was gentle at the same time, perfectly pleasing.

How could he have laid there at night, replaying that image in his mind, his own hands now clutching at the sheets in a fruitless attempt to keep them off of himself? How could he have allowed that? And when he lost his battle at last, when he let go of the bedding and pressed his palm against the aching between his legs, the searing heat of shame was far greater than any pleasure he could feel. He had never felt more guilty than when he imagined the organist´s hand in the place of his own.

“I hear regret in your voice, my son, that is a good start. And do not fear if prayers are not enough, there are other means which can rid you of your demons. Holy pain shall aid you.”

He knew then that he was damned, he could already tell the whip would not be his savior, pain wouldn't do anything just like the prayers before it. No matter how great his regret was, his shame or rage, no matter what distractions the world offered there was nothing that could help him stop thinking of Falk. All the women and alcohol at his disposal would not make the other go away. And it didn't matter whether the organist was a demon in disguise sent to earth to haunt him, an angel who´s image Attila dared to sully with impure thoughts, or the most common of men. His sins were all the same and Falk Maria Schlegel would remain his personal tormentor.

“Thank you, Father, I shall do as you said. I am truly sorry for all my sins.”

“All shall be forgiven in time, my son. May the Lord be with you.”

“And also with you, Father.”

They say that with time one grows accustomed to everything, sometimes even numb to it. Perspectives change, opinions shift and what was once out of the question becomes acceptable. The torment which once pained Attila´s soul and had him lying awake in self hatred would lose its teeth over time, until it no longer stung beneath his skin like thorny vines. It molded itself into something much more palatable, something he learned to accept as a part of life. The guilt did not wash away until it was entirely gone, but the discomfort became dull. When he sat there, pleasuring himself with the image of the organist's lips between his legs, he was coddled by the thought that at least it was nothing but a fantasy. If he was a sinner, at least it all stayed in his mind.

Attila Dorn would remain a well respected member of the community, a man who in the minds of others was without a sin. And if he had ever stumbled, it was but a minor honest mistake. On Sundays, like he had done his whole life, he went to church and prayed, sat there with the silent private knowledge he was less than holy. A sinner, a terrible liar, a fornicator and a lustful sodomite. But no one knew and no one ever would. Life in the town would go on like it always had, unaffected by the personal sins of one merchant. What did it matter in the grand scheme of things if his mind was plagued by filthy thoughts regarding a man he would never speak to?

“Herr Dorn? Herr Dorn, please, before you leave, may I have a word?”

He truly was damned.

Chapter Text

“The devil strains every nerve to secure the souls which belong to Christ. We should not grudge our toil in wrestling them from Satan and giving them back to God.” - Saint Sebastian

Attila recited a quick prayer in his mind before turning around, wishing he was wrong in his expectations of who he would find facing him. But who else could it be, he’d come to know the voice of Father Lukas more than well, it couldn't have been him calling to him.

“Herr Kantor, of course, my time is the Lord´s and therefore also yours. I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance. How may I be of assistance?” he spoke with such ease, the businessman in him taking the reins, masking the inner struggle. He had caught a glance of his eyes before, but to truly look into them, to meet his gaze, it was paralyzing. In that very moment he was certain Falk could see right into his soul, that all his sins and deepest, darkest thoughts were laid bare before him. This pure man of faith exposed to all the debauchery of his mind.

Yet he stood there smiling at him, hands clasping a thin stack of musical scores. “I will not steal much of your day, I assure you. Father Lukas sends me with a request,” his expression turned slightly sheepish with the second sentence. “As winter draws near, the monastery is in a dire need of some repairs. I am to humbly ask you and other wealthy men of the city if you could spare coin for us. We'd be eternally grateful and the Lord would no doubt take note of such acts of kindness.”

The Lord would take note, yes, Attila was certain the Lord had already taken note of him, even if not for the right reasons. Could he at least lessen his future punishment like this? He had plenty to spare, he would not be aching for money even if he donated a large sum. It felt foolish to think this could save him from eternal damnation, but better to take this chance than to pass up on it. And even if he was certain this would do nothing, the way Falk looked at him, those soft, brown eyes wordlessly pleading with him, he wouldn't be able to say no regardless. Not with the thought of the other suffering throughout the cold months. This was the least he could do to apologize for his transgressions in a way.

“By all means, I´d be more than happy to provide aid, both financial and material if needed. Would Father Lukas prefer I bring the money with me next Sunday or should I make a visit another day of the week?” As he spoke he kept willing his eyes to look back at the organist, struggling to bear his gaze. It was so kind, entirely unaware of what Attila had been thinking about him. He´d no doubt see him as a monster if he knew, damning him for eternity. And he´d be right to do so.

“Oh no, no, we wouldn´t want to inconvenience you any more than necessary,” Falk hurriedly shook his head. “I can come collect the money later this week. I often accompany our cook to the market regardless, it would be no hardship for me to stop by your place as well.”

“And you've been told where to find me?”

“I´ve lived in this town for over a year, Herr Dorn, of course I know,” there was a hint of amusement in his voice, it had such a sweet tone and Attila wondered how it would sound if the other laughed. What could make him laugh, make the skin around his eyes crease with those lovely crows feet? “And Father did take the time to let me know where to find all those I need later.”

“So we shall meet again later this week?” A question which carried a death sentence with it. To make him face this man once was already condemning Attila to know no rest for several days. To talk again and hear his voice, to see the organist smile was a cruel punishment he knew he could not handle. No prayer or self inflicted pain could save him, there was no bottle of alcohol strong enough to bring him peace.

“It appears that way, yes, if I won't disturb your usual day on Thursday forenoon.”

“Not in the slightest.” Thursday was the day of his execution then. Thursday was the day to dread. A punishment for his sins even before his death.

“I´ll see you then, Herr Dorn. May the lord be with you,” Falk  gave him a small nod, running off to try and catch another merchant before all of them left.

“And also with you, Herr Kantor,” he spoke those words half to nobody, sighing to himself quietly after. He raised his eyes to the roof of the church, to the Holy imagery above him, and prayed silently for strength. Strength he had long lost, which he perhaps did not even deserve at this point, but still he would try to plead with God, because how else was he meant to meet with the other again. But maybe, just maybe Heaven had not yet entirely averted it´s gaze from him. He could only hope.

When he sat there in his study that evening, unsuccessfully trying to occupy his mind with a new book, he felt an old, familiar sensation creeping back in. It had already been there during the morning conversation, but as the whole interaction with Falk replayed in his mind, it doubled. Disgust, disdain for himself, it tasted sour in his mouth and sat heavy in his stomach. Like lead poison, killing him slowly and painfully. The vines that were tightly coiled around his insides grew their thorns again. He had never thought of another man the way he thought of the cantor, he was certain. But at the same time, when he realized his attraction, he had forbidden himself from looking back to see if this had happened before. He had denied the possibility. It couldn't have happened, it couldn't be happening now. How was it possible that a holy man had enchanted him more than any woman he had ever met?

Getting to hear his voice at last, he prayed to never hear him utter a single word ever again and at the same time he hoped to hear a thousand more sentences pass those lips. And the hint of laughter he was given, so bright and infectious in its joy, it was brief yet it made Attila´s heart swell in his chest with a feeling entirely new to him. The wrinkles in the corners of Falk's eyes were that much more endearing up close. His hand twitched to reach out, to lightly touch that sharply sculpted face, caress the imperfections which made the organist that much more beautiful in his eyes. But he could never, his touch would only defile and destroy what was pure. Art wasn't meant to be touched, merely admired from a respectful distance.

If the knock on his door had been followed by the harsh voice of a police officer demanding him open up, it would have been less frightening. Thursday arrived entirely too soon and he had not said nearly enough prayers in preparation for the cantor´s arrival. In another lifetime he may have been lucky and behind that door stood Father Lukas, but this wasn't that life. There he stood, Attila´s unknowing tormentor, wearing an ever pleasant expression despite his reddened cheeks showing he must have been cold in the forenoon chill.

“Herr Kantor, good morning, off to your duties bright and early, I see.”

“Good morning to you too, Herr Dorn. Servant of the Lord's is an early riser, there´s much to do each day and I do not wish to waste the time God has gifted me on this Earth.”

Any additional second spent in his company was like another thorn burying itself in Attila´s insides, but he was a gentleman by trade and one did not leave another standing by their doorstep.

“Please, come inside, I´ll secure the money for you shortly,” he stepped aside, inviting Falk in with a gesture of his hand. If not out of politeness and habit than because he didn't wish for the other to wait in the cold in just his cassock and a thing around his neck that was but a poor excuse for a scarf.

To not have him wait in the hallway like a common delivery boy, he led him to his office. “Your home is mine, Herr Kantor, make yourself comfortable whichever way you like.”

It was a room filled with heavy ornate furniture made of dark wood, complemented by deep green wallpaper and sparse gold work. A slightly old fashioned but still impressive display of wealth.

“May I offer you tea or perhaps something stronger to warm the body?”

“I already ask for money from you, I can hardly justify taking more of what's yours, be it time or material possessions,” the organist shook his head as his eyes wandered around the room, examining the vast collection of different items and books lining the cabinet shelves.

“I must insist, you are my guest and guest´s wishes are never an inconvenience. It is a happy duty of the master of the house to fulfill them,” Attila countered, walking behind his work desk to unlock the drawer where he already had a prepared stack of money for the donation.

“A tea then, if I may.”

“You may.” He rang the little golden bell which sat on his table and an older woman appeared in the doorway not long after.

“Frau Duplantier, tea for me and our guest, if you would. And something on the side, I do know you baked yesterday. An excruciating task, truly, to try to fall asleep when the house smells of plums and sugar,” saying that, he wore an easy smile on his lips as he turned to Falk. “You will allow me to convince you to a piece of pie, won´t you, Herr Kantor?”

He was digging his own grave, deeper and deeper with every sentence he said but his own shame could not prevent him from being a dutiful host. The rules and his own honor dictated for him to be hospitable to any and all visitors and in a sense he owed the other this hospitality more than he did to anyone else. Falk was not to suffer for his sins, continuing on with the day cold and with a parched throat because his company was like the embrace of a rose bush to Attila.

“One does not have to wonder why you make such a successful businessman, Herr Dorn. You´d convince a dead man to buy a coat… A piece of pie would be most lovely, thank you.” There it was, a chuckle. A short, sweet, amused chuckle that made Attila's heart skip a beat. 

But he couldn't allow himself to be distracted, a single sound could not make him forget himself, no matter how lovely. Clearing his throat, he gestured towards the cushioned armchairs, wordlessly inviting Falk to sit down as he himself walked over. “I'm offering you hardly anything notable, have I not known others today will keep you busy, I'd bring more to the table. You flatter me too much.”

“It is quite the list, those I must visit today, I must admit. But it's the most pleasant of surprises, we have not dared to hope people would be this charitable. We might not freeze this winter after all, perhaps it will even be a pleasant one. We are forever grateful to you and everyone else who promised to donate.” While the organist spoke, his eyes lingered on the bookshelves, jumping between the different volumes. His lips were moving silently on their own accord, the twitch of his fingers exposing the want to reach out and inspect the collection closer.

“Did any particular piece catch your eye, Herr Kantor?” Attila asked, stopping halfway through sitting down.

“Not a specific volume, no, it's more the size of your collection. I’ve noticed you own many books in foreign languages besides those in our mother tongue. Also I see Melville, Stowe… Ah, Twain. So american literature too, how wonderful, I´ve been meaning to get my hands on some of these for a few years now. It truly is an impressive collection, worthy of admiration, ” Falk mused, taking a step closer as he continued examining what lay before him. “I admit though, I do not have as much time for reading as I´d like to. But it is the work for our Lord that keeps me busy, as it should. I would not be carrying out my duties correctly if I had an abundance of time to spare.”

“An early riser and a busy man, you have mentioned as much. It is a noble pursuit, helping to bring the Lord a little closer to us with little time left for yourself. I do hope you have not reconsidered the tea then,” Attila said, just in time for the tea to be brought in together with the aforementioned pie, a wonderful sugary smell now filling the room. “Thank you, Frau Duplantier, that will be all for now.”



Falk turned to him, an undeniable spark of delight in his eyes as he looked at the pie. “I would not dare to dismiss your hospitality nor waste what I am offered. Gluttony is a sin but so is not appreciating what one is given,” he shook his head, at last sitting down, allowing his legs a moment of peace, an action which his host followed. When he took hold of his teacup, Attila was quick to notice the way he drummed his fingers against the porcelain body, his hands ever restless. It was a captivating detail, pulling him down memory lane to when he watched the other run his fingers over the thick volume of hymns once. A thought Attila rejected almost immediately, as it sparked a burning pyre of shame within him. That he dared to think these thoughts in private was already appalling enough but to do so in the cantor´s presence… Vile. Had he truly fallen so deep?

Looking at Falk, it meant to face his own conscience, his list of moral transgressions before him in the shape of a man who unknowingly caused them all. No, no he had no right to blame the other, his mere existence was not the root of the issue. It was all Attila´s doing, he was the one who committed the crime of taking this man´s image and twisted it for his own deplorable needs. And now he sat here, conversing about literature and tea like he would with anyone else, pretending to be someone who did not deserve anything but disdain.

Caught up in his own mind, he only just realized that the organist had been talking to him and had been doing so for a good minute. To mask the fact he had not been listening, he took a sip from his cup. Leaning back in his seat he remained quiet, letting the other continue speaking to catch up with the topic. Thankfully Falk seemed to have returned to where he left off with his literary fascination, going on about his search of the first edition prints of Friedrich von Schlegel´s writing, not failing to note the coincidence of their shared surnames.

“... it is nothing but one man´s wishful thinking. Perhaps one day I may be lucky enough to stumble upon it, it's not new anymore so I won't have to fight with the masses for it and it's not old enough to be considered a priced antiquity yet. So I suppose there is hope,” Falk concluded, setting down his empty plate, managing to somehow also finish the pie while Attila had been lost in his thoughts. “Is there any particular book you currently have your eyes set on, Herr Dorn?”

Despite having drank nearly all of his tea, his mouth never felt drier than in that moment and to say his brain momentarily became utterly devoid of any thought would be an understatement. “I… I h-haven´t…” he quickly drowned the stutter in another sip of tea, putting the cup away to not make it obvious how his sudden spike of anxiety made his hands tremble ever so slightly. “No, I must confess… I have not paid books nearly as much attention as I should have, as of late,” he shook his head as he gathered himself, taking a slow, deep breath which he hoped was not too noticeable.

“Then perhaps the ones I spoke about might bring your attention back to reading,” the organist smiled before raising to his feet, smoothing down his cassock. “I am terribly sorry to leave so early, merely drinking your tea and eating your pie without much in return. But sadly I cannot linger here any longer if I wish to not run around the town in an effort to visit everyone before lunch.”

“Herr Kantor, please, I am the one who stalled you here. You are hardly the one to apologize,” Attila shook his head, a hint of relief washing over him with the promise of this meeting coming to an end. What would become of him if he had to bear the undeniably lovely company for even a few more minutes? He did not want to hazard a guess. And so he rose with Falk, getting the money for him before accompanying him back to the main entrance, once more holding the door open for him as they said their goodbyes.

“I thank you one more time, Herr Dorn, for everything. And do give my compliments to your housekeeper, her baking was most delicious. Until Sunday, may the Lord be with you.”

“It's not to be mentioned and I shall. Have a good day, Herr Kantor, may the Lord be with you also.”

When he stepped back inside and closed the door behind himself, when the sounds of the street no longer reached his ears and he stood there in the silence of his nearly empty house, he could hear his own heart hammering within his chest. He felt it in his throat. Terror both burning hot and freezing cold washed over him as he rubbed his face with a long, shaky sigh. He had no doubt made a fool of himself at the end but anything was better than the truth. If Falk saw him simply as an old buffoon, it was infinitely better, and not even for the sake of Attila escaping his judgement. To know someone was thinking about you in such disgusting, unnatural ways, he didn't even want to imagine how it would make the poor man feel.

In his own discomfort and shame he holed himself up in his office for the rest of the day, putting his mind to work and nothing but work. It had never proven to be a solution to his problem, but being productive while boiling in embarrassment was better than wasting the day away entirely. And it gave him an excuse as to why he had become somewhat of a recluse lately. If anyone would question why he had missed a social gathering or two, work was always an acceptable justification.

An excuse anyone would accept, anyone safe for one single person: “Bei Gott, are you a little boy, for me to have to chase you down for every meal?”

Hilda Duplantier was a short woman of average build, always in remarkably pristine clothing, the only flaw to her overall image being the one strand of gray hair that always inexplicably slipped from under her bonnet.

“I am neither your mother nor your nanny, young man. Now come, I won't be warming up your dinner three times only for you to not eat it again,” she stood there in the doorway, hands resting on her hips, a firm expression that brooked no arguing on her face. “A man like you cannot live off of tea and a single piece of pie.”

She was not his mother but she might as well have been, he listened to her as if she was, if not more. In his mind this little old lady could command an army if she wanted to. If her mind was set on something, it was useless to argue with her, not that he had not tried many times over the years. Behind closed doors the lines blurred, a housekeeper became a friend and a confidant of many years and the master of the house became at times a petulant son, even if Hilda was his senior only by a few years.

“So that is what has been plaguing you, matters of the church,” she said once they sat down in the kitchen, food served for both of them. They had long since lost the decorum of eating apart, unless Attila had guests over, he greatly enjoyed dining with her. And food undeniably tasted better when consumed in a room that smelled of cooking, in the warm and inviting presence of another person instead of entirely alone, in a dining room far too big for a single man.

He furrowed his brow, expression twisting into something that could almost be called offended but the sourness didn't reach his eyes. “Are you going to try and analyze my state of mind again? Have we not had this conversation more times than necessary as of late?”

“I am to do that, yes. As you keep on looking like someone has stepped on your toe. You know what they say about one´s state of mind, a cheerful demeanor means a healthy body. All this frowning and staying locked in your room all day long, what is that good for? Like this I shall spend the whole winter nursing you back to health,” she argued, a slight tone of concern coloring her voice.

“Hilda…”

“Don´t Hilda me, young man. Is it such a crime to care for another's well being? You haven't been yourself lately, not in the slightest. And don't give me that look, I can tell when something is wrong. How long have we known each other?”

Attila gave a sigh of defeat, meeting her eyes: “Long enough for me to stop being a young man ages ago… I appreciate your concern, but truly, there is nothing to be discussed.”

Now it was her turn to sigh, in a much more frustrated manner though. “You wander the house like a body without a soul. You have been praying so often I would think you are a priest and not a businessman and now, after Herr Kantor visited, your presence is so dark I'm surprised the whole house had not turned black yet,” with those words she reached out, touching his hand. “Have you not confided in me plenty of times before, what makes this one so different?

There was a brief flash of something in Attila's eyes she didn't recognize as she mentioned the cantor, but she didn't fail to notice it. He had looked fearful almost for that split second, an emotion she couldn't seem to find an explanation for.

Attila remained silent before patting her hand lightly, pulling away from her touch afterwards. “I´m afraid this is my own private cross to bear… I´ll take the rest to my office, if you´ll need anything. Otherwise you can retire for the evening.” Running away from the conversation like the coward he was. But what other options did he have, telling her the truth wasn't possible and he did not have it in him to lie to her. Half truths and silence were the only way.

He left her alone in her frustration at his stubbornness and with a mind full of questions. He left her to look back at the past weeks and months, to try to put the scattered puzzle pieces of his faltering spirit together. The way his mood always seemed to worsen directly before and after Sunday Mass, yet how he ironically more often than not stayed behind, waiting seemingly for nothing. They hadn't talked often about the church, but now Attila seemed to try and ignore the topic entirely, always steering the conversation somewhere else. And whenever she wanted to discuss how wonderful the organ sounded- She had seen that look before, that strange fear mixed with something foreign to her. It was at times when she had brought up the cantor, Attila reacting to that topic as if it stung, thinking she had not noticed the subtle shifts in his expression.

So it had been Herr Schlegel, who had been tormenting him. And she might have just the idea as to why.

Chapter Text

"My eye must not look toward him, my thoughts must not glance at him- for they both awaken the heart's muddiness." - Dr. Ellis Hughes

What was a man to do when both his heart and body had a mind of its own? When his thoughts kept running away and there was nothing for him to chain them down with? Was his regret worth anything if he kept doing and thinking what he was not supposed to? Did it make him any less of a sinner, lying awake again each night in discomfort, tormented by his own mind and a man seemingly sent here to test him? He did not know and by now he did not even dare to guess. His life felt like a labyrinth and he had long since lost track of where he stumbled into it and how he could get out. But no matter which turn he took, how many steps he walked, he could still hear the cantor's voice ringing above his head, he could feel his eyes on him and the picture of his handsome face was forever carved into his memory.

If he had been affected by the other before, their two brief meetings left him an entirely changed man. Where before he merely avoided talking with Hilda about certain topics, now he became entirely withdrawn, keeping to himself as much as his lifestyle allowed. He turned to work for an easy escape, pretending it consumed all his free time, telling his housekeeper off any time she attempted to talk to his heart. And if he could not escape her that way, he would spend long hours out of the house, in the local gentlemen's club. But how long could he keep that up?

And how long could he keep on evading the organist? The first Sunday after their meeting, he had noticed how after Mass Falk made it his personal job to talk to all the wealthy men of the town, seemingly thanking them once more for their donations. But his assumption would stay just that, an assumption, as he left before the other could catch up to him. And he would do so the next week again. A grown man running away like that, it was nothing but embarrassing, wasn't it? He behaved like a child, like when he had been a little boy and had refused to greet their neighbour any time they met him, hiding behind his mother's skirt instead.

The first person he talked to after Mass ended up being Father Lukas, the man taking it upon himself to thank him personally since: “We had hoped to thank you sooner, but Kantor Schlegel had trouble catching up to you.” He received all the pleasantries expected, gratitude for the great amount of money he had given them, the usual spiel about how much it meant for the church and so on.

“What is great wealth for, if I do not use it to help others. I could hardly find a reasonable use for all of it myself, I am more than happy that some of it can aid you and the rest of the monastery, Father. We are blessed every Sunday by your sermons and playing of Herr Kantor, this is the least I can do in return.” It was the least he could do to repent for his repeated sins.

“Still we are forever grateful. The past winter wasn't kind to us and to be able to afford all the repairs, it might make this year less dreadful. It is a true blessing for us and may you be blessed by our Lord, Herr Dorn, for being one of those who made this possible.”

A dreadful winter… How bad had it been for them? Last year even he could feel the chill in his best of coats and no one went outside until they really had to. It had been one of the truly freezing ones, when all was covered in a thick layer of snow and ice, the whole world coming to a halt for several months, falling silent. If he had not been comfortable at times, how much had Falk suffered? It made him think back to how he had stood in front of his door, cheeks reddened by the morning chill, rubbing his hands together in thin, worn down gloves in an attempt to keep some warmth and feeling in them. And that laughable excuse for a scarf the other had worn, it couldn't have been doing anything to ease the cold.

Of course the thought of obtaining some clothes for the other had crossed his mind, giving him a new, nice scarf at least. A proper thing, made out of quality wool, something that could last him for years without becoming worn out. But what explanation would he give for his gift that would make such a thing appropriate? Gifts to the church were one thing, but to single the organist out like that… he could not do that. There were the donations though and if so many agreed to it, if no one seemed to be stingy, then surely there would be enough money left over to also provide people in the monastery with better clothes. 

Still an idea of a gift remained in his mind as did the need to keep apologizing for the crimes the cantor was entirely unaware of. It was a battle Attila could not win, on one side there was the sense that he owed the other but to remedy that, he would need to talk to him again which would only make matters worse. Or could it, was there any lower he could fall? He reached the bottom of the pit, had he not? Losing the battle with himself on a few nights, finding pleasure in his own hands while the images of Falk played in his mind, terribly detailed. How could it be any worse? No, no it wasn't possible.

The topic of their brief conversation kept returning to him, the books the organist had expressed interest in. And while he may not have listened for half of it, he still didn't miss the passion and excitement with which he spoke about Schlegel's work. A book, a gift simple and innocent enough, was it not? A small thing, not too expensive, that was something he could get Falk to accept without much questioning, could he not? At least that was the mindset with which he set out on a search for one of these prints, eventually managing to track down the first edition of Geschichte der europäischen Literatur in a good condition.

As of late he never felt exactly comfortable coming to Mass, but that Sunday he felt almost ill. His night had been awful, sleeping had brought him no rest and he had woken up too early as well. His hands felt clammy, he was sweating under his collar as if running a fever, able to feel every bead of sweat that ran down his back when he sat there in the church pew. The book was securely tucked by his side, waiting to be delivered. And he felt nervous about it, terribly so, like a young man giving the first courting gift away to a girl of his choosing even if this was not at all the intention.

The Mass had dragged on for what felt like an eternity, yet when it was over, he found himself entirely unprepared. His throat almost closed on him when he caught a glance of Falk, having to be the one to call out to him this time: “Herr Kantor, may I have just a moment of your time?” Had his voice sounded natural, could his nervousness be heard, were his hands now staining the book he was grasping far too tightly with sweat?

God and all of Heaven above, have mercy with him, the bright smile with which the organist turned to him, it left him momentarily stunned. He had previously thought of him as an angel and that comparison had never been more true, the man was so beautiful it almost felt wrong to look at him. How was it possible for a mortal man's eyes to shine this brightly, how could a smile be so pure, how could- “Herr Dorn, at last, I have been trying to catch up with you for weeks,” he said as he approached, the smile not leaving his lips. He seemed genuinely excited to see him, which only made Attila's nerves worsen, guts twisting inside of him.

“I must apologize, Herr Kantor, work has been keeping me terribly busy, as of late. If I had made it seem like I might be avoiding you, I truly am terribly sorry,” he said that with such ease, but the way he was grasping at the book was betraying him, exposing his true mental state. 

“Oh no, please, do not apologize, that's not in the slightest how I have meant it. I had presumed as much, I am merely glad we get to speak again. I had the most lovely time at your place, it was a true pleasure.” Attila was praying to all saints he could think of at that moment, silently begging this sweet creature to stop looking at him this way, to stop saying such things.

“The pleasure was mine, Herr Kantor and I am glad to hear I was a good host to you,” he started his next sentence, pausing for a moment then, running his hand over the spine of the book of which Falk had taken a note at last. A spark of curiosity appeared in the cantor's eyes as he tried to subtly catch what exactly Attila was holding. “I had… You have mentioned that perhaps the books you spoke of might rekindle my interest in reading.”

“And has it happened? Books are the most wonderful thing, anyone's life is richer with them,” the other agreed, eyes still lingering on the volume, the name on the front obscured to him. “Have you stumbled upon some from the list I have mentioned?”

“I have indeed, Schlegel, first edition print,” Attila nodded, showing the book to him, allowing Falk to take it from his hands.

If he had lit up with a smile before, the cantor was now positively beaming, a soft gasp of excitement escaping his lips as he grabbed the volume. He flipped through it briefly, admiring the whole thing, running his fingers over the pages. “This… You'll have a marvelous read, Herr Dorn,” he said, awe palatable in his voice, forgetting all sense of decorum in that moment, eyes still fixed on the book while he spoke.

´A man blessed by an immense talent in exchange for the lack of a memorable face, or a handsome one at that.´ He still remembered hearing those words and there had never been a statement more false. The pure joy of the organist's face, it made this strange, endlessly pleasant warmth spread through Attila´s body. A sensation that left his fingertips tingling, which made it hard to stay still or keep a neutral expression. His guts were still twisting with anxiety and yet at the same time a new feeling settled in his stomach, this fluttering sensation. In that very moment, as they stood there face to face, him alone privy to Falk's happiness, he wished for it to never end. And the fact he was responsible for this joy, only strengthened these feelings, for a brief moment he almost wasn't hating himself for them.

“I am certain it will be a marvelous read, but I won't be the one having it,” he shook his head, heart hammering in his chest at a speed he thought impossible.

Those words made the cantor look up again, slight confusion in his eyes. “Why would that be so? What stands between you and the book?”

“Nothing, Herr Kantor, but I did not buy the book for myself,” Attila explained, pausing again, needing a second to brace himself for what would follow. Not only what he would say but for all the possible reactions. “You've expressed your interest in it, how you've been on the hunt for it for years… Please, if you would accept it. A simple gift, from one lover of literature to the other.”

The world stopped then and he forgot how to breathe in the seconds before Falk reacted in any way. The cantor's eyes widened  as he looked between the book and Attila: “Herr Dorn, I… You shouldn't have… I had not spoken of these books with the hope another would buy them for me. I…”

“And I would never presume such a thing. Please, it'd make me most happy if you accepted it. If for no other reason, than please, see it as a gift in return for the wonderful music you have been blessing us with for over a year,” Attila pleaded with him, carefully choosing his words while struggling to keep him composure. “You've returned the organ to us, made it possible to hear its voice again, tunes which many had never heard in their life. Such a thing is worth a thousand thanks and more than a single book. Herr Kantor, allow me.”

There was another moment of silence between them, Falk's eyes falling back to the book as he ran his fingers over the spine, his thumb lightly caressing the front cover. “It's a… I do not know how to say thank you, you have caught me quite unprepared, Herr Dorn. But if you insist, if it would make you happy, I'll do nothing but cherish this book. That you'd think of me… Thank you, truly,” he said, voice softer, quieter. “I can only hope my music will keep bringing you joy the way it has done till now.”

Attila wanted to embrace him then, the need to firmly press the other against his chest and squeeze him in his arms almost too much to bear. Yet in reality he would not dare to even touch his hand. “It most certainly will, Herr Kantor, it most certainly will. And I hope you'll enjoy the book as much as you have hoped for all these years,” he was now smiling himself, the joy of the other was too infectious. “And I should leave you to your duties, I have taken enough of your time.”

“Oh, Herr Dorn, you've hardly taken any, you yourself are a busy man, you no doubt have other places to be as well,” Falk shook his head, the book now pressed against his chest, both arms wrapped around it. “I wish you the most pleasant day, may the Lord watch over your steps. And thank you, again.”

“And may he do so for you as well, Herr Kantor, have a good day,” Attila said with a small nod, waiting for the other to turn around before doing the same.

The world seemed a little brighter that day as he walked back home, the air smelled clearer and people were friendlier, kinder, there was an inherent sense of everything being just the way it was supposed to be. His pace was brisk, his walking cane was clicking against the ground rhythmically and every step felt so easy. Even the simple act of returning home somehow felt joyful. One Attila Dorn had left his house in the morning and an entirely new one had returned. Hilda nearly didn't recognize him.

“I was beginning to wonder where you had-” she paused mid sentence when she came to greet him in the foyer. “You're smiling!” her tone sounded almost accusatory.

Attila raised an eyebrow, handing her his coat, hat and gloves: “Is that a problem?”

There was a second of silence and then a spark appeared in Hilda´s eyes as she, clothes over her forearm, nudged the other further inside the house and over to the kitchen. Quickly disappearing to deal with his garments, she then put water to boil, getting out leftover cake, serving it for them while they waited for the tea to be ready.

“What´s the good news? And do not tell me there aren't any, I have not seen you smile like this in months, you´re practically beaming.” She would not let him run away from her this time, seeing him so happy, it was a painfully rare sight lately. A reality only made worse by the fact she had once known him as a rather cheerful man.

“Can´t a man simply appreciate a good day? It happens to be quite lovely outside,” Attila countered, filling his mouth after with the cake rather than more words.

“Do you take me for a fool, young man, how many times have you tried to lie to me and failed to do so?” she frowned, pouring the heated water into a teapot, bringing it over to the table together with two cups, sitting down herself then. “Why can't you be honest with me?”

He didn't answer her at first, avoiding her gaze, before finally saying: “You do not need to know every private matter of mine.”

“I´m your housekeeper, of course I need to know. Attila…” her voice softened. “I have been watching how something torments you for months, eating away at your soul, and I stood there unable to ease your pain. Can you blame an old woman for wanting to know what had changed so suddenly?”

He sighed, meeting her eyes: “What do you want me to say?”

“The truth.”

“I don´t… I am not your child for you to demand that from me.”

“You sure are not, no child of mine would be this stubborn, but you certainly behave like one,” she was frowning now. “You buy a book to give to someone and you cannot even tell me who had received it?”

Attila stared at her, silent, surprise written all over his face.

“You left it in the hallway, of course I noticed, and it was not here when I arrived. You have clearly brought it with you, to the Mass… I suppose Herr Kantor was happy about it?”

“What-” that was when Attila nearly choked on his tea. “How dare you- Why did you ask when you already know the answer?” His mind was racing, creating a thousand and one questions about what Hilda actually knew and what she was thinking of him. Did she see right through him? She always claimed she did.

“Because I hoped you would tell me yourself. You´ve made another man´s day and that in return brought you joy, would that be so hard to say? He is a wonderful, kind person and you share a passion for books, hardly a private life matter, my dear,” she shook her head, carefully watching as his expression changed.

“No… No, I suppose it is not,” he spoke before taking another slow, careful sip of tea. “It is a relief that the church can now begin its repairs. I had worried how they might make it through the winter… Maybe worrying about it had dampened my spirit more than I realized, I´m sorry.”

And with the shift of the conversation Hilda knew, she was certain her suspicions had been correct. “Perhaps you should invite him over again some day, this place is certainly more comfortable for discussing books than the church,” she suggested, smirking to herself just the smallest bit as she watched Attila´s expression change again.

“That would hardly be proper, and it is not as if I plan on bringing Herr Kantor more books,” he promptly rejected the idea, rising to his feet. “It is nothing but a single gift, a thank you for having the organ back and besides, I am terribly busy.” He turned to leave then, before Hilda could ask him any more questions. But even if she could, she would not, she had the answers she needed, for now.

Attila truly had no intention of giving the organist more books, but that was the thing, he specifically spoke of books and nothing else. The topic of the scarf was still on his mind, especially as the days grew shorter and the nights colder, winter air nipped on his skin each time he stepped outside. Again and again he would think back to the cantor and his slim stature. How much heat could a body like that hold, those thin robes with not much underneath couldn't be of much help either, could they? Each time Attila had caught a glimpse of him at the church, a cold shiver ran down his spine and the longer he thought about it, the more it bothered him. No, no he could not leave it like this.

He had spotted him in the market square one week, accompanying the old lady that cooked for the monastery, carrying her basket. Yet again, just that ragged scarf there to keep the chill at bay. He stopped for only a moment, looking at him across the street, at how he stiffly flexed his fingers, face half buried in the scarf, cheeks and nose red from the cold air. If he had not been concerned about the other´s health before, now he was. Worry consumed him far more than any of his lustful thoughts did before.

He still kept a little hope that eventually the church itself would provide Falk with better clothes, but it never happened and the glimpse of him in the market had been the last nail in the coffin of Attila´s potentially unwise decision. But when had he ever acted wisely when it came to the organist. When he stood there in the shop, running his gloved fingers over the different fabrics, looking for a scarf most fitting for a cantor, his mind wandered back to how the other had smiled at him upon receiving the book. Would it be the same this time, would Falk's eyes light up with that special little sparkle? The thought made warmth blossom in Attila´s chest. The knowledge of being a source of happiness for the other, the sensation it brought him, he found himself wanting to experience it again and maybe one more time after. That smile was priceless to him.

It was a simple gray thing, the scarf he had chosen, pleasant to touch, made out of quality wool. Though the question remained of how he could possibly give it to the other in an appropriate manner. Like a blessing came then the realization that the yearly charity the church organized, could be his opportunity. His only opportunity, most likely. The approaching Christmas, the season of giving, that was his ticket out of all this. Still he felt no less nervous when the day came, just like with the book he was second guessing himself. Yet the wish- No, the need to do something nice for Falk was stronger than the panicked, hesitant voice inside his head.

The charity always happened on the evening of the first Advent, a tradition older than Attila himself. It always felt otherworldly, stepping into the church on that day, seeing it freshly decorated, sharp scent of frankincense filling the air. Gazing at the ceiling, one could almost hear the angels singing, the heavenly choir blessing their ears. But what were their tunes and their beautifully painted faces in comparison to the sight of the cantor, illuminated by the light of a thousand candles, standing there among the pews with the glittering altar behind him. From the corner of Attila´s eye, the candlelight was almost giving the other a halo, an illusion which made hot shame blossom once more.

The scarf suddenly felt like it was made out of lead, pulling him down just like his own endless guilt. No, no he could not approach him. How could he ever explain this? Why had he thought he could somehow make this gesture anything but strange at best. And so the scarf would lay there beside him during the evening Mass, a thorn in his side while he listened to the choir sing, while the voice of the organ and Father Lukas carried through the chapel. Words of upcoming celebrations of Jesus´ birth, of kindness and caring, of giving to others, it all melted into background noise in his head, a backdrop for his spiralling thoughts. He felt their eyes, those of the Saints, every single one of them, boring into him, piercing his skin, his flesh and bones, stabbing at his mind, picking apart every terrible thought he ever had.

He sat there, in his private pew after the sermon was over, praying silently for… What did he even pray for anymore? The way he saw Falk, his fantasies, no matter how much he rejected them, they never left, they were carved into the very fabric of his being. It couldn´t be forgiveness he prayed for either, for he knew he did not deserve it. A habit. He prayed out of habit, because what else was he supposed to do. He prayed to the Lord, hoping He would at least see that in all other walks of life Attila had tried his best to remain a good, honest man.

“I don't beg forgiveness, my Lord, I do not dare to ask that of you anymore. You've tested me and I have failed, I´ve failed You so terribly. Know it, my Lord, know that I tried. I tried to gaze upon Your servant and quell the impurities of my mind, I tried to fight the demons of lust and sodomy and I have lost my battle with them… I´m not a strong man, my Lord and for that I am sorry, I´ll forever be. If guilt and regret has any worth to You, know that there is no end to mine… I have known no peace with him in my life and none will come to me even if I will not see him ever again. I know it is my punishment and I´ll accept any other You give me, my Lord for I do deserve it… I´m sorry.”

He prayed long enough for the church to empty almost entirely, beads of the rosary falling between his fingers just like words soundlessly fell past his lips. When he was finally done, he got up just as silently, not even raising his eyes. He did not dare to look around, to see if Falk was anywhere near, he did not dare to gaze at the Saints above him again, they were no doubt frowning at him. He carried his guilt with him back home that night, heavy and sharp, digging into his skin, making him bleed. But while the guilt remained with him the scarf did not. The scarf laid there, abandoned, in the corner of his pew.