Work Text:
9 years after the Conclave
Lawrence wakes up to the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder jostling him awake. He stumbles into consciousness after a few seconds, eyes bleary and sore, his head still pounding from the migraine he’s had all day. Unappreciative of his sudden jolt back into the land of the living, Lawrence looks up at his disturber only to find His Holiness Innocent XIV smiling down at him. Any thoughts of scolding or admonishment is lost at the sight of his gentle gaze.
“Holy Father,” Lawrence says in lieu of hello. He makes to stand, but Vincent sits down next to him instead, and so he relaxes back into his seat.
Lawrence is still blinking the sleep from his eyes, tired and in pain. The pain was constant, now. His doctor had told him to expect it, and certainly he remembers how it felt the first time around when his cancer was smaller and more contained, but for the last month he can’t remember a time when there was not something in his head, body, or limbs that did not shoot agony into him. The only cure he’d found so far was the sight of Vincent, and the feeling of accomplishment he got every time Vincent told him how much he was needed and appreciated.
Pride was never a sin Lawrence considered his main vice, but over the last few years he can admit to more than his fair share of indulgence. He reasoned with himself that helping the Pontificate in his ministry was the best use of pride one could think of, and so it was in this case slightly excusable— so long as no one else knew.
Lawrence can’t remember drifting off, but the dark tones outside the window and the ache in his back mean that it has been two hours at least. He’s amazed that no one else had gone looking for him before the Pope himself did.
“How did you find me?” Lawrence asks him. They’re in an ordinary waiting room, by all means a meaningless place to look for the Dean of the College of Cardinals, but four men in all the Curia knew better, and two of them were in the place right now.
In this simple waiting room, in the same chair Lawrence sits in now, a younger Vincent Benítez was seated, sleeping in place, just as Lawrence had been doing moments before. Nine years ago the Dean had tapped the new cardinal awake from his seat, just as the Holy Father had done for him now.
Fitting, Lawrence thinks, that this may be the last place they ever share a conversation.
“I thought you might be in here,” Vincent answers. “You remember this room?”
“Remember it?” This place is the axis on which my life was renewed. “Sí, lo recuerdo.”
“Nos conocimos aqui.”
“Yes,” Lawrence grins at the memory. “You fell asleep in this chair. Your hair was darker, then.”
Vincent laughs, not insulted. Es verdad, pero son hermosas, las rayas de gris. Lawrence adored them, though he’d never tell. Vincent doesn’t seem the self-conscious type to dye his hair, but Lawrence doesn’t want to take any chances.
“Your eyes were sadder, then,” Vincent shoots back at him. “Pero aun así fuiste el hombre más amable que jamás conocí. What are you doing here?”
Lawrence looks around at the small room, its windows and yellowing walls. “I came here to pray.”
“Estabas durmiendo,” Vincent says, unaccusing. His eyes follow Lawrence’s own gaze across the small space.
“It is easier to pray, cuando mis ojos están cerrados.”
“Praying about the surgery?”
“Praying it is not complicated,” he admits, “either way that it ends.”
This spurs Vincent into looking at him directly. “Estarás bien,” he assures him, firm in his tone yet still warm as always. “No te preocupes. Además, te necesito. How can they expect me to shepherd the flock without someone to manage the farm?”
“Monsignor O’Malley is an excellent man, and he would make a great manager—”
“You will be alright.” Vincent says it as if he was trying to demand it of Lawrence. But Lawrence, as they both know, is not God.
He doesn’t quite know what to say— he refuses to lie outright or to make promises he knows he cannot keep. He swallows his dishonesty. He can’t give that to Vincent, now. He wants to– he wants leave him with–
“Te amo,” dice Lawrence. Es lo único que se le ocurre, ahora. Y al menos es la verdad.
“Say you’ll be alright,” Vincent says, an edge of worry colouring his voice. “Dilo, Thomas.”
“I love you.” It means the same to Thomas, anyways. Estará bien mientras pueda amar a Vincent.
He knows somehow, in the back of his mind. Can feel it like a looming spectre. As if God were preparing him, giving him time to say goodbye. He is grateful for it, despite the fear of it all, and of leaving Vincent behind. Lawrence wanted many things he could not have, but most of all he wanted to take care of him, like the shining knight he always thought himself to be.
It is not as if Lawrence is afraid of death— quite the opposite. He knows too well that he’s been living on borrowed time ever since the doctors found his cancer had relapsed. This time it had metastasized into his liver, and chemotherapy was simply not an option for someone so old. Hence the surgery. Hence the prayer.
Lawrence thinks— no, knows— that he is going to die on that table, cut open in front of strangers. It feels blasphemous even to think, but he imagines this is as close to prophesying as he will ever get. Of course the only revelation he is able to see is his own demise.
Bleakly, Lawrence has the selfish wish that he could die next to Vincent instead. On a warm bed, at home. His hand held gently as he drifts off.
But that would not be fair to Vincent. Let Lawrence go quietly, let Ray or Aldo break the news to the Holy Father in the silence of his little apartment suite. Let him mourn for a day or two, but not cry. He couldn’t bear to think about Vincent crying, especially over an old man like him.
Vincent toma las manos de Lawrence y las aprieta dulcemente entre las suyas.
“Tomás…” se calla, sintiendo el peso de sus manos en comunión.
“No tienes que decirlo de vuelta,” dice Lawrence, “Just… Quédate conmigo. Aquí. Por favor.”
Él se queda, por supuesto se queda. No quiere dejar a Lawrence solo.
Vincent no piensa que sea ingenuo ni optimista; realmente cree que su Thomas estará bien. Él tiene esperanza en él y en Dios. Tampoco Vincent imagina que puede hacer este trabajo sin su decano.
La próxima mañana Lawrence partirá para la operación, y Vincent preguntará por él tanto como sea adecuado que el Santo Padre pregunte por un querido manager. Pero nada más.
No podrá visitarlo en el hospital, después de la cirugía— haría una escena demasiado grande. Y no tendrán tiempo de hablar por teléfono, considerando lo ocupada que está su agenda. Si fueran hombres comunes, quizás— pero no lo son. Cada camino parece bloqueado para ellos, pero aún así Vincent está agradecido de haberlo conocido.
Todo estará bien. Lawrence volverá a Vincent, él debe volver. Y cuando él regrese, Vincent podrá respirar tranquilo una vez más.
“Tomás,” dice, “Yo también te amo.”
Lawrence lo mira, con la sorpresa escrita en su cara. Como si nunca hubiera imaginado que su amor podría ser correspondido. Es algo precioso de ver.
“Estarás bien,” él repite, “Necesito a mi manager. Necesito a mi Tomás el incrédulo.”
Lawrence suspira, resignado. “You must hold out hope for the both of us, then. My dear Vincent.”
“Lo haré, querido. Lo haré.”