The Man in the Rectory

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Pucci couldn't enjoy his heavy footsteps against the cold pavement. The heels of his shoes only made disruptive noises as he made his way to the rectory. He wanted to barge into the confession room if he could, only if the tarnished wooden doors ornated with silver handles of the Church weren't firmly shut, not to mention the chain that seized the handles together. What bothered him the most was the earlier encounter with the Father, who didn't seem to comprehend his troubled condition.

Was there a single soul that could empathize with his complete devotion? Whenever he sat down on a pew to admit his sins, Father Medeez only chuckled at his dedication. He'd only mention the sold indulgences in the past before promenading away, leaving Pucci to clench his teeth.

He refused to believe such a light-hearted man had stepped into the priesthood. From his perspective, Father Medeez was not the one to be ordained by God, yet there he existed as he proclaimed to be the messenger of the holy divinity.

Pucci had to stop his ramble as he stood just a few steps away from the rectory. The rug just before the door was faintly puckered with a footprint. It was an eccentric one as well. Pucci narrowed his eyes on the ruffled surface of the rug before opening the door casually. There were two that could be in the rectory... Him. And the man.

The second he'd stepped in, he noticed all the elongated windows of the building with closed curtains. With certainty hitting him at the sight of an attempt to refrain sunlight from peeking in, Pucci felt his steps growing impatient.

He practically ran over to his room, grabbing the door knob. He abstained from intruding who seemed to be present in his room as he heaved a quiet sigh, slipping his hand away from the knob. He hesitantly knocked, hoping to get a response from the figure behind the door.

The silence was all he got in return. Pucci's face contorted slightly in dismay at the lack of response. He was anticipating at least one puny hum. He remained silent, wondering if he'd misunderstood.

A strong odor of kerosene made its way to Pucci's nose, making him grimace. An unfavorable scent of oil, from where? He skimmed the hall he was standing in for a moment before realizing it was in his room. Concerned that there was a possibility of something being combusted in it, he didn't bother to reconsider his choice of swinging the door open.

His gaze immediately landed on a lantern with a florid flame that illuminated the room, acknowledging it was the cause. He trudged over to it, turning the wick adjuster knob to extinguish the light. The stinging scent of kerosene was still unpleasant as he turned his head over to the scanty couch in the corner.

It was the man. The man who claimed to be highly allergic to the sun. The man he'd met in the ossuary a few days ago, the man who'd healed his disfigured toes. The sophisticated, strange man who appeared from nowhere then disappeared back to nowhere. Pucci stared at the unconscious man, studying his oddly admirable attributes before returning to the earth.

The man was sleeping with a serene, unbothered look, his golden hair neatly tucked behind his ear that had three moles on the lobe. The way he spoke in the past, the way dressed, the way he looked, every bit of this man seemed to be an anomaly.

Pucci approached the man who sprawled over on the couch, blinking down at him. This abnormal man was inflaming something within Pucci. A budding sprout of admiration? He couldn't give the feeling a precise name. It wasn't affection, nor was it loathing.

He slumped down on the floor, resting his head against the couch, keeping his contemplation on the man's countenance. A tranquil look was fitting in this comfortable silence. Feeling like he'd regained peace, he closed his eyes awhile, the prior annoyance about Father Medeez dispersing.

He'd only opened his eyes after a few hours, finally shifting his posture as he glanced around his surroundings. The room was brightened again, everything was visible. He'd entered his room, accustoming himself to the scent of kerosene. He recalled the puzzling man sleeping on the couch, instantly lifting his head from the edge of it. Once he turned his pupils over to his peripheral vision, he heard a mutter and a cold hand gently placed on his shoulder.

The blazing golden pupils were directed at him without any vigor, a desensitized, coarsened gaze with a few tresses of hair flowing down the eyes. Pucci felt a caterwaul of anguished insects down the line of his organs at the piercing stare.

Pucci's attention shifted over to the mouth of the man which was sealed in a line before, now opened faintly. He swore he saw the tips of a beast's fangs glinting. The mutter was spoken softly in a soothing tone with concise words that brought Pucci to surprise.

"Enrico Pucci."

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