This novel is originally published in Spanish, my English is not too good, but I have tried to support myself in AI and with a dictionary (like in the old school), I don't know how well the translation is done. Anyway, I hope that the novel can be understood well and that you like it. 

...Manuel...

The driver woke me up when we arrived, I felt a little disoriented, but the driver's insistence for his money made me wake up quickly. I paid him and got out with my bag in hand. I crossed the fence that divided the courtyard from the sidewalk. After a long trip from Bahía Blanca, I was finally in Villa del Carmen. I was a little nervous, my legs were shaking and my hands were sweating. A few months ago I had finished my priesthood and here I was going to finish my formation, as a kind of residence. When the priest in charge thought I was ready, he would retire and give me his place. The parish was a bit shabby, the roof had lost some tiles and the bell tower, a little cage-shaped tower with a cross on the top, had hail marks on the walls. It had a courtyard at the entrance, where, in the corner on the left, stood the Virgin made of cement illuminated by celestial lights, standing on a pedestal filled with bouquets of flowers and melted candles. She returned a serene gaze, extending her arms in a welcoming gesture. At the bottom, under the shade of the bouquets, I could see a bronze plaque on which I could just barely make out the inscription "Our Lady of Mount Carmel, pray for us." I paused again at her white and light blue face, the white eyes seemed alive when looked at too long. It was as if she was scrutinizing my inner self trying to find my best kept secrets. As a kid I was afraid of that feeling. I remembered trying to get behind the statue in my grandmother's house, until she started reading the Bible to me, so I put my fear aside and came to the priesthood.

I grabbed my bag again, entered the crowded parish and settled in a corner at the back of the church. It was brighter than it looked from the outside, there were pictures of saints on the walls and, behind the Father, statues similar to the one outside, a Virgin on the right side and a crucified Jesus in the middle, just above the altar.

I waited patiently for the Mass to end. As the parish slowly emptied, I could see Father leaving through a side door while the altar boys were busy putting everything away. I approached once everyone had left, my footsteps echoed in the church, but the boys did not stop at me. I sat in the first pew and watched them go from one side to the other putting things away and cleaning up. In the silence of the temple, you could barely hear them walking. They reminded me of me when I first started attending church and catechism. A deep voice emerged from the side door dispelling the silence in the parish, shortly after, Father appeared, a man in his seventies, short and stout. He asked the altar boys to hurry up before looking at me with a smile.

—Manuel! I thought you were arriving next week. My name is Basilio, I don't know if Damián told you.

He held out his hand for me to shake.

—I got a ticket earlier. I forgot to warn you.

—It's all right, son, the room is ready, Sister Blanca prepared it yesterday. When the children leave, I'll take you.

He waved me to sit on one of the benches. The boys went out the side door and soon after, they left. I accompanied Basilio to the main gate to close it. We then closed the doors of the temple before guiding me to what was to be my room from now on. It was modest and looked like it had not been used for years. On one of the walls, just above the bed, was a picture of the sacred heart, the frame enclosing it missing the paint like the walls. Next to it, there was a wooden crucifix and, attached to the foot of the bed, a dresser. On the other wall, an old clock that had once been white, but now looked yellowish. Next to the bed was an old desk as well. A door on the same side caught my attention. Could it be another closet? I walked over and opened it, it was a bathroom of its own. I hadn't had one since before I entered the priesthood. I sat on the bed, opened my bag and took out a picture frame that contained a photo of my mother, my grandmother, my sister and me when I was only seven years old. I put it on top of a desk that doubled as a bedside table. Suddenly there was a knock on the door, I made an effort to get up and open it, I was a novice.

—Good evening, Father Manuel," his thin lips curved into a smile. Dinner is ready, I'll take you to the dining room.

I thanked her by walking out and closing behind me, as we walked down the hallway she introduced herself as Maria. I followed her into the dining room, a rectangular room with two pairs of long tables. Father Basilio beckoned me with his hand to sit with him. We were joined by six other nuns and the novice who had brought me. He introduced us while another pair served us food. Afterwards, he told me that the rest of the Sisters and some novices were cloistered. One of the nuns, Nieves, was doing most of the talking besides Basilio. She told of her work as a catechist for the kindergarten children and in charge of the choir at the parish school a block away. When we finished eating, I got up and went back to my room. I changed out of my clothes into my pajamas and reached for my cell phone before collapsing on the bed. I texted my sister to let our mother and grandmother know I was already at the parish. I told her quickly and tersely how the trip to the retreat had been, about the rest of the trip to Pilar and Villa del Carmen I couldn't tell her much, I had been dozing all the way, I couldn't see much because I was so tired. Shortly after, I said goodbye to her and I was ready to rest at last. The bed was not the most comfortable in the world, but I was sure I would have no problem falling asleep, it was better than sleeping in a bus or a car.

The next day, during breakfast, Father Basilio gave me a sheet of paper with a schedule, it was the one that had governed the parish for years. I looked at it a couple of times while I drank the coffee Blanca had served me. It had the schedules for meals, masses and activities.

The rest of the day was about following the schedule and Basilio in the parish. It was mandatory for me to see how they were organized from the beginning so that there would be no changes, but I knew that I would probably change something when I took over. At four o'clock the last activity of the day began. It was a meeting of missionaries, where Father gave them advice, read passages from the Bible and explained them to them. I sat on the side, from there I could see the attendants, they were boys and young men, all of them with their yellow and white handkerchief hooked around their necks with a pin of the Virgin, except one of them who was sitting among the novices at the back. He was a young boy, probably not more than twenty years old, he was not wearing the scarf and he had a notebook in which he was writing. He caught my attention. The other boys didn't have anything to write down, I even remembered the years I had been in the missionaries during my adolescence, we didn't write anything down either. When the meeting was over, most of them left except for the boy with the notebook, who approached Basilio while the novices and I arranged the chairs.

—Gabriel!

I heard Father exclaim before his voices were muffled by the noise of the chairs. I looked at him before going out into the hallway, he was holding his notebook open, I imagined he was asking him something.

—Maria —Her light blue eyes fell on me—. Why did that boy bring a notebook? As far as I remember, you never write things down at meetings.

She opened her mouth to answer me, but Nieves called her from the kitchen. Maria excused herself with the promise that she would tell me later and left, leaving me alone in the hallway. I decided to go back to my room and take a shower before the hour we had to spend at the oratory, the last mass of the day and dinner. I hoped Maria wouldn't forget to tell me about that boy, I knew that while we were eating, Basilio was going to keep filling me in on the neighborhood and the parish, so I would have to wait until we were unoccupied before we could talk. 

...Gabriel...

I looked at the clock on the wall, it read three o'clock in the morning, as if by instinct, I let out a tired yawn. Who had sent me to study theology? Since I was a kid I had a hard time studying the Bible, most of the time I didn't understand what the passages meant, the rest of the time I didn't even make the effort. I looked at the books and notebooks cluttered on the table. You could barely see the plastic tablecloth, at least this way you couldn't see the patches, scuffs and holes from years of use. I made an effort to concentrate again on the notes, but after reading the first sentence, I was distracted by something on the corner of the table to my left, a holy card with the image of St. Thomas in the robes of a friar. During the first year of my degree I had had to study about him. I picked it up and looked at it for a few moments, it had some marks, it had probably been bent at some point, one of the corners was broken. I turned it over, on the other side was a long prayer:

—"Oh, who would succeed, my Saint, in being a true disciple in virtue and letters, learning from the book of your virtues..."

I recited softly, remembering that during exam times they made us pray to him. I still remembered those weeks at the end of the bimester in primary and the term in high school, all of us sitting in mixed pairs, one bench behind the other in a row, praying in unison a prayer automatically.

I left the holy card where it was, bumping into a cup of coffee that I had forgotten at some point, I couldn't even remember when I had made it. I took a sip, it was disgustingly cold. I got up to dump what was left in the sink and look for something with sugar to replace it. Some cookies peeking out of the cupboard looked like enough to keep me awake all night, or so I hoped. I looked for a spot at the table where I wouldn't be in the way.

My concentration on my notes didn't last long, the ticking of the clock reminding me how late it was and how much I wished I was sleeping instead of reading book after book of fundamental theology. I drummed my fingers on the table. I thought of Santiago, surely it wouldn't be so hard for me to study in the wee hours of the morning if he were around. Two years ago he had gone to the priesthood like many men in the neighborhood, who went to the seminary or studied things related to Catholicism. I remembered the last year of high school, Santiago had decided to enter the priesthood from the first day of school, I admired his conviction about his future. I thought, for a while, to follow in his footsteps, to go with him as always. We had never separated, why should we now? In the end, indecision led to him leaving without me. I ended up deciding to sign up for a degree in theology, after all I had spent my whole life going to church with my parents and following the teachings of the Bible, how hard could it be? It was obvious that I had forgotten how bad I was at studying it.

My eyes filled with tears from another yawn. For some reason unknown to me and unbeknownst to me, I had completely pushed away the distracting thoughts. I heard the clock ticking again. I looked down at the pages of my notebook, forcing myself to study. Occasionally, the letters danced on the paper or became blurry as when the ink got wet. Surely I wasn't going to perform well with how tired I was. I was once again distracted by the clock, an hour had passed already and I had done nothing but ramble. I flipped through the pages until I came to the notes I had made while Father Basilio was explaining. I hoped that, with any luck, they would function as a lifesaver when I couldn't remember anything I had studied these past few days. If I had thought to ask him before, I was sure I would not be studying now.

I realized it was morning when I heard my mom's alarm clock from the bedroom. I raised my head and turned to the window above the sink, it was starting to get light outside. I heard her go into the bathroom and come out a few minutes later. She greeted me by patting me on the back before preparing breakfast, which consisted of nothing more than three coffees and a few slices of toast that we could spread with dulce de leche, butter or jam. I decided to gather my books and notebook and take them to my room. Did I still have time to review? I thought, counting the time I had to eat breakfast, get ready and leave. Could I take the bus? It always took me longer to wait for it than to get to school, it was out of the question. I put the notebook in my backpack and left the books on the bed, next to my cat who barely looked at me to meow.

— Then I put them away.

I told him as if he had reproached me for leaving them there. I went back to the kitchen, breakfast was already on the table, I sat down and took a sip of the coffee, I felt happy to feel it hot, not like the one I had left hours ago. Soon, the three of us were sitting at the table having breakfast. My dad, as was his custom, entrusted me to God, reminding me that he was going to enlighten me today, to trust him. I nodded silently. Those words no longer had the effect on me as they did when I was a boy. I felt the spell had been broken after spending the night reading about the Bible.

I left my house around seven o'clock with my backpack slung over my shoulder, but I had decided at the last minute not to show up. I had stayed up all night for nothing. I didn't care. I walked in the direction of the bus stop in a poor performance. Lying was a venial sin, I wouldn't go to hell for making them think I was going to high school and it could be fixed by going to confession. I preferred, instead, to go all the way to the parish, so I detoured a block later and circled around to get there. Fortunately, my mom worked at the health center at the other end of the neighborhood. My dad worked at a mechanic shop in Del Viso, so he had to go the same way as me to catch the same bus. I was grateful for the irregular schedule that the line had, two cars could pass in a row or within two hours of each other.

I crossed myself as I entered the parish door and walked, trying to make as little noise as possible, to one of the pews in the back. I dropped my backpack on the seat and knelt on the kneeler with my fingers intertwined to pray. I closed my eyes with the intention of atoning for my sins, but I was distracted when I heard voices, one was Father Basilio's, I could recognize it anywhere without much effort. The other forced me to open my eyes to find out who it was. It was a tall man, with brown hair neatly combed back, the clerical collar gave away his priestly condition. I had not seen him before, was he from San Cayetano? I knew that they sometimes came to see the priest from the church in Del Viso, but I knew them too, we used to go there on important dates. There was no other explanation, that man was new in the neighborhood. When they came a little closer, I could see him better, I had seen him, but where? Suddenly, the image of the previous day at the missionary meeting appeared in my head. He had been sitting on the side. I had barely noticed him, I was more concerned with writing down what Basilio was saying than paying attention to the new priest. If I hadn't been concentrating on what he was trying to use as a lifeline in the midterm, I was sure I would have struggled not to stare at him. He was an attractive man, not as attractive as Santiago, but I could easily stare at him for a long time. I tried to push those thoughts away, I couldn't think like that in church, let alone for a Father. This was a greater sin, not like lying to my parents to fail an exam. I was sure they would punish me worse if I told them I was gay than if I told them I had missed an exam that they were going to have to pay for again. They seemed to have noticed my presence, they spoke in whispers that were barely distinguishable as voices. Then Father Basilio walked out the front door, while the other man settled into the first seat. I didn't think too much, I grabbed my backpack, stood up and approached him with the intention of speaking to him, I had no idea what I was going to say, but my body was moving on its own.

—Good morning," I said shyly, sitting down next to him.

—Good day, Gabriel, isn't it?

—Do you know me?

—I saw you yesterday at the meeting of the missionaries. You caught my attention, you were the only one who wrote things down.

—I study theology, it helps me to come and listen to the talks and ask Father Basilio some questions —he nodded silently—. Does he come from San Cayetano? I hadn't seen him in the neighborhood.

—I arrived the day before yesterday. I recently finished my priesthood and they sent me to finish my formation.

I was about to speak, but Basilio's footsteps echoing in the parish distracted me. He approached us smiling kindly as usual, greeted me and introduced me to Father Manuel before asking me to accompany him. Manuel waved goodbye to me and followed the other Father out the side door. I sat there without moving. I thought I could be the perfect replacement for Santiago, but I repressed that idea as fast as I could, it went against the precepts of the Bible and all the values my parents had taught me since I was a boy.