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It was a bright day, the gloomy clouds of the past week having moved out and down past the town. That pressure system would have done a number on Thomas's hip a fortnight ago, and he was looking forward to completing his recovery and forgetting all about that particular barometer for pain. Now, though, he looked over at his walker and sighed. He cajoled himself into sliding to the edge of the bed and pulling himself up to shuffle his way to the bathroom.
Morning oblutions complete, he limped slowly to the kitchen and fixed a cup of tea and a slice of toast, burning it a little under the grill. It was a juggle to get it to the small table in the other room, but once there, it was a comfortable enough vantage point to sip while trying to make sense of today's chapter of the Danish textbook. E-mail etikette og sms. It wasn't likely to be a very useful or up-to-date one but he diligently read the example sentences aloud to himself and completed the exercises. Halfway through, Helga came to join him, purring contentedly as she settled on the back of his chair. She was being uncharacteristically respectful of his limits, as if she could sense that he was on the mend. Or maybe the automatic feeder giving her regular mealtimes was just calming her wild viking nature, releasing her mind to consider the feelings of others.
After an hour, Thomas forced himself back up for the required 15 minutes of gentle activity, using it to catch a few rays of cold morning sun and check on his garden. It had been doing quite well in the spring, but his hip had stopped him from properly harnessing that strong start and now the flowers he'd been hoping for weren't coming to fruition. Well, no, maybe that might be... he wished he could bend over to check, narrowing his eyes to squint at a possible seedling, when the sound of tires on gravel interrupted him.
The car pulling up was quiet, electric and very clean. A rental maybe, so not one of the few and distant neighbours, all of whom drove hulking four by fours, as befitted their occupations. Thomas shaded his eyes from the sun, unable to see through the windshield at this angle.
A door opened and shut, Thomas's hand fell away. Footsteps on gravel then grass.
"Aldo," he started, then didn't know what to say. What are you doing here, perhaps, or I'm sorry.
"Hello, Thomas," Aldo said calmly, gaze steady. He gestured to the frame. "Sister Agnes told me, I didn't know you two kept in touch."
Thomas tried not to take the prim neutrality as a barb, managed to control his wince. "Ah, yes, well, I... she doesn't take no for answer, it turns out, once one doesn't have the authority to make her. It seemed rude not to write her back, and I..."
Aldo nodded. He didn't look away.
They settled for tea in the sitting room, and having Aldo to carry the mugs did admittedly smooth that process somewhat. Thomas took the opportunity to swallow his morning painkillers, and Aldo produced half a pack of biscuits from his bag.
"No pills without food", he said in his best Father voice, tucking a couple into Thomas's saucer. Summoned by the crinkling of packaging, Helga sniffed them twice then rolled her eyes and settled on the floor behind Thomas's legs.
"So," Aldo said, continuing in his clipped, non-specific, all-American politeness, "Denmark."
"Denmark," Thomas nodded, and considered whether to first offer up the ecopolitics of the government, or the general attitude of live-and-let-live respect.
Aldo didn't give him the chance. "A Germanic language, but different branch to German so unlikely to be much help there. How is it?"
"The vowels are giving me jip, to be honest," Thomas said, "I've learnt easier languages."
"Sì, cierto," Aldo smiled, but it wasn't real. "Ma la semplicità non è perché siamo qui." [Of course, but simplicity is not why you're here]
"No, quite," Thomas tried to make his own smile real.
"And simplicity is different to ease." Aldo sat too still. "Why not England?"
"What reason would I have to be there?" Thomas shrugged. "My mother died before I left Rome, my sister's family are settled without me, and I didn't ever have much chance to make friends outside the church."
"You aren't excommunicated," Aldo said, like a careers advisor, "and it doesn't seem like a thriving social life is what brought you here." He looked pointedly around the greyish room, devoid of decoration. He'd had to wash dust out of the pot before they could make any tea in it.
"I'm grateful to be here, though," Thomas gestured to his leg. "NHS waitlists being what they are. And my physiotherapist speaks better English than I."
"The Vatican could have organised that."
"If I had stayed in Rome, I... it wouldn't..." He wanted to say, but you aren't in Rome either.
Helga stretched and slunk out from behind his legs, then hopped up on the sofa to sniff at Aldo's tea. He lowered it for her inspection, then lifted his arm to make room as she walked across his lap and settled on the arm of the sofa. He scratched behind her ears with one finger and she purred.
Aldo seemed to chew his words for a moment. He didn't look back up. When he did speak, it sounded more himself than he had yet; New York contoured his vowels. "Well, here we are. And I thought you could use a nurse."
"The hospital sends one every few days to check on me," Thomas said, just to see the face Aldo would surely make. "She's called Anu and she corrects my Danish exercises in exchange for a warm lunch. But I could use a friend."
Aldo's expression softened like clouds thinning in May. "And no doubt Anu could use a lunch with any flavour in it. At all." He gestured with the biscuits. "Eat!"
Aldo drove them to the Netto for supplies, having declared Thomas's kitchen practically unliveable. Thomas rather thought he might change his tune once he saw the cost and quality of the groceries available, but he calmly piled ingredient after ingredient into the trolley. "Questo, e poi questo," he muttered under his breath as they went, affectation and habit both, but it didn't bother Thomas [this one, and this one]. He pushed the trolley along quietly, offering opinion when asked, happy to have a way to prop himself up that didn't scream old before my time.
"Puoi bere?" Aldo asked when they got to the wine. "Con il tuo painkillers, I mean?" [Can you drink? With your painkillers...]
"Un po', un bicchiere a cena cierto." [A little, a glass with dinner is fine.]
"Cierto, cierto. Va bene, questo," and he pulled two bottles off the top shelf. "Rosso con il pesce." [Sure, sure. Well good, this one. Red with fish.]
When they got to the checkout, Thomas smiled apologetically at the cashier. "Undskyld, Lise." [Sorry, Lise.]
"Nej, nej, det er okay," Lise said with the small frown Thomas had come to recognise as a general expression of polite neutrality from most people over 35. "Dette arbejde er altid for langt og kedeligt, det er godt at få en mærkelig italiener til at købe alle vores grøntsager." [No, no, it's okay. This job.. it's good to have a weird italian man buy all the vegetables.]
"Am I the italiener?" Aldo asked.
"Endnu værre," Thomas widened his eyes at Lise. "En amerikaner." [Even worse, an American.]
"Italian-amerikaner, tusen tak," Aldo said, "and I can't imagine your being English is much better."
"Not really," Lise agreed, "but at least Thomas doesn't speak to me in Norwegian."
Thomas tried not to smile at that, and failed; in a moment of what looked on her features to be pure insanity, Lise shared his grin. It had been years since he'd last seen the magic trick, but Aldo had always been able to bring that out in people.
In a flash, the expression was gone again. "Tusind fire hundrede firs kroner, i alt." [1,480 kroner, in total.]
"Altid hurtig, tak," Thomas handed over the notes before Aldo could reach for his wallet. Lise nodded and returned his change without looking at her hands once. [Always quick, thank you.]
Aldo cooked a rich tomato sauce that night, throwing in some canned tuna towards the end with an air of don’t ask. When Thomas felt his eyebrows raise, Aldo looked at him sternly.
"You need feeding up."
"You were born to be a mother of twelve, Aldo," Thomas shot back.
"Yes I was, yet here we are," Aldo nodded sagely.
While they ate, Copland playing softly from a bluetooth speaker Aldo had produced from his bags, Thomas wondered how to bring it up.
"The tuna is good, no?" Aldo asked.
Thomas nodded through a mouthful. "Sì," he said, heartfelt and honest.
"My mother always made it when we'd been ill." Aldo's voice slipped higher and leftwards into something more forceful. "Fish is good for the body, brings the salt back into your blood, takes you to the sea, the real sea, not the gray Atlantic, the blue of Sardinia boys, and the red of the tomatoes, puts the warmth back in your lungs, thank God your nonna set these tins recently, or you'd be struggling by on the muck they grow here-"
"Tomatoes come from North America," Thomas interjected.
"I forget," Aldo said dryly, "you've never met my mother."
"Well, she sounds wonderful," Thomas held up his glass, "and her recipe is certainly warming my lungs."
Aldo smiled at that, a quirk of his lips that looked unintentional; a moment of true happiness, not a charm offensive.
There's no avoiding it, Thomas. "So as you can see, there's no guestroom here. You are welcome to stay as long as you like, I'd propose we take it in turns on the sofa, and if you'd like to stay beyond the weekend, I will order a foldaway bed tonight and that should-"
"You can't sleep on the couch, Thomas, your physiotherapist will kill me." Aldo frowned. "I'm meant to be aiding your recovery, not hindering it, no, I'm perfectly happy on the couch."
Thomas didn't even glance at the small sad grey thing in his living room, covered in Helga's long brown hairs, bought without consideration of a friend ever using it. "No, Aldo, you're a guest, I can't ask you to do that. I- that is, the-" he hated himself for stumbling- "My bed is a double, there's plenty of space. We can share for now."
Aldo cutlery went still, he looked at Thomas. "You're sure you're comfortable with that?"
"Cierto, of course," Thomas focussed too hard on twirling his last few strands of spaghetti. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten a meal so quickly. "I think I'm a very calm sleeper, I don't move around much."
"I do," Aldo smiled, "you might regret this."
Thomas felt himself smile a bit, shook his head.
"Grazie," Aldo said quietly, too heartfelt, meaning a lot more than the topic at hand would suggest. [Thank you.]
Thomas insisted on doing the dishes, as Aldo had cooked. Aldo finished another glass of wine and then they went to bed. Aldo didn't kneel by the bed but he did close his eyes and murmur a short prayer; Thomas did not, and neither of them passed a comment. It was a calm and uninterrupted night, and in the morning, Aldo was in the same position he'd gone to bed in.
+++
Thomas awoke first so he took the opportunity to complete the exercises he'd forgotten about the previous night, and ordered a fold-out bed online. He went for a more expensive one that he usually would have, so didn't spring for the expedited delivery. Last night had been fine, they could easily manage it three more times before the bed arrived on Tuesday. If Aldo even stayed that long.
Hours after she usually would, Helga came to bother him for breakfast, sleep rumpled and warm.
"Dear me, Helga," Thomas fixed her with a stern look. "Just because he's so lazy, doesn't mean you have to be." He concentrated for a minute, trying to formulate the thought in Danish somehow. "Han hader morgener. Du forbliver nordisk." [He hates mornings. You stay Nordic.]
"Miav," Helga reproached him.
"Fair enough," Thomas smiled and went to get her breakfast.
Once Aldo finally surfaced, and had drunk a truly Scandinavian amount of coffee, it was almost midday and Thomas's hip was aching. Having an unexpected guest in the house had brought him a rather nervous energy that sent him pottering around longer than he should, and he was paying the price.
"How's it feeling today?" Aldo asked, once he had gained enough consciousness to notice the winces.
Thomas attempted a dry laugh. "It's been better."
Aldo stood quickly, a strange expression on his face. "I shouldn't have interrupted your sleeping arrangements, I'll take the couch tonight, where-"
"No, no, please," Thomas interrupted, "I slept very well last night, thank you. How about...?"
"Likewise, thank you," Aldo's nervous hands stilled. "But do let me fetch you some painkillers."
"Next to the breadbin," he pointed. "And the tea is in the cupboard above."
"Ah yes, with pleasure, your holiness." Aldo passed him a couple pills and a glass of water then set about the kettle. "Bed rest for the afternoon, I prescribe. What's your favourite sickday movie?"
"I don't really... watch films." At Aldo's look, he shrugged. "I like to read."
"My dear friend, you are unfailingly hopeless," Aldo turned back to the tea. "Have you ever been to the cinema?"
"Yes, of course, I... it's been a while." Thomas searched for a name, title, any proper noun at all. "I can't remember what it was called, but it was quite good. About a man in a tv show and he escapes the island on a boat?" Aldo gave him another look. "I've been quite busy, you know."
"Ecclesiastes 3:11," Aldo picked up the mugs. "A time for every purpose under heaven. Come along, Thomas."
For the rest of the day, they watched three films in more-or-less hourly chunks. First, a spectacular story about a man surviving alone on Mars; then, a Danish film that Aldo had 'always been meaning to watch' about a group of friends falling in and out of alcoholism; third, watched over dinner and truthfully Thomas's favourite, a charming comedy about a man and a woman meeting throughout the years and making false starts and taking far too long to realise they loved each other. At plot-appropriate intervals, Aldo paused the movies and set Thomas on short 5 minute tasks, fetching the post or bringing them snacks, or just getting a breath of fresh air. He always joined him for that, even though it was drizzling outside.
Despite his long lie-in, Aldo also seemed perfectly happy to join Thomas in going to bed early that night.
"You'd be most welcome to have some time to yourself, stay up, all you've done today is chaperone the infirm," Thomas protested.
"All I've done in this life is chaperone the infirm," Aldo corrected him with a quirk of his lips, "and I am tired."
"Or just jetlagged."
"Or just jetlagged," he agreed.
It was another dreamless night without incident, and Thomas awoke the next day pain-free.
+++
"Do you still go on Sundays?" Thomas broached the topic a few days later as he set Aldo's plate in front of him. Scrambled eggs - about the limits of his culinary capacity.
Aldo took a while to answer. He took a bite, swallowed, picked up his coffee mug. "Sometimes."
"I've been invited to the local church by various neighbours but never made it." Thomas kept his tone light. "If you would like to go, we could. It's got good disabled parking."
Aldo finished another mouthful. "Lutherian?"
"Yes, but high church."
Aldo nodded, and his voice had gone neutral again, flattened its intonation. "Well, if you're game, I'd be interested to try. Perhaps we could stop for some groceries on the way back, I'd like to make you this lentil recipe that's been on my mind recently."
The building was a severe thing from the outside, one of the tall boxy buildings one always associated with the Nordic countries, but the inside had clearly been refurbished recently; there was a lot of warm wood and clean lines, and a clever use of some abstract stained glass that brought colour up to the high ceilings.
They arrived later than they intended, having had a bit of a false start when Thomas had struggled to get into the low seats of Aldo's rental. The service had started by the time they entered and was conducted, of course, in Danish. This had somehow not occurred to Thomas as an option, and he shot an apologetic glance at Aldo, but it received no acknowledgement. Aldo was sitting up, eyes bright and forward, watching the woman giving the sermon as if he could see subtitles under her words.
Thomas gave up on trying to glean meaning after about 10 minutes; the only words he was catching were the obvious ones, and that wasn't helping pull any nuance. He found himself instead looking up at the glass and the skylights, and the blue beyond. No oppressive murals or cloistered halls, this was a building designed to serve an honest god, with no need for dark corners. He glanced left, across the pews, to the other members of this sparse congregation. Not only older people, though they were the majority. Did they all really believe? Were any of them also not listening, or disagreeing, or thinking that's nice but I can't follow through?
The pastor was a soft-spoken woman but evidently not reading from a script. At times, she asked questions of the youth group who'd gathered in the front row; she'd pick something out of one answer and use it as a springboard to her next point, or else elicit opinions from the older children and allow them to be stated without comment. Her leadership of the session reflected the building's design, open and bright, with space for all.
The order and customs of the service took some getting used to. Both of them were taken aback when the congregation stood to hear the verses read, and were even more uncomfortable when everyone stayed seated to sing. After one particularly short turnaround left Thomas standing and red faced in a moment of silence, he elected to remain seated for the rest of the service, stubbornly ignoring his walker.
At the end of the service, Aldo lingered, head bowed and lips twitching for a long minute. Thomas wanted dearly to give him some privacy, but the wooden benches were not letting his hip go easily. He tried to help himself up quietly using the walker, but couldn't do it and couldn't try again without jostling their pew. Instead, he just sat there, feeling something like electricity flowing between Aldo and the painted walls, and tried not to shrink.
"Undskyld mig, kan jeg hjælpe dig?" The pastor had finished shaking hands at the front and was smiling right at him. She gestured to the walker. "Skal jeg holde den for dig?" She had clocked Aldo's posture and her voice was quiet, unobtrusive. [Excuse me, can I help you? Can I hold that for you?]
"Tak, tak," Thomas smiled back. Get up, he threatened his joints, and managed to pull himself standing with a heroic effort and her counterbalancing. [Thank you.]
"Jeg tror ikke, vi har set dig her før." She relinquished his walker the second she deemed him steady and held out a hand. "Rart at møde dig, jeg er Stine. [I don't think we've seen you here before, pleased to meet you, I'm Stine.]
"Rart at møde dig, præst," Thomas shook her hand. "Jeg er Thomas, han er Aldo, vi er på besøg." He wracked his brain for a second. "Første gang." [Pleased to meet you, priest. I am Thomas, he is Aldo, we are only visiting. First time.]
Stine settled into the universal smile of Europeans dealing with the English. "First time in a church or first time at my church?"
Thomas winced the sheepish apologies of Englishmen abroad and resisted the urge to announce he did in fact speak 6 languages fluently so please believe that I'm trying. "First time at a church in Denmark," he clarified. "For my part."
"Mine too," Aldo chimed in. He stood and shook Stine's hand, his moment having passed and fully back to himself. "That seemed like a brilliant sermon, you have a wonderful presence."
"Thank you, Aldo, that's kind." Stine's smile changed again, she seemed able to communicate anything she needed without dropping it. This one emanated across the room, a warm pride. "We are a remote congregation but I always have a generous audience here, it's my favourite church to work in, to be honest."
"How many do you cover?" Aldo asked.
"The parish has six churches, I have good support from a lot of volunteers. Here, you also have sermons from Simon and Inger. Nothing in English, I'm sorry."
"Sounds like a busy time." Aldo crossed his arms. This was a test Thomas had seen him set many times before.
Stine's smile this time meant tell me about it. "Udholdenheden giver os karakterstyrke, og karakterstyrken giver os en stærk forventning om at få del i Guds herlighed engang. In English, um..." [... gives us tests of character, and tests of character give us... God...]
"Romans five four?" Thomas guessed. "Tests of character gives us endurance gives us hope?"
Stine's eyes snapped to his, surprised. "I would say that enduring trials brings us security in God's glory. But that is impressive, your Danish is better than your pronunciation. You sound a bit Finnish."
"He's mostly learning it from a book," Aldo said, quirking his head so that his opinion of such methods be known.
"Nå, du skal ud af huset og øve dig! We have coffee and cake after each service, kom med, I can introduce you to some of the regulars.” She winked at Thomas. "The chairs are more soft than the pews, I promise." [...get out of the house...]
Thomas expected to feel his face flush, but he found he didn't mind Stine mentioning his infirmity. She made it seem inconsequential, an breeze to accommodate.
“Sorry, we have to get back,” Aldo said, “but we absolutely will make the time next week, it’d be a pleasure.”
As they made their way back to the car, Thomas fixed Aldo with a look. "So flying colours for Stine?"
"And then some," Aldo agreed enthusiastically. "It's what I was saying all along, we've been ignoring half our resources."
When they arrived back at the house, Anu was already waiting. She waved off Thomas's apologies with a brusque practicality.
"I came early, I sat in my car for 20 minutes and listened to my music," she shrugged, then ran a finger down her cheek below her eye. "So terrible, I want to be dead. Who is this?"
"I'm Aldo, I used to work with Thomas." He shook her hand. "Thought I'd come help chaperone your good work, I don't trust him to look after himself."
"Yes, he is a sad old man," Anu agreed. "Give him a reason to live."
Aldo blinked a couple times. "Err... yes." Thomas tried not to smile at him being thrown off kilter. "Well then, in the interests of enjoying life, should I make us all an omelette?"
They went inside and while Aldo cooked, Anu watched Thomas go through his physiotherapy exercises. She corrected him relentlessly throughout, then clapped him on the shoulder when he was done and told him he was making excellent progress. "Very brave," she said with the same bland honesty.
"Tak, Anu," Thomas bowed his head a bit. "Jeg tror, du kan lide frokost mere i dag. Aldo koger godt." [Thank you, Anu. I think you can like lunch more today. Aldo cooks well.]
"Åh virkelig? Er det derfor du holder ham i nærheden?" She fixed him with a look. "Husk, ingen sex i seks uger efter din operation, du kan fuck up your hip again." [Oh really? Is that why you... six weeks... you can fuck up your hip again.]
Thomas had more trouble parsing Anu than most, with her thick Finnish accent and refusal to talk any slower than she liked. She’d said something about six weeks after the operation. "... ja," he tried, a guess. "To uger... left." [Yes, two weeks left.]
"To uger tilbage," she corrected him then nodded, satisfied, and went into the kitchen. "Efter frokost tjekker jeg dine lektier." [Two weeks left. After lunch, I will check your homework.]
"Là, buon appetito," Aldo gestured to the other plates, already halfway through his own omelette. "Pepper, parsley, parmesan. Thomas, there's pine nuts in yours, I wasn't sure if you have any allergies, Anu?"
"No, I'm hard to kill." Anu tucked in. "Denondelyneme! This is fucking good."
"Grazie mille," Aldo smiled.
"No, graz-ie mille," Anu said through her next mouthful. "You aren't married?"
"No," Aldo said, bemused.
She nodded and swallowed. "Denmark is very good for marriage, we can go tomorrow. Sorry Thomas, I must take him."
Aldo's eyes flicked to him in surprise, and Thomas spoke too quickly, "prego, with my heartfelt blessing."
"Well, someone had to make an honest man of me at some point," Aldo said dryly. "My mother will be so relieved."
At that, Anu frowned. "You mother should be happy anyway. Good cook for a son."
Aldo opened his mouth then shut it again, at a loss.
Anu was unperturbed, pointed at Thomas with her loaded fork. "Your recovery can end in one week, with food this good. Your body will dance. Now, læs dagens kapitel for mig." [Now, read today's chapter for me.]
Thomas did, and received the same feedback he'd enjoyed for his physio exercises. Aldo cooked Anu a second omelette (pine nuts included this time) to take home for dinner, and laughed under his breath when Thomas struggled to repeat back Anu's corrective vowel pronunciations.
Packed up with a salad and instructions for best reheating her omelette, which she had pressed Aldo tightly for, Anu left an hour after her usual departure. "I will get home late. You boys are no good for me," she said, getting into her car and driving away without a goodbye.
"I cannot read that woman at all," Aldo said.
"Oh, you know," Thomas bit his lip. "It comes with time."
Aldo raised an eyebrow.
Thomas sighed. "Forgive me father, for I have told a lie to my closest friend."
"Thank you for your honesty. Three mater deis and five seated ankle flexes, my child," Aldo proclaimed, unable to keep a straight face when Thomas grinned at him, and they giggled like children.
That evening, they ate the beef Aldo had been slow braising and watched another movie, this one about a scientist trying to learn an alien language in time to stop humanity attacking their visitors. During the climactic scene, Aldo shook next to him a little, and Thomas was surprised to find himself tearing up as well.
He thought, for the first time in a while, back to Benitez's conclave, of that sweet man refusing to be robed until he'd shared his secret. Had he known how the world would react? Would he have even told anyone if he had? His personal business, immaterial to his leadership or competency, splashed across the press, yet powerless to stop him. Thomas wondered how he was doing today, how busy he'd been, if the gray hairs were multiplying, or if he'd kept his unflappable inner peace. The videos Thomas had watched of his speeches, he certainly gave the impression of someone who knew the future and embraced it anyway.
When the credits finished rolling, a bright menu screen flashed up and interrupted Thomas's train of thought, and he realised Aldo was still shaking. His head was cradled in his hands.
"I had a sister," Aldo said, voice wet and muffled. "When I was young, Epifinia."
Thomas's heart twisted, sank. A lifetime of hearing confession but he still never knew what to say when it was a friend. "I'm so sorry, Aldo."
"No, it's fine, she was... it was a hard life, she was in a lot of pain, she's in a better place." Aldo's head stayed in his hands. "But my mother, I... it held onto her the rest of her life, she'd always wanted a daughter, and I- I was-" he choked out a sob.
Thomas's hands had stayed in his lap so far, habit brought on by their positions seated next to each other, but he turned now, an arm around Aldo's shoulders, a hand on his knee. Aldo's body sagged against his chest, and he cried harder. Tears trickled from Thomas's own eyes, unable to offer any of the stock phrases he'd relied on before, and unwilling besides. He stroked Aldo's back gently, focusing on the rhythm and on keeping his own breathing steady.
Over time, Aldo quietened and the shaking relented. His inhales stayed sharp for a minute longer but his exhales matched Thomas until they were breathing together. Through the windows, the late evening sunset was just beginning and golden light cradled the back of Aldo's neck.
A final deep inhale, then Aldo sat up. "Sorry about that, Thomas, that was-" Aldo rubbed under his eyes- "unexpected. It was 50 years ago."
"No, no apologies, it's... There's not a statute of limitations." Now Aldo was sitting up, Thomas wasn't really sure what to do with his arms. He pulled himself up and fetched a tissue box.
"Still, thank you," Aldo took the offered tissue and blew his nose. Thomas reached to take it from him, to bin it, but Aldo mistook his gesture and instead used his hand to pull himself up and into a hug.
They lingered, a moment, then two. If Thomas looked out at the sunset through the front window, Aldo's head fit neatly under his chin, his arms tucked under Thomas's just so.
Aldo was the one who shifted and stepped back. "Well, I think that's quite enough catharsis for one night." He looked up. "God, Thomas, you look worse than me, pull yourself together."
The anticipation snapped and they were themselves again, Thomas laughing softly, Aldo passing him a tissue in turn.
Thomas walked to the kitchen without his frame and did the dishes standing up, a complete win that he was in no mind to appreciate. They went to bed early as ever, though before he fell asleep, Thomas lay there for a long while, watching Aldo's back, checking his breathing for any hitches or upset. The exhaustion of tears had evidently soothed Aldo to a deep sleep though, and eventually Thomas went the same way.
+++
The next day, Aldo suggested a movie that was opening in the cinema in two Thursday's time. Thomas agreed and didn't really listen to the plot description he read out, too distracted by the admission. Aldo was planning to be here at least 2 weeks, then. He considered asking, opened his mouth, closed it, and tuned back in to what was being said.
He gave his own update too, about the delay on the bed delivery he’d received notification of that morning. “It should be here by Monday. Supply chain issues, if you’ll believe Ikea even has those.”
Aldo nodded and seemed unconcerned, so Thomas spared no more thought to it, and returned his focus to their chess game.
+++
"This is not for walking," Anu said the next time she appeared, brandishing a heavy looking walking stick at him, a new alternative to the carrot she’d never offered him. "If you don't do your exercises right, I hit you with it."
During the visit, she also removed the last of the staples from Thomas's hip, something she approached by barking at him to remove his clothes without explaining why. Aldo, who'd been fetching her a cup of coffee and not expected to be greeted by a half moon when he returned to the room went red with giggles.
"Don't worry, that was purely for work," Anu said when the deed was done and Thomas had, wincing and gingerly, pulled his trousers back up. She patted Aldo's shoulder, where he'd collapsed into the armchair. "I save my naked desires for our wedding night."
"Yes, of course," Aldo agreed weakly, then visibly collected himself. "You know, Anu, if we are to be wed, there are things about me you really should-"
"Ah, ah!" She interrupted. "Everyone has a past. No matter and I love you anyway. I have already decided where we will bury Thomas's body."
Thomas was starting to feel rather left out by this joke. "Why must I be dead in this situation?"
"If you let this cooking go without a fight, you are stupider than you look. Don't worry, it's a very nice plot, view of the lake."
Later, death threats notwithstanding, as she was leaving with a tupperware of spaghetti carbonara clutched in her arm, she stretched up to pat Thomas's cheek. "You are doing very well, min yndling. You can use this now."
Thomas took the stick gratefully and watched her fold up the walker, with no shortage of joy to see the end of that. "Tak, kære Anu." [Thank you, dear Anu.]
"Jeg er tilbage på mandag, mit sidste besøg," She pointed back into the house with the folded walker, "så tager jeg ham." [I will be back on Monday... last visit. I will take him.]
"Det virker rigtigt," Thomas agreed, "men først you must join us for dinner. Tag ham efter." [That seems fair. But first you must join us for dinner. Take him after.]
+++
They went into town early on Saturday, Aldo grumbling that he hadn’t packed any exercise gear or nice shirts. "I thought I would be bringing you soup while you slept the days away, not living the most comfortably we ever have! These bodies were meant to be temples, Thomas, we’ve ruined them." He was all hands, springing along beside Thomas. “I’m going to start swimming again, you’re going to join me, and we’re going to look good when Anu comes round for dinner. We can’t let a protestant show us up on aesthetics, that’s our whole thing!”
Thomas felt his jaw tightening. Aldo's frenetic energy, certainly played up for his own amusement, was starting to attract stares from the quiet Danes, and while the stick was a vast improvement on the zimmer frame, Thomas still wanted to hide it somehow.
Aldo took his discomfort the wrong way, and his brow furrowed. "Sorry, maybe that was insensitive."
"No, no, it's not that, just," Thomas grasped at an excuse and gave the cane a wiggle, "my hip, I don't think I've quite nailed the technique."
"Ah, sure, well luckily my betrothed gave me some top tips, let me just-" Aldo nabbed the stick while it was still in the air and tucked the crook into his left arm. His right, he offered to Thomas. "Use me instead."
Thomas hesitated. "You don't mind? We could just find a bench and I'll wait while you shop, I've bought a book."
"No, no, come on," Aldo brandished his arm emphatically, then secured Thomas hand in the bend of his elbow with a pat. "You're not getting out of it that easy."
Aldo picked a clean-looking store with a Japanese logo and a selection of semi-formal shirts to try on; Thomas tried not to look too hard into the symbolism of Aldo's clear avoidance of anything red, purple, or black. He was handed back his cane and instructed to wait near the changing rooms for Aldo's call, in case he needed sizes swapping.
He found a bench to sit while on duty, and watched the store move around him, still relatively quiet due to the early hour. Near the front windows, a young woman was making her way through the candles, offering the occasional sniff to her presumed-boyfriend for a second opinion. On the pavement outside, a mother pushed a stroller along with a second young child also in tow; when a dummy was ejected from inside the pram with commendable force, the child went back and picked it up, brushing off some dirt and returning it to her mother. On the other side of the street, an old couple were shuffling slowly, arm in arm. As had happened quite often since the prospect of surgery had first been floated, Thomas's thoughts turned to the what ifs of his life.
He indulged himself for a moment, imagining a daughter, adult now, returning the love he'd shown her as a child, coming to Denmark to live with him for a few weeks. She would have his tall frame and severe nose, hair the same long brown waves as his mother and sister. He tried to picture her mother already in Denmark with him, how she might look or how she'dfeel about her husband's infirmity, but he couldn't quite see it. He supposed he could shift his choices left or right at different points, but he couldn't believe in a world where he wasn’t separated from something.
"Thomas?"
He was interrupted by Aldo's voice and looked up to find him emerging from the changing rooms in a basic cotton shirt in a stoney grey, tucked crisply into his chinos. He hadn't put his glasses back on, and maybe that twinge of unfamiliarity was what made Thomas really look at him. For the first time, he saw a pair of unobtrusive silver stud in Aldo's earlobes.
"Any immediate thoughts?" Aldo asked.
"You pierced your ears," Thomas blurted out, regretting it almost before it left his mouth. "I mean- I just- I hadn't noticed before."
"Not while I was in the changing room," Aldo said.
"No, of course," Thomas could feel the betrayal of a blush creeping into his cheeks. "Sorry. The shirt fits well."
"Yeah, I agree." Aldo turned to look in the mirror. "Not very exciting. Okay, well, hold it in your mind, I'll show you option two."
Thomas nodded, and sat back again. His imaginary daughter laughed at him, told him he always put his foot in it, that the earrings suited Aldo, that he'd always been an elegant man. Thomas supposed the presence of a daughter to tend him might have prevented Aldo from feeling he needed to come visit, but somehow the daughter couldn't replace Aldo in his daydream. Probably having a child felt very different than having a friend, so maybe that was what was limiting him, though he could transpose Aldo's expressions onto this theoretical daughter's face quite easily. Well if she was Thomas's daughter, she would have seen Aldo a lot while growing up, he couldn't imagine Aldo as any less than a doting uncle. He found himself smiling involuntarily at the idea, his daughter loving Aldo just as much as Thomas did.
Aldo popped back up to show option two, a saturated blue with a monk collar, which was a vast improvement, and Thomas told him as much.
"Not too... too Fatherly?" Aldo asked.
Thomas considered it; maybe he liked the cut on Aldo because it was familiar. But the Yves Klein blue did bring out the olive tones in his skin, and the fit was trim and tailored, not that one-size tentiness that vestements came with. "No, I think it's good."
"Okay then," Aldo nodded. "I'll get changed and then we'll do you."
Thomas felt his eyebrows shoot up as Aldo rattled the curtain closed once more. "Oh no, thank you, I've got things I can wear back at home."
"Thomas, I've seen your closet," Aldo called from inside the changing room, "and it will not win out at any dinner party of mine."
"Win," Thomas scoffed under his breath, rolling his eyes but smiling despite himself.
+++
True to Aldo’s word, he did start swimming, three times a week at the local pool. Having cleared it with Anu, Thomas joined him and tried not to look too often at Aldo’s lithe front crawl, cutting through the water. For someone who’d spent a lifetime of work essentially reading and then talking about what he’d read, he was unrealistically athletic. Stuck in the slow lane, Thomas told himself to focus only on his own breathing and technique.
But when they showered at the end of each session, he often found himself stealing disbelieving glances at Aldo’s trim figure, at total odds with his rich diet and sedentary schedule. Something like frustration curdled in his stomach sometimes, but he pushed it away. In the mirror, Thomas avoided his own sagging skin, the small but ugly scar left by his operation, the pallor that had developed over the past few years of reduced mobility and left his moles stark by comparison. It was a strange feeling to realise that he suddenly cared how he looked, simultaneously making him feel estranged from his body and yet somehow… relieved? It was something he’d never spared a thought to while in the church, but now here he was, 67, and insecure as anyone else.
+++
As they settled in for bed a few nights later, Thomas spared a thought for the absurdity of the situation. It was only 8:15 for god’s sake, and here they were both cradling a fruit tea, the cat nestled between them and Thomas opening the book to the right page; while Aldo’s striped pyjamas were drying on the clothes horse, he was borrowing one of Thomas’s sleep shirts, so doubtless they resembled nothing so much as two matching teddy bears in a Victorian child’s saccharine diorama.
Nonetheless, he tamped down the humour and persevered to continue where they’d left off, Frodo and the other hobbits having just arrived to Rivendell. He rather felt he was winning against Aldo’s absurd defense of those terrible films he’d made Thomas watch, full of battles and the wrong kind of magic. It had been many years since he’d last read them, but so far the Fellowship of the Ring was more than holding up to his teenage memories of it; there was a pastoral depth to them that he’d not appreciated, young as he’d been, which now swept him away. He could see the golden light of the shire emanating from the page, feel the horror of the prospect of its loss, almost touch the sweet face of Frodo taking on this insurmountable challenge. It was always too much on the narrow shoulders of a young man.
When it got to a poem, as always, Thomas picked a tune that seemed appropriate and tried his best.
"I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been"
When he got to the end, Aldo applauded softly, didn’t pass comment, nodded him to continue. At the end of the chapter, they swapped, and Aldo read them through the fellowship’s aborted attempt at Caradhras and down into the mines of Moria. He had some singing of his own to do, voice low and resonant to match Gimli’s barrel chest, and Thomas reciprocated the applause in turn. Helga, who’d settled in Thomas’s lap, looked mightily disapproving at this interruption of her nap.
“It’s a wildly kind book,” Aldo said when his chapter came to an end and the book had been set aside. “I mean, I think that the movies are too, in their own early-2000s kind of way, but this is just resplendent.”
“Isn’t it?” Thomas agreed, turning off the side lamp and shuffling down under the covers. “To my memory, it only gets more so until the end.” A moment of silence. “Even fewer women than I remembered, though.”
Aldo laughed at that. “Yeah, most Catholic thing about it, really.”
“I don’t know, Aragorn’s divine right to rule all mankind isn’t exactly secular.”
“No, but he is a man, at least.”
Thomas felt himself make a face. “Well, only technically. Numenoreans aren’t exactly human in the same way that Boromir or Theoden are.”
“Oh my God,” Aldo looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Do you mean to tell me this whole time, you didn’t just save that expression for correcting the bishops? A numenorean? Thomas, you hid it not very well for really not long, but you are irredeemably a scholar.”
“Oh, shut up,” Thomas rolled his eyes performatively, his heart warming at the teasing. “If you must know - once you stop reading the bible every day, the Silmarillion is actually a pretty fair substitute for a while. Just to wean you off, you see.”
“Each to their own,” Aldo replied, “masturbation and cookbooks did just fine for me. Not necessarily in that order.”
That shocked a laugh from Thomas, and in the dim light, he saw a flash of Aldo’s teeth as well. But after they’d said their goodnights and Aldo’s breathing had deepened into an even duet with Helga’s, Thomas wondered why that option had never occurred to him.
Did he still think it was a sin? Not consciously, he was pretty sure of that, but was there some block in the foundations of his brain that had been there too long? Should he try to remove it? Thomas feared that wasn’t so much a matter of should he as was is it possible anymore.
In the shower the next morning, Thomas was still preoccupied by the matter, so he tried to address it procedurally. It couldn’t hurt, he said to himself sternly, if you really don’t believe it’s a sin anymore.
But what made men hard? He tried to picture naked women, which seemed the obvious choice, but he couldn’t conjure something that didn’t seem either airbrushed or banal, and neither of those did anything for him. Maybe he was being teenage about it, he wondered, so tried for someone more real, less generic- he’d once thought he could have lived an honest life with Sister Agnes. He tried to picture her looking at him, that blazing heat in her eyes tuned leftwards from anger into something more smoldering. He swapped out the nun’s habit for a lowcut dress, let her reach for him, unenthusiastically reached down for himself, then winced and had to flap his hands a couple of times, feeling dirty. There was experimentation and then there was being a creep.
When the slimy shame had left the back of his throat, he took a deep breath and reconcentrated his efforts. Okay, the Sisters were a no-go - try something more recent. At the swimming pool, he supposed, he showered with a lot of naked men each week. Maybe one of the toned young things, sweaty from their workouts, chests heaving. Was that what turned Aldo on, what he masturbated to when he would have been reading the bible before? That image arose to his mind’s eye easily, Aldo leaning back against their headboard, one leg propped up and the other straight out, his head tilted back and eyes half-closed; an exposed throat and bare chest leading downwards to where he flushed, heavy and red, taken in hand and moving gently-
Thomas’s eyes snapped open, a panicked shame bursting something somewhere, much sharper than the distaste he’d felt at his attempts to picture Sister Agnes. He was almost scared to look down, but he forced himself to, squinting, one eye closed, and- no movement, thank god. All he was left with was an acid feeling somewhere below his stomach, not entirely unpleasant but not what he’d call nice either. Whatever it was, he did not want to chase it, so he finished showering quickly and went to get dressed, chalking the incident up to mere curiosity and putting it as far from his mind as possible for the rest of the day.
+++
Aldo had been talking about trying the public transport since he arrived, so when a patch of good weather appeared on the radar for early the following week, coinciding nicely, Thomas quietly booked them some tickets and a hotel room near Louisianna. In the intervening days, for the morning hours before Aldo awoke, he did his research, made bookings, put together an itinerary of cafes and art galleries, stealing swimming costumes and socks from the washing to pack away neatly. He’d even made such good progress with his hip since they’d started swimming that he downloaded a cycle hire app for quicker travel around the city.
When the day came, Thomas realised he’d forgotten one thing - he still wasn’t insured to drive Aldo’s car. He winced, stamped on his own foot, then continued in to the bedroom.
“Tanti auguri a te, tanti auguri a te, tanti giorni felici, tanti auguri a te,” he sang, getting louder as Aldo started to stir.
Aldo’s head lifted blearily from the pillow, somehow managing to have bed hair despite being bald. He blinked a few times before making sense of the single candle stuck in a kanelbolle and laughed, hoarse with sleep. He sucked in a breath, closed his eyes for a second, then opened them again and blew the candle out. “Grazie, grazie mille amico mio,” he flopped back down, “but surely it’s cruel to wake a man this early on his birthday.” [Thank you my dear friend.]
“Well, we have a train to catch and a schedule to keep to,” Thomas said, sitting next to him on the bed. He pulled the candle out and put the plate and coffee within reaching distance for Aldo. “Packing is all done, we leave in an hour for the station. And, err, you might have to drive us there.”
“Sure thing,” Aldo rasped, “I’ll be ready prontississima.” Without opening his eyes, he groped for the plate, took a bite of the pastry, and groaned appreciatively.
They made it to the station in good time to catch their train in fact, and the journey went smoothly in a way that was totally alien to Aldo and Thomas, used as they were to Italian rail. Aldo had gained enough consciousness now to receive information, and his smile grew wider and wider as Thomas laid out the itinerary for the next two days. When he had finished, Thomas was embarrassed to see tears threatening to brim over behind his friend’s glasses.
“Grazie ancora, grazie mille,” Aldo leaned over the little table to press a kiss to each of Thomas’s cheeks.
“Non è niente, il piacere è tutto mio, Aldo,” he gripped Aldo’s arms, half standing himself, “hai fatto così tanto per me qui, dovrei ringraziarti. E buon compleanno.” [Not at all, the pleasure is all mine Aldo, after everything you've done for me, I should be thanking you. And happy birthday.]
Aldo waved that away and sat back down. “Sixty-nine,” he said wetly, “what a ridiculous age to get to.” He wiped under his eyes, then nodded his gratitude at Thomas passing him a tissue.
“Well-earned,” Thomas said, “but yes, I agree, ancient.”
Aldo laughed through a sniff. “You know, when I was your age, I was a cardinal of Rome, you’re really slacking off, Lawrence.”
“Well, youth is wasted on the young,” Thomas intoned agreeably.
The train ride to Copenhagen was only 45 minutes long, so when they arrived, it was still quiet as they made their way up the harbour. The promised sun was shining in full glory, and the colours of the houseboats moored in their docks could have been painted fresh that very morning. They walked all the way up to see the Little Mermaid, which Aldo insisted they took a picture with, then caught a boat over to the other bank and stopped for in a bakery for lunch that made Aldo say, “oh my God,” exactly on cue. They rented bikes and cycled back through Christiania, and the nostalgia from watching Aldo zoom confidently round the corners, combined with the relief he felt at being able to do so himself once again, put a frog in Thomas’s throat that he had to cough several times to clear.
“Swallowed a bug?” Aldo called back over his shoulder.
“Yes,” Thomas lied, just to hear him laugh.
After taking the long route just for the joy of the wind on their faces, Thomas directed them back to Copenhagen station to take another 45-minute train, this time up north to Louisianna. He slipped a paracetamol while they were waiting on the platform, trying to be subtle but was thoroughly caught.
“No, no, I’m fine,” he protested Aldo’s raised eyebrows, “I’m just preparing, there’s a lot of walking to go yet.”
“Well, there’s also tomorrow, so don’t push yourself too hard now,” Aldo said sternly, and pulled Thomas’s arm firmly against his side with his own. “We have all the time we need, we can take it slow.”
“Well, thanks to Danish train design, this journey will be a recuperation, not a test,” Thomas said as their train started pulling in to the station.
“Amen to that,” Aldo agreed, eyeing the wide seats inside.
Louisianna was a 20-minute uphill walk from the station, after which, Thomas’s hip really was grouching at him. Aldo had insisted on them doing the walk arm-in-arm, so it was impossible to hide the beginnings of a limp, and it took all of Thomas’s strength to not let his frustration show as well. When they reached the gallery, Aldo jumped the small queue with the implacable American confidence he seemed able to employ at will, and deposited Thomas on the nearest bench while he took the iPad and sorted their tickets.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said quickly, when he returned, “I had this all planned to be a day off for you, my bloody hip-“
“Thomas, I am not your carer, I’m your friend,” Aldo interrupted, “I don’t need a day off from that.” That shut Thomas up rather thoroughly for a moment, unduly touched. Aldo didn’t seem to notice, his good mood unshakeable as he surveyed the gardens. “Would you like to do some drawing while we’re here?” Aldo asked, light as you like.
Thomas watched him for a second longer, then followed his gaze to the huge Miró on the top of the hill. “That’d be wonderful,” he said.
The gallery proved to be even better than it looked on its website, the perfect size for the three hours Thomas had allotted and nicely quiet with the midweek crowd. The food the restaurant served that night was bizarrely good for a gallery offshoot, and they shared a bottle of red wine afterwards on a patio table until closing. The slow pace they’d taken round the gallery had allowed Thomas’s hip to settle again, but he took Aldo’s arm nonetheless as they wound their way out of the gallery and back down the hill to the bed and breakfast he’d booked. His cheeks were warm with the wine - he’d become such a lightweight in this country - and he felt young.
“Happy birthday,” he said, kissing Aldo’s temple as they walked, his nose smushing a bit when their steps weren’t in sync. “Have you had a nice birthday? I’ve had a nice your birthday.”
“That’s good, Thomas.” Aldo leaned against his shoulder, head being jolted each time they moved, but clearly determined to keep it there. “I have had a wonderful birthday.”
Thomas smiled, tipped his head back, looked up at the stars just starting to emerge from beneath the sunset. They were less clear here than at home, but still gorgeous on this cloudless night and Thomas kept watching them for a few minutes, trusting Aldo to lead them safely.
They checked in to their accommodation smoothly, Thomas managing to conduct the process in Danish with a confidence his sober self could never match. They were shown to a room at the back of the property with two large doubles and a gorgeous view over the sea, so Thomas wasn’t really sure why he was disappointed.
“Goodnight, Aldo,” he called, when they were both settled and Aldo was turning out the last lamp.
“Night, Thomas,” Aldo replied from the other side of the room, “sleep well.”
Thomas couldn’t figure it out so he shrugged and did.
The next day started with a generous breakfast of pancakes on the patio and a walk to the beach so that Aldo could have a swim in the Baltic.
“You’re sure you won’t join?” Aldo checked for the thousandth time after stripping down to his underwear, looking over the blue waters with a feigned confidence.
Thomas waved his walking stick, finally unclipped from his bag to support him in this hour of need. “Alas,” he lied, “Anu’s orders. No cold water, the shock could snap the replacement hip.”
“Oh really,” Aldo said dryly.
“I believe her exact words were, like a farmboy’s arm in a passing cart.”
“Good grief,” Aldo said, looking sharply at him, “is that a real Anu-ism or are you just spending too much time with her?”
“That was the first threat she ever gave me if I followed her orders wrong,” Thomas grinned, taking the underwear Aldo handed him, “I think it was within the first sentence of us meeting.”
Thomas found a comfortable spot on the rocks to sit and watch from as Aldo strode determinedly down the jetty and, after a final hesitation, dived in. He balled the towel up and tucked it against his stomach, under his jumper, to warm it as best he could. He refolded Aldo's abandoned clothes to pile them in a more logical order for getting dressed and, when Aldo ran shaking and whooping out of the sea a few minutes later, a laugh rose from his toes and out through his fingertips, joyful and reciprocated.
They returned to Copenhagen after that and cycled to the design museum, stopping to share an excellent sandwhich and choose a pastry each along the way. Thomas did some more drawings throughout the afternoon in his small Louisianna sketchbook, none of them much to write home about, but it was nice to do them nontheless. He surreptitiously bought Aldo an apron in the gift shop, and realised as they were leaving, that he hadn't thought twice about using his cane in the museum; he'd forgotten he was doing it at all until Aldo took it from his hands and linked arms with him instead, and the realisation both pleased and upset him at once.
At the restaurant, he presented Aldo with the apron and recieved his third kiss in two days for his efforts.
"Celebrating an anniversary?" The waitress asked when she took Thomas's payment at the end.
"It's my birthday," Aldo said, in a voice almost indistinguishable from Helga's smuggest purrs.
"Ah, happy birthday," she smiled, "tillykke med fødselsdagen, we say."
"Mange tak," Aldo squinted to remember, "jeg er nioseks." [Thank you very much, I am nine six]
"Niogtres," Thomas corrected, then feigned rolling his eyes at the waitress, "han er hurtig til at lære." [Sixty-nine. He is quick to learn.]
"Ja, det kan jeg godt se," she said. "Har I hygget jer?" [I can tell. Have you had a good time?]
"Det tror jeg, ja," Thomas smiled. "Det her var lækkert." [I think so, yes. This was delicious.]
"Fantastisk. Well, that's all gone through," she handed Thomas back his card. "Have a lovely rest of you birthday evening."
"Mange mange tak," Aldo pressed a hand to his heart.
They got back to the house just after 9, the train ride spent looking through Aldo's camera roll and, briefly, Thomas's sketchbook together. Helga greeted them with a hard look and settled onto Aldo's lap proprietorially as soon as he sat still enough. Thomas collected the post and found a delivery note from Ikea, notifying him that his new futon was tucked out of sight in the side passageway. A problem for tomorrow, he decided - Helga was too settled to ask Aldo for help now - so he went to make them their fruit teas instead.
+++
That Sunday, Aldo attended church alone, Thomas begging off so he could catch up on his emails. A pretty pathetic excuse, all considered, but Aldo didn't press him and it wasn't entirely a lie. He did check them briefly, and confirmed his details for his visa renewal. He hesitated, mouse hovering over Are there any other residents at the same address? for a long moment, but then continued without ticking. Aldo's immigration status was his own business, and he could claim ignorance for a few weeks longer.
He continued through a morning of practicalities, putting a wash on, changing Helga's litter. It wasn't until he was stripping their bedsheets that he remembered the extra bed, delivered and folded up in the side passage. He registered a strange dulling in his chest at the thought, and went to check. Sure enough, a box from Ikea, inoffensive and banal, placed on the bare ground and therefore a bit of a challenge for him to lift alone. He glared at it for a long moment, then returned to the house.
He went back to changing the sheets, and tried to picture the practicalities of where the futon should live. It was a small bungalow, so the only real options were to push their double bed up to the wall and squeeze it in alongside, or to rearrange the sitting room into a dual role as Aldo's bedroom. Neither seemed particularly enticing to Thomas, but he supposed the sitting room made a bit more sense; it would put the sitting room off limits each morning until Aldo woke up though, so that would be a bother.
By the time Aldo got back, Thomas had worked himself up into a foul mood. He knew he'd done it to himself, but that knowledge didn't seem to help it clear away, and the recursive cycle of frustration was building momentum.
"We've got dinner plans tomorrow," Aldo called, by way of a greeting, as he kicked the front door closed behind him. "Cancel your all appointmens, maestro, we're going to Stine's." He brought in two full tote bags of groceries and deposited them on the table with the telltale clunk of wine bottles.
"Okay," Thomas said in his best attempt at normal even agreeable.
Aldo stopped unpacking his bags immediately. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing."
Aldo raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing," he reiterated. "I'm just being dramatic, don't trouble yourself."
"Thomas, I am troubled," Aldo lent against the edge of the table next to him. "Is your hip playing up, how did you sleep?"
"I slept fine, my hips fine, it's just-" Thomas looked down at his hands. "The bed arrived, it's in the side passage. It's on the floor and I can't lift it."
"Oh, you really are being dramatic." There was a hint of a laugh in his voice, and it sparked Thomas's annoyance into a flame.
"Well, you did ask," he said sharply.
"Yes, I did," Aldo said, then clapped his hands and stood. "Let's go deal with this cataclysm then."
He left the room, evidently expecting Thomas to follow. He allowed himself a moment to seethe, then forced himself up. For all the good his help was worth, anyway.
Aldo had switched on the light and was surveying the box. "The offending item?" And then, at Thomas's nod, "okay, so where are we moving to?"
"Sitting room or bedroom, your choice," Thomas said.
"Bedroom, then," Aldo said. "Okay, I'll pick it up and then you grab the other side."
Thomas fumed at the transparent effort to make him feel included. "Aldo, come on, that's really not-"
"Thomas, I am old now, you can't make me carry your things around for you forever," Aldo sternly interrupted. "Now, on my count, okay?"
They did get the box out and into the hallway without incident, then through to the bedroom, where they deposited it on the bed.
Aldo looked around the room then back at the box, leaned in to check the details. He stood back up. "This isn't going to fit."
"I know," Thomas said darkly.
"Then why did you give me the choice?"
"If you're in the sitting room, that will make mornings tricky."
"Right, well, what's the issue with us just continuing to share?"
That hadn't occured to Thomas. He realised he'd been glaring down at the box and consciously straightened his spine.
Aldo gave him a knowing look. "Details distracting from the bigger picture again?"
The last tendrils of his rapidly dissapating bad mood tried to jump to Thomas's defense. "No, no, I..." he trailed off. "Yep."
"Chuck the box under the bed and forget about it?"
"Yep," Thomas said. "Sorry, I don't know what that was at all."
Aldo scrunched his nose, shook his head, don't mention it. "It's understandable, you're still recovering. Full mobility will take a few more months."
"Still, not nice for you to come home to," Thomas tensed his lips, a smileless-smile, then an olive branch, "what were you saying about dinner?"
+++
They arrived at the address Stine had given at 7:30 on the dot Monday evening, a bottle of wine in Aldo's arms and flowers in Thomas's. They were greeted at the door by Rasmus, a true viking in appearance who kissed them on each cheek like he was French while he introduced himself.
"Velkommen, velkommen! So lovely to meet you, come in," he swept his arms theatrically, stepping aside. He was so massive that this did not in fact leave much room to maneuver, and Aldo reached an arm back for Thomas to steady himself while squeezing through.
"This is my husband, Luis, and you already know min mor," Rasmus gestured in turn. "The Andersens are just on their way. You two arrived first, and with gifts! So polite."
Stine appeared at Thomas's elbow and whisked the flowers away from him, waving his offers of help off. He found himself sitting at the kitchen island with Luis as Aldo fetched himself an apron and seamlessly integrated into the mother-son catering team.
"I'm Thomas," he said.
"Stine has told us about you two," Luis smiled, "how long have you been in Denmark?"
"Nearly three years now, though my Danish is far too terrible for that to be true." Thomas admitted. "I left a job I'd been at a long time, needed a change."
"What did you do?"
"I worked at a church, logistical stuff mostly," Thomas said vaguely. "That's how I met Aldo, actually."
"Ah," Luis nodded, a depth to the gesture that Thomas couldn't quite parse. "When was that?"
"Far too long ago, decades," Thomas said. "He came over from America at the same time I arrived from England. He taught me Italian really, much more patient than all the actual Italians."
"Lucky you, Rasmus is a terrible teacher, can't bear to hear any Danish from my lips." Luis raised his voice a little as the sentence went along, eyes darting to his husband.
"Eso es porque oírte hablar cualquier cosa que no sea español es un desperdicio de mi única vida en esta tierra," Rasmus responded. [That's because hearing you speak anything but Spanish is a waste of my one life on this earth.]
"Confiar en el inglés es un desperdicio de mi única vida en esta tierra, mi corazon," Luis shot back. [Relying on English is a waste of my one life on this earrh, my love.]
"Eres de mexico?" Thomas guessed, joining in the Spanish, glad for the chance to exercise it. [You're from Mexico?]
Luis smiled again, and Thomas was starting to see why Stine's son would feel at home with this man. "Sí, ¿has estado?" [Yes, have you been?]
"No, nunca, pero trabajado con muchos mexicanos y pareces un amigo particular." [no, never, but we worked with a lot of Mexicans and you sound like one friend in particular.]
"Ah sí..." Luis's brain was visibly chewing over that bit of information but filed it away. "Entonces, se mudaron a Dinamarca hace 3 años, ¿qué hacen aquí?" [Right. So, you(pl.) moved to Denmark 3 years ago, what have you been up to here?]
"Yo me mudo hace 3 años, Aldo él sólo vino de visita," Thomas clarified. "Estos días, la mayoría del tiempo veo películas y espero que mi cadera sane. Me operaron hace poco, por eso Aldo está de visita." [I've been here 3 years, Aldo is only visitng. These days, I mostly watch movies and wait for my hip to heal. I had some surgery recently, that's why Aldo is here.]
"Ah, ¿verdad? Es muy amable." Luis eye's had flicked to his husband again, something guarded in them. Then the moment passed. "Espero que tu recuperación vaya bien." [Oh really? That's very kind. I hope your recovery is going well.]
Their conversation continued amicably, covering the physio's plans for his hip then moving onto the trials and tribulations of living in Denmark as a foreigner, but only half of Thomas was in it. The other half was growing feeling in his stomach, a curdling mixture of dread with some unknown chaser. Luis clearly had thought he and Aldo were a couple, and had to have been told so by Stine. It had been fairly easy to ignore some stickier moments with Anu or a random shop keeper, but this was chat one of a long night of chats, with people he hoped to see again. They'd never talked about it, Thomas had skated as fast as possible over every moment they conceivably could have, not wanting Aldo to feel... awkward? Upset? Whatever weird cousin of shame that was nesting in Thomas and ruining his appetite? But he'd never corrected anyone, either.
When Rasmus went to open the door for the Andersens and Luis jumped at the chance to help him, Thomas prayed for the first time since leaving Rome, but not to God. Please tell your husband, he thought at Luis, please tell everyone not to ask.
The Andersens turned out to be two women of Stine's age, both professors; Astrid, dark curls and covered in tattoos, of linguistics and Eva, buzzed grey hair and statement glasses, of astrophysics. Astrid's right hand, Thomas noticed as the conversation went on, was twisted to a different angle, two fingers rather than four. He introduced himself as a retiree and asked them both enough questions that he got away without any further prying before they were called to food.
He was seated between Astrid and Stine, directly opposite Aldo, who caught his eye with that eyebrow quirk that asked, tutto bene? Thomas deliberately lowered his shoulders, softened his eyes, smiled back a yes, thank you. He told himself to calm down and concentrated on the food being served.
"Beef rendang croquettas to start, with coriander oil," Rasmus announced, coordinating with Stine to bring the 7 little bowls to the table at once; they were obviously well practiced at this. "Can I get anyone refills on wine?"
A chorus of yeses around the table, except Eva and Aldo.
"Driving?" Eva askes.
"Driving," Aldo agreed, and they clinked their glasses together.
"So you are new to Denmark, Thomas says?" She asked.
"I'm just here visiting, but it's a lovely country, I'm glad to get the chance," Aldo said.
Eva nodded. "So where do you live?"
Aldo shrugged. "All my worldly belongings are at my brother's in New York, other than the things I have here."
"But you don't live there?"
"I lived in the Vatican until a month ago," Aldo said, "haven't had a chance to find a new place to settle yet."
"The Vatican?" Rasmus's mouth fell agape. "That doesn't mean something different in English? Like you were a priest?"
"A cardinal, yes," Aldo said, "Thomas and I met there in, ooh, 1992?"
"'91," Thomas corrected quietly. He could feel Luis watching him. "I left the church three years ago, before I moved to Denmark."
"I've never met a cardinal before," Stine said, evidently shocked. "Aren't you, well... famous?"
"To some people, I suppose. We do each have a wikipedia page," Aldo said, "but technically you still haven't met a cardinal."
"They aren't emeritus titles?" Astrid asked.
"Not if you leave Catholicism," Thomas said, "they don't want to encourage that sort of thing."
"I like your new Pope though," Stine said, "did you... I don't think you left because of his...?"
Thomas shook his head sharply. "Of course no, not at all," he said, "Benitez helped me very much for the last year of my service, he is a kind friend. He accepted my resignation so gracefully."
"So why did you leave?" Luis asked. Thomas met his eyes, unable to read the expression in them. He thought of the huge swathes of Catholics in Mexico, and the influence the Church held over their laws and suddenly Luis looked like a child.
"Personal reasons," Thomas said, feeling uncomfortably exposed, "a crisis of faith, really, nothing to do with Benitez. Truth be told, if he hadn't come along, I don't know if I would have had the heart to leave, the Holy See would have been in a worse state than I found it."
"That's not true," Aldo said, eyes cast down. "We were all so grateful for your hand steadying the wheel that last decade. A lot of things could have gone a lot worse without it."
“And why did you leave the Vatican?” Stine hadn’t spoken in a while, and her dark eyes were fixed on Aldo.
“The Pope asked me to,” Aldo said lightly, “but it’s not as bad as it sounds.” He was playing with the stem of his wine glass, turning it this way then that, watching the light play in the dregs of his drink.
“Why?” Thomas was grateful someone had asked the obvious question, and then horrified to realise it had in fact been him.
"I'm gay," Aldo said, his intonation suggesting there was more to follow, but he seemed to be struggling to open his mouth again. He looked quite perfectly miserable.
Luis took pity, prompting him, “isn’t the new guy meant to be quite progressive? Didn’t he have some gender scandal, I forget what, but surely he is okay with gay priests?”
“On a practical level, every pope has to be okay with gays in the curia,” Aldo said, dispassionate, “there’s simply too many of us to oust and still be able to run the place. No, I was asked to leave because... God was not forthcoming in directing my next steps, so instead I asked the Pope for guidance, and he felt that I had completed my service in Rome and needed to…” Aldo squinted for a second then continued, obviously quoting Benitez verbatim, “encontrar nuevamente la pasión por el mundo.” He was still watching his glass twist back and forth. “A depressed dean evidently doesn’t play well to inspire confidence, and there were younger men more than ready to take on the role.” [find your passion for the world again.]
“Have you found it?” Stine asked, point blank. “Your passion?”
A humourless laugh. "It's only been a month." Aldo’s glass stilled. “I don’t know. I like Denmark, I feel less… extraneous here.”
You were never extraneous, Thomas wanted to say.
“I like your church,” Aldo continued, meeting Stine’s eyes. “You bring such warmth to the worship.”
“You are welcome any time,” Stine said emphatically, and reached a hand across the table to Aldo, who took it. “You too, Thomas,” and she gripped his shoulder. “We would welcome your company.”
He nodded, unable to say anything.
Stine clapped, and the moment passed, “and now we have successfully killed the mood, Rasmus, shall we do the next course?”
Thomas thought the evening irretrievable, given the heavy pit in his stomach, but the good food and incorrigible warmth Stine and Rasmus radiated wouldn't let him go. Aldo was overcompensating for a while, making too many quips and speaking too loud, but then Eva engaged him chat and Astrid asked Thomas’s opinion on the comparison between the Romance languages and Danish, and he found himself three hours later with his plate cleared of seconds of desert, and a body that no longer wanted to sink into the ground and never rise again. Well, other than the fact that he hadn’t stayed up beyond 10pm in probably eighteen months and was stifling yawns nearly constantly.
“Come on, let’s get you home.” Aldo appeared next to him after a particularly long blink, a warm hand on his shoulder. “It’s way past our bedtime.”
Thomas looked up at him, a rare experience given their height difference, but these stools were just the right level to reverse the usual disparity. His eyes were soft, crows feet crinkling with his gentle smile, and Thomas’s wine-buzzed and sleep-addled brain realised what he’d known for a long time. He just had to decide what he did now he knew, and that was scary, but he’d done it before. “Yep, sounds good,” he said.
They said their goodbyes, and Rasmus showed them to the door, lending a nice symmetry to their visit. The hug he gave Thomas was bearlike. “Let us know if you need anything,” he said earnestly.
“Yes, of course,” Thomas said.
The residue of Thomas’s tipsiness dissipated over the course of the drive back, and he and Aldo passed it without speaking, both of them singing along quietly to the radio, which was playing a very nice arrangement of Bruch that they were butchering soundly. Once home, they brushed their teeth, undressed, got into bed without a word. But neither of them turned off the light. Lying there, looking up at the ceiling, Thomas could feel the whole of Aldo’s body next to him, like it was his own body there and the one on his side of the bed was someone else’s.
“You knew, I suppose?” Aldo asked eventually.
Thomas chose his words carefully, not sure if it would offend, but loathe to lie to his friend. “You were always rather the type, Aldo.”
“I could never… With you, I mean, I couldn’t tell if…”
It was so unnatural to talk about, but Thomas steeled himself. If ever there was an accepting audience… “I never wanted anyone, not sexually. Or maybe I did and I just didn’t recognise it.”
“You’d’ve recognised it if you had,” Aldo said. Thomas felt his head turn and did the same, caught his eye, and now they were looking at each other across the bed.
“It was always easy for me, that part, it never felt like I was giving something up,” Thomas confessed, “it seemed easier than the alternative, really. Less complicated.”
Aldo nodded carefully, blankly. “Fair enough.”
“How was it for you?”
“Horrible, sometimes,” Aldo smiled humourlessly, voice hollow. “Particularly when I was young, it was so… there were so many men, and there was so much I wanted. It was easier after 40, once I was settled in Rome, without a congregation of my own. It narrowed down, and we were so busy, I could brush it aside. But it never went away, and once you left, Thomas, I…” His eyes shut, and the silence dragged.
“I’m so sorry, Aldo,” Thomas tried to control his voice, didn’t want Aldo to hear the tears in his throat. “I should have been there.”
“It wouldn’t have helped, just postponed maybe, don’t beat yourself up,” Aldo opened his eyes and Thomas was caught. “It’s not your fault.”
“But, Aldo, you-” Thomas cut off with a swallow, forced himself to try again. “Before, I didn’t know- but having you here these past few weeks, this isn’t…” He stopped again, didn’t know how to say it, couldn’t see the shape of it from here, so massive that it went beyond the horizon. Focus on what’s in front of you, he told himself. “This bed wasn’t mine until it was yours too.”
Aldo was taken aback at that, which, more than anything else had so far, made Thomas’s ribcage contract, crushing his heart between his tense lungs. He really thinks he isn’t wanted. Thomas rolled onto his side and, easy as if they’d done it a thousand times, kissed Aldo.
Aldo made a shocked noise when Thomas pulled back. Thomas leant in again, and a third time, and granted he’d never done this before, but he thought that kissing someone would feel like being kissed at the same time, but he wasn’t- then Aldo kissed him back, and, oh.
Thomas felt the tears on Aldo’s cheeks transfer to his own, and after a few more seconds, Aldo had to stop again, a hand coming up to cover his eyes, a sob wracking his body. Thomas started to rise, to go get the tissues, still in the sitting room from when Aldo had last cried like this - and how he hadn’t noticed the depression, he could kick himself - but he was caught at the wrist.
“No, no, stay, I’m-” Aldo choked out a laugh, “I’m sorry, I’m just- I’m happy.”
“Oh,” Thomas blinked, then lay back down, facing Aldo again. “This is happy?”
“I’m so happy,” Aldo said plainly, eyes catching the light, glowing.
+++
It was remarkable how little the development in their relationship changed their lives, really. Thomas still made Aldo coffee when he made himself tea, but now he’d get a peck on the lips for his efforts. Aldo still chose them a movie to watch every few days, but when he inevitably cried at it, it was now into Thomas’s arms. Thomas still leaned on Aldo’s arm when he needed some extra support for walking, but now when he didn’t, he just held Aldo’s hand instead.
Thomas knew it was remarkably twee, and that it wasn’t what most relationships looked like for people who’d wasted as much time as he and Aldo, but they both needed to let the new world settle slightly as a lifetime of conditioning wore itself out. Thomas in particular needed time to get used to new feelings arising, his body never having been alive in this way before. Sometimes, when Aldo looked at him just so, his breath caught and that feeling like dizziness kindled in him; it was overwhelming and exciting, and he couldn’t wait for the next step, except that he could. They had time.