Heaven Tastes Like Peaches

Konrad touched Sławek's lips, softly, like the brush of a butterfly's wings. They tasted of beer and something else, some indescribable, exciting sweetness that ran like electricity through his body. He kissed him, sleeping, dreaming of reciprocity, when he suddenly sensed that Slawek's lips were reacting. They do it consciously or in their sleep, he wondered as his heart pounded madly.

Sławek groaned and suddenly he was lying on his back with the blanket pulled back - sleepy, no doubt, but probably not very deeply. He must have dreamed something.

Konrad touched his torso gently. He saw Sławek's nipples harden with excitement. He knew how immoral it was to molest a sleeper, but how could he hold back, he, a teen in his throes of hormones, faced with such a sexy and innocent sight? How could he not feel thirsty when, through his sleep, the bulge in Domejczuk's crotch grew larger and larger and so impressive that he wanted to saturate his eyes with it and maybe something else ...

He sprang up suddenly as if struck by the thunderbolt.

Oh no no no no! Maybe he was excited by the proximity of Sławek, maybe they were physically reacting to each other, but he is not yet so desperate to molest him in his sleep! If he finally decides to experiment with a man, with Sławek, he will do it willingly, but only if they both want it. For now, he has to be content with the bathroom and her own hands.

***

Konrad grunted with satisfaction and rolled over to the other side. He didn't know it, but he was smiling in his sleep. Sławek looked at him for a moment feeling a strange, unidentified kind of sadness, then he turned and left.

It was a Sunday morning, which is why Domejczuk was wearing the initial black. Mourning may have been unfashionable, especially when worn for grandfather by such a young person, but black was Sławek's choice, not an imperative of social convention. He dressed as his heart told him.

This Sunday, at eight o'clock, there was a mass for Sławoj's soul. This occasion revived in him a sense of loss and loneliness, somewhat dormant in recent days. Dormant because of the sculptural work and this boy who got into his life without asking. But was it really a dream or just apathy? Maybe it's actually a dream, a nap, from which sooner or later he will wake up and face reality again.

With Konrad, Sławek's heart acted strange. It's as if it's alive. It wanted to live. It was beating hard and decisively, causing a host of different physical and emotional responses. Skalski's face, his voice, his scent made the house left by Sławoj not empty, and the mind and heart of his grandson, at least for a moment, at least a little, were not so terribly lonely. Sometimes he even forgot about this terrible, painful feeling and smiled shyly but sincerely.

Sławek put on his shoes and went out into the yard. It was only half past seven, so he'd be easy to get to church and he'd have plenty of time. That was his purpose. He wanted to go to the cemetery earlier and pray for his grandfather's soul on the grave.

Sławoj left him so suddenly. He was old and the boy might have expected him to die, but he wasn't really prepared for it. Probably no one is fully prepared for the passing of someone they love. It is always under the illusion that this someone will live a little longer. But it's not like that. People are leaving. First father, then mother, and finally grandfather. Looking at his freshly made grave, he could not deny this truth.

Most of the flowers in the bunches were already dead. The roses came first. They now threatened with their deadness against the backdrop of green needles and white farewell ribbons. They made a clear statement that no life lasts forever. No beauty. Everything passes over time, although sometimes it happens too quickly. Sławek took off the withered bunches and lit a candle on the mound of the grave. One day he will have to think about the tombstone monument. This simple, brown wooden cross won't stay here forever.

He missed his grandfather. He missed him very much. His gentle smile. His wise, penetrating eyes. His cheerful voice. His praise. The touch of his hand on Sławek's hair, when he proudly stated that the boy had great talent and could be famous like Michelangelo.

Sławek did not care about the fame of the Renaissance sculptor, but he received his grandfather's compliments, like a hungry chick, with food from a parent. He was happy about them and wanted his grandfather to be always proud of him, so he started carving his pieta in the footsteps of the Michelangelo. Sławoj was overjoyed and delighted with the composition and performance. Moved, he cried when he saw the finished face of Mary.

Sławek blinked his eyelids. Suddenly his eyes began to pinch him, as if he had salt in them. He rubbed them and felt the wetness under his fingers. He wasn't surprised, just a little embarrassed. He was a grown man, so he shouldn't cry even if he was visiting the fresh grave of someone he loved so much. He had expected this, however, so he left earlier. He took the withered flowers to throw them into the garbage can, glanced at the grave one last time and walked away still feeling the same pain in his heart.

***

Konrad was fresh and rested, although he managed to fall asleep quite late. He noticed that the closeness of Sławek, although it had disturbed him so much before, became comfortable for him. It was nice to feel the warmth flowing from him and hear the soft, rhythmic breathing.

For as long as he could remember, Skalski slept alone. It means, he knew that as a pretty little kid he'd slept in the same bed with his mother, otherwise he couldn't sleep, but that was so long ago and he was so small then that he only knew it from stories. He would never have thought that sharing a bed, even so narrow, could be this pleasant. Probably he already understood why people decided to share the bedroom.

Of course, Sławek wasn't in bed anymore. This boy was definitely an early riser. He always got up when the sun was still low and disappeared into the studio. He sat there for long hours so Konrad came to the conclusion that the pieta must be almost ready. Anyway, the young sculptor himself admitted it. This is good, because the deadline was chasing, and old Skalski was not someone who would be able to postpone the repayment date out of the goodness of his heart.

But is the money for the sculptures alone enough? The amount of debt was huge. Sławek was lucky to find a buyer who was interested in his works, but it did not change the fact that the works of young, unknown artists could not be sold expensive. After all, no one is that philanthropicoil to pay for something several times more than the market price. So it would be good if they could find an additional source of money. But how?