Work Text:
Large raindrops drum a staccato rhythm against the chilled, pale leaves, shatter against the softened earth, bounce off his head, and soak into his already darkened, heavy, clinging clothes. With every step, the dean’s feet sink deeper into the mud. He gasps for breath—from exhaustion, from the bitingly cold wind, from the water obscuring his vision—but he tries his best to step into his companion’s footprints. As carefully as he can, as quickly as his mortal body allows, he plants his foot into the already trampled hole in the mud, covering the imprint of the smaller foot with his own wide tread.
His Holiness walks slightly ahead—seemingly unbothered by the thickening clouds overhead, the crystalline beads of rain, or the icy wind. Occasionally, he glances over his shoulder to check if his dear dean has fallen behind, and in those moments, Lawrence catches another glimpse of the curls plastered to Vincent's forehead, the water streaming down his face, the wet lashes—somehow even blacker now. But mostly, Thomas keeps his eyes on the ground—he sees that His Holiness’s boots are smeared with mud, yet not a single stain mars the hem of his robes. In this stormy, gray, restless landscape, the white garment fluttering in the wind is nearly blinding. Thomas squints.
And then, suddenly, his companion’s boot sinks too deep into the mud, the delicate foot slips, and lands right in a puddle.
For the first time since they set out, Vincent stops and turns fully toward Thomas. His hair is completely drenched, water dripping onto his shoulders, but the wind is so strong it still manages to toss even the rain-soaked locks. He laughs, holding his cassock to keep it from dragging in the mud, but the fabric whips around wildly—utterly at the mercy of the howling wind, he laughs.
"The ground must be freezing," Thomas thinks, finally pausing to stare at the narrow foot now caked in mud. "Your hare-like feet should be walking on warm sand, along the water’s edge, my dear, yet here they are, carrying you straight into the mud."
His Holiness bends to retrieve the lost shoe, but Thomas catches his breath—and with it, his voice.
"Wait—" he finally finds his voice and pulls the shoe from the mud.
The merciless wind has long since stolen his senses, and the relentless rain has washed away his pride, so he crouches before his beloved and lifts his foot from the ground.
"Thomas..."
He wipes his skin with the fabric of his own robes and carefully puts the shoe back on, tying the laces without looking up. And thank God he does not dare to raise his eyes—because the tender yet sorrowful gaze, bitter as tar, pouring from those honey-sweet eyes, would have killed him on the spot. But then he feels a hand on his cheek, and that kills him just as surely—roses bloom in his chest, their petals tickling, their thorns tearing at his poor, boiling heart.
"Thomas, stand up, I beg you."
And he does, slowly, afraid his friend might pull his hand away, careful not to touch him with his own dirtied fingers. Unsteady on his feet, he still doesn’t dare look up—not until a second palm cups his face, until soft hands wipe away the water blurring the dean’s vision.
"You’ve lost an eyelash. Guess which eye?"
The sparkling voice shatters the storm’s spell. Thomas wipes his hands on himself and covers the hands cradling his face.
"The right one?" He can’t help but smile, gazing into those eyes. How can they be so dark yet radiate such light?
"The right one." Vincent studies his face—not searching for anything, but admiring. Not daring to kiss him with his lips, he kisses him with his gaze, and no mouth could ever convey such tender, fervent kisses. "You have such a gentle face. Tenderer than tender, my dear." His eyes linger on Thomas’s lips, unable to move on. "And your hands—whiter than white, did you know that?" He takes Thomas’s hand in his and presses it to his lips—not quite a kiss, yet Thomas’s skin burns beneath them. "And your fingers always smell of incense—have you ever noticed that?"
After each phrase, his mind thrums with a feverish pulse: And I love you so much. But the words never leave his lips.
Thomas shivers from the cold, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter that he’s covered in mud—none of it matters, because he’s dirty from wiping the mud off his beloved's feet. And there’s no one around, though the residence is just a stone’s throw away, and the wind carries their tender words and touches beyond the horizon, and the veil of rain will hide them from all eyes—even if Thomas dares to kiss him.
And he does dare, as the distance between their faces is barely five centimeters—just enough for his courage to stretch. Their lips meet, their hands still clasped.
But Vincent pulls away.
For half a second, he returns the kiss—but then he pulls away. In that half-second, he pours all his passion, all his love, all the tenderness his heart can hold—but he pulls away.
Yet he doesn’t let go of his hand.
They stand like that for a while longer—hard to say if it was a second or if they lingered for dozens of minutes—but in the end, Vincent’s eyes darken completely, filling with suffocating dread. He rises onto his toes to leave a kiss on his dean’s forehead, then walks away, leaving him in the rain like a soaked, beaten dog.
Watching the retreating white figure, Thomas crouches down again and dips his hand into the puddle his beloved had stepped into just moments ago. And the wind seems to wail even louder.