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Tepid air drapes the late evening in a comforting embrace, the skyline decorated with marmalade and amaranth into a final midnight inkiness. When the bustling of tourists during the summer months in the Vatican came to a halt, it was usually Thomas’ favourite time of the year.
Until the Holy Father passed away, and the assemblage of cardinals was immediate, and thus, the stress and weight of urgency strained any imitation of peace since the beginning of the primeval event of selecting a new Pope. It has never brought forth something of a serene presence of mind.
As Thomas sat restlessly in his boardroom even after the day’s worth of predicaments, rosary interweaved in his fingers as it always was, footsteps approached his closed doorway. He watched the idle shadow for a moment until the rapping on the door fully had Thomas’ attention.
”Thomas, it is Vincent, I was planning on going for a brief walk and was wondering if you would like to join me.”
As they paced the sequestered grounds, the Basilica illuminating the nocturnal ether, they walked closely alongside each other.
"How did you know I couldn’t sleep?” Thomas muttered. He wasn’t fresh to the idiosyncrasy of insomnia as it troubled Thomas from time to time. But with the Blessed Father departing this life, sleepless nights made their appearance more so than usual. And it seemed that it disturbed Cardinal Vincent Benitez as well. A man who has intrigued not only the other Cardinals but Thomas himself.
Vincent chuckled. “Who has had an ounce of rest these past couple of days.” He looked at the sky and briefly closed his eyes, seeming to absorb the hush of the night. They made their way to settle down at an agate bench, hidden in solitude. They sat side by side, knees unintentionally pressed lightly against each other. Thomas noticed. Vincent as well.
“I am aware of what ails you.” He gazed at Thomas, who was already looking ahead to avoid his prying eyes. With the brief time he has gotten to know the Archbishop of Kabul, it felt as though he could consistently read him like a manual as if he had known Thomas all his life.
“And what do you think that is?” Thomas exhaled, there was a fleeting pause. Vincent looked as though he was thinking carefully of what to utter next.
“You do not think you are enough to be Pope.” Vincent breathed, watching him closely as if there was a window allowing him to glimpse into Thomas’ soul.
“I do not want it,” Thomas reveals. ”The responsibility, I couldn’t bear the weight.” Vincent carries on his attentive eye, and then asserts his opinion.
“You don’t want what? The burden of upholding sanctity? Thomas, I hope you are aware you and I already carry it.” That elicits a grin out of Thomas.
“I know but I have–I have doubts in my faith at times, I am not as strict as our Blessed Father was.”
Vincent observes him sympathetically. “We are human, bound to flesh. We are not supposed to be perfect but guide ourselves in devoutness as much as we can. It may not be enough, but to Him it is.” He looks up as if to the heavens, and back at Thomas.
“But I think, you are close to perfection in this conclave,” Vincent murmurs with a soft expression. Thomas, bewildered by the statement, shakes his head slightly.
“Pardon me but you are ridiculous, I hope this isn’t your way of telling me you will vote for me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
Vincent steadily moves to hold Thomas’ hand, thumb now slowly caressing the skin. Thomas’ breath faintly hitches for a moment, then with tenacity, covers Vincent’s hand with his other, and they look down together in silence as if in prayer.
Until Thomas looks up, and Vincent is already staring back at him.
Something kindles in Thomas to languidly motion his hand up to Vincent’s forearm, journeying higher and higher, almost up to his neck, until he repels himself from Vincent.
“S-see what I mean” He stammers, "I cannot eliminate this–this temptation, I am no good fit.” Thomas clutched the rosary around his neck for aid in his disarray.
Vincent, not rattled by Thomas’ bemusement hums, “Temptation? Are we not here because of it?”
“What do you mean?” Thomas questions.
Vincent moves in closer, the proximity making Thomas’ brain almost go into a haze. “It is one of the first fruits given to us. It can reveal the deepest parts of ourselves, what we deny ourselves, so we can learn to understand it.”
“What are you denying, Thomas?” Vincent asks. A priest inquires about a priest to confess. How comical.
Thomas hesitates until he divulges. “Clemency. I do not want to seek forgiveness for my desires.”
“What are those desires?” Vincent was mere inches away from Thomas’ face.
“To hold you,” Thomas whispers.
“Then hold me.”
And then they embrace, and Vincent cradles his head as if to soothe and protect Thomas from his qualms.
They separate for a brief moment, then reconnect again, but this time it is Thomas who leans his cheek unto Vincent’s own, holding him closer, flush to his chest, like a rope pulling him into him. Thomas mindlessly begins to rub his cheek against Vincent's as if trying to ignite a spark, to which Vincent benevolently returns the favour. The caressing of skin beguiled them.
Thomas is intoxicated with want, and desire, and Vincent is what he needs.
Thomas holds Vincent’s face, watching with a pleading look.
“Bite me—Bite me please—”
“Thomas I-”
A strangled noise emerged from Thomas’ throat. “I-I need to feel you, please I beg of you.”
And Vincent grants him his prayer.
Vincent’s teeth immediately vanish into his jugular, evoking a wanton moan from Thomas that makes him shiver. He locks himself into his neck, suckling, as Thomas whimpers from his ministrations. Thomas wonders if he could stay like this forever, to be consumed by the whims of such fatal attraction and want from another. How has he refused himself for so long?
Wasn’t mortification of the body simply to share our passion with Him? Why deny the consequences of man when we are man itself? What was so wrong with letting Vincent pierce Thomas’ flesh with his teeth to imitate such suffering, consume him with such piousness?
And he continued to let Vincent take root in him. He couldn’t let him stop until they both felt vertiginous, foreheads resting on each other, panting, so iniquitous. The permeating pulse from Thomas’ wound invigorated him, as if he was resurrected. Crimson stained Vincent’s lips. He looked so heavenly all over his mouth. Thomas ventured to touch his blood, anointing his fingers with it. Nourishing himself with the metallic taste. Thomas smiled wide.
It was then he felt Holy for the first time in a while.