Stumbling into the chapel, heading straight for the most private chamber, Gascoigne drew the curtain closed behind him. He could barely focus. Another argument with Viola. He hadn’t been violent, though. No. He had bitten his tongue, held its sharp point between his teeth until blood ran between them. She had pounded on his chest with a tiny fist, voice creeping higher and higher. She had even cried this time, though he had later seen her wrap her wrist as though she’d done herself an injury. He hadn’t been violent. He’d held back the scream that rose from his chest, clawing its way up into the back of his throat where he strangled it until it died. Another argument? How had it come to this?

Luckily, Gascoigne had the excuse of his sacred duties to fall back on and had simply vacated the house midway through the latest one of her tirades without looking back. He could barely remember how he got here, only that he had. Glancing at the little music box on his desk, he breathed steadily out through his nose. That sweet melody used to offer some comfort in darker days, though for some reason he found he could hardly recall it. Brushing his calloused hand gently across the lid, he pulled back in surprise as a thick layer of dust clung to his fingertips. Had it really been that long?

Distractedly, suddenly wanting to put space between himself and the object, Gascoigne stepped out into the main area of the chapel. It was a bleak scene that greeted him, a couple of bedraggled individuals huddled for warmth around a dying fireplace while a few others spoke in hushed tones in various alcoves and corners. It seemed that the draw of faith was enough to bring people inside, but not to bring them together. He heaved a sigh and half-heartedly stoked the embers as he passed, receiving a small mumble of thanks.

Though the chapel was hardly occupied at present – most people with any shred of sanity left had locked themselves in their homes and barred their windows long ago – he had always found some level of solace in taking confessions and there were usually at least a couple of people each day wishing to unburden themselves of their perceived sins. Even if they did not come, he could sit with his thoughts in relative silence and that was valuable enough. Making his way to the confessional, he propped the small sign up nearby that indicated his presence, then closed himself inside.

Moments passed, lengthening first into minutes, then hours. He contemplated leaving but the silence, the darkness, and the relative warmth in that tiny space were almost comforting. It was like being swaddled in the tight embrace of a benevolent deity, content to allow him his moment of solitude. Occasional murmurs drifted in from outside, but other than that he was undisturbed. Closing his eyes, he leaned back against the dark wood panelling and his breathing began to slow. Just as he was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, the sound of someone clearing their throat jolted him into wakefulness. “Hm? Who’s there?” he said, gruffly, groggily realising he should have used a more professional tone to address a member of the congregation.

The door on the secondary section of the confessional opened, then shut. Gascoigne tried to assume a suitable state of propriety, smoothing his hair, though there was no window between them. There was nothing but a small lattice in the wood which, in the darkness of the booth, was not enough to see the other person in any clarity. To him they were merely a shadow, shifting in their seat as they started to speak.

“Greetings... I am here to ease some emotional burdens. I am told that this is the correct location for such things?”

He would recognise that voice anywhere, though it had been a long time – too long – since he’d heard it.

“Henryk” he breathed, barely a whisper.

“Gascoigne” he replied, and the priest could hear the way the edge of his mouth quirked into his usual self-assured smile. The confined space allowed him to pick up on the scent of the man in the compartment beside him, bringing a familiar feeling of comfort and… something more. The confessional seemed to suddenly shrink around him, feeling tight, small, and unbearably heated. He stared at the divider between them in the darkness, trying to push insane thoughts of destroying it with his bare hands to the back of his mind. Stark visions flickered behind his eyes, unbidden: his limbs lengthening, back arching, writhing sightlessly as a growl tore out of his throat. His claws extending, splintering the wood as easily as he would splinter the bones of anybody that dared stand between them. What… What was that?

Gascoigne’s nails, longer than he remembered, dug painfully into his thighs as he drew a shuddering breath. “W-what are you doing here?”

“My distant friend… You have felt so very lost recently.” The smile faded from Henryk’s voice. “I haven’t seen you in weeks, but even before that I could hardly stand to look at you in the eyes. It was as though you were deteriorating before me. It terrifies me, the strain you put yourself under.”

“Henryk… This… this isn’t a confession.” He forced out, head still slightly woozy from the vision – and it was so hot in the little compartment. Taking his hat from his head, he flung it onto the bench beside him, running his fingers around his neck to loosen his scarf.

“Gascoigne –”

“You shouldn’t be here. I… appreciate your concern, but –”

“Father. Please do me the courtesy of listening. I am here to help you.”

The word ‘Father’ took him out of himself, and for a moment he saw it all – exposed and blinding and true. The church had no such title, but hearing it spoken in Henryk’s honeyed tone had him ensnared like a doomed insect, tiptoeing closer to a line that he had always told himself he couldn’t – wouldn’t – cross. Henryk addressed Gascoigne with this esoteric title, deferent to his implied authority, but it was he who held all the cards. Just like in the Hunt, here too he was a step ahead. Closing his eyes, a rush of images flashed behind the priest’s eyelids: Henryk, blades dancing in the moonlight as he felled beast after beast, dark blood staining his sleeves. Henryk, looking back after a particularly skilful kill, eyes crinkling as he flashed Gascoigne a smile that only his mask could see. Henryk, pulling him close as he broke down after Viola had kicked him out of the house the first time, fingers gentle and firm against his back as he heaved dry sobs into his overcoat.

Gascoigne realised he must have been sitting in silence for a long time, because he suddenly became aware of the sound of Henryk’s feet shuffling in the other booth. He was painfully aware of the sound of his breathing, slightly laboured, almost… nervous? No. Why should he be? True, they had not seen each other in a while, but surely they were close enough not be so deeply affected by such things. The distance was Gascoigne’s doing, of course, the emotions that had begun to plague him while in Henryk’s presence made him feel no small measure of guilt. Rather than face them, he had shrunk inside himself, cowering from the man – no, from his own wayward feelings – like the townsfolk cowered from the slavering beasts that prowled the cobblestones outside their doors. If only quelling his emotions was as easy as putting an axe through their skulls.

Pulling him from his sullen introspection before he spiralled too deep, Henryk spoke in quiet tones. “In truth, I came because… I wanted to speak with you. I want to help relieve some of your tensions – help you relax a little – if you will allow me.” The words hung heavily in the stifling air. Gascoigne cleared his throat loudly, awkwardly. He was sure that the scenarios pushing their way to the forefront of his mind were absolutely not what his hunting companion had in mind. Digging his nails into his palms in an attempt to silence his impious reverie, he opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted before he could compile a coherent sentence. “Don’t you think that would be pleasant?” Henryk continued, quiet assurance creeping back into his tone with every word. He was ready to take control of the situation, guiding with a steady hand. “It is rather warm in here, isn’t it…? Why don’t we begin by getting a little more comfortable?”

When Gascoigne still didn’t respond, he persisted. “At the very least I would expect you to remove your overcoat and scarf, those are outerwear after all.” Gascoigne couldn’t deny this suggestion, with every moment they spent in here he felt increasingly lightheaded. He grunted in approval. Not needing to be told twice, the priest unwound his scarf and tossed it on top of his hat. His fingers continued almost against his will, slipping on the top button of his coat as he fumbled in the darkness in his haste to pull it open. In his slightly dazed state, he could have sworn he heard a heavier exhale from Henryk’s side as the rustling sounds made their way across the divider.

“Y-you’re not… still wearing that wretched mask, are you?” The question was intended to be playful but came out strangled as he thought of Henryk removing clothes so close by, within what would normally be touching distance.

“Of course not” Henryk smiled, tapping the bench beside him. “Do you have your coat off yet?” Gascoigne, fingers still undoing buttons, paused for a moment. Paling, he shook his head in embarrassment as his fingers brushed against skin. He… hadn’t worn a shirt today. He’d been in such a hurry to leave that he had just pulled on the bare minimum to look halfway presentable. Slight panic rose in his throat as he tried to work out how to voice this to Henryk. Making a split-second decision, he continued unbuttoning until his coat was all the way open. Peeling it from his muscular arms, he folded it swiftly and added to the pile beside him.

“Yes… Yes, it’s off.” Heat crept up the side of Gascoigne’s neck as he sat, shirtless but still heated, as though they were playing some kind of… filthy game. He knew he had to settle his thoughts, had to calm down before Henryk realised how much of an effect the mere sound of his voice had on him in his desperate state. Closing his eyes, though he was already in darkness, he tried to recall a prayer from one of his long-past sermons.

“Mmm, now doesn’t that feel so much better?” Henryk purred, suddenly sounding as though he was in the same room. He must have moved next to the divider to listen more closely Gascoigne thought, flushing at the notion, all thoughts of prayer now a distant memory. That voice, its teasing cadence, was doing things to the priest that he could hardly stand to ignore. He reached a shaking hand to the button of his trousers, not daring to progress any further. He let his hand fall to rest, as though unintentional, into his lap. There were some things that were still hard to admit, even to himself.

“Henryk –“ he croaked, face burning, but couldn’t find the words. His pulse thrummed in his ears as his heart leapt into his throat. The tension was choking him, implications of what was to come coiling in his lungs, pooling in his chest cavity until he gasped for breath.

“Now tell me, my dearest friend… Is that enough? Are you more relaxed now? Or would you like for me to assist a little more? Make you feel more… comfortable?” There was silence, but not the heavy kind of silence that permeated the desolate streets of Yharnam, nor the depressing silence that filled every corner of the home Gascoigne shared with Viola. It was the kind of silence that feels like the tension before a storm breaks – fraught with inevitability and promise.

“I need to hear you say it, this time.” Henryk spoke, a gentle reminder. A reminder that what left Gascoigne’s mouth next might define them. A reminder that he was deliberately crossing boundaries that could not be uncrossed. More than this, it was proof that Henryk considered Gascoigne’s feelings, really considered them, and wanted to hear his words of consent before proceeding.

“I…” Gascoigne cleared his throat, trembling with the weight of it all. He was tired. So very tired of the way that his life had unfolded. How could it be that his marriage, a beacon of hope for so many years, was so fractured? It was like a bone that would never set right again, so broken that even the thought of it made him nauseous. When he closed his eyes, Viola stood in his mind, fists raised, ineffectual but angry. He grasped his head in his hands, allowing himself to feel it – all of it – her thin hands around his throat as she choked him, too weak to finish what she started.

He wasn’t violent. In his mind, he took her hands, his large fingers encircling her wrists, and placed them by her sides. Stepping forwards, he brushed her hair aside and tucked it behind her ear, as he used to when they were first courting. Her expression barely faltered, brows still knitted together in resentment – or was it sorrow? Opening his mouth to speak, he paused, realising there was nothing left to say. Steeling himself, he turned his back on her, opening his eyes to gaze once more into the blackness of the confessional. When he spoke, his voice didn’t waver.

“I would appreciate your… assistance, old friend.”

“Hm… I am so very glad to hear that.” Muffled rustling sounds immediately began issuing from the compartment next door, and lurid images flashed momentarily in Gascoigne’s mind which he tried to tamp down. In a lower voice, strangely tender, Henryk murmured something. “I’ve missed you, Gascoigne.” Hoping beyond hope that he hadn’t misheard – misinterpreted his intentions somehow – the priest’s thoughts raced with the implications of his friend’s words. He had missed him too, of course, but how does one quantify the appropriate level of missing somebody before that feeling becomes something else entirely? Transforms into something beastly in its own right?

“How about we start to relieve some of that tension, hmm? You must have been carrying it for so long… All these burdens you’ve shouldered… Now is the time to take care of yourself. Just for a moment. Imagine how good it will feel, how freeing it will be, to just let go…” At Henryk’s words, Gascoigne’s hand, resting in his lap, came to worry at the button again, still not quite daring to proceed without guidance. His words made him feel warm, strangely peaceful, despite how they also set him aflame with astonishing ease. “Let your hand fall to your lap – if it isn’t already there my impatient friend.” Henryk chuckled, and Gascoigne flushed at his precognition. “Stroke yourself, but be sure to make it gentle. We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, now do we?”

Making a startled noise at Henryk’s sudden shift to more brazen language, he found himself complying without question. A subtle, uncharacteristic blush crept across his features, which he was thankful that his companion could not see. Slowly, haltingly, he twisted the button and his trousers fell open. His stomach churned, apprehension still present at the forefront of his mind despite his undeniable need. Sensing he may need some more encouragement, Henryk’s voice floated in suggestively through the lattice once more. “That’s it, you’re doing so well already. How I wish I could see you now...” His legs fell open slightly at the thought, and his breathing hitched as his hand played across the fabric of his underwear. Sounds from the compartment next to him implied that Henryk was doing the same. Henryk teased again, flustering the reticent priest. “Hmm, I suppose I’ll just have to imagine it instead… My dear old friend, legs wide open, so heated from the sound of my voice alone, those big strong hands curled around his eager –”

“S-stop…” he moaned, hand exactly where Henryk had presumed, fingers dipping gradually beneath the waistband of his underwear to caress himself with tentative little touches. It took everything within him not to whimper pathetically as he brushed against his heated flesh.

“Do you mean that?” Henryk’s voice was suddenly serious, a tinge of concern present even through the slight breathlessness. The rustling stopped, and for a moment there was complete silence.

Gascoigne rasped, voice weak. “I… No. No, I don’t. I just… It’s a bit… overwhelming.” Words failed him, fingers slowly resuming exploratory motions in their stead. His knees trembled slightly at how vulnerable this all was. He hadn’t been so vulnerable, so utterly defenceless, in years. He trusted Henryk, though, and forced himself to speak once more. “Please…” he begged. “Don’t stop.”

He could hear the smile present again in Henryk’s voice when he next spoke, comforting and assertive. “Mmm, I understand. Just let yourself lean into that feeling, don’t try to analyse it… You deserve this. When you’re ready, take yourself in your hand and try to find an enjoyable rhythm. Slowly – at first.”

The heat of the little chamber was getting to him again, and Gascoigne threw his head back at the feeling of his calloused grip around his already painfully hard cock. He couldn’t even recall the last time he had done this. It wasn’t as though he ever got the opportunity at home, and at work… well, that would usually be out of the question. For now, he couldn’t find it within himself to care. He groaned, a long deep desperate sound. Hearing the breath catch in Henryk’s throat for a second, there was a short pause before the familiar confident voice spoke again. “T-that’s good… make sure your grip is nice and firm. Why don’t you try exploring a little? Perhaps paying some attention to that weeping head?” Blushing furiously, he wondered how he knew. Henryk always knows, he thought. Tentatively, Gascoigne brought his thumb to brush over the tip, spreading slick fluid across into his palm. Henryk’s voice drifted in, merging in his head with the feelings of pleasure so the two were barely distinguishable. “How does that feel?”

A whimper escaped him as he motioned in cautious circles, arousal causing his thumb to glide with ease. “F-feels… good…” It seemed like an understatement. He could barely draw breath, the feeling was so overwhelming. In the darkness of the confessional, he could pretend that the situation was different. He could pretend that Henryk was right beside him, one hand creeping across to play with his exposed nipples, hardening them with a single purposeful touch. Letting one hand trail across his chest, he played with the delicate flesh with feverish touches until it almost hurt.

“So… so – nnngh – good…” His last word trailed upwards into a desperate little whine as he imagined Henryk’s hand in place of the one curled around his length. His hunting partner was so dextrous and precise, he had seen him in battle. Surely this was practically the same thing? Those nimble fingers, instead of holding throwing knives could hold him, twirling and stroking until –
He shuddered, choking back a tortured moan.

As though he could read Gascoigne’s thoughts, Henryk chuckled breathlessly, the distinct sound of rhythmic rustling issuing from his compartment. The slick sound of his hand surprised Gascoigne, and he flushed knowing his companion could undoubtedly hear it. “Ah, I am so - ahn – pleased…” Henryk’s cool demeanour had already begun to unravel, the teasing tone draining from his voice as little noises escaped him, acquiring a needy edge to match the priest twitching in the other compartment. It had been quite a while since he had indulged as well, and certainly never like this.

Gascoigne let out a groan that was so ragged it sounded more like a growl, desperate and raw. How he longed to burst free of the confines of the confessional, tear open Henryk’s compartment and wind his body around him, clawing at his chest, his throat, his eager length. It was nigh unbearable not to give in – but he couldn’t. There were people outside. Not many, but enough. Word would spread. He couldn’t cause himself to be reviled here, too. So, he remained, frustrated and flustered beyond anything he had felt in his life, with only Henryk’s voice and the construction of him that he had built within his head to see him through to his end.

“Ah… ah, Gascoigne” Henryk gasped, tiny cries and obscene wet noises echoing through the divider where they fell upon Gascoigne’s squirming form. His thoughts were becoming frenzied – hearing his name fall so sinfully from his friend’s yearning lips almost undid him on the spot. How many times had he lay awake, eyes shut tightly to make room for his imagination, fantasising about that very thing? It was more than he could bear.

At the sound of Henryk mewling, leaning up against the divider, Gascoigne began jerking with more frantic movements, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “Henryk… Henryk…” he breathed, the familiar name sounding utterly indecent when dripping from his fevered tongue. In that moment, he couldn’t imagine speaking of anything but him as long as he lived. Leaning into the wood, he slumped against it heavily with a thump that wrought a surprised moan from the man on the other side. Back to back, the two men breathed in erratic unison, as though they had become one – a many-limbed beast that writhed and cried, vibrating with boundless hunger.

Gascoigne’s foot kicked one of the walls as he spasmed, now uncaring of the sounds perceived by those outside. Let them condemn him. Let them flay him alive, bind him, burn him to ash, so long as Henryk did not stop making such sweet sounds in his ear. Without flesh to dig his nails into aside from his own, he scratched at the wooden seat beneath him as he reached his peak, chanting Henryk’s name like a litany.

He came thunderously, thick hot fluid spurting across his stomach as he slid down the divider, utterly spent. Reaching one hand up to his head to brush sweaty strands of hair from his face, he realised he had been crying. A small, strangled wail echoed above his head as Henryk joined him, reaching his peak and tipping over into oblivion. Feeling motion behind the divider, he presumed that Henryk had also come to rest fully on the bench, gazing up at the ceiling panel. Smudging damp tear tracks from his cheeks with the heel of his palm, he listened to the sound of the other man’s deep satisfied breaths, both basking in their shared afterglow. Gascoigne couldn’t recall a time where he had ever felt so at peace. For once, the darkness seemed to ease a little.

Perhaps later, when Gascoigne was pacing the walkway next to his house, lingering under dying lamplights, trying to muster the courage to go inside, he would be able to draw on this moment. Perhaps things could change. Gradually moving, he raised himself upright, turning to face the panel that separated him from his oldest friend.

Slowly, he reached his hand to the lattice. Poking his fingers through, as much as was possible, he reached out to Henryk. There was a moment of silence, but for rustling as the other man adjusted his position. Then, wordlessly, Gascoigne felt calloused fingers brush against his own, nudging them open to make room. Weaving their fingers together at the tips, Henryk took his hand.

And so they remained for a moment, nothing but interlocking shadows in a dusty confessional, the division between them thwarted momentarily.

Neither spoke – all that was important had already been conveyed without words.