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Vincent inhales.
He breathes.
His eyes are closed.
He breathes.
He begins to think – the thought slips away, then returns, solidifies. A dream is slipping away from him. It had been a nice dream, he thinks. The dream of his life.
He breathes, and he smiles. There is no rush. He shifts his shoulders, his legs. He is warm and comfortable and sleepy.
He is naked.
There is – there is another body wrapped around him.
It is also naked.
Hmm, Vincent thinks. He feels very calm and very comfortable. He can’t really remember, but he isn’t distressed. The word, honeymoon, floats into his mind and then out the other side. He blinks his eyes – it is quite dark, he notices for the first time. But he can see a little. Some light is filtering in from outside.
He strokes the head which is snuggled on his collarbone.
Thomas, his mind supplies. He knows without needing to search. Beloved Thomas.
Vincent smiles. He is glad that they are together. He finds that he is so glad that his eyes fill with tears, and they gently spill down his face.
He remembers – what does he remember? He remembers that he had thought at one time that they would not be allowed to be together. How odd. It seems silly now. Of course they are together.
Vincent leans his face down and presses the softest kiss against Thomas’ brow.
Thomas is not awake. After quietly watching him for a few moments, Vincent realises that Thomas is not breathing.
That’s strange, isn’t it. Vincent doesn’t feel worried.
Thomas is dead, Vincent thinks.
It seems a little odd. But Vincent isn’t distressed.
Perhaps that is also a little odd? Vincent just feels very comfortable, very satisfied, here with Thomas.
Vincent presses another kiss to Thomas’ forehead. It is not cold, or disgusting. It is Thomas, who simply happens to be dead. That’s OK, Vincent thinks. He gets it. I was dead for a while as well, Vincent thinks. It’s not a problem.
Vincent tenderly strokes Thomas’ hair.
After a little while longer being dead, Thomas begins to inhale.
Ah! Thinks Vincent. How marvellous!
Vincent feels very joyous that Thomas is now not dead. How excellent! How lovely! How correct! He feels a little giddy. He wriggles his toes. Thomas will be awake soon, he knows. Thomas will be glad to be together again soon, he knows.
For a while Thomas breathes, and Vincent watches him, and gently weeps, weeps with joy and amazement and happy astonishment.
The very fact of !Thomas! fills his mind with so much wonderment that it is entirely full.
And then Thomas’ eyes begin to move a little under his softly resting eyelids. And then he begins to slightly move his lovely long limbs. And then Thomas nuzzles his face, back and forth, against Vincent’s chest. And then Thomas is waking up.
He smiles, sleepily blinking up at Vincent, and his arms hug Vincent closer. Vincent is very pleased by this. It is excellent being close.
“Hello,” Vincent whispers. “Hello, love.”
Thomas smiles, and visibly focuses.
“Vincent…” he murmurs.
Vincent simply does not have many clear memories or complex thoughts – he is flushed through with so much contentment and comfort – but a thought does form. He thinks: it is good that I woke up first. He thinks, Thomas would have not liked to see me while I dead.
Vincent leans down again to kiss Thomas, and this time Thomas kisses back. His lips are warm. His love is wonderful.
After a short while, they shift around a little, so that they are together even more closely.
At some point Thomas says, slightly vaguely, “I think… I was dead. Was I dead?”
Vincent pats him. “Yes, dear one, I think that is true. I was also dead,” he adds. He just honestly doesn’t mind. He hopes Thomas doesn’t mind. OK, so they had been dead. What of it.
They lie together, naked and breathing and content, for another while.
Time doesn’t seem like a great concern. They kiss some more.
They snuggle.
They giggle.
It’s good.
Thomas says, at some point, “is this enough light?”
Vincent hadn’t thought much about the light, which had been faint, he supposed, but had now instantly started to increase its glow. Ah, he thinks. He can see Thomas’ face with more clarity now, he realises. Thomas looks so healthy, he realises, and feels glad. Someone has been looking after Thomas better than Thomas usually does!
How grateful Vincent feels, that Thomas is here and all warm and alive and healthy.
Thomas smiles at him, and it is so lovely.
“You are so lovely,” Vincent tells Thomas at the exact same time as Thomas also says the same words.
“Vincent, you are beautiful,” Thomas says, which seems delightful and slightly funny because Thomas is so beautiful and they are both beautiful and alive and together. It’s just – good, neat, marvellous.
They look at each other, and they kiss, and they giggle.
“I love you,” Vincent says.
“I love you,” Thomas says.
“I’m glad we’re not dead, now,” Thomas says, and Vincent heartily agrees. How wonderful it is to not be dead!
“I think… that we were dead for quite a long time,” Vincent says, thoughtfully. Sometimes he has a notion which disappears from his mind; the notion that he might be wrong, or needs to be careful. It passes away so cleanly that he almost can’t perceive it.
Thomas hums a little, which Vincent finds adorable. “I agree,” Thomas says, and he does, absolutely. Thomas continues, “I think, perhaps, I was dead… slightly longer than you?”
“Not by much, dear heart,” Vincent assures. “Hardly at all, in the scheme of things.”
Thomas nods. It is so good, Vincent thinks, how Thomas is less anxious now.
They kiss a little more. They doze. They do not feel hungry or thirsty. They entwine their fingers together.
At some point, Vincent traces his fingers along the crack above them which is evidently how the light gets in. It is a crack in stone. It is neither large nor small. Thomas looks at it too. Thomas stretches out and puts his whole hand into the crack.
There are no consequences to this.
Time is of no concern. Light perpetual shines upon them.
When they both feel intrigued enough, they wriggle around a little, and slide the stone across a bit, and together they clamber out of their shared grave.
They do not cut their hands or graze their shins.
The tomb is quite large, quite white, and now marvellously agape. The original crack was a splintering zig-zag shape, impressive and evocative of lightning. Marble rent like cloth. Vincent feels curious and not afraid. He looks closer, and the light which comes from nowhere increases a little to aid his inspection.
On the outside, the tomb says INNOCENTIVS XIV.
He used to read so many words, he thinks. His thoughts are soft here, and occasionally jaunty.
He delicately steps half back inside, so that he can more closely inspect the underside of the slab. In slightly smaller lettering – closed into the grave so that only God would know it was there – has additionally been engraved, in Latin, MOST BELOVED THOMAS RESTS HERE ALSO.
Vincent points this out to Thomas, who blushes most adorably. “Oh,” he says, “that was quite unnecessary, surely? Just to be included was more than my portion.”
So modest! Vincent loves this man. “Everything was unnecessary,” he murmurs, “but I am glad of it. To rest with your name just above my lips, with your body in my arms. Perfection. If it helps,” he adds, almost sly, “you might think of yourself as being my reward.”
He sees Thomas blush all the more deeply, and Vincent feels triumphant.
“Vincent,” Thomas says. He is deeply touched.
It is very quiet and still, where they are. Where are they? There is the light, there is a gentle breeze.
Vincent begins to notice, if he looks, that he can see more tombs nearby. Some of them are also cracked open. Some of them are not.
In fact, he realises after a few moments, the more he looks, the more he can see. That’s interesting.
As well as a floor and several tombs, this place has a ceiling – a very high ceiling – and pillars, but no walls. It is large but by no means infinite. Over there, and also over there, is some sort of outside.
Vincent clambers out of the tomb once more, amiably, and goes over to Thomas again. He wraps an arm around his waist. He loves to be close.
They kiss hello, hello, hello.
They stare into each other’s eyes.
Thomas says, “I can hear music, can you hear it?”
Music? No.
“Mmm,” says Thomas. “Look – listen.” Thomas bends and presses his forehead against Vincent’s, his eyes closed. Vincent also closes his eyes, but all he hears is their mutual breathing.
Then Thomas delicately puts his fingers on Vincent’s face, and uses his hand to physically tilt Vincent’s head.
Vincent’s hearing slides easefully from one dimension into another, as if he is a radio and Thomas is drawing him to a different channel for his own purposes, and now with nothing else to assist he can hear it. He can hear the rise and swell of a choir, waves of sounds interwoven, and it sounds far away and yet tremendously loud, everywhere despite being not here.
Angels. Angels!
He could listen to it for hours.
He could listen to it for eons.
He can also turn his head back and blink his eyes open and look directly back at Thomas, and it is just the two of them, in peace together.
Thomas is smiling at him, and there are tears on his cheeks. Vincent wants to kiss the tear tracks, and so he does. Kiss, kiss, kiss.
“How tremendous,” Vincent whispers, in between pressing kisses to Thomas’ face. “How lovely, how charming, how magnificent.”
Perhaps Thomas will blush for all eternity. That would be rather good.
“I love you,” Thomas says, helplessly, and as if it is something Vincent does not know. “I loved you, I love you. Loving you taught me what loving is.”
Vincent just wants to beam forever. Perhaps now he will.
“You are my carus, you are my most beloved, Thomas.” He takes both of his hands. “You are my relief, and my reward.”
They sway together, wanted and wanting and having.
The floor stretches away invitingly. It is is cool volos stone, not entirely smooth but perfectly comfortable for bare feet to pad across.
They stroll closer to the breeze.
There is something sparkling outside. Something huge.
It is the ocean.
“Oh,” Thomas sighs out at the endless blue. He grips onto Vincent’s hand a little more.
The mausoleum is at the top of a cliff. When they stand at the edge of the dormitory of tombs, between its last pillars, the ocean fills everything they can see, until it meets the sky. Aching blue, stretching on and on and on and on.
They sit down on the edge, where there are steps that end on grassy scrub.
“The sea is so wide,” Vincent murmurs, and Thomas replies, “and my boat is so small.”
They gaze out at it for hours; for a lifespan. How it moves, how it dreams, how it answers every question.
A tiny lizard darts past their feet. Life!
They kiss, and stand, and they begin to walk in a gentle stroll around to the other side of the building.
And it is when they eventually round the mausoleum to its other side that they come upon another human figure.
He looks like a fairly young man, but perhaps they are still looking through minds which haven’t yet fully shaken off the role of being old men. When Vincent and Thomas had each been around his age, they weren’t yet bishops. He has a modest beard and is sitting comfortably on quite a large rock, wearing a tunic and sandals, gazing out at the vista.
Next to him is a satchel with many scrolls on the verge of tumbling out of it, and a beautifully crafted shepherd’s crook leaning against the rock. He has one scroll in his hand and is gently tapping it against some material in his other hand.
He turns away from the view and gives them a bit of a wave, and so they wander over.
“Hello, welcome,” he says. He smiles at both of them, together and in turn. “Innocent, also called Vincent; and Thomas, also called John.”
No-one had ever actually referred to Thomas as John in life, but in his heart it had been there. It is still there, now after death.
“I’m Peter, also called Simon,” the man on the rock says. As he moves to open the scroll, he lays the cloth to the side, and Vincent sees that it is a pair of zucchettos, white and red, which look totally incongruous against the browns and olives and greys of the landscape and their skin tones.
When he has the pertinent section, Peter shows it to them. “Here you are, look,” he says, and shows them their names. “You can touch it, if you like.”
At the top of the scroll are some sigils which obligingly become legible as Thomas looks at them. They say: Christians – Roman / Miscellaneous. Thomas glances over at the stack of many other scrolls in the bag.
Peter starts rolling it up again, and he gives Vincent a particularly big grin. “You’ll come back up here I expect, Innocent, and swap in for me sometimes, now and again, just so that I can also go down for a while myself and share bread with everyone.”
“Oh,” says Vincent. “Yes. Of course.”
“But I’m here most of the time, more than anyone else. It’s a great time to meet people. You’ll get all sorts,” Peter continues, “but I always greet any Pope personally myself, it’s so good to meet you each like this. No-one comes in any particular order,” he mentions. This ought to add clarity, but doesn’t. Neither does it add anxiety, or confusion. “But sometimes people come in pairs or clusters. As you have.”
Thomas slides his eyes back over to Vincent.
Peter hasn’t touched either zucchetto again. Vincent understands that he could choose to ask for it, or equally, he needn’t.
Peter does make a little gesture at the shepherd’s crook. “Sometimes he comes and collects that,” he says, “and sometimes he comes and leaves it back here with me, or with whichever of us is up here. You can play with it if you like, you won’t damage it.” Peter smiles encouragingly. “And it’s such a lovely view, while you’re up here. Come and see.”
He moves over a little, and both Vincent and Thomas clamber up halfway, so that they can both see over the top.
From the rock, there is indeed a beautiful view down: down into a valley, lush and verdant, which is full of tables and carpets and flowers, and streams of water and streams of flags, and of people.
Millions and millions of people. They seem to be mostly naked, but some have accoutrements; shoes, and decorations, elaborate hats and little toys and intriguing devices.
They all mill about, listening to each other, and making each other laugh.
“Lots of friends,” Peter says, so gently. “Plenty of time.”
After a while, they each jump down from the rock and start down the hill together.
Thomas reaches out and takes Vincent’s hand.
Vincent entwines their fingers.
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infin.
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