Work Text:
Thomas has always considered himself a hoarder, siphoning away words for his collection, words like Eucharist and dapper and exquisitus . He doesn’t know how he chooses them; he just does. Consagrar and opportunitas and piccadilly bounce in his brain and out his ears. Sometimes he writes them down, on napkins or post-it notes or paper bookmarks. Others he collects and immediately forgets, only to find them on gloomy days parsing through old books.
It makes sense: he has always been drawn to language, ever since he was a child. His classmates had trading cards and bracelets and keychains. Thomas had words. He knew English and Italian, soon followed by Latin and Spanish and French, a bit of sign language here and a smattering of German there. Moreover and Trinidad and liturgy kept him safe for a very long time.
Innocentius comes out of nowhere. Innocentius arrives on the doorsteps of the conclave with bombs at his back and an army at his side. Innocentius is full of life and laughter and a great, heavy sadness. Innocentius is exactly what the Church needs.
And exactly what Thomas needs, too, it turns out.
They are deep in conversation, as Vincent and Thomas rather than Pope Innocent and Cardinal Lawrence, and Vincent says animosity . Thomas hums appreciatively and stores it away for further studying, and he realizes Vincent has gone quiet.
“I’m so sorry,” Thomas says. “I interrupted you.”
“You must have good reason,” Vincent says, because he doubts himself and he doubts the Church and he sometimes doubts God, but he never doubts Thomas. “Tell me.”
“Animosity,” Thomas says. Vincent quirks an eyebrow at him. “It’s a good word. Has a good sound. I… like collecting words. I hoard them like prayers.”
“Two good things to hoard,” Vincent says, “And better things to share,” and he moves on, as if nothing is strange at all, as if everyone Thomas has ever told about his habit has not perceived him as odd.
Thomas was an odd child. Particular about things others weren’t, a bit too quick for his own good. His parents and teachers discouraged his odd habits. He has known from a young age that he is stubborn and quick-tempered and tends to get frustrated when overwhelmed. He spent years trying to quench the different parts of him.
Vincent, though, allows those different parts of him to flourish– allows Thomas to flourish. Vincent lives, so unafraid, with the way God made him. Encourages others to do the same, to take pride in their differences. Thomas, too, can live that way. Vincent tells him as much, later, when it’s clear Thomas is still thinking about it.
“You are permitted to be yourself, you know,” Vincent says, and Thomas gives him a look, as if Tedesco hasn’t been in an uproar for years, as if the conservatives are waiting for one misstep from Innocentius and, by extension, Thomas. Vincent gives him a look back, progress they’ve been spearheading for years poignant in his gaze, and Thomas likes spearheading and poignant and progress so much that he concedes.
“I know,” he says.
“At the very least, you are permitted to be yourself around me,” Vincent says. “I will never judge you.” There’s something left off at the end of that sentence. I love you too much for that. Thomas smiles and ducks his head like a lovestruck teenager.
Vincent begins a game. Vincent likes games, Thomas has noted, plays with the children in Saint Peter’s Square and at the shelters he visits, teaches them games from Kabul and Baghdad and the Congo. Thomas does not appreciate being treated as Vincent treats children and the occasional puppy, but he supposes that is how you treat someone you love unconditionally— and by God does Vincent love unconditionally, everyone he meets, no matter who they are.
(Thomas adds unconditional to his collection.)
Thomas could rhapsodize about Vincent for hours, and there’s another word, too, but the point is Vincent begins a game where, when it is just the two of them, he drops as many vocabulary words into sentences as he naturally can, and waits to see which ones Thomas likes and which he doesn’t care for as much. As weeks pass, Vincent attempts to narrow down any qualifications there are. His attempts prove unsuccessful.
“I admit, I do not understand which words you like and why,” Vincent confesses at dinner one night, just the two of them. “You have no criteria.”
Thomas hums— criteria— and says, “I suppose not.” Vincent leans in, gives him a look. Thomas is very susceptible to Vincent’s looks. “When I hear it, I know. It’s like God.”
“Words are like God,” Vincent muses, like Thomas is actually on to something. It makes him feel brave. Vincent makes him feel brave.
“There are just some things that feel… right,” he explains. “Like my love for God, and you, and liturgy and unconditional and piccadilly.”
“Piccadilly?”
“Yes,” Thomas says. “It’s a road. In London.”
“I see,” Vincent says, and he’s smiling in that quiet way he does when something is truly making him happy. “What would you say is your favorite word?”
“Innocentius.” Thomas answers without a second thought, and Vincent ducks his head, fully grinning. Thomas feels the kind of love he feels for God; whole and pure and all-encompassing.
“You flatter me,” Vincent says.
“Oh, nothing to do with you,” Thomas says, and his voice is leaking fondness.
“Of course not,” Vincent says, but he knows, and Thomas knows he knows.
And maybe– maybe it’s okay, that he loves another so deeply. Maybe it’s okay despite the fact that it’s Vincent or maybe it’s okay because of the fact that it’s Vincent. Anyone could love Vincent as deeply as this; he’s Vincent. But Thomas– Thomas looks at Vincent and he knows, and he knows Vincent knows he knows. And it’s an endless cycle, maybe, of both of them knowing and not saying it.
And then Vincent takes Thomas’s hand and Thomas thinks innocentius and perhaps there are some words that he can hold on to, some words that don’t need to be said.