Chapter Text
He’s standing at the foot of the Holy Father’s death bed again. There is, for a moment, the feeling of déjà vu, a tingling sense that he has been here before one too many times, in both his dreams and the real world. But that sensation is lost before Lawrence’s mind can truly take hold of it. Once more: he is standing in front of the Holy Father, and he is gone. There is no time to mourn.
His late Holiness is like ivory between the white sheets. His face is not yet covered by the thin veil, and Lawrence stares at his eyes, gently closed, as if the man lying in front of him is merely asleep. Hands clutch the bedsheets like a scared child, yet his brows are furrowed like an old man’s. Lawrence can feel the pounding of his heart up through his throat.
Again— there is that feeling, that odd sensation. Close, but not quite accurate. He begins to remember where he is, the reality of that terrible evening. The phone call. The dreadful walk to Vatican City, up to the apartment. The merciless, pounding headache he had for days after, borne from unshed grief. Lawrence follows the string of mourning and remembers. He was never here, not like this. Was never granted a moment to be alone with the late Father in his room, so why—
A press of lips to Lawrence’s left cheek halts the progression of his thoughts.
Lawrence turns and sees Benítez standing next to him. The new pope is here, somehow, impossibly— and yet surely he is there, standing in front of Lawrence. Benítez is dressed in the robe and cassock of a cardinal, no papal accoutrements on him, no blinding white vestments. Lawrence feels blinded all the same at the sight of the man. Benítez is smiling at him in the same way he always does, the one that makes Lawrence think he hasn’t seen a truly genuine smile in decades.
The kiss he has given Lawrence is not one of treason, not at least because Lawrence is no Christ and Benítez no Judas, but a kiss of reassurance. Lawrence is sure of that, if nothing else. But why Benítez is here in the first place remains a mystery to him. If only his jaw could unbind itself, then he could ask. Yet for some reason Lawrence finds himself as Zecharias, struck mute. Benítez reveals nothing of the reason for his presence, but judging by the look of playful conspiracy he gives Lawrence, the Seat of the Holy See believes his Dean to be in total understanding about his purpose here, in this impossible scenario.
For a moment the two are silent. Then Benítez leans in; Lawrence thinks he is about to kiss him again, perhaps on his right cheek to complete the European custom. Benítez does not do as such. Instead, he presses his lips to Lawrence’s own, kissing him without the love a shepherd might have for one of his flock but rather with the love shared between spouses.
The Lawrence of the conscious world has dreamed of this, prayed on this, damned himself for thoughts of this. The centre of his religious dilemma has shifted from doubting God to questioning his own faithfulness to Him and his vows, and at its core is the new Supreme Pontificate. Benítez has brought forth feelings of love and, even worse than this, lust, which Lawrence has not wrestled with in nearly thirty years.
He has no reservations about kissing Benítez now— he cannot even remember why he shouldn’t, or why he hasn’t done so before today. The feelings of faithlessness are not slippery in his grasp, for he cannot even remember that he should be remembering. He simply leans in and inhales the exchange. Benítez’ kiss is exactly what he expected: soft, yet pressing. An iron fist in a velvet glove. Confident because it is full of devotion. Lawrence feels liable to drown in it.
Suddenly, Lawrence pushes himself away— the late Holy Father, his deathbed. Finally he recalls… recalls something— he feels the red-hot press of shame spread in his stomach. There is indeed a reason why they should not be doing this, at least not here. Yet when Benítez turns to look Lawrence’s gaze follows, and he sees the man in the bed, and he is not dead. No, the Holy Father is alive and awake, sitting up against the velveteen headboard. He is looking at the two of them without malice, without affront. Lawrence doesn’t quite know what to make of it.
Benítez does not hold the same compunction. He kisses Lawrence again, which Lawrence returns. But this time he keeps his eyes open, keeps the man who has miraculously returned to life in his peripheral vision.
The late Pontiff watches them exchange kisses, not like a voyeur, but as a father might watch his children play together through the kitchen window as he cooks. Content, yet distant. It calms Lawrence; obviously he cannot have the man’s approval— why can he not?— but at least there is no look of hatred to be found— why should there be? Please, Father, Lawrence begs inside his head, let me be weak here, if nowhere else. The silent plea confuses him, despite being the one who thought it.
Having reached some modicum of ease, or at least succumbing to the mystery of the situation, Lawrence closes his eyes fully and draws his arms up, pressing Benítez closer to him. Warmth fills up in him. He had not realised how cold the room had been, almost a morgue. Lawrence feels alive.
Benítez reaches for him, youthful hands taking hold of his back and shoulder. The shift from the movement brings their legs almost to an interlocking, or what Lawrence imagines may be a crude imitation of a stationary waltz. He wouldn’t know; he hasn’t danced in decades.
Through the proximity, Lawrence feels an odd bulge in Benítez’ cassock. He breaks away and looks down; the cassock is bunched up, so that the bottom half is folded into the middle by three clothespins. He had not noticed it before.
Benítez, seeing Lawrence’s interested gaze, removes his hands from Lawrence and begins to pull the pins off. The first two are removed, dropped somewhere in the ether of the mind that Lawrence does not register. Support removed, the cassock begins to droop with weight. Then Benítez frees the third pin and the cassock loosens fully.
Dozens of pink roses fall out of the white space, sprawling across the floor and surrounding them in a circle of light colour. Lawrence could not move in any direction without stepping on one of the buds, so he does not move, but looks around himself while in place. Benítez does the same, as if he too had been unaware of what sat in his own vestments. Soft petals graze the bottom of the bedsheets.
The Holy Father, still silent, bends over the side of the bed and picks one up. He appraises it as he appraised everything, from chess matches to visiting political dignitaries. Then he raises it to his nose, smells its center, and deems it good.
The Holy Father lays his hand back down on the duvet, still clutching the thorny stem. He looks up at Benítez knowingly. Then, all at once, it dawns on Lawrence. He finds his tongue unstuck.
“This is a dream,” Lawrence says aloud. “This is a dream.”
“Was it the flowers that revealed it?” jokes Benítez. “I discerned as such when I saw the Holy Father alive and well again. It is a blessed sight, no?”
Benítez leans in for another kiss, but Lawrence turns away, shaking his head. “No, we cannot.”
“In a dream? There are no vows broken when we drift among our subconscious.”
“There are vows broken when I am aware of myself and my actions, no matter if it occurs inside my head or not; God sees all.”
Benítez laughs, self-pity in his throat. “It would happen that even the Lawrence of my dreams would be so steadfast in the rules of the Curia. Ah, well,” he cups Lawrence’s face and strokes a gentle thumb across his cheekbone, “you would not be my beloved Lawrence if you were not fully devoted to the care of the college and the church.”
“And of you, Your Holiness. Vincent.” The name is heavy on his tongue. Suddenly Lawrence feels that, if he cannot confess his sin in the real world, perhaps he may unburden himself here, where his mind lingers along the thin stream of consciousness.
“I am devoted to your care in a way that, God help me, I fear might not be entirely related to your position but to you, to Vincent. Before the conclave and the sequestration I asked God, through the intercession of the late Holy Father, to send us a pope who doubts, but who does not cast doubt. And, for the first time in a long while, He answered. He sent me you, and for that I am beyond thankful. In you God delivered all I asked of Him and more. But when He brought you to the seat of the Holy See, the Devil sent something as well— impious thoughts, thoughts about you. Thoughts with you, such as this,” Lawrence gestures with a drop of his chin to their position, “and I cannot help but feel I have taken the precious gift which the Holy Father and God Himself have given me, and twisted it with my sin.”
Benítez smiles at him as a teacher towards his misunderstanding student. “My dear Tomás, I promise that you are not unfaithful to your vocation because of these thoughts. A sin cannot be a sin, if it is unacted on and unspoken.”
“But it is, Holiness.” Lawrence forces. He must make him understand, even if it is only an image of Benítez created by his imagination. “Spoken, and acted. In every conversation with you or about you, in every action I take in assistance to the papacy, in all the work I do here in the Vatican. I cannot help but imbue in everything the love I have for you. When you go past schedule in public outings, I let you, because I know how you hate to appear unapproachable, how you love to speak with the public. When I kneel to kiss the papal ring, sometimes I linger to let my lips touch your hand as I let go. When I—“
Benítez interrupts his confession. “Enough, Tomás. This is my dream, you know.” His words startle Lawrence— this is Lawrence’s dream, is it not?
The new pope continues. “If all this is true, then the only thing I can say is how wonderful it is that your love has helped so many, especially me. You are too hard on yourself for something that has only brought goodness to our lives. For that, I thank you.
“Look around you, Tomás: where is the Devil now? Is he there?—“ Benítez’ eyes flick towards the late Holy Father— “or here, in me? Where is this damnation you think you are due? My dear man, let me tell you something.” Taking Lawrence’s hand, Benítez laces their fingers together as a much needed gesture of comfort. “You fear that you are evil. You fear that your love is soured and poisonous to yourself and others. You are waiting for the other shoe to drop, I think. But I tell you there is no cause for worry, nor fear, nor doubt. You prayed to the Heavenly Father through the intercession of our departed pope, and who is here now but the man himself, alive again as Lazarus. And our late Pontificate has done what you asked of him, for here are roses in winter— a sign from God, and of God. You are searching for darkness when there is only light, and hatred where there is only love.”
Benítez finishes with a small peck on Lawrence’s lips, a final benediction. “Is that a good enough answer for you, my Tomás, the doubter?”
Lawrence looks again at the late Holy Father, still in bed and still holding his single pink rose. The last time Lawrence saw him, in his prayers during the conclave, he was… not angry, precisely, but neither was he happy. Always eight steps ahead, Aldo had once said. Could a man who knew all ever be truly happy? Now, however, the faintest of smiles is on the Holy Father’s face. His eyes are alight not with knowledge, but with blessing. Lawrence swallows, holding back tears.
It is, in fact, a good enough answer.
His prayers had been listened to once again, twice in a lifetime. It was alright. He was going to be alright.