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Thomas Lawrence likes his showers hot, very hot, and that's just how he likes it, at least that's what he'd say if he was ever asked, asked why his mirrors are so foggy when he leaves the bathroom that parts of its film have started to peel away, asked why he shakes as he leaves, skin red, raw, that's just how he likes it. Of course, he's never been asked that, no one has ever seen him get in or leave the shower, sure, they hear him, the water falling in the early hours of the morning, the slight whimpering sound, but that's just because his job is so demanding, he needs to be up at four in the morning, he needs to shower then, no, he could not possibly shower before going to bed, that would defeat the purpose.
What purpose? You ask. He would say no purpose, maybe the hot water is better for sanitary purposes, maybe it is more efficient, but he doesn't really think about it , that's just how it's always been. But then he would have to confess, because he is a liar. Lawrence thinks about showering a lot. There are many things he dislikes about showering, from having to undress to standing for such a long time at his old age, he has often showered with the lights off, he likes to think this is so he doesn't waste any electricity or disturb someone, but he would by lying again. The truth is that he hates to see his body, he always has, it is yet another reminder of his own temptation, as if by seeing his own penis he may be tempted to masturbate. He has of course, long since perfected a plan to avoid temptation, he has always slept on his back, arms folded across his chest, like the corpse he will one day be.
Yet that has still never saved him, he always ends up on his side. He has never masturbated, he can say this proudly, he has never broken his celibacy vows, never even seriously considered it. He has felt desire, love, for both men and women, he has said this before, but that's not a sin, it is the start of temptation but that is his line, and he has never once crossed it. When he'd had prostate cancer, he'd questioned what it has all been for, wished he'd done something a little bit exciting for once, but that was the allure of death talking, the devil, temptation, that is when he seriously started taking hot showers, the ones that seemed his skin, sometimes even blistering it. When he free of cancer, he never stopped. He would live with that temptation for the rest of his life, and now he would do everything in his power to not succumb to it.
Lawrence dreaded going to sleep, sometimes choosing to roam the gardens instead, always worried about what his unconscious mind would drag up, what he may be tempted to do. He didn't like taking the burning showers, even only if it was because they were a reminder of the hell that he would surely fall into in the end. This is another part of why he dread going to sleep.
But, but lately, he has started to suspect that this is not working how he wanted it to. At night he dreams of the burning showers, of hell, of his body, his blistering skin, he wakes with his body shaking, and as he stands in the shower he wonders if he actually wants this. It is cleanly ineffective, how could anyone think otherwise, his punishment is obviously not enough as it never makes him stop, his justice is never served, he never feels satisfied. It is not working, it is not enough. He needs more.
Which is how Lawrence found himself here now, standing in his bedroom, body dripping on the wooden floor, steam rising from his skin in thick endless waves, he is shaking, quiet violently, his skin is searing, red and raw, blisters forming at his back and shoulders, usually he would relish in the pain he'd get from this ever time he sat down, wincing at the harsh reminder of his previous behaviour, but not today, it was not enough, he'd been thinking it for days, a sense of dread had been forming over him, drowning out his very soul, but last night, he'd had proof.
It is no secret that Lawrence is ecstatic with their choice of Pope, Vincent Benítez was really everything they'd needed now, in fact, it had been him alone that had swayed him to stay in the Curia, it was also no secret that Lawrence spent most of his time with the Pope, staying at his side most times of the day, whether it was part of his job or not, Vincent seemed to enjoy it, the fact Lawrence could even call him that at all was testament to their relationship. But now it was also clear that his perverted subconscious mind hand other ideas. He did not have a wet dream , he'd never had one before and he'd made sure of that, he was too old to be having one now, in fact, he wouldn't even call it a wet dream now, that couldn't be what it was, it was probably just erectile dysfunction, or something else penis related that happened as you got older, or maybe it was a side effect from his prostate cancer, even though that had been a few years ago at this point, and maybe he should go to the doctor because there was probably something wrong here. Lawrence had never liked his penis, if anything he'd say it frightened him, which was stupid but it was true, he often wished he could just get rid of it.
Today, this morning, was definitely the sort of day where he thought he might castrate himself. Nothing had happened it was fine, he should just see a doctor, he certainly hadn't had a wet dream about the Pope , a man he thought so highly of, cared for so much, he couldn't have, that was a sin, and not to mention totally perverted. So, he got in the shower, he turned the water up as hot as it would go, as usual, if he'd had a normal, holy night, he would simply have a normal shower, but let's be honest here, he barely remembers when that last was, ever since the Conclave, three months ago, he has had a burning shower every morning, his back is permanently red, cluttered with blisters and lumps, he has lost more hair than he has in a while, it clogs the shower drain, but he can barely see well enough in the steamy shower to try and get it out. If it even is there, to acknowledge that it was really there would be to acknowledge that he has lost it, which will only make him shower more, call this a necessary ignorance if you will, and he knows he knows, that is bad, that is wrong, he is too old to still be ignorant, too old to still be anxious like a child, but that is all he has been for years, its never constant, no one can physically remain the same amount of anxious forever, but somehow the good periods only make it worse, but it isn't a problem. Who doesn't worry about their job? About their relationships with others? Their bodies? Whether or not they are a danger to other people? Whether or not they are going to hell? Surely that means he has a clear conscience. That he cares, there's many people in the Curia who do not care, many who think that simply by being here they will never go to hell, Tedesco , but he knows that's not the truth, there are many here who fall from grace on the path to hell, money laundering, theft, abuse, sex scandals, he has never been able to understand how others are able to commit such sins, or why God must put them in such positions of power, and he can only conclude, that they do not worry like Lawrence does, they do not care, and that God does not put them in such positions, being here in the Curia is not act of justification, he is not righteous, he can only be justified through his actions, and his actions are simply perverted.
But he has now paid the price, he has spent half an hour in the boiling shower, it is an awful waste of water, but he wouldn't have to do it if he simply didn't sin, if he had control over his own body, if his body was his, but it isn't so will keep on-
Thomas Lawrence stares down at his body in shock, he thought- he thought it would work, it had always worked- what- what- why?
Why was he hard now?
Dread washes over him in great drowning waves, washing him away, his soul down to hell, his stomach drops so low that his knees shake to the floor- he- he can't breathe! He pants, knees curled up on the floor, arms reaching out aimlessly to the cabinet under the sink in front of him, stopping him from getting stuck down on the floor- why- why can't he breathe!? His chest is tight, his mind is so scared that he cannot even think about what he has just seen- no- no- no-
His breathes come in and out very quickly, he doesn't understand? He's breathing, gasping like a drowned man yet his chest hurts like he has been running, maybe he's having a heart attack, maybe this is how he dies, God is punishing him and he didn't even get time to confess. Stop it. Just stop it. He- he needs something, anything, he doesn't want to die like this, he deserves it, of course he does, but it is through pure selfishness that he wishes to survive, to be given the chance to prove himself worthy through his actions, he already had all the faith in the world, none of that would save him now. A better man would pray in this position, lying almost prostate on the floor, but Lawrence is a bad man. He cannot think, his mind feels likes its on fire, like daydreaming through a migraine- he suddenly knows.
By some, well not some, by God's miracle, his chest fills with air, slowly, in and out, relief washes back over him, he stands, easily despite his age and the fact that he struggles to put his own socks on sometimes, he knows what he needs to do now. Now. Now he stands dripping onto the bedroom floor, looking at his hideous body n the floor length mirror that is sometimes supposed to reflect a holy man back, but all he sees is a sinner with a now soft cock, he needs it gone, but it is clear that is not how God wants him to pay. He needs to know what hell is like, proper hell, not just the one he can recreate in his bathroom, the one he has been accustomed to, he should not take joy in feeling the pain on his back, his should cry, if he can get used to it, then it will never work.
Thomas Lawrence knows what God's mission is for him now: he needs to burn himself properly.
The only question was how. It is Five O'clock in the morning when he finally puts on his cassock, doing the 33 buttons, his hands shake terribly, he is scared, so very scared, but his chest does not hurt anymore, because he knows what to do. He greets the Pope with a smile on his face at breakfast, he had seen him at the Eucharist that morning as usual but he stay at the back, receiving it last, he feels dirty being around him, and if he had any sense of integrity, he would resign and never speak to anyone again, but he doubts Vincent would let him, he doesn't want to find out.
"Morning Your Holiness, did you sleep well?" He asks politely as he sits down next to him, he didn't want to, it was wrong and he knew it, all the more reason to burn himself.
"Please Thomas, just Vincent here, and yes, I did, what about you, how was your morning?"
Thomas nods dejectedly, he was not worthy of calling him by his first name, he wasn't worthy of him at all, not after last night. He looks down the long table before him, with the many members of the Curia scattered throughout, Bellini was opposite, sipping his coffee like a man who'd certainly had a bad night, it was funny really, the older he got, the less the bad nights seem to effect him, the less he could sleep for even when his nights were good, which was never. Yet others like Bellini always seemed to need their beauty sleep, which was fair, Aldo deserved to have a good night considering how hard he worked.
"Thomas?"
"Yes..... Vincent, I'm sorry what did you ask me?"
"I was only asking if you were okay. Are you okay Thomas? You seem upset"
"Do I? I can assure you that I'm fine"
Vincent toys with his bottom lip, glancing to Bellini, who only looks between the pair and leans further back in his chair.
"Are you sure? You like you've been crying." Vincent reaches for Thomas' hand, but he pulls it away before they can make contact, he cannot possibly be doing this now. He didn't mean for it to be so obvious, he catches his reflection in the back of his spoon, the rims of his eyes are red, blotchy and so incredibly sad.
Vincent looks down the length of the table, scared of the words that were about to come out of his mouth, "Lying is a sin, Thomas."
"I- I haven't been crying, I can assure you" his plays with his hands in his lap, it wasn't technically a lie. Lord. This was all the more reason to pay his proper penance.
Lawrence looks to The Pope, his glorious, holy Pope. He doesn't make eye contact with him, he just watches the end of the table glancing at the Sisters as they flirter across the room, he's deep in thought, his dark brown eyes a mystery to Lawrence even still, he doesn't think he will ever truly know what's behind them, those beautiful eyes- Stop it- no- he- he doesn't think those things. His skin prickles, eyes burning, back on fire- This can't be happening here. He breathes in deeply through his nose. Noticing that Vincent is looking to Bellini.
Lawrence can only stare at his oldest friend through his brow as his head is bowed to his lap, almost asking him to be backed up, come on, just tell him this is normal, I always look like this, it is normal. Bellini's eyes flit between the two, unsure whether to obey his second highest authority or his oldest friend. After a few laboured moments, he sighs, dropping his eyes to the floor, before looking at them calmly as he moves his chair back.
"Don't look to me" He holds his hands up "I don't want to get between whatever lover's quarrel you're having"
In hindsight, Lawrence would call Bellini a coward, this had obviously been more serious than that, but we are not privy to hindsight, so all Lawrence's mind can latch onto is lover .
No. They're not lovers, he's the Pope and Lawrence is the Dean, his devout only to God, he would never give his body or mind to Vincent, he doesn't want that, he doesn't think about that, he isn't a sinner, he is, but not like that, he will not break his most sacred vow. Lawrence feels so far away from his body, as if he were watching himself in the third person, as if he were possessed, he's sat on the sidelines of his mind, screaming at himself to not start crying, not start panicking, no matter how hot it feels in here, no matter how loud it gets, no matter how much he can feel the heat of hell on his back. He balls his hands into fists, shaking.
Lawrence stands, quickly, he almost feels like his legs will give way, but he does it anyway because he can't be here , Aldo, who'd clearly been trying to get out of this looks at him stunned, but Thomas, is panicking too much to notice as he walks briskly out of the room. How rude. People would whisper, all that time with the Pope and he just walks away .
His skin only prickles more as it's hit with the warm spring air, all things considered, it was a very pretty day, he wanted to leave, to go to his room, to cry, but he can't, not when Bellini is on his toes.
"Thomas!" Aldo calls, looking behind him at the canteen they'd just left, hoping they haven't made a scene, cringing very openly. Lawrence leans on the ornate stone railing, trying his best to look like he only came out here for the view. "Thomas..." He calls again as he makes his way closer, but not too close, Aldo leans on a nearby pillar.
Aldo seems to finally gather himself, his chest rising and falling slower than before, and exercise was too much at his age, even though he was admittedly quite fit, he'd never had the best lungs. "Thomas... I was only joking.... you know that right? I would never imply anything-"
"You know how important my chastity vows are to me Aldo." Thomas does not look at him, but Aldo certainly does, looking down the end of his glasses at the man before him, broken, wounded, wrong.
"Of course I do! Look, I'm sorry if what I said was inappropriate, I won't imply anything of the sort again, okay?" he takes a few steps closer to him.
"I'm not his lover , I'm not" Thomas runs a cold hand over his faces, pinching the bridge of his nose "I'm not"
"I know... that's what I just said.... Thomas" He steps closer "Are you actually okay?"
Thomas looks to his hands again, his fingers intertwined with each other in pseudo-prayer, he tears his hands apart.
"I'm fine"
"I don't think I believe that, I-" Aldo puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to meet his eyes. Multiple things happen at once. Firstly, Lawrence jumps, surprised at the touch, then, Lawrence winces, Bellini has just touched a burn and lastly, he shakes him off violently, jumping away from the railing.
Now their eyes are meeting each others, both in shock, Lawrence's shoulders hunch like a wounded animal, shielding his shoulder away from the man, as if he were attempting to hide it. Bellini's eyes are wide, trying to process what just happened.
"Are you hurt!?" Lawrence steps away from him "Have- have you... have you hurt yourself??"
"I just need some time alone, Aldo, Its fine" He tries to turn, tries to leave like the coward he is.
"I don't think I should let you do that" Lawrence turns back to face him in an instance.
"Why?"
"I think we just established that"
"No, I mean, why now?" Their eyes meet, grim, stern looks upon the pair, "We both know this isn't the first time."
The silence is heavy, thick like sin, the air between them is not the sort you could remedy with a confession, they have avoided this for too long.
When Aldo next speaks, he sounds on the edge of tears, "And I shouldn't have let you go then, I'm sorry- Thomas- I really am" He looks to his hands as they hang in front of him "I have ignored your state for too long, I used to just tell myself that's just how you are , but you're not, in the Conclave I saw that, there is an unburdened man within you, I can't let you go"
Thomas works his mouth multiple times, unsure of what to say, shocked even, "What- what do you mean unburdened? We are all burdened here" he laughs slightly
Bellini stares at him like he's just been asked a trick question, "You...." He takes he glasses off, rubbing his temple, "You have to know your level of anxiety is not normal, right? You don't think we all go around as anxious as you...." The sentence dies on his tongue, dread taking over his body, "all this time..."
"I- I don't know what your talking about-"
"Stop lying to me!!"
"I'm not! There is nothing wrong here! Nothing the Church wouldn't approve of!"
"But would I approve of it though!? I am your oldest friend Thomas, a bad one, but I still care for you, I don't want to see you hurt!"
Lawrence smirks to himself slightly, the image of their times spent in the Vatican libraries as seminaries flashing through his mind, "Probably not, but of course you would say that, only now that you're not the only one who may break their chastity vows with me!"
It was such a stupid thing to say really, dread washed over him once more, but so did something else, it unfurled itself from his chest, he was actually willing to break his chastity vows, in real life, with real people that he knew, with the Pope, it had only been a product of his subconscious until now, a thought crime, but saying it out loud was so much worse. Even if it was really Bellini's sin, he'd broken his vows on a few occasions, and Lawrence knows if he wasn't so persistent on retaining his own, then he would have done so with him.
These aren't things to be said out loud.
Thomas Lawrence walks away, back to the apartments, Aldo does not follow, he promised he would not let him go, but he did it anyway .
He is not surprised to find himself standing outside the room he'd left not even hours before, the one he'd dragged himself off the floor of. Usually, returning to a place like this in a time of crisis is sign that he thinks of it as a place of shelter, of comfort and safety, but it is anything but, there is nothing safe or permanent about anything inside the walls of the Vatican, this room could have all been taken away from him had Benítez decided he couldn't keep his position, less drastically, he could have been moved to simple a different apartment, in a different building, somewhere else, he wasn't, but the point is that he has no affinity for his apartment, he's been in many others throughout his time in the Vatican, they all look much the same, he has little possessions, the only things that move with him are his Bible, which he's had since he was twelve, its not his everyday one, but it is very precious to him, his Rosary and his clothes, which he has very little of, considering they mostly wear cassocks to work. He is not back at his room because it is safe, because he likes it, or even because he wants to be here, no, he's here because that's where the kettle is.
Typical Brit behaviour . A kettle, of course, but in truth, it was Aldo who'd brought it for him, he'd taken one look around his new apartment and lamented at his lack of possessions.
" I have no need for them, I am a man of the church: Acts 2:44-45-
'And all who believed were together and had all things in common. And they were selling their possessions and belongings and distributing the proceeds to all, as any had need.' "
Aldo had only smirked "This is literally our job Thomas, you know what we have given up to be here, we have less earthly possessions than most anyway, have we not sold enough of our future possessions, our houses, our freedom, our lives? To warrant having some things? I mean its not like the early Christians had nothing, they had stuff, they needed to live, and I'd say you do too, I mean its so bland in here its almost white room torture-" he'd slurred it slightly, less dignified than when he usually talked about theology with him, he thinks they might have been drunk slightly, that would explain why its so hazy.
"But I wouldn't know what to get-"
"I don't know, maybe, a kettle or something, I know how your lot like those, I'll get you one, don't even worry about it, just say its for my own wellbeing as your guest, I need something else to look at other than your sexy face" He gestured aimlessly to the counter tops, Thomas hadn't stared at him in shock, Aldo was always, freer, when drunk, gayer, even, it was in times like this when Aldo had told him that he'd lost his virginity to a man in a similar position as the one they were sitting in now.
Now the sleek black kettle sat sadly on his counter top, just where Aldo had wanted it. He never used, he only made an effort to when Aldo was around, which hadn't been a lot since the Conclave. He stands by the sink, filling the kettle up with water, he barely uses any of the amenities here if he's being honest, he likes to spend as little time in his room as possible, preferring to at least prove himself through his actions by spending time with others, trying to help them, to do what was right, at least then he didn't have to think about his lack of faith. Or at least he did, maybe he was tired of hiding from his problems, his lack of faith, this could be his baptism, which would technically make him an Anabaptist, but he would be faithful, he may be a Catholic but even he knew that he needed his faith, his actions would mean nothing without faith.
The kettle rumbles violently as it boils, he watches it, how the water bubbles through its tiny slit windows, he should have asked for one of those clear ones, then he would've been able to see them better. Lawrence has never had much of an affinity for his home country, even though that is where he had risen through the ranks from, he no longer served Britain, no longer represented anyone there as such, at least not in any meaningful, non-technical way, he'd lived in the Vatican most of his life at this point. He was fine with it, it was a Protestant country, that much had always been obvious to him, given that even though he was way above an archbishop, it was the Archbishop of Canterbury who was the most famous church figure there. He held no animosity towards this of course, there was a complicated history, he new this. Yet it never failed to intrigue him when he stepped foot in some old church in the countryside of England or Wales, its lights only kept on because it was a historical building first and foremost, not a place of worship, and he'd see a statue of the Virgin Mary, or rows of defaces statues, a reminder of conflict but Catholic none the less. Neither truly Protestant of Catholic, neither one or the other, that was something he'd come to appreciate about faith in his later years, that it was never binary, even Martin Luther had been a Catholic first.
Click.
It is done. Lawrence stands helplessly for a few moments, unsure whether or not to take off his cassock, it would be easier to simply roll up his sleeve and put it back down again, on the other hand, people had spent a long time making this cassock, and should he get any boiling water on it, it would ruin all their hard work. His hands shake again as he undoes the 33 buttons, he should be praying as he does this. He doesn't. He lays it neatly on his bed, standing by the sink once again in his black vest that barely conceals the burns he already has on his back. He steadies his hands on the edge of the sink, praying, or at least trying to, this is a holy act, God has commanded him to do this. He can't go against his word. He is a servant of God, he does not question what he needs to do to be justified.
The kettle shakes in his single hand as he holds it, he hadn't filled it up that much, but still he can audibly here how to water sloshes about inside it. He takes a deep breathe. Holding out his left arm over the sink, he does not want to make a mess, he is unsure of how much he should pour, what kind of damage he will do, but he can deal with that afterwards, if that even comes. He licks his lips, steadying himself, looking to the ceiling, to heaven, hoping he will emerge from this justified.
He tilts the kettle forward.
Bang!
Genesis 22:8-12
“The fire and wood are here,” Isaac said, “but where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”
8 Abraham answered, “God himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering, my son.” And the two of them went on together.
9 When they reached the place God had told him about, Abraham built an altar there and arranged the wood on it. He bound his son Isaac and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. 10 Then he reached out his hand and took the knife to slay his son. 11 But the angel of the Lord called out to him from heaven, “Abraham! Abraham!”
“Here I am,” he replied.
12 “Do not lay a hand on the boy,” he said. “Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.”
The door swings open, there is shouting, a lot of it. There are hands on him, retching the kettle from his hands, two pulling him away from the sink and two moving the kettle away from him, pouring the boiling water down the sink. He can only watch as it hisses against the cold surface, steam rising to the heavens.
He is shaken, literally, it feels as if his head will fall from his body. His mind is blank, shocked, he hadn't even realised he'd left the door unlocked. He is sat on a plush chair, the one Aldo usually sat in. Dark, beautiful brown eyes are staring into his soul. His mind is working a one mile an hour, has he been interrupted, or has God just saved him? It is hard to tell but the Pope is sitting so closely in front of him, so worried, that he cannot be sure which one of the things that just happened was the work of God.
"Thomas? Thomas?" Vincent calls, not for the first time, but only this time does it stick.
"Yes?"
"Oh Thomas!" He says it with glee, standing away from him quickly, looking up, making the sign of the cross, whispering something in Spanish "I am glad you are back with us" He hugs Thomas tightly. His face mushed to his hips, he should feel something about this, he should, this is too intimate, but he doesn't, he only feels joy.
Aldo is resting against the kitchen counter, looking intently at the kettle in his own hand, its been unplugged from the wall. He has tears in his eyes, he will apologise for all this, act like its his fault, come round every night, so will Vincent, they will sit with him every night, ask for his company, act like he doesn't know why they're doing this, he will be embarrassed but ultimately content with their help, which they will get him more of, professionally, they will love him, and he will love them back, just as the Lord has shown him to today.
But right now, he just wants to stay in this moment forever, with no shame, with peace, with the guidance of God.
Genesis 22:19 "Then Abraham returned to his servants, and they set off together for Beersheba. And Abraham stayed in Beersheba."