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benítez was sitting under a tree, on a bench, hands clasped tightly on his thighs. his hair was longer now, black waves tumbling over his face, framing it with an almost tragic elegance. he looked older, wearier. it had been 2 years since thomas last saw him. the white cassock draped over his body made thomas feel sick. when had he become this man? when had he stayed so far from God?
thomas moved through the garden with unsteady legs. the closer he got, the more surreal it felt. there he was, his holiness, bathed in dappled light, serene and impossibly beautiful. thomas’s chest tightened. he could barely breathe.
benítez turned at the sound of his footsteps, lifting his head slowly. their eyes met, and thomas nearly choked. he looked away immediately, up at the sky as if searching for a sign, a voice, anything. but there was only silence. God had left him too, it seemed. or maybe thomas had been the one to walk away.
benítez smiled. it was soft, like he’d been waiting.
“lawrence… you came.” he rose to his feet, moving toward him. the contrast of his tanned skin against the stark white of his cassock made thomas dizzy. memories surged, skin, breath, hands in the dark. he staggered back slightly.
“i’d always come back to you. you know that.” thomas couldn’t meet his gaze. he studied everything else instead: vincent’s hands, the small mole just beneath his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth. it was unbearable. it had been so long. he had missed him achingly. and yet, they still wouldn’t speak of it. they never had. not even when thomas left the vatican two years ago, running from something too real to name.
“when i heard you were returning to rome… to visit sister agnes…” vincent’s voice was steady, but his eyes were searching, cutting through thomas like light through stained glass. he didn’t finish the sentence, but thomas understood. of course he did. the call from the vatican had been unexpected. the holy father would like to see you. and thomas had said yes, instantly. of course he had. he would always return to vincent.
“i missed you,” thomas snapped. the words were sharp, bitter. he was angry. at vincent, at God, at himself for still wanting this. for still wanting him.
he forced himself to look into vincent’s eyes. they were exactly as he remembered: kind. heartbreakingly kind. and thomas hated it. hated how soft he still was. the world was unraveling and vincent was still looking at him like that. like he mattered. like they were something holy.
vincent reached for him, took his hands. the contact burned. it crawled from his palm to his chest. vincent’s hands were cold, smooth, just as they had been when they’d once traced his waist in the dark of his quarters.
“thomas... i…” his voice faltered. thomas could see it, he hadn’t expected this. not this version of him, not this raw ache.
they stayed quiet for a while. the wind moved softly through the garden, brushing vincent’s hair away from his face. and now that thomas could see him more clearly, he felt sick. his beauty was unbearable. he knew it wasn’t admiration he was feeling. it was something else. something too deep, too raw. it made thomas feel sick. it made him feel alive in all the worst ways.
vincent stepped closer, slow, deliberate. his face was just inches away now. thomas could feel his breath ghosting over his lips. he forgot how to breathe.
“i miss you too,” vincent whispered. so softly it barely reached him.
their eyes stayed locked. and in that moment, thomas felt it in his bones. this was it. the final chapter. the closing line. and vincent, he was steady. thomas hated it. it made his knees weak. he wanted to scream. wanted to fall to his knees and beg for it not to be true. vincent was still, too still, his mouth curled into a gentle smile, like he had already mourned this, already let go.
“this isn’t the end, thomas. it’s not.” vincent’murmured, firmer this time. but his grip on thomas’s hand was tight. too tight. it hurt. thomas closed his eyes. he couldn’t handle this.
“vincent, please. don’t lie to me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “don’t.”
he opened his eyes and looked at him. vincent’s kindness felt cruel now. thomas was burning up with anger and heartbreak and the sheer injustice of it all. how could he lie like that? how could he say it wasn’t over when they both knew it was?
“thomas… you knew,” vincent said, barely above a breath. “siempre supiste cómo terminaría esto, ¿no es así?”
he didn’t cry. he didn’t break. he just stood there, calm, composed, with that tiny smile that felt like a knife.
thomas wanted to collapse. wanted to disappear into the earth beneath them and never come back. vincent raised a hand and touched his face, gently. so gently. thomas’s chest cracked open. he was going to cry. he felt it rising like a tide. he was trembling.
“your Holiness…”
vincent didn’t answer. he just kept touching him, soft strokes along thomas’s jaw. his fingers trembling almost imperceptibly, like he knew this was borrowed time. his thumb brushed over thomas’s lips with aching slowness, memorizing every curve, like it was the last time he’d be allowed to remember him like this. thomas’s breath hitched. he parted his lips and, gently, took vincent’s thumb into his mouth. it was instinctive. intimate. strange and horribly human. not lustful, but sacred. fragile.
vincent didn’t move. didn’t speak. his eyes were wide, glistening. his chest rose and fell too fast. the weight behind his silence screamed. it was all there, in the way his jaw clenched, in the faintest twitch of his brow, in the way he looked at thomas like he was watching him slips through his hands.
thomas let go. his mouth trembled, his whole face crumpling. he pulled away like it burned, like the truth of what they were, what they couldn’t be, was too much. his hands shook as he wiped his lips with the back of his sleeve. tears were streaming down his cheeks.
his breath was wrecked. shallow. dragging. his chest was tight, his throat raw. he wanted to scream, but only sobs came out. ugly, broken ones. the kind that start from your stomach and leave you hollow.
“i can’t…” he whispered, almost choking on it. “i can’t do this, vincent…”
he looked at him, and it felt like blasphemy. to love someone like this. to ache for someone who looked so much like divinity. it made him feel inhuman. no, too human.
vincent didn’t say anything. just stood there with that sad, soft smile.
thomas took a step back. the gravel under his shoes crunched and it felt deafening in the quiet. vincent didn’t move. just stood there.
“i… vincent i…” he tried, but he couldn’t get the words out.
vincent shook his head slowly. still smiling. still holding it all in. “don’t say it.”
maybe in another life, god would’ve given them this. maybe, in some softer timeline, they would’ve belonged to one another. but thomas had always known how it would end.
didn’t he?
vincent was still watching him with those eyes. thomas was trembling. he hated this. hated that the world was ending and vincent was still gentle. still good. the earth could crack open under their feet and vincent would still be as calm and composed.
and still… thomas knew. he had known since the first time he’d seen him, this quiet man with sorrow in his eyes and holy fire in his voice. he had known he was damned.
and God had watched him fall.
it broke thomas. he took a step back. then another. the world felt too bright, too quiet.
vincent watched him go. didn’t move. didn’t call after him. just stood in the garden, sunlight catching the white of his cassock like a halo.
thomas walked away.
vincent stayed behind. silent. still. a single tear tracing down his cheek to fall onto the white fabric of his cassock.