Chapter Text
The peace lasts as long as it takes for Thomas to – slowly – unwind himself from Vincent’s arms. A warm, hazy feeling has overtaken his body, despite the fact that they are still standing, still fully clothed, have done little more than embrace in comfortable silence over the last several moments. He feels as if he could stay here forever, buoyed by the knowledge that he loves Vincent, and Vincent loves him, and there is no need to hide it any longer.
Or – there is no need to hide it here, and now, in the sanctity of Vincent’s chambers. It is that thought, among others, that creeps back in as he steps back, in the knowledge that they both must return to the outside world. They must tread carefully – and Thomas is by now an old hat at doing so, but he does not want this connection with Vincent to be so stained with the political maneuvering that already dogs both of their every moves. He must be careful, then, with how he looks at Vincent in public, with when – and if – he enters and leaves his chambers.
And there is another thing: he can sneak through hallways late at night or in the early morning, he is willing to bear any indignity. But the coming and going implies the expectation of – of staying, of perhaps sharing a bed, of letting Vincent’s kisses stray from the lips and cheeks and hands, perhaps onto a wrist or a collarbone or…
And Thomas wants, achingly, desperately, in a way that reminds him of his early days in Seminary, and it’s the wanting that even now terrifies him. He has accepted as best he can that alone before God it is not a sin to want, for who could resist wanting someone like Vincent, but he does not know yet whether Vincent would accept these wants solidified into actions. He does not yet know whether he would want that, in truth. It is as though he is standing at the edge of an ocean, letting the water lap at his feet, facing the prospect of diving in headfirst.
Vincent must see some of that on his face, for as he draws away, his hand lingers on Thomas’s. His brow furrows in concern. “What is it, Thomas? Dear heart?”
“I–” Thomas is coming to realize he will be judged neither for his desires nor his fears, but it still takes an effort to get the words out. “It’s only… I am worried about where we go from here.” When Vincent’s eyes go wide, Thomas brings the hand in his up to his mouth to press a reassuring kiss to it. “In terms of the Curia,” he is quick to add. “People will talk. It is all they know how to do. But we will have to be careful, to mitigate it. And if you wanted me to… stay the night –” his voice wavers, just a bit – “we would have to plan carefully, or else have an excuse in place.”
Vincent holds his gaze, but his eyes are soft and his mouth a curving smile. “And we will be. We cannot prevent gossip any more than we can prevent human nature, but anything they will say will fade and be forgotten if we are careful. And, Thomas, you should know that there is nothing I would like more than to spend a night with you – every night, if you’d have me by your side.” As usual, Vincent seems able to peel back the layers of Thomas’s innermost thoughts, to cut to the quick and lay bare the fears he tries to keep hidden. He gives Thomas’s hands a little shake. “To merely sleep, or to hold each other, or to do more. But my love for you is not conditional on any of that. If you wished only to hold my hands and share a kiss by daylight then I would do so while whispering in your ear how dear you are to me. If you wished to sleep each night by my side, but never to undress, then I would sleep more peacefully than I ever have in my life, content with the knowledge of your love.”
Thomas feels prickly all over, pleased and flustered and only a little anxious. “I – I don’t know if I…”
“Then we have every day to figure it out, and meet each other where we are comfortable.”
Thomas cannot help but lean in to kiss him, and it is once again, warm and serene and so comfortable that he could build a home here, in this moment. “Then – for tonight, I should return to my apartments. But… tomorrow, if you are free in the evening, may I come by?”
Vincent grins at him, the kind that brightens his entire face. “You may, Dean Lawrence,” he says, with mock formality, looking for all the world as though he is about to break into laughter. There is still amusement in his voice as he adds, more sincerely, “Sleep well, Thomas.”
Thomas admittedly has something of a spring in his step as he rises the next morning, and even the familiar ritual of getting ready for the day feels more exciting, passes more quickly. He finds Ray shortly after in the hallway – unusual, perhaps, for the man to specifically seek him out two mornings in a row, but there is pleasure too in simply seeing a friend’s face.
“Your Eminence,” greets Ray. And then, slyly: “I only came to see how your meeting with His Holiness had gone. And if you are still…”
Thomas cannot bring himself to be irritated at the teasing. “Yes, Ray. I am needed here, so I will stay.” And then, “Thank you, for…”
Ray beams at him. “I’m glad to hear it, Eminence. And I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.” After a moment, he says, slightly more seriously, “Does Cardinal Bellini know that you are staying? I think it would do him good to hear the news from you – he was… worried, Eminence, last I saw him.”
“Yes,” says Thomas. “Or, rather – I intend to tell him, at breakfast.” It is just like Aldo to fret, and he too deserves Thomas’s gratitude.
That being said, telling Aldo at breakfast seems at first easier said than done. A quick sweep of the hall does not reveal him. It’s odd – rising early and eating quickly are habits that Thomas and Aldo share, and it’s been a rare morning over the past decades that does not include their sharing a morning meal. It’s only once he has poured himself coffee that he spots Aldo in a corner, an untouched plate in front of him, scrolling on his phone with a frown.
He strides over, and at his footsteps, Aldo looks up and puts down the phone, frown dissolving. “Thomas,” he greets, voice measured.
“Good morning, Aldo,” says Thomas, and sits beside him. And then, because he can’t quite contain the joy spilling out from every part of him, and because Aldo, despite the neutral cast of his face, still looks indeterminately worried, he adds, “I’ve spoken with His Holiness. We’ve agreed that I’m to – remain as Dean. I no longer wish to retire.”
He has more to say, but Aldo flashes a smile, a motion that thins his lips and does not otherwise change his expression. “That’s great, Thomas. I’m sorry, I’ve got an important meeting in a few moments that I’ve yet to prepare for.” He stands, collects his untouched toast and nods goodbye, leaving Thomas to stare at the gleam of his polished shoes as he goes.
This would all be fine, except that Thomas knows for a fact that Aldo keeps a meticulously color-coded binder full of notes and meeting agendas, which he keeps perpetually tucked under his arm on busy days. There was no sign of it today. He also knows that it’s been twenty-odd years since Aldo had last been behind on preparations, and even that had been a one-off caused by too much wine and a theological debate that lasted the two of them until three in the morning.
But – it has also been a long time since they have had a new Pope, and Aldo must be busier than ever. So, even if it’s strange, Thomas cannot begrudge him this. He does not always take lunch, but he resolves to go today to catch his friend at a less hectic moment.
Lunch, sure enough, starts out more promising. He finds Aldo immediately, eating near Guilio Sabbadin, an empty seat across from him. Thomas takes his lunch and fills the seat, and Aldo once again glances up at his arrival, eyes locking on his. It should be a familiar sight, but something about the action carves out a pit in his stomach. He pushes through the unease and digs into the reserve of cheerfulness that hasn’t quite abated from this morning.
“We didn’t get to speak much at breakfast. But, Aldo, I did want to thank you for the – conversation you had with the Holy Father.” Suddenly conscious of Guilio sitting nearby, he tempers the truth of what he wants to say. “He made it clear to me that I still have a – a place here, and I do not think he would have known to do so without you. And I am just – very grateful.” He reaches over the table to lay a hand over Aldo’s. It suddenly feels very important that he convey the depth of thankfulness that he feels for Aldo’s meddling.
Aldo smiles at him again. “I’m sure you are, Thomas. Think nothing of it.” He withdraws his hand, patting Thomas’s twice as he does so. He turns a little, in his seat, shifting to Guilio who has thus far been engaged in a book. “Guilio – I meant to talk to you about the upcoming trip to Madrid –”
Thomas watches, with some lagging confusion, as Guilio shuts his book and the two switch to logistics, Thomas having been neatly carved out of the conversation. Twice is – not a coincidence. Twice means that something is going on with Aldo.
The pit in Thomas’s stomach turns bitter. He’d thought at breakfast it was odd, but worse yet is the possibility that it isn’t odd at all. The conclave had strained the ease of their friendship, and despite the apologies exchanged, it falls to reason that things might not still be exactly normal. But it’s been months, and Thomas had thought he was used to all flavors of awkwardness between them. This one is new.
Whatever this development, it is something that Thomas must address, now that he intends to stay. It had been easier to let the discomfort lie when he had been intending to resign, and easier in turn to intend to resign when faced with the loss of a once-comforting friendship. But he is not resigning, and therefore he will regain what was lost between him and Aldo at all costs.
Doing so means that he must get to the bottom of this sudden change in behavior on Aldo’s part. He watches his friends speak as he ponders this, vaguely aware that he is staring. It cannot be a direct result of their arguments during the conclave, or else it would have come up before now. Besides, Aldo had come to his rooms the day after everything, to apologize again, and had clutched at Thomas’s hands with shaking hands and tears in his eyes. All is forgiven, Aldo must know that, and so…
And so it falls to reason that Aldo’s behavior now stems from an older, deeper hurt. After all, how many times before the conclave had the two of them discussed in hushed voices what a Bellini papacy might look like? How many nights had they spent, heads bent together over potential cabinet appointments and political maneuvers and preventing another schism? Aldo had always talked about the possibility with a grim, determined sort of certainty, as though facing down an army that only he could defeat. Thomas’s heart had ached, even then, at the thought of his friend trapped forever with the lifelong pontificate, but Aldo had never faltered.
And whether or not he had truly wanted it, in the end, it must have been a shock to the system to have the role go so abruptly to someone else. And it would be a reasonable hurt to carry, one that Aldo must know Thomas would not begrudge him for – then again, perhaps he begrudges himself for still being wounded, when someone so worthy sits in the office.
Thomas turns this around in his mind. It seems the likely conclusion to Aldo’s behavior, a lingering bitterness over the loss of the papacy. But the subject is delicate enough that he is unsure how to properly approach it, to soothe the wound without Aldo getting defensive or upset.
Only belatedly does he realize that Guilio and Aldo have stopped talking, and are looking at him in surprise, or expectation. Aldo’s face, once again, is blanketed in the smooth neutrality that Thomas has watched him perfect over the years. Aldo has not once used it against him.
It’s not precisely on purpose that Thomas finds himself wandering the gardens during a spare few minutes in his afternoon, but his feet have brought him here, and he lets his hand brush against unfurling buds on a tree branch as his thoughts wander. It is disturbing, to know that Aldo is upset and will not share this with him.
A hum from behind makes him turn. Vincent approaches, a pair of Swiss Guards standing several meters away. Thomas wishes for nothing more than to fall into his arms, but he contents himself with letting Vincent press his hand and lean close.
“Holy Father,” Thomas murmurs.
“I had a few moments in my schedule,” says Vincent. “I didn’t think to find you here, but I am pleased.” He takes Thomas’s arm, and leads him gently further into the garden.
Thomas cannot help but lean into the warmth. He tries to smile, but it cracks at the corners and falls from his face. Vincent notices, and says softly, “Is something troubling you still?
Is he that transparent? Or is it that Vincent is especially equipped to bring out the truth in him, come hell or high water?
When they are sheltered halfway behind a bush, and can maintain the illusion of privacy, Vincent raises a hand and strokes a thumb across Thomas’s cheek, just once. “Are you upset by what we discussed this morning? If I made you uncomfortable –”
Thomas grabs the hand and holds it to his face. “No, it’s not that. It’s…” He falters. This business isn’t his own, and it feels wrong to discuss the struggle for the papacy with the Pope. “I’m not sure I should say.”
Vincent’s hand is warm and his touch is a balm to the anxiety thrumming under Thomas’s skin. “If it’s something you’d prefer to keep private, I will not press you, but I hope you are not staying silent for my sake. I will always want to hear your troubles, if you want to tell them.”
Thomas sighs. “It’s about the conclave.”
Vincent’s eyebrows rise, but his expression remains nonjudgemental. “It’s about Aldo,” Thomas adds. Vincent’s eyebrows rise further. “I think he may be upset about the infighting during the conclave, about his participation in it, but also about the… results.”
Vincent frowns. Thomas bites back the instinct to reassure him, but Vincent looks more confused than upset. “You think that Cardinal Bellini is upset that he did not win the papacy?”
This time, Thomas can’t bite back the equivocation. “I understand that this puts you in an odd position. I’m sure he knows that you were the best choice in the end, I just – I know him, and he expected for a long time to win the vote, and…” He trails off, unsure how to explain. What was he going to say? That Aldo needs time? He’s had time, and Thomas thinks that if he has to suffer through even one more horrible not-conversation where Aldo won’t truly even look at him, he’s going to cry.
Vincent’s frown deepens. “Cardinal Bellini has been important to me through the transition, as much as you have. There has been some wariness in how he speaks to me in private, but I understand where it comes from and I have no desire to push him. I have not noticed anything else – has he been upset with you since the election?”
Thomas coughs, cheeks heating, though he isn’t quite sure why. “No, ah, this is rather – new. Only since this morning, in fact. He’s done everything in his power to avoid speaking to me alone. After I told him – you don’t think that he’s upset that I’m not retiring, do you?”
Vincent says, “No, I cannot imagine that he’s upset to keep you around. But if it were only the papacy troubling him I would not expect his behavior to change now. Thomas, my dear, what exactly did you say to him?”
It would feel like an interrogation, except it is softened by the fact that Vincent’s hand is still in his, and Vincent turns his hand so that they are palm to palm. “I only – I told him that you and I had spoken, and that I would remain here by your side. I thanked him – I thought he’d be happy.” It twists something horrible, inside him, sudden and sharp, to think that perhaps Aldo no longer desires his companionship. They had spent decades an inseparable duo, and now Thomas is a thorn, dead weight that Aldo has been hoping to shear off. He has to breathe, deeply, to not let the sudden grief of it overwhelm him. He wants to cry like a child, wants to ask what he did wrong, wants to beg on his knees, but Aldo isn’t even here, and it wouldn’t be fair to do that to Vincent.
Vincent is watching him, expression curious. He looks like he’s – studying Thomas, perhaps, peering inside him to see the writhing mass of his emotions. “Thomas, I know it isn’t my place to pry, but I wonder if, given the nature of your friendship with Cardinal Bellini –” A corner of his mouth twitches upwards very slightly, as though he’s discovered an amusing surprise in the lines of Thomas’s face. “Is it possible that he bears the same insecurities that you do? He may be upset that you thought to leave him, but only feels free to show it now that it is certain you will stay. But I could not know for certain. You would have to ask him to find out.”
There’s something clawing at the edge of Thomas’s awareness, something huge that engulfs every thread of logic he tries to reach for. “I stayed because you asked me to,” he says slowly, trying to find the logical end to his tangled thoughts. Vincent inclines his head. “But,” adds Thomas. “Aldo is – the only other person here who might have convinced me, had he tried.”
“Does he know that?”
Yes, Thomas opens his mouth to say. Of course. But the words get caught in his throat and he replaces them with a scratchy, “Perhaps not.”
And then, because urgency is suddenly nipping at his heels, the need to make sure Aldo knows – “I should – talk to him. Explain that our friendship has not changed. Make sure he knows how much I care for him.”
Vincent smiles, eyes gleaming. “I think you should.”
This time, Thomas is prepared. He arrives at lunch and sits a table and a half away from Aldo. He minds his business. He lets his fingers tap out an anxious rhythm on his thigh. He surveys the room, casually, passing over Aldo with every few sweeps. He sees Aldo’s eyes flicker to meet his, just once, before darting away.
So, when Aldo bids goodbye to his conversation partners and makes to leave, Thomas is ready. He lets Aldo get five, ten steps ahead of him, follows, and only when they have made it to the relative privacy outside does he call out a greeting.
Aldo’s shoulders draw up to his ears, but he turns, looking unsurprised. “Yes, Thomas? Better make it quick, I’ve got a meeting –”
“You haven’t,” says Thomas. “I asked the Holy Father for your schedule today. You have the afternoon off. I was hoping you would be willing to spend it speaking with me.”
“Right,” says Aldo. There’s a sour twist to the word, as though he’s speaking to Tedesco or one of his other rivals, not to Thomas. As though he’s just been defeated in an argument, though Thomas didn’t come here to argue.
When it’s apparent that Aldo won’t say more, Thomas presses, “If you’ve got the time, we could take a moment to speak in my apartments. I… miss you, Aldo.”
Aldo glances up at the sky and then down at the ground in quick succession, before his gaze settles on Thomas. He clears his throat, which Thomas remembers as a gesture of anxiety from their youth, and then nods in one sharp, jerky motion.
They walk together in silence, and Thomas can almost pretend it’s their normal brand of silence, the comfortable kind they can settle into between debates and discussions and work. The illusion is somewhat shattered by his own brusque pace, and the way that Aldo somehow maintains position a half-step behind him the whole walk, as though he hasn’t been to Thomas’s apartments a thousand and one times, as though he hasn’t led Thomas there himself after long days of work together.
When they arrive, Thomas offers with a gesture the chair that Aldo normally takes by habit. Aldo sits, painstakingly careful, though when he says “Well?” it comes out in an explosive expulsion of air.
There’s often a certain directness to the way Aldo speaks, as though he’s in front of a classroom or congregation, as though he’s constantly daring everyone else to worm their way through cracks in his words, as though he’s built up the solid foundation of fact to prevent that. Thomas tries to channel that now, as he sucks in air and then lets it out with “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Aldo blinks, as though Thomas had set off a flare in front of his face. “Thomas…” It comes out on a sigh.
Thomas needs to get the rest of the words out now, or else he won’t have the courage to get them out at all. “I know you are upset, and I have to ask if –” He curses himself as his voice falters, but pushes through. “If this has anything to do with the results of the conclave. If this were so, you must know that I would not judge you, my friend. I – I would only hope that you would confide your struggles in me rather than…”
He realizes, somewhat belatedly, that Aldo no longer wears that blank-polite diplomat’s mask that he’s been putting on in front of Thomas recently. Instead, his mouth is a downturned slash underneath dark, burning eyes. As Thomas trails off, Aldo stands in one jerky movement, and the chair squeaks against the floor in protest. He makes an aborted grab towards the empty table, as though to reach for a nonexistent shrugged-off garment, then curls the reaching hand into a loose first instead. “I’m so glad,” he spits. “To know that’s what you think of me, Thomas.”
His lips twitch and and his expression flattens back out, and Thomas can do nothing but watch, aghast, as Aldo, with aching finality, spins on his heel and walks out, the door closing soundlessly behind him. It would have been better had it slammed.
And for several moments all Thomas can think, hysterically, is well, then. Is, three times, though of course, Aldo is no Peter, and he is no Jesus Christ. It is the perfect triptych, though, three conversations and three endings, the last one the most final of them all. He lets himself sink into the feeling for one torturous minute, languish in misery at the prospect of life without Aldo at his side.
And then he blinks, clearing any moisture from his eyes, and the voice in his head abruptly says, no, not this time. He thinks for a moment it sounds like Vincent, but, no, this voice has always been his own, if he'd been willing to listen to it. He will not let it end like this, will not let Aldo walk out, will not let their friendship crumble further than it already has. A wall cannot be rebuilt by running away, any more than it can be built by haphazardly throwing bricks until they stick.
So he gets up, resolute in the intention to walk until he finds Aldo, to take him by the shoulder and make him listen, and talk in return, until he shakes loose something that they can fix.