Chapter Text
It has been a day since he woke up in this strange, strange dream. It was quite a nice one, he supposed. His body doesn’t ache (no, not terribly, he is 75 after all). His eyesight, which creates illusion of doubles more often than not these days, were consistently focused although still blurry when he tried to read. To his absolute delight, his knees were sturdy enough to walk unaided. He had circled around the garden’s perimeter yesterday, three times over, just to make sure.
The apartment he had woke up in was decidedly lavish. At this time in the morning yesterday he had no idea where he was, if it was some kind of fancy hospital suite, or if they had relocated entirely, or even if he had died and gone to heaven. He had for a moment convinced himself of the latter, because that would explain the lack of pain that has been his constant companion these past years. But then he was still taking ten minutes to get up, joints creaking, so he decided this wasn’t heaven, after all.
Still, he had found the change quite nice. The bed he slept on was soft and bouncy, a drastic improvement of the hospital bed. His blanket was thick and cool to the touch, unblemished by dirty stains. The place itself was spacious, the high ceilings and big windows somehow reminded him of his time at the Vatican as a younger man, lifetimes ago.
Really, he wouldn’t have minded it at all, if he didn’t find the silence around him jarring. The deafening, ever-present ringing in his head was gone.
And so does the hustles and bustles of a little family he had called a home.
Thomas sighed. At this time he should be waking the children up, his youngest son was still a teenager and prone to whinging. Instead, he walked to the window and looked up. The sky above the gardens was still dark. Somewhere across the verdure, across the buildings between The Palace of The Holy Office and The Casa Santa Marta, his Vincent probably sleeps. No, not his Vincent. His Holiness Pope Innocent XIV, Ray had told him yesterday when he visited, bringing hot soup and medicine. You’re scaring me, Your Eminence. You shouldn’t joke about dementia like that!
Your Eminence. No one had called him that before–he was never an archbishop, let alone a cardinal! He had massaged his temples, then. The doctors had warned him about psychosis, visual hallucinations, seizures, unconciousness and the likes when they showed him the diffuse brain metastases in his MRI results. He had prepared himself for it, but experiencing it was entirely another matter. Sensing his distress, Ray had sat with him on the bed, clasping their hands as one. This Ray had worn a plain cassock with purple fascia. A strange Ray, speaking in strange syllables.
“I can tell His Holiness that you’re still unwell,” he had offered.
He had no idea why Aldo has to be told of his condition, or if Ray meant the Vincent who is Pope now, he guess, or if anything he saw and heard was real.
“Yes, please do,” he said, not even knowing why he entertained these scenarios his sick brain made up, “Thank you, Ray,”
After that, he had spent most of his time walking around as one in a dream. Because a dream it must be. The Vatican was as lovely as the day he had left it, and just as lonely. He had walked in the gardens, brushing his fingertips on the bushes that grew on his left and right. He had dipped his hands on the lotus pond, observing the way the clear water part around his fingers. He had climbed back to his balcony, watching the sky as church bells rang through the city. He paced in his bedroom. He waited. And he waited.
The nurses must have noticed that he’s hallucinating right now. Or that he’s unconscious, his awareness trapped somewhere peculiar. They must be busy checking his monitor, scribbling numbers in his charts, calling the doctor wherever she were. His eldest daughter—his little doctor!—who spent most of her free time beside him, must be standing at the foot of his bed, brows furrowed, watching intently. He wondered if he would be alive to see her graduate, taking her oath. He wanted to. So he need to wake up.
The night descended and he was still trapped. And then the sun gently peeked behind the hills and he was still trapped. Now, looking through the window, he just felt tired. He rested his forehead on the glass. His breath bloomed, misty white. From the corner of his eyes he saw figures in blue hurrying across the piazza—they started their day early, the diligent nuns. He could see his second child doing the same, dedicated as she were. He hoped she had worn a coat at least, mornings before sunrise were always cold, despite it being in summer.
His eyelids felt heavy. The buzz of Rome waking up to his ears a steady lullaby. It was unusual, to hear anything but Vincent’s soft breath lulling him into sleep, but for now he’d take what he was given. Hopefully he would wake up to the murmur of Vincent’s morning prayer, to his soft brown eyes peering into his own, and to the warmth of his hands and lips as they kissed.
***
Thomas woke up in the nice new bed, in a cocoon of blankets. The sky outside was painted orange, so it must be dusk. He had spent the whole day sleeping.
He rocked himself upright. Slowly, slowly. The image of the apartment came into focus. From the hallway, he could hear faint voices, anxious and thick with worry.
“Father Haas said that His Eminence wandered around the place without his coat and went to fetch it for him. And when he met him, His Eminence had asked if he was working in the Curia and if he was staying here as well. He’s been working with Eminence Lawrence for six years! He also forgot the passcode to his own apartment. I’m worried, Your Eminence,” Ray said, and Thomas could just see him wringing his hands in frustation.
“Alright, alright, Ray. Let’s talk to him and we’ll see if he need anything. Alright?” a voice answered Ray’s, placating.
Thomas froze. He did not expect to hear that voice. Up until now they had exchanged letters, nothing more. He had been trying to make amends with Aldo, no, with His Holiness after his cancer came back—the pain of their fallout had paled in the face of death, at least on his part—but involving him in trivial concerns such as this was hysterical. Surely the head of the universal Catholic Church had more pressing matters to attend other than mothering an ailing old man.
A moment later he was face to face with His Holiness Pope Leo XIV, who put his arms around him, who looked at him openly and unreservedly, an easy smile playing on his lips as if there had been between them no bitter history.
But His Holiness was wearing cardinal red. Of course, of course. Thomas chastised himself. I’m still in my head.
“Now, Thomas. What is it that I’m hearing?” Aldo Bellini sat himself on the sofa without invitation, as if he had done it a thousand times. He crossed his legs and adjusted his fascia with practiced ease. Thomas stood in his place dumbly. Ray nudged him to the sofa opposite of Aldo, and he sat. When he remained silent, Aldo scooted closer to him, their knees close to touching. His deep brown eyes fell on Thomas’ face, searching.
Thomas suddenly can’t speak. The weight of his regret hang heavy on his lips. Seeing Aldo close, trying to say those words to him, was different than putting them on paper.
I’m sorry that I left you alone
I’m sorry that I disappeared.
I’m sorry that I didn’t have your back like I said I would.
I’m sorry that I stood aside, watching you became isolated and cold from afar, never offering my support, never saying sorry, not until I was close to dying.
God knows I keep you in my prayers. After all these years.
He didn’t realize that he was crying. He was vaguely aware of Ray leaving for the kitchens and of Aldo moving to sit beside him, guiding his head so that it rested on his chest, his arms cradling his body. The movements were easy and familiar, and his heart ached.
“There, there,” Aldo said softly to what remained of his hair.
His sobbing subsided not long after that. Ray came back with two cups of tea and an excuse to leave. He nodded, his eyes still bleary. Aldo pushed a cup to his hands, slipping his fingers around the white porcelain. He sipped the tea gratefully. Aldo still looked at him.
“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he started, “But if there’s anything you want to talk about, I’m always here for you, you understand?”
Thomas didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked down. His Aldo despised him, though. It was cruel, what his subconscious conjured. Still, with this fake, peculiar, wonderful Aldo on his side, warm and affectionate, he couldn’t do anything but going with the flow. Aldo will despise him when he wake up, so maybe it’s okay to stay for a while, soaking in his light. Like they were young men again.
Aldo sighed, “Okay. Okay,” he said, as if psyching himself up, “Ray was worried about you so I want to ask you something, alright,”
Thomas nodded, still looking at his cup.
“What is the date today?” he said. Thomas didn’t know the answers to that. Aldo didn’t look pleased.
“Can you tell me what’s in the news lately?” he asked again.
“Like what?” he asked, confused. He had done nothing but watching the news in the hospital.
“Like recent jubilee, or Joe Tremblay’s simony case, or even the papabili for the conclave, if you want to go back,” Aldo said, shrugging.
“Isn’t Joe Tremblay a hockey player? My daughter likes him,” Thomas frowned. He decided he didn’t know enough about hockey to decide if there was some equivalent of simony in there, “And the conclave was almost a decade ago. I can’t remember anyone but you, Cardinal Ramos, and Cardinal Soegija,”
A beat. A drop of tea was sliding down the smooth surface of the porcelain, pooling at the saucer beneath.
Aldo smiled at his answers. A vacant smile. He reached for Thomas, enveloping him in a tight embrace. The frame of his glasses pressing into the side of his face.
“We’ll get through this, Thomas,” he said, his voice trembling, “We will. Just like we did before, okay?”
Aldo brought his lips to his temple, anointing him with a kiss.