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It seemed all the sleepless nights, the strain of coordinating diplomatic visits, drafting Vatican responses and overseeing the Holy Father’s schedule had finally taken its toll on Thomas Lawrence. He had meant to rise bright and early, as he always did. He’d even stayed up the night before overseeing and reviewing the Holy Father’s itinerary to the finest details. That, he came to realize, must've been the final straw. The one task too many after weeks of pushing through sleepless nights without pause.
His body ached. His chest was tight, his cough deep and ragged. But Thomas Lawrence had always lived by his knack for managing. And so, he got up.
Getting ready soon became a blur. Lawrence dissociated through the motions: washing, dressing, straightening his collar. One blink, and he was beside Vincent. He snapped into focus just long enough to greet him.
“Good morning, Your Holiness,” he said hoarsely, composing himself as best he could with what little strength he had left.
Benítez smiled warmly. “Good morning, Lawrence. Did you sleep well?”
“Of course, Your Holiness. Thank you. And yourself?”
His voice scratched through his throat, but he was grateful it was still early enough to pass for the remnants of a morning rasp. Benítez didn’t seem to notice. “I did, thank you.”
“As we head to breakfast, may I go over your schedule for the day, Your Holiness?”
Vincent nodded, already walking beside him. He had long asked Thomas to drop the formalities,Your Holiness—but while on duty, Lawrence couldn’t bring himself to call him anything else. That was their compromise: titles in public, familiarity in private.
As he spoke, Lawrence suddenly doubled over in a coughing fit, muffling it in the crook of his sleeve. He mentally cursed himself, he was keeping himself together just fine. When it finally subsided, he exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his chest—only then realizing a gentle hand was rubbing his back.
He looked up to find Benítez’s concerned eyes on him. That same gentle worry Lawrence had seen too many times—too many because it was almost always him that caused it.
“Tómas? ¿Qué pasa?”
Benítez had a habit of slipping into Spanish when worried. Lawrence had once admitted he found it comforting, even if he didn’t understand every word. It was something in the cadence, in how it softened Vincent’s already tender voice even more.
“Just a coughing fit, Your Holiness. Nothing more. Now, where were we?”
Vincent didn’t respond. Instead, he pressed the back of his hand to Lawrence’s forehead. Only then did Lawrence register the throbbing heat behind his eyes, and the tightening of Vincent’s expression.
Without a word, Vincent placed his hand firmly on Lawrence’s back and turned him around.
“Your Holiness? Where are we going?” Lawrence asked, confused.
“To your room.”
Lawrence stopped in his tracks. “Vincent, no—”
But the hand left his back only to take his own, guiding him forward. Lawrence could hardly resist. Everyone in the Vatican was on the same page. Vincent Benítez, for all his gentleness, had a fire in him once he set his mind on something. And no one knew that better than Thomas Lawrence.
As they returned to the guest wing of the Casa Santa Marta, where Benítez had insisted on staying since his election, Lawrence continued to protest—though his voice seemed to be weakening with every passing step.
“Vincent, please—I’m fine. I can still do my job.”
Vincent didn’t answer. Instead, he simply guided him into his room and assisted him to sit on the bed. The moment Lawrence laid back, his body released a sigh of relief, eyes fluttering shut against his will.
Vincent sat beside him, fingers combing gently through his silvering hair.
“Mi Tomás… pobrecito.”
The words made Lawrence’s heart ache in a way no cough ever could. He leaned into the touch before he could stop himself, betraying himself in that small movement. His body had long stopped obeying reason, now it answered only to comfort, to softness, to Vincent. He closed his eyes and sighed, the weight of the world slipping off his shoulders with every stroke of fingers through his hair. When Vincent suddenly pulled away, he let out a soft whine, causing him to blush almost immediately in shame.
God, how pathetic.
“Just a moment—I’ll be right back,” Vincent said softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead before leaving the room.
Lawrence was too stunned to speak. Left alone, in between the rasps of breath as a result of the fits of coughing, all he could hear was the rapid thump of his heart. Sometimes, he swore it beat for Vincent alone.
When the door opened again, he startled upright—but relaxed at the sight of the familiar white robe. Vincent locked the door and sat beside him again.
“Okay, mi Tomás… may I ask a favor from you?”
Lawrence nodded weakly, eyes still closed. “Anything, Your Holiness.”
“Take off your robe.”
His eyes snapped open. “I beg your pardon?!”
Vincent blinked, confused—then laughed, warm and boyish. Lawrence’s stomach fluttered. It always did when Vincent laughed like that.
“Ah—sorry! I meant so I can apply some ointment. Just your chest. Nothing more.”
Embarrassed but obedient, Lawrence nodded, hands moving before he could think. He slipped off his robe and slowly unbuttoned his collar. The sight must have been disgraceful—sweating, breathless, shirt hanging open with the Pope at his side.
And yet, Vincent’s touch was nothing but reverent. He opened a small blue case, and the sharp scent of menthol filled the room.
“Vincent, really… you don’t have to do this. I’ll be fine.”
“Nonsense, Tomás. I want to.”
His voice left no room for argument.
“May I?” Vincent asked, gaze soft but earnest.
Lawrence gave a slow nod. Vincent dipped his fingers into the ointment and gently pressed them to Thomas’s chest. The contact sent a shiver through him.
Surely, he must’ve passed on. That was the only explanation. This wasn’t reality—it couldn’t be. He’d died, maybe collapsed right there in the hallway, and now he was in his own private heaven, a place where Vincent Benítez was now tending to him with such care. Or maybe he was just deep in a fever dream, cradled in some imaginary warmth. But even if it was, even if it were all fabricated by a sick, lovesick mind—it wouldn’t be far-fetched. Not by any means for Thomas. Not when dreams like this had taken root in him long before illness ever did.
Vincent’s fingers moved with practiced ease, massaging the ointment across his chest in slow, firm strokes.
“My mother used to use this on me when I was sick,” he said gently. “I always carry it on me now. Just in case.”
Lawrence could only nod again in acknowledgement, throat tight. Vincent’s hands moved in slow circles across his chest, rubbing in the menthol with the same tenderness he might’ve shown a sick child. The touch was comforting, grounding—but Thomas could barely look at him. His eyes darted anywhere else: the ceiling, the window, the crucifix on the far wall—anywhere but Vincent’s face.
Thomas swallowed thickly, eyelids fluttering as he sank deeper into the mattress. It was no wonder Vincent was so good at this. Beyond his natural instinct to care, Thomas recalled the stories, the ones where he had tended to the injured and the poor in Congo, in Iraq. The man had cradled suffering in his hands and made it lighter. It’s like he’s done this a million times before.
“I have,” Vincent said suddenly, cutting through Lawrence’s thoughts with a proud little huff.
Thomas’s eyes flew open. For a moment, he looked absolutely mortified, like Vincent had just read his mind. But Benítez looked back, as if he were only simply responding to a thought said aloud.
Had he—? Oh no. He had. He’d said it out loud. As if this situation wasn’t shameful enough.
Benítez hadn’t seemed to notice, blissfully unaware of the chaos now whirling through the older man’s head, or perhaps he was simply being kind. He continued on as if nothing were amiss, tone casual and affectionate. “Four siblings, three godchildren, and one ridiculously stubborn Secretary of State.”
Thomas let out a weak laugh at that, despite himself. Suddenly, Vincent’s motions stopped. It was only then that Lawrence looked up at him.
“Stay right there. I’m getting you water.”
Lawrence opened his mouth to protest, but Vincent was already across the room, bringing the empty glass to the bathroom. The sound of the tap water running bounced off the walls, reverberating. Once he had returned back to the bedside, the glass was full to the brim.
“Finish all of it,” he ordered gently. “Go on.”
Thomas took the glass obediently, sipping it too quickly and nearly choking on it. Vincent’s hand immediately went to his back again, rubbing gently.
“There, there,” he crooned. “Slow, mi amor. It’s not a race.”
“I’m not a child,” Lawrence muttered between coughs, face burning red for the umpteenth time today.
“No, you’re worse. A child would’ve at least told me he was sick. You just power through.. Ay, if I don’t look after you, who will?”
“I manage just fine—”
“Tómas, I could hear your lungs from the hallway when I left to get the Vicks.” He gave the older man a playful smile, petting his head once more. Thomas groaned softly, sinking deeper into the pillows. His hand flew to his face to hide the sheer mortification. He wanted to disappear. He could feel Vincent’s gaze on him—warm, exasperated, loving. God, it was all too much.
The sheets rustled beside him. Vincent had sat down again, and this time he leaned forward, adjusting the blanket over Thomas’s legs, tucking him in like a mother would a feverish son. When he was satisfied, he smoothed the corners of the blanket and brushed his fingers through Thomas’s hair once more.
“You’re burning up,” Benítez murmured, more to himself than anything. “You should’ve said something days ago. I would’ve canceled the everything, rescheduled the meetings—”
“I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that.”
“But I would have,” Benítez interrupted, firmly. “Without hesitation. Because you matter more to me than any meeting.”
Lawrence blinked, stunned into silence. His heart beat against his ribs so loudly he feared Vincent might’ve heard it.
“I… I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he pitifully admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh, Tomás,” Benítez sighed, cupping his cheek. “You could never disappoint me.”
Lawrence let out a shaky breath. His eyes fluttered shut beneath the warmth of that touch.
“I’m sorry I made you worry.”
“You always make me worry, it can’t be helped. I know you do the same for me.” Benítez said softly, but with a fondness that made Thomas’s heart ache. “It’s part of the package, apparently.”
Then, to Thomas’s utter horror, and admittedly, delight—Vincent pressed a kiss to his lips.
Lawrence let out a sound between a gasp and a whimper, eyes flying open, the color in his cheeks nearly violet now.
“Vincent!” he hissed.
“Hmm?”
“You can’t— You can’t kiss me!”
Benítez’s eyebrows furrowed, curious. “Why not?”
Lawrence blinked, mortified. Was he being serious? “You’ll get sick!” The mere idea of Benítez falling ill horrified him to his core— but the thought that he would be the leading cause of his sickness? Lawrence could’ve sworn he’d have a heart attack at the thought alone.
Benítez just laughed, utterly unbothered. “No need to raise your voice, mi querido. You’re going to make your throat worse.”
Lawrence buried his face in his pillow with a groan, submitting with no further remarks.
“This is unbearable,” he mumbled into the linen.
“Is it?” Benítez said, clearly enjoying himself. “Because I think you’re quite comfortable. Admit it.”
“I am being nursed to death.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Lawrence could only groan again as Benítez walked over, fluffing up his pillows.
“Now hush. Mi Tomás, you’ve done enough. Let someone take care of you for once.”
Benítez sat at the edge of the bed again, brushing a stray lock of hair from Thomas’s damp forehead. That quiet, holy light in his eyes—gentle, undemanding, resolute, it made Lawrence’s throat catch all over again.
“…Thank you, Vincent.” he whispered.
Benítez only smiled, leaning in to press a softer, quieter kiss to his temple.
“Always, mi Tómas.”