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On the third day of the Conclave, Aldo is making peace with many things.
His constant inner tug-of-war, which he's been carrying with him since the death of the late Holy Father – or even before that, seems to have calmed down.
In reality, it's not a new feeling for him: denying something until he's convinced himself he doesn't want it, only to end up hitting a wall and realizing that that ambition was always there. At least, it's one more sign that Aldo didn't deserve to be appointed as God's representative on earth.
A strange feeling, a mixture of peace and melancholy, envelops him as he grabs the pen and stares at the blank ballot in front of him. He will write Thomas' name for the sixth time. It seems like the most obvious, and desirable outcome, compared to a papacy run by Tedesco; but at the same time something makes him hesitate.
And what if he's wrong again? Is he really ready to witness the heavy, cold chalice pass into the hands of a Thomas who is already struggling to keep his head up while managing this Conclave? Will Aldo be able to bear to see Thomas belonging to the entire world, and completely give up the selfish thought of keeping him all to himself?
With tears threatening to spill from his eyes, he sighs and turns his head to the left, staring at Thomas as he gets up from his seat, and walks to the altar with a ballot in his hand. Aldo is certain that it does not contain his own name anymore.
Let it be God’s will. I’m no more than a raw man.
The explosion felt like his world was being shaken again.
Aldo’s body reacts faster than his mind, and his hands rise to cover his head. With his eyes closed shut, he hears the sound of panes of glass shattering and crashing on to stone. And then, silence.
A second goes by. Then another.
Suddenly, something clicks in his head, and a wave of fear runs throughout his entire body. Thomas. Ten seconds ago, he'd been absentmindedly watching Thomas. On his way to the altar, his ballot in hand. Thomas. No, please. God, please, no.
He lifts up his head and searches with his eyes, pleading to see at least the silhouette of Cardinal Lawrence, but a cloud of dust obstructs his view to the other side of the room. Aldo feels his heart racing, and thinks that if he’s not dead by now, he will die soon of a cardiac arrest.
“If I died, at least I would be with–”
No. He stops himself in the middle of that thought. He can’t allow himself to think about the worst outcome. He won’t let God or fate or whatever take another person from his arms, not in such a short time. Not him.
The adrenaline running through Aldo’s blood fuels his system, making him rise from his seat. He makes his way through the desks as best he can without taking his eyes off the other side of the chapel. He covers his mouth with the inside of his elbow, coughing out some of the debris still dispersed in the air. His ceremonial clothes –now covered in dust– become an obstacle, not letting him move like he wants– no, like he needs to.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his brothers, their expressions torn between confusion, surprise, and fright. Some are rising to help and check on the others around them. Aldo recognizes the mysterious Cardinal Benítez among the men. But Aldo’s mind is focused on the only thing that matters to him at this moment: Thomas. Please, Thomas.
His feet carry him almost running through the chapel, crunching the pieces of broken glass on the red carpet. The cloud of dust disperses further, and he is met with a sight that makes him feel a hole in his chest, filled with an unbearable despair.
Thomas, for a few seconds, remains lying there on the floor, motionless. And Aldo is already thinking the worst when his eyes finally find those blue orbs that mesmerize him so much. The air he has been holding all this time makes its way out as a trembling sigh.
In those few seconds, when time seems suspended, the Dean stares with narrowed eyes at a kneeled Aldo in front of him. Aldo does not remember kneeling. But, again, it doesn’t matter now.
His focus is on Thomas, who looks around him like a newborn baby getting his first glimpse of the world. As if he, too, can't believe he's still alive. Aldo spends two more seconds scanning him, searching for any grave wounds, finds none, and finally speaks.
“Thomas” he almost whispers, as if afraid of breaking him with his mere voice. “Are you hurt? Can you stand?”
Thomas nods wearily, and with slow movements manages to sit up. Aldo immediately wraps his arms under Lawrence’s, helps him stand on his feet. He holds him so close to him that Aldo can hear both their rapid breaths, feel their racing hearts, beating in unison.
Now that he has Thomas in his arms, safe and sound, Aldo’s brain starts making him perceive the situation around him. From far in the distance comes the sound of a second explosion, fainter than the first. Several cardinals gasp. Aldo squeezes Thomas even closer, by instinct.
“Everything’s going to be okay.” Aldo says in a low voice, but he can’t tell if they are meant to reassure Thomas, or to comfort himself.
The doors at the end of the vestibule begin to open, screeching across the glass strewn floor; guards with guns and other frightened faces begin to enter. The sacred rules of the Conclave must be put on hold in a situation like this, even if the most conservative and traditional cardinals did not agree with the violation of the secluded vote.
Thomas hasn’t said a word yet, and Aldo tries to find his eyes again. But Thomas’ eyes are focused on the Michelangelo’s fresco that they’re leaving behind. Aldo follows his gaze, and locks eyes the faces of the damned in The Last Judgement, lurking above them as he carries his dear friend to the gates, to safety.
Aldo clearly remembers the fascination he felt upon entering the Pauline Chapel for the first time. It was during the beginning of his first Conclave, so many years ago, when all the cardinals gathered in prayer in this room before the first vote. At a young and still innocent age, he was amazed by the design of the Vatican buildings.
This chapel is heavily marbled, gloomier, and more intimate than the Sistine Chapel. It maintains the standards that a chapel located in such a significant place must have, but at the same time provides a fraternal and private atmosphere.
The years have passed, and Aldo has unfortunately grown too accustomed to those architectural sights that once so fascinated him. When he enters the Pauline Chapel, he encounters an addition to the landscape: Thomas, standing halfway toward the altar, meditatively gazing at the fresco to the right of the chapel. He seems to be in the middle of a silent prayer, and Aldo doesn't dare interrupt him.
It was Monsignor O'Malley who told him where to find the Dean. Ray was making sure that all the cardinals got on the mini buses and arrived at Casa Santa Marta safely, but instead of following his brothers, Aldo approached him to insist that he must speak with Cardinal Lawrence.
Aldo knows how loyal and obedient Raymond is to Thomas, and of his long-standing relationship with him as his secretary. He noticed his inner resistance to insisting that he had to return to the bus for his security, but O’Malley did not ask any more questions regarding that so-called urgent conversation, and told him they had just discussed the actual state of the incident at the Pauline Chapel.
So now he's looking at Thomas praying from afar, unsure how to approach him. But there's no need to announce his presence, because Thomas seems to sense it, turning his body toward Aldo with a preoccupied expression, and his eyebrows knitting together.
"Aldo, has something happened?" He asks, his voice echoing through the air.
“No, there’s no need to worry.” Aldo reassures him, and starts walking towards him, clasping his hands together.
When he reaches Thomas' side, he turns to his right and stands silently contemplating Michelangelo's painting, The Crucifixion of St. Peter. There were perhaps fifty figures depicted, most of them staring at the well-muscled, near-naked saint on the cross. Saint Peter's head was twisted in such a way that he seemed to stare out in angry accusations at whoever had the temerity to look at him.
After a few seconds of silence, Aldo feels the need to fill it with some honest words. “I came here… I wanted to make sure that you are okay.” He feels so stupid, now that he realizes that he came in search of Thomas without a logical reason. He shakes his head and lets out a wryly chuckle. “As if this mess of a Conclave wasn’t messy enough.” Aldo adds, in an attempt to make himself look less of a fool.
Thomas, who was also looking at the fresco, lowers his head in thought. Then, he answers: “I should have gone over to help our brother cardinals. The Conclave has no use for a Dean who can't stand up and handle the situation with authority.”
“Don't be so hard on yourself, Thomas. It's not worth reproaching yourself for that now.”
“Yes but I was too busy thinking, hoping, that I died in the explosion. Wondering, as I lay on the floor, if that was the Lord’s way to make his presence known to me.” Thomas begins to let out his frustration in rapid words, gushing out like a fountain. “I cast my vote, my own name written in it, and then He punishes me for truly believing I deserve to be elected Pope.”
A beat. Thomas inhales.
“Pathetic, isn’t it?” He whispers, his voice trembling. “I no longer know if God cares enough about an old sheep like me to be sending these signs just because of my greed.” Thomas spits out that phrase with such self-loathing that it crumples Aldo's heart.
Aldo feels that this isn't the right time to try to comfort his friend with words, nor does he feel capable of finding the words he really needs. But he does give him the space to vent, without leaving his side.
In this renewed silence, Aldo reflects on Thomas's words. He wonders if the sign could have been directed at him as well, in its own way: Did God warn him too? Did He make him see what it would be like to lose Thomas? Was it a punishment for his way of loving him, or a nudge to admit his feelings for him?
Thomas's voice startles him out of his reverie. "Oh, Aldo. You are hurt." Aldo turns at him and notices his face has softened, not longer holding that tension and resentment. His eyes are fixed on Aldo’s side.
Aldo is forming a self-deprecating comment in his mind when he feels the warm touch of Thomas' fingers taking his left hand. He holds it, and Aldo finally notices the cuts in the back of the hand. It isn't a serious wound and surely not their biggest problem to take care of at this moment, but Thomas insists on taking a close look at it. His brows furrowed, his eyes gleaming with a hint of worry (totally normal, he's caring and that's normal, Aldo tries to lecture himself while he feels his own heart melting).
"Does it hurt too much? Did you hurt yourself anywhere else?"
"No, I'm fine, it was probably just the broken glass." Aldo responds, trying to keep his voice void of emotion. But he knows and feels his face has betrayed him, a slight blush covering his cheeks by the intimacy of the gesture.
“You have a cut, too.” Aldo says quickly before he makes a fool of himself and points with his free hand at the wound in Thomas’ forehead, just above his right eyebrow.
“Yes, I know, but it already stopped bleeding a while ago.”
Thomas notices he has been holding Aldo's hand for too long, and softly lets it go. Instantly, Aldo misses the warmth.
“You look fraught.” Thomas knows Aldo so well that he doesn’t need to ask, it isn’t a question.
Aldo realizes how tense he is, his own system trying to repress the shock and stress caused by the incident. His hands are clasped firmly in front of him, in an effort to keep himself grounded, but it also looks like he is silently praying. The gesture, which he must have made countless times in his life, now feels different. But it is not enough.
He does not dare to look up, afraid to find the eyes of Saint Peter piercing through his sinful soul, but he can feel the pressure on his chest getting worse. His ears are still ringing from the explosion.
“I just…” A beat. Then, a whispered confession leaving his chapped lips. “I don't know how I could go on if I lost you, Thomas.”
That ‘I don’t want to lose you’ holds a lot of different meanings for him. Please don’t resign and leave me behind, even if it is selfish of me to ask. Please don’t become Pope, even if it is selfish of me to plead. Please, don’t die like you died back there, even if you were dead only for a few seconds in my mind; my poor heart in love was ready to die with you.
Aldo, known for his eloquence and oratory, all of a sudden can’t find the words to properly express his thoughts, his desires, his fears. This just irritates him more. He can’t allow himself to leave Thomas in the shadows, not making himself clear enough, and making him feel more confused than he probably is by now.
Just before he gives up and falls down the cliff of panic, two hands gently rest on either side of his face, guiding him to raise his head. Aldo meets Thomas' eyes, just inches away. His wrinkled, warm hands hold him like an anchor. Aldo lets out a small gasp of surprise, but doesn't move away. Instead, he leans into the touch, feeling his agitated breathing slowly calm and sync with Thomas'.
A silent request gleams inside blue eyes. A pleading answer is reflected in deep brown eyes.
Thomas understands – oh, he always understands– , and closes the distance. Thomas, who has been full of doubt lately, kisses Aldo as if he was the only thing he was ever really certain of.
The kiss is soft, but also holds an urgency and yearn that has been stored for many years, the closeness to tragedy making it rise to the surface. Aldo doesn’t feel the judging gaze of the frescoes, of the statues around them anymore. He places his hands on Thomas’ shoulders and squeezes lightly, as if he wants to make sure that he won't fade away.
A passage of the Bible appears in the back of his mind.
I stretch out my hands to you;
my soul thirsts for you like a parched land. (Psalm 143:6)
When they break away from the kiss and Aldo opens his eyes, Thomas's gaze full of adoration and affection almost makes him cry. Thomas looks at him with a shy smile and a flushed face, his inner turmoil has calmed too. As he rests his forehead against his beloved, letting out a small chuckle, Aldo thinks the kiss wasn't just a way to return the favor of caring, but that Thomas needed it too.
Thomas smiles as he wraps his arms around him in a hug. “If you ever lose me, I know you will find me again.” He speaks, just the right amount of words.
They both know they must have a proper conversation about this, about what it means for both of them and their lifestyle choices. In any case, they know this is wrong, but how can it be wrong if it doesn't harm anyone? If, on the contrary, it does so much good for both of them? To give each other the comfort and care they need right now.
Still embracing his dear Aldo, Thomas talks again, with a more determined voice. “I have decided to announce what has happened to the rest of the Conclave. Am I doing the right thing?”
“I don’t know. You must judge. But I’ll support you whatever happens.”
Thomas nods. Not wanting to completely break physical contact after the hug ends, he places a hand on Bellini's shoulder.
“Let's go. I have a mess to sort out back at Casa Santa Marta.”
“Oh, I'm sure.’’ Aldo sighs, imagining what awaits them. They both start walking side by side toward the exit of the chapel, and Aldo comes to the conclusion that when Thomas gets elected Pope, at least he's sure that he will be by his side, both of them sharing the sentence in that gilded cage.