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After the conclave, after Benítez—now Innocent—makes his address to the world, after everything, Aldo finds Thomas alone in the gardens, having slipped away from the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica to enjoy the Italian sunset. Aldo takes a moment to observe him. Thomas stands on the edge of the turtle pond, swaying in place as if one gust of wind will blow him over, but also smiling to himself, as if remembering some inside joke. In short, he looks dead on his feet, yet somehow lighter than he has in months, even years.
“Come on,” Aldo says, wrapping an arm around his friend’s shoulder and startling him out of his reverie. “We need a drink.”
That’s how they end up in Aldo’s apartment, decompressing under the pleasant haze of intoxication. They’re sitting on the couch, Thomas lying on his back, resting his feet in Aldo’s lap while Aldo traces circles across his ankle. Once upon a time he would have found this closeness unbearable, but Aldo has learned to love these rare moments of intimacy when Thomas lets down his guard, puts aside his quiet elegance and allows himself to be relaxed, even humorous.
They both stopped drinking after three or four glasses, age making it unwise to continue without fear of a headache in the morning. Now, with much time and freedom on their hands, they decided to cope with the events of the last few days by gossiping like teenage girls at a slumber party.
“This is going to sound awful,” Thomas slurs from the other end of the couch, “but I was almost glad to learn Joe had done something wrong. The man is insufferable.”
Aldo barks a laugh. “I never thought I’d see the day when you openly disliked someone, Mr. Famed Diplomat.”
“I feel I’m somewhat justified given recent circumstances,” Thomas grins, then immediately chides himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t talk like this about a fellow brother.”
There was the diplomat Aldo knew and loved. Even after Tremblay committed an excommunicable offense, abused his power in an attempt to effectively circumvent the will of the Holy Spirit, Thomas still found it in him to offer understanding and forgiveness. To offer Aldo understanding and forgiveness. It was maddening.
“No, no, you’re right,” he replies, feeling an urge to return to his unfinished glass of wine. “He deserves what’s coming to him. Especially after subjecting us to years of his obnoxious self-righteousness.”
“Oh yes, quite,” Thomas immediately agrees. So much for neutrality. “Even if he is terribly handsome.”
Pause. “Sorry, handsome?”
“Yes! He’s very easy to look at. He was a hockey player, you know, and he still keeps in shape, you can see it. Not to mention his hair. Goodness, it makes him look dashing. Lends him a certain confidence.” At Aldo’s silence, he looks up at him, brows furrowed. “Am I wrong?”
Aldo keeps his expression neutral. He wants to choose his words carefully, while also confirming a growing suspicion.
“No, I just… didn’t know you were attracted to men.”
Thomas freezes, and Aldo wants to kick himself. Attract. It’s a heavy word, one that does away with the pretense of plausible deniability. It’s one thing to think a man looks good, another thing to want to do something about it. Aldo knows all about that.
“I-” Thomas starts, then stops, swallowing. It’s as if he wants to choose his words carefully, but is caught up in the sheer exhilaration of finally letting himself be known that only liquid courage could have given him. After a minute of silence he settles on: “Not just men.”
“Oh, poor Thomas!” Aldo jokes. He doesn’t want this to be frightening. Thomas doesn’t have to hide—not anymore, not from him. “This whole time, you’ve had to endure double the temptation!”
“It’s torture,” he replies dryly, and Aldo snorts, though he knows it must be more true to life than his friend lets on.
“I don’t suppose you’ve thought about the appeal of all our colleagues, have you?” he asks mostly as a joke, taking another sip of wine.
Thomas is suspiciously silent.
“You have!”
“We work with very attractive people!” Thomas cries, covering his face with his hands in embarrassment.
Aldo thinks it’s less who they work with and more decades of repression making Thomas pay attention to the men and women around him. Perhaps he should accept this and back off but… he’s intrigued. Until now he was convinced that Thomas was wholly asexual, both pitying and envying his perfect adherence to celibacy, believing it was easy, effortless. Now that he knows otherwise, he’s desperate to learn more.
“Tell me?” he asks, holding Thomas’ ankle in a tight grip, as if that will somehow convince him.
“It’s embarrassing,” Thomas says, voice muffled.
“Oh, come on. We can compare notes.”
While they’ve never spoken about it, Aldo’s own homosexuality is an open secret. He leverages it now, offering his experience as a bridge between them, an acknowledgment that he sees his friend, feels what he’s feeling. You’re not alone, Aldo wants to tell him, you never have been.
Thomas removes his hands from his face, nods, then clasps them together to stare up at the ceiling. Knowing him, he’s calling upon the Lord for strength. Perhaps he thinks that if he doesn’t look at Aldo, nothing he says will count in the tally of his sins.
Aldo starts with the least, or perhaps most, intimidating option.
“Sister Agnes? Not my type, of course, but I can see the appeal.”
“Ah, yes,” Thomas says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “She’s also quite handsome. Stubborn. I, uh, like that in a woman.”
“Tedesco?”
“Too stubborn.” Aldo laughs again, until Thomas follows up with, “but, well, I like that he’s touchy, and… flirtatious.”
“Flirtatious?” He scoffs. “He’s never flirted with me.”
“Jealous, are you?”
Aldo finds that he is a little jealous, though not of Thomas. He moves on.
“Adeyemi?”
“It’s a shame about his social views. His voice is captivating. Very deep, very warm. I could listen to him speak for hours.”
“O’Malley?”
“Oh it wouldn’t be appropriate,” he says one moment. Then: “his accent comes out more when he’s tired, it’s adorable.”
“Our new Holy Father?”
“Aldo!” Thomas exclaims, scandalized.
“He has a certain boyish charm, doesn’t he?”
“Oh God yes.” Aldo is about to tease, but Thomas continues. “His eyes, his hair… he’s beautiful. In body, yes, but also in spirit. You must have felt it. There’s an otherworldly grace about him. Something warm and inviting. He makes me want to tell him all my secrets.”
Thomas sighs to himself. “We chose correctly. Vincent is extraordinary.”
Aldo feels a horrible churning of jealousy deep in his gut. Thomas so rarely gives out real heartfelt praise—Aldo has worked for it his entire life, while Benitez earned it in mere days. It’s made all the worse by knowing Benitez deserves it. He is beautiful, ridiculously so, and he is a worthy successor. Aldo hates him solely because he’s unwittingly captured all of Thomas’ attention.
He’s been silent for too long. There’s a tension now, one of his own creation, one neither of them want to break. He doesn’t want to linger on their new pope, but what he wants to ask next is much more frightening. He swallows from nervousness and looks at Thomas out of the corner of his eye.
“Me?”
Aldo knows he’s crossing a line, but he can’t help it. He needs to know.
Thomas drapes an arm over his eyes. His face is redder than its ever been.
“I always thought… If I were to... break my vows with anyone,” he says quietly, “it would be you.”
The words weigh heavy in the room. Aldo’s hand on Thomas’ ankle feels like it’s on fire. They both know he doesn’t just mean sex.
Aldo has long resigned himself to one-sided attraction. It has remained a constant in his life that his feelings will always remain and Thomas will never know or return them. It was painful in the beginning, then almost a comfort, a secret truth he cherished on long nights and nourished in his heart. The revelation otherwise is not an earth shattering explosion but a soft, sweet landing.
“If it helps… the sentiment is shared.”
Thomas shoots up, leaning on his elbows to look at him in shock. He sees the implication set in, the gears turning. Thomas’ eyes have always been so expressive and he watches them now as they maintain eye contact. It is perhaps the most difficult thing he’s ever done.
“We can’t—“
“I know.”
There is a beat of terrible, heartbreaking silence. But Thomas surprises him. He disregards the building tension, scooting forward until he’s sitting in Aldo’s lap and drapes his arms around his shoulders, burying his head in the curve of Aldo’s neck. Aldo doesn’t hesitate in hugging him back, arms wrapping around his waist, their bodies slotting together like they were made for each other.
Thomas grips his shirt tight with one hand, caresses the nape of his neck gently with the other, and Aldo feels his heart about to burst from his chest. This must take a great deal of courage, he thinks. For both of them.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas whispers. Aldo can feel his lips moving against his throat, breath ghosting his skin. It almost distracts him from the way his friend’s voice trembles.
“For what?”
“I don’t know. For not knowing. For not wanting to know.”
Thomas pulls back to rest their foreheads together, cradling Aldo’s head in his hands. There are tears in his eyes, threatening to spill over.
“If I weren’t so–we could have–”
“That way madness lies,” Aldo murmurs, cutting off his spiraling. He trails a hand up and down the ridges of his spine, feeling the rise and fall of each breath. He doesn’t hold on as if he’s never letting go, because he knows Thomas isn’t going anywhere. He never has.
Thomas closes his eyes and breathes a deep sigh.
“I'm such a fool,” he mutters.
“Hey.” Aldo gently knocks their heads together. “Don’t talk about my friend like that.”
“You’re far too good to me.”
“Nonsense.”
Thomas opens his eyes again. Good, Aldo was already beginning to miss their piercing blue.
“Can we… Can we have this?” Thomas whispers, though whether he’s asking Aldo or God is hard to say. His voice is filled with such fear and longing it’s almost painful. Aldo desperately wants to put his mind at ease.
“You can have me forever and always.” Aldo kisses the corner of his mouth and Thomas shudders, blushing. It takes a moment for him to realize why. When he does, he snorts.
“Your mind’s in the gutter, old man.”
“That’s not what I–” Thomas cuts himself off because it was, in fact, exactly what he had been thinking, and ducks his head in embarrassment.
“I don’t know if I can. Or want to.”
“That’s okay,” Aldo says, and he means it. This closeness is more than he ever thought he’d have, though not exactly more than he dared to dream. “Having you in my arms is more than enough.”
“When did you become such a romantic?” Thomas huffs, blush deepening.
“Since I fell in love with you,” Aldo says, just to watch Thomas get more flustered. Good God the man is adorable. This time he kisses his forehead, in between his creases, mentally crossing that item off his bucket list.
“Can you…” Thomas starts, then stops, staring at Aldo’s mouth. “I want…”
Aldo waits patiently, letting him squirm. “What?”
Thomas surprises him again by tilting his head forward, meeting Aldo’s lips with his own. The kiss is soft, chaste, and innocent—the kiss of a man who’s never done this before, or who hasn’t in so long that it may as well be his first. The thought of being Thomas’ first anything makes him dizzy.
“Sorry,” Thomas says, pulling back. “I… don’t know how to kiss.”
“I can teach you,” Aldo blurts out, then flushes, immediately regretting it.
“Oh, how kind of you professor,” Thomas laughs. The sound is music to his ears. Then he quiets, murmuring a soft “I would like that” into the space between them, and Aldo wants to keep him forever.
“Stay here? Tonight?” He asks suddenly, tightening his hold around Thomas’ waist. He doesn’t care if he sounds pathetic. He wants to kiss his best friend senseless until they fall asleep and wake up in each other’s arms, ready to face this brave new world together.
“Yes, I’d like that too.”
“Thank God.”
Aldo realizes he means it. Yes, thank God he’s able to share his heart with the man he loves, to love God through the love of another. He feels His presence even more strongly in this moment than he did in the Sistine Chapel.
This is, perhaps, the main reason why he could never become pope—he never doubted His love for even a second.