Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had neared 37°C in Rome when Aldo had shown up in Tedesco’s study, tugging uncomfortably at the collar of his cassock. He was not even wearing his zucchetto, though it was probably somewhere in his pocket. His entire face was bright red.

Like a lobster, Tedesco had thought, but had swallowed down a smile instead. And he’d asked, what do you want, Bellini? To which the other man had said, simply, I have days off. A huff. Okay? And? Smile. And we should visit the south. I’d like to know where you grew up. 

So he’d said, sure. Okay. When?

It was easy.

Unlike many, many things between them, this was easy. He’d said yes, and they’d packed, and Tedesco had driven them four hours south of Rome, down and then up, up until they’d reached Matera. The city of the sassi. As someone who’d never really gone much further down, Aldo was delighted, even when the burning wind had hit him in the face, and even when Tedesco had complained about the sun not being good for his skin.

I’ll put suncream on your nose and your back, if you’re so worried, the younger man had suggested, getting a sharp look from the other. What? Skin cancer is a serious thing.

Do not start with this, Tedesco had growled, though he’d handed Aldo a simple light blue cap to put on his head. You do not want to end like un uovo sodo, eh? The sun here is less forgiving than in Rome. Who knows why.

The hotel room they’d picked was in the centre, with a nice view over an alcove and a garden, not too cramped by the noises of the streets around them. And, as much as Aldo hated to admit, Tedesco had been right—the sun was the worst he’d ever experienced. Even with his sunglasses he could feel its rays burn his retinae, feeling dumb when he caught himself squinting his eyes. 

The Matera I am from is very different from this one, the older man had told him, a little before he’d booked their room, perhaps fuelled by the need to be fully honest. Things change. But…maybe, for the better. It is not an easy city, so please, do not be too harsh with my home.

There was a vacancy behind his gaze, something Aldo sometimes saw in Vincent when he thought no one else was paying attention. Something like their tension leaving their muscles, like puppets let free of their strings. They had a look he couldn’t really call sad, but that was not positive in any way either. Perhaps a sort of melancholy they unknowingly shared. 

He had not pushed it. And either way, he liked Matera, from what he’d seen. 

“Fuori ci sono 39 gradi, Aldino,” Tedesco suddenly calls out, taking him out of his rêverie, looking up from his own phone. “Ti scalderai.” 

“I brought polos, is that okay?”

“I guess, yes. Are you allergic to cats?” 

“What?” 

“Are you stupid? I asked—“ 

“I’m not allergic to cats,” Aldo replies, a little confused. “Are there a lot of cats?” 

“Sì, gatti abbandonati." 

“Oh…” 

“Eh che, “oh…?” It happens. Like in Turchia. Come on, get ready.” 

And with that the Patriarch of Venice had disappeared in the bathroom, leaving the Secretary of State to stare at his polo, frowning. Light blue, like the cap. He had light trousers to go with it, beige, and hopefully the colour would help with not burning him alive. When Tedesco emerges, minutes later, he’s wearing a white shirt—linen, Aldo can see, and regular blue suit pants with a matching jacket. And brown leather loafers. 

Was this a joke?

“You’re going to die from the heat, Goffredo.” 

“No, I am not,” comes the easy reply, almost smug. Scratch that. Definitely smug. “I do not get warm easily. You should know that.” 

“Yeah, but you said the heat here was worse than in Rome,” Aldo protests, “you know people y—our age should be careful about heat strokes?” 

“Starò bene, Aldo.” 

“Are you sure? Because it’s going to go up, temperature wise, and—” 

“What? You can read celsius now?” Tedesco snorts, sending him a delighted smile, one eyebrow raised. “What’s next? Centimetres? Ottimo! Sei Europeano! ” 

“You know what? I hope you die and that our Holy Father appoints a non-Italian as Patriarch of Venice.” 

“Così meschino, caro…” 

Nonetheless they head out, sunglasses on their noses, melting into the crowds like they were tourists coming to visit. Which technically wasn’t wrong, they were, but—you know. Aldo had worried about getting recognized. Tedesco had said it probably wouldn’t happen. Definitely wouldn’t happen. It’s not like they had a lot of media coverage. They did, but they were—hah, they’d laughed—they were not the Pope. It was easier for them. 

Somehow, it was easier for them. 

They’d walked around a few minutes, finding the entrance to the sassi before Tedesco had turned to him, visibly inquisitive. 

“What?” 

“Che? Che, “che?” Non mi parlerai della storia dei sassi?” 

“I gathered you could?” Aldo replies, smiling amusedly. “What? You're from here!” 

“Cosa sono, eh? Il tuo libro di turismo?” 

“More like my guide, but that works too.” 

“Fine,” Tedesco huffs, puffing his chest a little and cocking his head haughtily. “I will tell you about my hometown.” 

The younger man smiles with all his teeth, drowning out the outside noises in favor of listening to him, transfixed by the way his hands excitedly moved around, how his accent seemed to get heavier, a little harder to understand, and he’s pretty sure he’d used a few words of Lucanian dialect in there, though he couldn’t be sure. 

He’s just happy to see him so delighted, so at ease, visibly in his element. And yeah, he pays attention, for sure, but he also just likes to listen to his voice. Something he’d never thought he would ever think, barely three years ago. But he really does. He likes the way Tedesco curls his words, the way he sometimes stutters because he’s a fast speaker, no matter the language, except maybe English. He likes the way his voice pitches up just slightly in his mother tongue, something barely there that you’d never notice if you didn’t have to hear him speak for hours on end. 

They’ve walked around for a good four hours before Tedesco actually stops for good, wetting his lips offhandedly, suddenly taking his jacket off and pulling his sleeves up. 

“You know,” he says, and okay, maybe he’s not done, “negli anni, 50, il governo definì questa città come la vergogna d’Italia.” 

“Huh? What, why?” 

“A causa delle condizioni di povertà, degli, eh, abitazioni nelle grotte. Tutti—non solo la mia famiglia, erano molto…molto, molto poveri,” he adds, looking around, a new softness appearing in eyes no longer covered by sunglasses. “Molte persone sono morte nelle grotte.” 

Aldo halts, taken aback and a little panicked by his words.

“They—the caves? But—God, that’s—” 

“Beh. Sì.” A shrug. No use crying over spilled milk. “Loro corpi sono stati ritrovati molto più tardi. Corpses, yes?”

“But that’s horrible.” 

“Well, it is how it is. There were a lot of—sickness. Sicknesses? You know,” he moves his hand in the air, englobes the space around them, standing next to the sassi, their clothes soft and smelling of lavender. “Malaria, ehm, Tubercolisi. Come…Colera?” 

“Wh—seriously?” 

“Sure. I lived with…well, not with, but in a way, yes, with the diseases. We all did,” Tedesco offers, leaning a hip on the small castle wall. “We get used to it. All'epoca, i bambini morivano molto giovani. Come, a quattro anni. Senza funerali formali. Mai. Mai funerali. People are afraid they will catch it. The disease.” 

Aldo shifts a little, moving to stand a little closer to him, the overwhelming heat suddenly dying down, like a bucket of ice cold water had been dropped over his head. 

“I saw…I have, had, we were—” a shake of his head, “avevo undici fratelli e sorelle. Otto fratelli, tre sorelle. I am the last, the youngest.” 

The sun was setting, its shade of clear amber casting diamond like shadows over the stone, beige melting over the blue of the skies. 

“We could not all stay alive. This is not how it worked.” 

Tedesco pauses, considering something.

“I will—one day, I will tell you why my name is Goffredo. If you want,” he adds, a little flustered.

“I’d like that. Honey, are you okay?”

“You know…” the older man smiles, lowering his head just barely, “sometimes we did not have water… come dici? Pulita? Clean? And sometimes, family came to live with us. They were forced out… transferite, sì? Con la forza. So,” another shrug, “they are family. They live with us. It was a little crowded, but it was nice. Alive,” he says, looking at Aldo with a small nod. “Beh. È Italia. Nonostante tutto, amo il mio paese. I am proud of being Italian.” 

A small silence settles, cheers and laughter echoing and bouncing from one wall to another. 

It feels alive. Stones are unmoving, they do not falter with the epochs, but people do. People carve them, from stupid initials to small altars, they shape time according to their love, they make it bloom, the stone does not need marble to shine. 

I know about shame, Aldo wants to say. I know about illness, about not being looked after. I know—I know about being cast away, forced out. I know about not being buried, about the lack of goodbyes, the funerals over a small patch of grass. I know about lack, I know about anger. About not being heard. Not being listened to.

I know about wanting to get out. I know about wanting to never let go.

“I remember,” Tedesco hums, “an old woman. Nonna Aconia. She was very short!” he laughs, raising his hand to a little under his chest, “and very mean. She would hit my hand when I forgot to say hello to her. But,” his smile grows, always curving to the left, “she gave me a lot of bread. My sister— Alba, she took care of her. Of Aconia, when she was very sick.” 

“What happened to her? Malaria?” Aldo asks, his hand darting out to hold the other’s, thumb rubbing soothingly over the veins.

“Cholera. She vomited a lot, and—” a grimace, “you know,” a little hand gesture, “she was very confused. We all knew the… effects of cholera. But, you have to drink a lot. And go to a hospital, sì? I lived in a small village. We do not…had no money for that. Even if we all gave money, it would not have been enough. And for cholera, you need to drink. Water,” he specifies suddenly, making the younger man chuckle. “But it was when there was no clean water. There was little kids in the village. We cannot not give them water. Summers here are not forgiving.” 

That explains his choice of words earlier. Not as forgiving as the sun in Rome. 

“Of course, she died. She said we needed to give the water to the children, of course, yes. She was very old,” Tedesco repeats. “She had no family, just the village. But, I was here, not yet a priest, of course, but I had read the scriptures. I knew what I wanted to become. We had a priest, Padre Pio. Funny name, eh? And I stayed with him during the funeral.” 

“Do you remember what verse he used?” 

“Apocalisse 21:4. Revelations. Egli asciugherà ogni lacrima dai loro occhi; non ci sarà più la morte, né cordoglio, né grido, né dolore.” 

“For the old order of things has passed away,” Aldo completes, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Yes. I know she is safe with Him, now,” the other man nods, looking up, the red sun painting his face a million colors, like an Arlecchino without his mask. “And that La Madonna is with her, too. I am sure she looks over us all. She would never be ashamed of us. We are her children, even in times of pain. I am sure…” he swallows heavily, “I am sure she loves us. And I am sure she loved us when others did not. When the people, politicians, ” he clicks his tongue, “looked away. She does not look away. She sees it all. She loves us despite it all.” 

He breathes in, a little flushed. 

“Sorry. My sister Valeria prayed to Nostra Signora a lot. I took this…affinity with me, too.” 

“I didn’t think you would pray to her,” Aldo notes kindly, “my grandmother prayed to her, almost exclusively.” 

“Oh, really?” 

“Yeah. She never knew her mother.”

Tedesco nods a little, searching his eyes before widening his, as if realizing something.

“Are you o—” 

“I have—there is somewhere I want to show you,” he says, moving his hand so Aldo would follow him. Which he does. 

They hike up in a matter of minutes to a small church, though it is not the small cathedral in the centre of the city. The one is still deeply sunken into the ravine, grass and weeds like pastoral veins of the beating heart of its carcass. 

When they step inside, the cold air hits both their bodies, running a small chill over their exposed skin. The Acquasantiera next to them is filled with clean water, and when he dips his fingers tips, he wonders if Tedesco had taken the habit of crossing himself without it. If he’d had to settle for dry stone, rough against the skin. Like a thirst never quenched. 

There are no glass stained windows. The altar is small and made of stone and wood, and the Cross holds a simple ceramic figure of Christ. The walls are painted, soft reds, yellows and blues faded with time, but enduring, still. Their halos prevail, years after years after years. 

It’s just the two of them inside. 

The stone has turned as crimson as some of the canyons Aldo has once seen. 

He doesn’t dare speak.

“Odium suscitat rixas; et universa delicta operit caritas,” Tedesco’s voice echoes, low and cavernous, and when Aldo turns around, the other man is standing, his back to the breaches in the walls. He’s standing, tall and beautiful, the rays of the sun like the halos of the painted saints they’d just seen. It burns brightly, like a downpour of warmth, like an embrace.

“Proverbs, 10:12,” he completes—again. They complete each other, in some odd way. “Hatred stirs up conflict, but love covers over all wrongs.” 

“Love covers all wrongs,” the other nods, taking a step forward. And the sun follows him. “I think—” a smile, kind and easy, “it is too simple to say that. Love does not cover all the wrongs between us.” 

“Goffredo…” 

“Love does not magically make it okay. Love does not make it easy. Not always.”

He reaches out, holding Aldo’s hands in his.

“I have seen love. I have felt it. I know it exists. I know it exists, because He loves me. Because He loves us. I know it exists, because I love you.” 

“G—“ 

“This lifetime is not enough to amend my ways and my words,” Tedesco offers, leaning to kiss Aldo’s fingers, each and every ten of them. Like the Commandments, he feels safe when he follows the lines, follows the bumps and the calluses and the tender flesh. “I wish—we had known each other earlier.” 

“Goffredo,” Aldo smiles, unable to hide the fondness from his eyes now that he’d taken his sunglasses off, “we first met when I was 17 and you 24.” 

“I wish we had known each other before,” he reiterates, looking up.

And—

Oh.

“We were granted this mortal life, and I am satisfied with it. But if He is kind, if He loves us despite what we…what is called sin…” 

He sinks into both knees, never caring that it would damage his clothes, never caring that it would hurt. He doesn’t care, because Aldo is beautiful and tear struck, like a Saint he would ask penance from. 

“Ho paura,” Tedesco admits, bowing his head. “Mi vergogno.” 

The other Cardinal simply nods, gripping their linked hands like a lifeline. His knuckles are turning white. 

“But I am more afraid that I will not love you enough. Long enough, well enough. I am ashamed of my words, or my afflictions. I am ashamed of my shame,” he bravely continues, words loud and clear, accent thick with sincerity. “I am afraid that it is too late.” 

“It’s not too late,” Aldo whispers, but his voice is cut with heavy tears, and they drop like water in the middle of the desert unto their hands, they drop on Tedesco’s forehead, blessing him once again. “It isn’t too late, Goffredo.” 

“Then, I want—for once, amore mio, I want. I ache, ho bisogno di questo, come…come l’aria. Come l’aqua.”

D’amour et d’eau fraîche.

“If you want me,” Tedesco offers, “if you will have me. I will give myself to you. Mi offrirò a te. Per sempre. Per te. Per me. Aldo Maria Bellini.” 

“I do want you,” Aldo finally breaks down, feeling his own legs shake and collapsing gently on both knees, caught by the other man in a smooth gesture, keeping him upwards until they were eye-to-eye, his hands on the other’s cheeks. “I do. I do.” 

“You do?” he asks, like it was not the most obvious thing, like the sun had held his slumber just to keep them warm, like they were not carving the stones with their love, too. 

“I do,” he repeats, but it comes out broken and rough, and Tedesco just laughs, all salt and sweat, eyes blurry and unable to see anything besides the other man, unable to see anything besides the two of them. “If you will have me.” 

“Certo che ti voglio,” he laughs again, cupping his face, shuffling closer, ruining both their trousers, brown on black, like the universe resided in their irises. “Ti voglio per sempre.” 

They kiss like they had never been allowed to know each other before, to feel each other’s touch. They kiss and the sun finally sets. 

They kiss, and a new sliver of gold catches Aldo’s eye.

Cold to the touch, burning hot from Tedesco’s palms, the gold fits—

At last, he has known holiness. 

Chapter Text

It’s 8pm when they land at JFK, both stiff from the long flight in less than comfortable seats.

Tedesco has crumbs on his collar from the crackers he ate an hour ago. Because “no aperitivo is a crime, no?” Aldo brushes it off. The airport has changed a lot in 30 years. It’s bigger, mainly. Less free-flowing as well, what with all the new security restrictions. Aldo can’t begin to thank God enough for them. He’s always been so anxious on planes but the rigid structure helps. Tedesco probably wouldn’t agree if one were to try and extrapolate from the frown on his face when Aldo pulled him out of bed at 4 in the morning. He had grumbled something about it being against common sense and the word of God not to sleep in on holidays. Also something about how only Americans would ever show up at the airport so early. The complaints had thankfully died down after Aldo had stuffed a cup of fresh steaming espresso in his hands. They walk in front of a Starbucks on their way out and Tedesco rolls his eyes and mutters what sounds like 10 different cusses in Italian.

Aldo smiles. They take the subway.

Tedesco only realises how unusual this all feels when he sees Aldo step up to the front desk of the hotel. He’s pulling his suitcase after him, a very business-like plain black one, and his suit jacket is thrown over his shoulder, held in place by the strap of his leather satchel. He’s all deep blues and matte black. Which, of course, means his golden ring only stands out more. The cardinal red usually drowns it out, dulls the shine. But here, it’s in full display, glimmering under the soft lights of the lobby as Aldo signs some papers at the desk. He’s chatting with the receptionist, looking like what Tedesco can only categorise as Rich American Enjoying A Weekend On The Town. Would he look like that on holidays in Italy? Or would it be more linen suits and sunburns? It’s weird for someone so at home in the Vatican to blend in like a regular in this bougie New York hotel. Or maybe it’s not. It’s like Aldo never left. But he did. And thank God he did. The ring catches the light as Aldo motions for him to follow.

They take the elevator. They hold hands the whole ride. 

They sleep in on their first day, a silent agreement that Aldo betrays by quietly shuffling out of bed to go get them some late breakfast. He was tempted to plan everything out and try to look for the New York he knew but something held him back at the last minute. Whether it was the desperate hope to keep a freeze frame of the city intact in some corner of his mind or the naive desire to replace the memories he ran from with new ones is still unclear. He did write some recommandations down, because he’s not crazy (or at least only the overplanning anxious type). An intern had told him about an “absolutely amazing” bakery close to their hotel, so Aldo wakes Tedesco up  with bagels and coffee in bed. Like clockwork, Tedesco asks to try his coffee (which is an oat blonde roast latte because he was feeling extravagant), Aldo tells him he won’t like it, Tedesco insists, Aldo gives him the cup, he tries it, pulls a disgusted face and - after a resounding ma che cazzo - pontificates about Americans not knowing a single thing about coffee. Aldo finishes his bagel while waiting for him to be done. When he can finally get a word in he tells Tedesco to get ready to go walk around the Cloisters. He casually mentions he should wear his floral shirt because the weather outside is so nice. Them matching would only be purely incidental.

Aldo waits in the lobby, reading up on french medieval abbeys. 

Tedesco spends the afternoon trying to make Aldo laugh. He smirked when he first joined him in the lobby. He smiled all throughout their walk to the Cloisters. And maybe it was just a lovely spring day. Or maybe it was just being back in New York. Anyways, he feels like he has to contribute. So once they’re inside the museum, he makes about a dozen near-blasphemous jokes a minute. Aldo makes a valiant effort to ignore him but he does dissolve into silent giggles after some things Tedesco has to say about a statue of Saint Sebastian. His shoulders are shaking and he’s trying so hard to keep quiet that he’s nearly folded in half. An old couple walking by seem to find them irritating but a young sister smiles at him from across the courtyard. Aldo doesn’t notice. He’s still giggling. They spend the rest of the afternoon sitting on the grass, where Aldo seems to melt in the sun. No more tension in his shoulders, no clenching in his jaw. Tedesco has been rubbing small circles on his thigh for a little while and he can feel the muscle getting looser. His pants are warm from the sun. He had taken his glasses off before laying down.

He looks like he could fall asleep any second, so Tedesco lies down and presses himself to his side.

In the evening, they go to a gay bar. Aldo had to work that one in weeks prior, using the age-old trick of claiming something you really want to do (but probably shouldn’t) is a cultural experience. Because sure, there are gay bars in Rome but neither of them would go anywhere near those for obvious reasons. And the ones here are painfully american, which is half the fun anyways. Aldo wants to see what it would feel like to sip an overpriced screwdriver while listening to Cher 30 years later. And sure, sue him, he has a husband now and he wants to show off. At least a little. Pride is a sin but so is everything else they’ve been doing. And he can apologise for all that tomorrow. Tonight, he wants to force his husband to order drinks with overtly sexual names and shuffle around to music he was too repressed to properly enjoy when it came out. And admittedly, he is a little pissed when, the moment they get into the queue, three separate guys start eyeing Tedesco. The ring on his finger and matching shirts are evidently not enough. The feeling does escalate when Aldo overhears an amused “mah, sono troppo vecchio per te, caro,” directed at whoever was trying to get his husband’s attention before they got through the door. And admittedly, he does get a little petty about it. He smiles and laughs when the pretty guy who works the cloakroom flirts with him, lets men they squeeze past get questionably touchy with him and almost lies when the bartender leans in close to ask him if he’s here alone, all while Tedesco tags along and stays weirdly silent. Though it all seems worth it when he scoots closer to him at the bar and, without a word, grabs his left hand and stubbornly holds it in his own. Their rings clink against each other. Tedesco looks at him and his eyes twinkle from the obnoxious neons.

They barely finish their drinks.

Back at the hotel, making it through the door is a challenge. Aldo was all over him the whole taxi ride and Tedesco feels drunk on the possibilities of no one knowing him. And his husband getting hit on by all these people but going home with him. By the time he’s done fumbling with the keycard, his shirt is already half off. Aldo is pushing him to the bed while undoing his belt. Everything blurs for a while, hands on and under clothing, vodka-flavour kisses and Aldo’s weight over him. Maybe he drank more than he thought. Then a hand on his jaw, sliding down to rest on his throat. 

“- What was that earlier?” Aldo’s smile is crooked. Menacing.

“- Che cosa? Are we really-” he’s interrupted by a hand finally unbuttoning his pants but soldiers on “talking right now?”

Aldo’s smile gets wider and impossibly more alarming. He feels his pulse hammering in his throat. Just under his husband’s ring. 

“- You don’t have to talk. But I will. Since you seemed to be enjoying the attention so much.”

And that makes no sense. But he’s also actively being undressed. And Aldo still hasn’t taken anything off. So it’s difficult to think right now.

“- Look at you. All these kids flirting with you but this is what you’re desperate for. I’ve barely touched you and you’re already squirming. Like a whore.”

That one shoots straight through his core. He moans around the hand on his throat and arches into Aldo’s touch. He’s naked from the waist down now, his shirt thrown open.

“- I’m not even sure you deserve the satisfaction.” An anguished mewl. “I might play nice if you beg well enough though.”

Aldo stops touching him and the whole room starts to spin.

“- Aldo, caro, please .

 -Hm, you can do better than that baby.

 -Al—Tedesco, per favore, tesoro, please, toccami.”

And, merciful God, that seems to be enough. Aldo removes the hand he had on his throat to use both of them to spread his legs. He barely has time to enjoy the stretch before Aldo is hiking his legs up and his complaint about his knee dies down as Aldo presses into him and kisses into his mouth. He’s still in his suit, barely unbuttoned. Tedesco cums on it about 5 minutes later, Aldo not far behind. It takes them 10 more to decide a shower is worth moving. He almost falls asleep in the bath Aldo runs them. When he does, the bed smells like their colognes, cigarettes from the bar and sweat. 

Going back to the church where he tried to repent (unsuccessfully) over the years with a husband should feel wrong. But he had woken up at 5am just to try to figure out the hotel’s french press so they could have fresh espresso without having to go outside. And that worked out wonderfully if the smile Tedesco gave him when he woke up to the scent of coffee was anything to go by. They had lazed around for close to 2 hours, intertwined and comfortable. Without discussing it, he puts on the crisp black suit he knows Tedesco loves. His reward comes in the form of Tedesco in the dark green one he had bought him years ago, which he was told was reserved for the “specialest of occasions, caro”. Today is specialest to say the least. They walk to the church, a convenient 2-mile complete with a stop at a bakery on the way. Probably can’t get remarried on an empty stomach. Once they get there, Aldo is ectatic to see that the church is well taken care of and has its fair share of attendees, even on a weekday morning. He makes a beeline for his favourite stained glass window, the one where Mary comes out of the waves or the sea resembles the Holy Mother.

They stand there a while, both silent. And, Aldo hopes, at peace.

He turns to check and sees Tedesco bathed in Mary’s blue light, like she’s enveloping him. And that can’t possibly feel wrong. He pulls out the signet ring he had engraved a few months ago. Saint Mark’s lion, Justice’s scales and in the center : their initials.

And the smile Tedesco gifts him can’t possibly feel wrong either.