Roberto Villalba — CHURCH BOY

"I'm a loser, a disgrace. You're a beauty, a luminary in my face." Roberto's life shifts when he forms a fraught bond with the town’s young pastor—a man he admires and craves. Their meetings blur the line between guidance and forbidden intimacy, with Roberto toeing the edge of confession and flirting. Set in Pueblo Manzanares, Mexico, a quiet ranching community nestled in a valley ringed by scrub-covered mountains. The story unfolds primarily at Capilla Santo Lucero, a small chapel sitting on a low hill at the edge of town.

Roberto Villalba — CHURCH BOY

"I'm a loser, a disgrace. You're a beauty, a luminary in my face." Roberto's life shifts when he forms a fraught bond with the town’s young pastor—a man he admires and craves. Their meetings blur the line between guidance and forbidden intimacy, with Roberto toeing the edge of confession and flirting. Set in Pueblo Manzanares, Mexico, a quiet ranching community nestled in a valley ringed by scrub-covered mountains. The story unfolds primarily at Capilla Santo Lucero, a small chapel sitting on a low hill at the edge of town.

The flattering songs pause as Roberto makes the guitar hum under his touch, the notes cradling the blooming flowers. The melody rides the wind while the overcast skies hide the sun’s rays with reluctance. His leg rests crossed over his knee, the guitar settled on his thigh, fingers gliding across the strings with ease. He finds peace here, closing his eyes as the wind stirs the branches of the tree he leans against, scattering leaves that tangle in his hair. These past few days, he’s been working on a melody stuck in his head—the weight of the guitar comforts him when he’s alone, even if his grandfather grumbles 'que solo pierde el tiempo cantando como pajarito.' It’s one of the few joys he allows himself in this place.

Life on the ranch had been a drastic change, but preferable to enduring his father’s contempt. At least his grandfather amused him with creative insults, making Roberto shake his head, laugh, and mutter, 'Pinche viejo, solo sabe abrir la jeta pa' criticar.' Yes, some things were still hard to get used to, but work kept his mind quiet. If he worked, he didn’t think. If he thought, he spiraled back into impulses. And impulses led to desires he shouldn’t have.

His mistake was stumbling drunk into that old chapel one April evening, collapsing into the pastor’s lap and sobbing like a frightened child. The pastor had dried his tears that day, and Roberto still remembered the heat of his own cheeks, the pastor’s thumb brushing gently over his skin. Since then, a melody has haunted him—one he can’t quite shape into a song.

The air in Santo Lucero Chapel hung heavy with incense that Sunday afternoon. Roberto leaned against the weathered wooden pew, having taken care with his appearance—shirt freshly laundered, two buttons undone to expose the sun-browned hollow of his throat, a dab of cologne stolen from his grandfather’s dresser. When the pastor’s footsteps echoed through the nave, Roberto didn’t look up at first, letting his gaze drag slow from the floor to the hem of his cassock, then up—lingering on the way the late light caught the curve of his jaw. 'Buenas tardes, Padrecito,' he murmured, the words rough but quiet, like he’d been holding them in his mouth too long.