Work Text:
When His Holiness left for his tour of America and Lawrence had to stay, he realized that he had never in his life longed for anything. Never—until these oppressive two weeks. His lips ached from the inability to kiss his ring, his hands were cold, exhaustingly cold, deathly even, because no one covered them with their own. His eyes wandered aimlessly, with nothing to rest upon. He had never thought his own eyes would seem useless to him—because they could not see those dark curls or the tender hands tucking them behind ears. His mouth felt like a filthy traitor for accepting communion from other hands. His ears angered him because they heard everything except that soft, affectionate voice.
He knew he loved him, but he had never felt that love so acutely. In just fourteen days, that love had turned into a vast chasm in his soul, and even a single glance from his beloved could have filled it—but he was denied even that. And so, the chasm grew teeth and began biting chunks out of his tormented flesh. Thomas no longer had the strength to resist the hungry hound in his soul, and its wet black nose led Lawrence straight to His Holiness’s chambers. He stood in the doorway for a long time, afraid to turn on the light, studying the furniture through the viscous darkness:
A wooden desk with chaotic stacks of papers—even these sheets had been deemed worthy of his beloved’s touch, while he himself had not. Never. All he had were chaste, half-ghostly brushes of hands.
A neatly made bed—this blanket knew the shape of his body, absorbed his warmth every night.
A brown wardrobe with its door slightly ajar. Lawrence stepped closer—the hound in his soul tugged at its leash, and he had no strength left to resist. He flung the wardrobe open, took the first shirt he saw off its hanger with an animalistic caution, the caution of a lioness carrying her cub in her jaws, afraid to clamp down too hard on its fragile throat. He buried his face in the collar, inhaling as deeply as he could, to the point of pain, nearly to the collapse of his lungs, desperate to savor his scent. The shirt smelled of sandalwood, tobacco, and vanilla—sweet, pungent. Lawrence would have been happy if this were his last breath, happy if his lungs gave out right then and there. But they didn’t. Finally, he found the strength to pull away and hung the shirt back up, carefully smoothing out the creases left by his rough fingers.
Before leaving, he approached his beloved’s desk and couldn’t resist his curiosity—right in the middle lay a notebook, worn, its cover faded. It was clear Vincent cherished this old little thing. Thomas’s hands reached for it on their own, began flipping through the pages on their own: sermon drafts, scripture quotes, city sketches—oh, the Holy Father was an excellent artist. In the top right corner of every page was a date, and suddenly one of them struck Thomas as familiar. The first day of the conclave.
"Lord, I have seen war, I have seen death, but I have never seen such despair in a man’s eyes. I don’t even remember their color—only that it’s terrifying to look into them. If I could, I would drink all his sorrow from those eyes. Father, help this man."
And just below: "Blue. They’re blue."
The next few pages had no text, only sketches—landscapes. Thomas recognized them immediately. It was Kabul, exactly as Vincent had described it. And in every line, there was a tremor, a mournful trembling.
The date of the conclave’s last day.
"Father, why have You granted me this honor—to serve You here? I am so unworthy. And why have You given me this fate—so much woman in me? I thought it was only my womb, but now I feel like a drunken lady—intoxicated by wine, intoxicated by love. I touched his hands, and now my palms burn. He looked into my eyes, and now I see nothing but him. You sent me Your most enchanting creation, Your heaviest trial. I love You, Father, but what am I to do with this other love?"
Thomas felt a knot tighten in his stomach.
Two days later.
"Bitterer than death is a woman, her heart a snare, her hands chains. But he is even bitterer, and every glance from him pierces me like a knife—so painful, so sweet. But thank You, Father, for there is less sorrow in his eyes now. Sometimes he looks at me in a way that, if it lasted a second longer, would leave a burn on my skin."
A week later.
"I would follow him a thousand miles, Father. I would wait for him a thousand years. All my life I searched for him, and now I have found him—all that’s left is to reach out. But my hands are bound."
Thomas gasped for air but turned the page.
"I am ready to cast my soul into hell—but not yours, my love."
And the last thing Thomas could read.
"On my bed at night I sought him whom my soul loves; I sought him, but found him not. I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the squares; I will seek him whom my soul loves. I sought him, but found him not."
His breath was completely gone. Thomas couldn’t take it anymore. He slammed the notebook shut and threw it onto the desk as if scalded. Then snatched it back up, pressed it to his lips, and kissed it. Once, twice, three times—three fervent kisses on the worn green cover, the only answer he could give. Inside this frail little binding lay the great secret of his beloved’s beautiful eyes. Thomas had looked into those eyes every day and yet had never unraveled it—so deep had he hidden it.
He loved him back.
He loved him.
Loved him.
Lawrence lay down on his beloved's bed, clutching his blanket, and he prayed—though he didn’t know for what. For him? For himself? He thanked God, and he was afraid. Very afraid.