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Chapter Text

August 20

Aldo was beginning to get some strange messages from his environment. From God, he was being told to sleep at more reasonable hours and not four am. From the Booker Foundation, he was being scolded to get off his damn high horse and consider genre fiction as literary accomplishments. From Thomas…well…there was something, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. 

The North American tour Thomas had been dragged on—alongside the Holy Father and Aldo—had seen the poor man scrambling to reply to emails with the scythe of time zone differences hovering just over his neck. Every night, he had trekked half a meter to Aldo’s hotel room to get late night work done under the watchful eye of a night owl. Truthfully, Aldo had been meaning to relax, but Thomas had just fallen asleep in the middle of work every single night he crawled to Aldo. Which was almost every night, by the way. 

Sure, it was endearing. Thomas knew Aldo liked to fuss over things if given the chance, which had then included putting his reading glasses away and neatly filing all relevant papers Thomas had dozed on top of. 

Now, without the small distance between hotel rooms and also arriving empty-handed, this habit persisted. There was no pretense of getting shit done. Thomas walked his ass back with Aldo after work, five kilometers from his own flat, and he just stayed. And Aldo always let him. 

Hell, even a week after the tour, there was an extra toothbrush set up on the counter, and Thomas had pilfered Aldo’s best bamboo towel for himself.  

Tonight had been no different, and after the Holy Father had kicked everyone out of his office at 11:30, Thomas glued himself to Aldo’s side yet again. He looked at him, his bleary eyes slowly drooping shut and his body slouching to one side. Exhaustion was something the famed diplomat would never be able to hide, at least not from Aldo. When they had been forced into daily physical training by a superior long, long ago, Aldo knew the second Thomas was unwillingly tilting his head, he had a maximum of ten more situps before tapping out. He still did it now, even if he hadn’t seen a situp in at least a decade. 

“You know, Thomas, you don’t have to stay until closing hours,” Aldo joked, holding a side door open for him. The night air was still warm, and someone had illictly smoked weed nearby. 

After about nine-thirty, Thomas became an office houseplant.He would sit quietly in the corner and observe. Vincent was the only person who remembered to feed him as needed, quietly setting tea biscuits on a plush napkin. 

“Oh, I know,” his friend replied, just barely lucid enough to take Aldo’s arm. 

Perhaps it was a good thing he was being so generous with letting the man stay over; he didn’t want to cut Thomas loose like this. They walked in compainable silence, and Aldo scanned his surroundings to see if he could locate the baby seagulls calling into the night. Right now, it appeared as if apartment buildings were squeaking, alive and begging. Night shift workers were taking out trash to the curb, sometimes letting the bags rest against shiny, parked rental cars. 

Aldo chuckled. “I think it’s funny you want to be over so often now. I thought you hated my place.” 

“I don’t!” 

“You say everything is too short for you,” Aldo said, referencing his most effortfully graceful collection of midcentury modern sofas and armchairs. He had risked bedbugs and axe-murderers on Facebook Marketplace for it! If it wasn’t a rental, he’d likely have dug out a conversation pit for himself and all his sexy clones he’d create to populate said pit. They’d talk about Derrida’s Monolingualism of the Other and how Blue Bottle Coffee had gone downhill, and Philz was the next victim of private equity. 

“It’s charming,” Thomas said, delightful even in the blatant way he denied his own true feelings. 

When they got home, Thomas swayed aimlessly in the kitchen while Aldo quickly dumped out the grounds from his French press. During his first Conclave, he had been late to check into isolation and had forgotten about his coffee grounds. Returning three days later had greeted him with squirming maggots in papal white, and he frantically ordered new filters from LAtzzzz3.store on Amazon Prime and tossed the old ones. Maybe he had since gotten lead poisoning from the off-brand filters; would explain a lot. 

Aldo seized Thomas’ arm and guided him to lay down. “Man, I don’t think you’ll last a shower like this. Just sleep.” 

After making sure Thomas was capable of getting out of uniform without keeling over, Aldo excused himself to shower. The fucking bamboo towel, hanging on a hook, stared back at him. It had let itself be scented by Thomas, and now Aldo had to settle for a crusty Target-brand bath towel from 2010. When he stepped into the shower, he noticed yet another aberration: 

On the shower floor, nestled between a face wash and a tub of exfoliant, were miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Aldo blinked, and he picked up one of the bottles, holding it in a mere pinch. Never before had Aldo considered what kind of hair products Thomas might gravitate to; he seemed so bare bones that he’d potentially dare using bar soap as shampoo. But this was decent stuff…some of that purple blonde hair crap. 

Why? Aldo thought, placing the bottle back in its spot. Which was not its spot! These were not supposed to be here! 

He exited the bathroom in a haze, finding only his donut lamp still left glowing. Thomas had since gotten himself comfortable and shut off most of the lights. Aldo’s old laptop—so old and shitty that it needed to be charging at all times—still sat on the other side of the bed, exactly where he had left it in the morning. Aldo gently pushed the computer onto the bedside table, crowding the lamp against the wall. He wasn’t really in the mood to reply to any emails anymore, and he also didn’t want to stare any longer at the Ebay listing for an auction he had just lost. 

The space on his mattress where the computer had laid was still warm, and Aldo settled into it. He nearly dislocated his shoulder by reaching for the switch on the donut lamp, and it flickered off with one last pulse of light. The room wasn’t completely dark; it never was. Aldo didn’t believe in darkness. He always slept with the curtains pulled open, hoping the light of dawn would rouse him naturally, but all it had done was just hone his ability to sleep in until noon. But it was now a habit, fully engraved into his bones. 

Apparently Thomas had not yet fallen asleep. He turned his body, all without a single crack of the eye, and the blind animal found warmth. Knees, sharp and bony, pressed against Aldo’s thigh, and a hand came to rest on his stomach, barely curled but still relaxed. 

Was Thomas running from something, Aldo thought, or was he just moving in? If it were the latter, he’d easily start charging rent. But a habit of fear was not easy to correct. 

Aldo whispered prayers into the night, still wide awake, and he aloofly carded through Thomas’ hair. 

Speaking of things not supposed to be here, Aldo strolled into his office the next morning and found a biological grenade sitting on his desk.

“What the fuck?” he mouthed, reaching for a brand-new terracotta pot. The plant inside was demure, not yet in bloom, but the sight of the leaves pierced Aldo’s soul. 

Goddamn ice plant. He had wandered through clumps of it all throughout the US West Coast just a week ago, and it had come to torment him here. He twisted the pot and found a small stake from a local garden store impaled in moist soil. Lo and behold, he read that he had indeed been tormented with the purple variety of ice plant. On the back, it listed care instructions to simulate the South African desert it came from. Like hell Aldo was taking care of this thing. It also listed a fun fact that the leaves contained hallucinogenic chemicals that could be distilled into a sort of wine. That Aldo wished he had learned earlier.  

He set the ice plant down and scanned his desk for an explanation, and sure enough, he found a blue Post-it note next to his keyboard. 

Dear Aldo, 

I know it had wrecked havoc on the local environment and caused cliffs to fall. You don’t have to say it again. But it is harmless here, neutralized. I thought it may remind you of home. 

-Vincent

If anyone else found a handwritten note from the Pope with friendliness written all over it, Aldo wouldn’t hear the end of it. And yet, he couldn’t bear throwing it away. He folded it and slid it into a random notebook. 

Upon folding it, the final sentence and the signature was all that could be seen. 

Aldo sighed. Ice plant wasn’t a New York thing; it was a West Coast thing. There were other plants killing New York, and Aldo had to beg many a parishioner to not plant honeysuckle or a Japanese angelica tree. He had only really lived in LA for three years, but he couldn’t protest. Once, it had been a home. 

Grimacing, he handled ice plant with care for the first time. Oh, how it stung! He set it in full sun by the windowsill, right next to the overly-drying air conditioning. A false desert. Ice plant would love to stretch its arms and wreath Aldo’s office, but it was forever trapped. Aldo smirked. Vincent knew him oddly well. 

Aldo decided to name the plant “Joe.” Nothing personal, obviously. He just liked the name, also obviously. 

On the topic of Joe, Aldo calmly picked up his phone to call the Metropolitan Archbishop of Toronto, just to see how their little Quebecois prisoner was faring. Well, apparently. As well as any esteemed prelate now sentenced to busy work can be. Last week, Tremblay had learned how to pronounce Etobicoke correctly, and he was already telling parishioners that the Alpha’s on Queen Street was better than the King Street location. Whatever that meant. At least he wasn’t killing himself while investigations into his finances were still ongoing. 

He then had to audit a meeting for a department that he knew nothing about, and he numbly nodded along to whatever insider lingo they were sending around.  He swore they were being difficult just to get Aldo out of their hair. A young bishop was publishing a paper, and Aldo was peer-reviewing, wondering why the poor man cited even the most obvious of sentences. Sabbadin reminded him that he was still waiting to proofread Aldo’s statement about two idiots who had traveled with church funds in a Gucci shopping bag, claiming something about using it for cathedral renovations. The cycle of edits went around seamlessly.

And then Aldo had to call a diplomat from Uganda. The business was actually really pressing, about some recently-passed law threatening to spur a mass migration of many vulnerable youths, especially queer youth, but Aldo had made the mistake of getting drunk with the guy a few months ago. So all he wanted to do was to catch up on all the hot goss he had learned. For some reason, he was particularly intrigued in the plight of Aldo’s upstairs neighbor, whose friend had a shit boyfriend who she had invited to every outing. By the time a single policy opinion was exchanged, Aldo had to run to the midafternoon cabinet briefing. 

He gingerly pushed open the door to the conference room, seeing all heads turned to the Holy Father, who was busy talking:

“I’ve been thinking of romanticizing the workplace. As a self-care practice. Unfortunately, every single blog post I could find about the topic involved buying a Nespresso machine, and I really don’t want to do that–” 

Aldo reacted instinctively. “Ew, Nespresso.” 

All eyes in the room slammed into him with full force. 

Then, Aldo cooly added: “Good afternoon, Your Holiness.” He sat down, hiding reddening cheeks with his hands. 

Vincent merely smiled, calm as ever. He seemed just a little giddier than normal, and Aldo recalled Joe the ice plant. Yes, he was waiting for a reaction. Aldo cautiously opened his laptop and kept his face as placid as possible. 

“Eminence Bellini, I suppose you have alternatives for the Nespresso?” Vincent said. 

Aldo frowned. “I’m not sure if they would be cheaper alternatives. Perhaps a nice gooseneck kettle and an Aeropress to start.” 

Sabbadin, now Director for Communications, coughed. “Filter coffee, really? How can you call yourself Italian and deny our espresso culture?” 

Aldo’s eyes rolled into his skull. He needed to protest, saying something that a good espresso was frankly everywhere ; it was good filter coffee that was impossible to find. But he turned the other cheek and asked Vincent if he should present his brief first. “It’s unfortunately not brief, though.” 

“Then let’s start on the other side of the room.” 

Mostly mundane news came from the other offices, except for Sabbadin’s daily rant about some traditionalist tweet that had been republished in the Times. “They’re giving them legitimacy! It’s bad journalism! They cited Bellini’s paper…but then they cited a quote from this other guy he was criticizing! So it’s completely misrepresenting our views and–” 

Sometimes Aldo wondered if the ghost of Sabbadin reached into him and wrote his papers for him; from the protective way he was acting, it seemed like they were his own work! He burned at the prospect that he was no longer the lion to his own den. 

The room yet again turned to face Aldo as his turn arrived. He gulped, unsure how the frame the series of sweary sentences on his screen into a neat memo. 

Why did this keep happening to him? In grad school, his professor had once asked Aldo if he could copy his seemingly-meticulous class notes for a student who had arrived from medical leave, only to figure out Aldo’s notes mainly consisted of calling various medieval theologians “whores” and “bitches.” Well, it had gotten him stellar exam marks… 

“Eminence?” Vincent pressed. 

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Well, Your Holiness. May I deliver bad news?” 

“It is what we’re here for, yes.” 

“On that note, then I present to us the issue of Uganda. I know the problem has bypassed the Holy Father until now, but I fear my colleagues in the Inquisition–sorry–the Evangelization of Peoples are worried this will become a larger crisis than expected. So there’s this law, passed not too long ago, and it has led to mass policing of ‘deviant behavior,’ and I’m sure you can guess who this is affecting the most. They’re calling on us to consider sending a call to action to the local clergy. I was on the phone with an informant earlier, but seemingly he wanted to avoid talking about the issue in totality. I…I’m a little at a loss, but perhaps we should organize some committee meetings to discuss?” 

Aldo grinned sheepishly at the Pope, hearing Sabbadin’s dejected sigh as if directly into his ear canals. Their masks were slipping, Vincent’s inquisitive gaze tearing them off piece by piece. Aldo had continually failed to get similar issues taken seriously by…literally everyone. Including the late Holy Father, and now there was Vincent, just staring… 

Vincent blinked. “Indeed, you’re right. How did I miss this?” He frowned. 

“It’s not your job to know everything on in the world,” Aldo offered, knowing this was far too personal for a Cabinet briefing, “that’s our job to let you know.” 

The Holy Father smiled. “I appreciate it. Can you email me later? I’ll forward it to the appropriate people.” 

Sabbadin cut in: “Your Holiness, I’m sure the secretaries can do the forwarding–” 

Now, Vincent was beaming. “From the self-care blog posts about adapting to a new work environment, the top advice was to ‘fall in love’ with communications. I fully intend to try it!” 

No one on God’s good earth liked emailing. Aldo was sure the Conclave had sent them a benevolent demon. Sabbadin seemed about ready to exorcise it.

“Please, brothers,” said Vincent, “go get a late lunch. I command you.” 

Thomas lingered by Aldo’s desk, now fully in houseplant mode, and stared at Joe the ice plant. 

“Is that new?” he asked. 

Aldo shrugged. “Some kind of prank, I suppose. I’ll keep it just to kill it when it starts to thrive.” 

Before Thomas could peer at his computer screen, Aldo closed the Indoor Ice Plant Care Guide tab on Chrome. 

Thomas mused: “Your cruelty knows no bounds.” But he dragged his fingers on the worn wood of the desk, bending down to playfully smile at Aldo. 

“I’d never be cruel to you, even if you suddenly became that damned plant.” 

Aldo gazed up at Thomas, watching his weary expression. His pupils were dark, despite the multitude of lamps in the office. That look, combined with that smile…Aldo didn’t think he’d seen it before. The overhead light buzzed menacingly. 

Tentatively, with all the effort it likely took for Thomas to even think such a thing, his friend said: “But what if it’s for fun?” 

Aldo raised an eyebrow. “Being the plant? Never took you for a masochist, Thomas.” 

Thomas chuckled, voice low. He dragged a folding chair to the desk, expertly removed from the small storage closet in his office. Of course, he had done it a hundred times now. Eventually, his head dipped to rest against a bare corner of the desk, and his fingers tangled into spare papers drawn up with one of Sabbadin’s fountain pens. 

“You do know that Guilio once told me the water in his ink was consecrated?” Aldo said. 

“I’m sure he’s joking, dear.” 

Aldo clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “One can never know with that man.” 

Fucking emails. True to his word, Vincent had forwarded a million relevant emails to a million less-than-relevant people. Aldo clicked through them, answering when he’d be available to meet. A draft to notable African clergy blinked in the corner of his monitor. With a sigh, Aldo realized he had spelled “orange” wrong. 

He sipped at his now-cold cup of coffee. A natural roast from the Inmaculada Farms in Colombia. The notable bubblegum flavor note, the very thing that had made the specific roast iconic, had disappeared with the lack of temperature. Only acidic bile remained in the mug. He gulped it down without passion, feeling guilty, as if he ate a Wagyu steak well-done. Thomas’ eyes were ablaze, impossible not to notice even as he was turned away. 

“How long will you be working on this?” Thomas asked, his voice now clearly tinged with disappointment. 

“I’m sorry. It looks like much longer. Hopefully all of this will be sorted out by the time the recipients wake up.” 

“The eternal plight,” Thomas said, reassuring, “I may have to retire soon.” 

“Yeah. Don’t collapse like yesterday.” Perhaps Aldo had said that too curtly, because Thomas looked a bit hurt. “You’ll get home safe?” 

Thomas grimaced. “I’ll only be divebombed by some gulls. Goodnight?” 

Ah. The gull chicks were fledging. Parents were on high alert. “I’ll pray for the permanence of your eyeballs, Thomas. Goodnight.” He offered a smile. 

Thomas returned it, serenly. Not like before…which seemed…charged… 

And then he left, but not without a glance over the shoulder. The door was left ever so slightly ajar, and Aldo didn’t even notice it until the time came to shut down his computer, two hours later. 

Windows dutifully shuttered itself, and papers were hastily stuffed into locked drawers. His work phone—seeing it was time to rest—burrowed away in the folds of his backpack. One by one, the lamps dozed, and Aldo fumbled in semidarkness for his keys. Before he could reach for the door, it was pushed open by a man totally not up to dress code. 

“Thank God, Aldo!” said Vincent, breezing into the room, “you’re still here. Oh no…I’ve burdened you.” 

“Standard business, Your Holiness,” Aldo said, taking in the frankly ridiculous sight in front of him. 

The North American tour had acquainted Aldo with Vincent’s plain hoodie and worn jeans, but he took in straight-leg shorts too big for him, drooping down his waist, and a boxy shirt that was too short to tuck in. When Vincent moved, the hem dragged upwards, revealing a shade of skin lightly lighter than the rest. The papal crop top, Aldo thought mirthfully. Where would one even procure such an item of clothing? 

“You are done now?” Vincent’s eyes looked wild in the dark. 

“Well yes. I was just about to head on home.” Aldo noticed the recoil of Vincent’s frame, him stepping back towards the door. “Is something wrong, Your Holiness?” 

“You think I look like ‘His Holiness’ right now?” Vincent said, his voice more muted than challenging. 

Aldo shook his head. Admittedly not. He looked like he had raided a lesbian’s closet. Maybe he had. Who knew where Vincent was getting style inspo in a world of cassocks and habits? 

Vincent stepped inwards, a little closer. “I need something, actually.” 

“Right…” Aldo paused. “Do you want me to get it for you?” 

The look now spreading on the Holy Father’s face was dangerous, akin to the expression he had been greeted with when Vincent had kidnapped Aldo to see some damn turtles. At least there’s no sea turtles in Rome, Aldo figured. Right? Surely not in the Tiber? 

“Oh,” said Vincent, “but you don’t have a driver’s license. How unfortunate.” 

In his hand, a pair of car keys glinted in the moonlight. 

Chapter Text

August 21

Deja vu, Aldo thought. I’ve been here before. Yet again, he was a damsel in distress, strapped into the shotgun of a random car, taken prisoner by the goddamn Pope. 

“Vincent, this is a prime example of abusing your authority,” he was saying, even as he was adjusting his air conditioning vents and wriggling into his seat.  

Aldo didn’t even know where they were going. On one hand, his heart raced at the possibility that Vincent was dying, and he desperately needed some rare medication. On the other hand, he figured there were more wild turtles to see. 

This was Rome, not a random river in Long Beach. Vincent’s face was plastered on votive candles everywhere, not to mention that this vehicle—property of the Vatican—was probably tracked from hell to back. Aldo didn’t think that Hello Kitty figurines were permitted in any official vehicle, but perhaps some rule-bending was in place. An insignificant crime compared to whatever this was! 

Insanity! 

Utter insanity! 

Vincent twisted his key into the ignition, and the car hummed to life. “I’ve never driven electric before.” 

Aldo squirmed. 

At least if the Pope was going to go out and get himself kidnapped, he ought to have at least a modicum of backup? Right? Someone that can hide away and call the cops while Vincent was getting stabbed and everyone else was busy sopping up potential relics from the bleeding man? Aldo grabbed for any such mantras to comfort himself while Vincent rocketed out of the parking garage. 

The car was as quick as Vincent’s navigation was fickle, and they soon began to dart between main streets and alleys alike. God, it accelerated so fast, more like it was made for deserted highways rather than inner-city service roads. In the silence of the vehicle, both of their rushed breathing intermingled. The only light came from the uranium glow of the dashboard, and Google Maps with brightness turned all the way down. 

Good thing he brought his phone. From what the late Holy Father told Aldo, that work phone had more parental controls than a baby monitor, and he always had a dumb flip phone stuffed in his sock drawer for personal communication. “Sure, they’re probably not listening into my calls,” said the late Holy Father over chess, “but peace of mind.” 

Aldo wondered what happened to the damned flip phone. When the apartments had been officially “unsealed” after the Conclave, it had been turned upside down. That phone never reappeared, and Aldo didn’t think Thomas secretly had taken it. Would Thomas have even learned about it? Knowing his late mentor, the man had likely glimpsed the writing on the wall and chucked it out somewhere. Even with the knowledge of oblivion after death, paranoia had still lingered. 

Stop thinking, Aldo chided himself, and he fumbled to turn on the radio. 

A news channel started playing in the midst of a sentence, a conversation clearly discussing one of Vincent’s latest press conferences. 

Suddenly, Vincent took his eyes off the road. The frantic but triumphant look on his face faded into what Aldo could only call utter resignation, and he twisted the volume down to zero. 

Is this psychosis? A breakdown? None of these were emotions Aldo was used to seeing on Vincent’s face. In fact, he wasn’t used to many of his myriad of expressions. Prior to the tour, he and Vincent were nothing. Cold and professional in every interaction, they were friendly only when discussing something that Thomas did, said, or thought. Granted, the perpetually-stilted attitude was mutual; Aldo couldn’t complain, not at all. 

“Vincent,” said Aldo, weakly, “where are we going?” 

Perhaps Vincent had detected Aldo’s unease. He now gave him an encouraging smile, a far cry from his earlier dejection. “Oh, to a store. A record store. We’re close.” 

Aldo squeezed his eyes shut and pinched at his nose. A record store. Downtown. “Your Holiness, I don’t want to insult your intelligence, but I’m sure you can see how dangerous this is! How do you expect to wander a store unnoticed? I can pick it up for you, but the front windows aren’t tinted—” 

Vincent grinned. “We won’t be unnoticed. Oh, Aldo, don’t freak out. I can see the panic like…brewing. No, I meant that we’re expected. A friend invited me; it’s just him. He’s doing inventory as we speak.” 

All Aldo could do was gape. 

Meanwhile, Vincent kept talking: “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. I’m sorry. I suppose it is pulling rank for no good reason. But I promise you’ll like it. It seems like your kind of place.” 

Finally, just finally, Aldo processed it all and sighed. “It’s still risky.” 

Vincent pursed his lips. Streetlamps and dingy neon lights cast rainbows on his face, and each red streak conjured images of beheadings. “I think I’m much more impulsive than I like to believe.” 

That much was obvious, Aldo thought, but he didn’t voice it. 

The car pulled into an empty curb, surrounded by businesses shuttered for the night. On the top floors of buildings, colored lights shone through bedrooms. When Aldo got out, gingerly closing the door behind him, voices from these open windows drifted downwards. He had ended up on a street much like his own, which was never a place he had expected to be joined by Vincent. 

Streetlamps gently flickered, urban fireflies. Aldo suddenly realized he had not lived with fireflies in fifteen years. 

Vincent rounded the car, stepping over a deflated soccer ball and onto the curb. “It’s just there. Well, it has to be.” 

A dark curtain had been tugged over the store display. Aldo breathed a sigh of relief, happy at the prospect that Vincent wouldn’t be spotted through the glass. 

Vincent calmly opened the door, setting off a tinny bell. Aldo followed, very very cautiously. This street may be like his own, but he hadn’t actually been on this side of the city. The interior was darkened, but orange-toned lamps—including a lava lamp—dotted the walls and the main counter. Aldo sighed, realizing that Vincent had somehow gleaned his taste for muted and minimalist midcentury design. Perhaps Thomas had complained. 

The walls were wood-panelled, and slightly mismatched vintage CD cases and shelves partitioned the small shop. 

Footsteps resonated from a staircase, and Aldo looked down to see a young man emerging from the basement. The man’s face split into a wide smile, and he practically leapt up the remaining stairs, bounding to Vincent with outstretched arms. 

They clapped hands, and the man somehow manipulated Vincent into a fist bump. Dumbfounded, Aldo observed, seeing how awkward the high-fives and half-hugs were on Vincent’s body. However, in a movement that was wholly fluid, Vincent grabbed the man and pulled him into a tight embrace. 

The funny thing about popes was that even a midget pope seemed to float above the crowd on invisible stilts the second they donned the white cassock. They stepped out of the Room of Tears as misty-eyed giants, their new height alien to his own body. Vincent had been no different. Aldo had gotten used to metaphorically gazing up at him, and seeing him face a man of his own height—admittedly quite short—was jarring. He was small, disappearing fully into the other person. When he pulled back, he remained in his more demure state, glittering and happy. 

As the two of them exchanged hushed remarks in a foreign language, Aldo was beginning to get the sinking feeling that…friend…may not be quite accurate. Where had this man come from? Had Vincent deliberately brought him along as a third wheel just to prove that nothing fishy was going on, possibly quell some rumors, as if this whole encounter wasn’t fishy enough? No, that was too incharitable of an assumption. Was this a secret to share between the two of them? 

To which Aldo could only think: Why me?

Aldo had also never seen Vincent take the initiative to actually embrace anyone. He accepted a couple light hugs from Thomas; Aldo had seen it from afar. He visibly struggled to accept the faithful trying to bring him close as they told him their problems and their wishes. Vincent returned from every public gathering a bit dazed and trailing behind his own body. Really, the only time Vincent had been somewhat affectionate with Aldo was the time at the river, when he briefly let his head fall against Aldo’s shoulder. Seconds, even. The man was reserved; God knew Aldo understood. 

Realizing that he was letting his neuroticism run wild again, Aldo sharply turned his gaze away and busied himself with looking for interesting CD’s. He pried out a live album from Pink Floyd. Would Thomas want this? Perhaps he already had it. 

Suddenly, Vincent was speaking English again. “I brought Aldo. Let’s not leave him hanging.” 

Aldo looked up, cheeks burning. “Oh, don’t mind me.” 

The man, however, eagerly marched up to Aldo and held out his hand. He introduced himself as Ami, laced with a lush accent. Aldo accepted his rather firm handshake, trying to present a diplomatic smile. 

“He’s the Secretary of State,” Vincent said, from behind. 

Ami stepped back and gave a low whistle. “Damn.” 

“What do you mean ‘damn?” Aldo said, “you have the Holy Father standing right there!” 

Cheekily, Ami turned back to Vincent. “Sorry, no offense or anything, but I think it’s easier to make a crowd think you’re good enough than to get one guy to really trust you.” 

Out of instinct, Aldo’s eyes widened. But he searched Vincent’s face, and he had already begun to laugh. The tone was light, closer to a bubbling giggle. 

“None taken. I think you’re quite right.” Astonishingly, Vincent seemed to have winked in Aldo’s direction. 

Stammering, Aldo asked: “So, how do you two know each other?” 

“Oh, you know how,” said Vincent, but Ami was already explaining: 

“You know when all of you guys were on that balcony? So, I was like watching down here. No one was buying anything, so me and my buddy thought it would be funny if we added the new Pope on Facebook.” 

“Funny?” Aldo demanded. 

“It was funny.” —Vincent chuckled— “I had completely forgotten about that account. I hadn’t had reliable internet in thirteen years then. I went back in, and I suddenly remembered it, so I rushed to private it. By then, twenty of you people already found me. My mistake, I honored it.” He shrugged. 

Right, Aldo had heard that story, and he had been alarmed then. He was no less alarmed now. Dangerous! It seemed highly unlikely that even one person let alone twenty would even give just one flying fuck for the Pope’s best interest. But maybe this was just the influence of Vincent’s predecessor, a man who dropped more and more contacts as the years went by.  

Ami laughed. “Us twenty didn’t know each other!” 

“It’s great to meet new people,” Vincent assured, “you all seem to have great fun without me!”

“Man, it’s crazy we’ve been like five kilometers away and never got to hang out,” said Ami, melancholic.

“I admit I was afraid until now. You escape once, though, and this is now less fearful.” Vincent smiled and nodded in Aldo’s direction again. 

Aldo stepped back, retreating into the store, even as Ami was inviting them both for tea and lighting a candle. A fucking tomato candle, the scent lush and verdant, somewhat spiced. The perfect replica of tomato vines, growing in a home garden…except there was no actual tomato in the candle. Aldo couldn’t tell why he found it oddly philosophical. Inside the wooden room, surrounded by warm lights like mini suns, it was easy to forget none of them were in a cabin somewhere.

He really did feel like an intruder, which was a feeling quite prominent whenever he was around Vincent. Here, it amplified to new levels. He could only liken it to being the other parent during a C-section. All the surgeons would scold him to stand out of the way while they toiled over bringing something precious into the world. He—the colleague only reluctantly hired—stood by and read candle labels while two friends met for the first time. 

The flame waltzed in front of his eyes, separating into twins as his gaze unfocused. 

“I have to ask where you got that…outfit,” Ami asked Vincent, and the mention of fashion made Aldo emerge from his own head. 

“Lost and found. You like it?” When Vincent struck a pose, the hem of the papal crop top rose yet again. 

Aldo and Ami both grimaced, and Vincent frowned. 

Ami tried to morph his grimace into something encouraging. He fiddled with the lapels of his penny coat and said: “It’s…youthful…” 

“Hip,” Aldo offered, and Ami grasped the lifeline. 

“Yes, yes. Hip and modern.” 

Vincent narrowed his eyes at the two of them, although he couldn’t hide a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Will you ease the sting of that insult with the treasures?” 

Ami perked up. “Of course!” He reached underneath the register and took out a stack of three CD’s. The spines of each were graced with a paper obi and Japanese text. 

“I couldn’t find Nine Post Cards,” Ami said, “but to make up for it, here’s an actual postcard. And these are the rest of Yoshimura’s work. No more sleepless nights, unlimited warranty on that. I swear.” 

Aldo stilled, Ami’s words ringing in his head. Sleepless nights. It was far past two am, but the Holy Father was typically known for rising early, not sleeping late. But this would be the third time Aldo had seen Vincent far from the embrace of his own habits, and he was beginning to wonder…

“Thank you,” Vincent said, with sincerity, “it’s too quiet at my place. Very hard to relax.” 

“Ain’t you say the walls are thin?”

“It’s not as if I typically have neighbors, my friend,” said Vincent, regretfully, “and I would be a terrible neighbor, anyway.” 

“Vincent, you were not a terrible neighbor on tour,” Aldo pointed out, which got a look of appreciation from Ami. 

“Can you imagine how much people would restrict themselves if they knew I could hear and sometimes see what’s going on? I hold that power over them, there’s nothing to deny. It wouldn’t be fair.” 

Ami cocked his head. Gently, he said: “Don’t you think that trust could ever be gained?” 

“No.” 

Coffee grounds breathed a sigh as Aldo poured a thin stream of water—just below its boiling point–into the funnel of his Hario V60. He set the kettle aside and waited long enough to confirm the magic had started, and then he left to dress himself. 

Aldo liked to pretend he was neat and also that he respected the holy cloth he wore. But every morning or early afternoon, he retrieved his everyday cassock from the backs of chairs or the bathroom counter. The years had presented him with ample muscle memory to simply fling the thing without earning it any notable wrinkles. 

He sat on the bed, watching brewed coffee percolate into his cup through the open door. That still had at least five minutes left to go. 

God, his back hurt. He reached behind himself and pressed his thumb into his spine, and a jolt of pain shot through him. His hand dragged to massage his neck, which was also quite sore. He hadn’t slept well at all; in fact, he had woken up in quite the uncomfortable position. It was eleven am, and a lack of meetings did not mean he could sleep all day! At least the pain had roused him, even though the prospect of continuing to sit upright like this was terrifying, to say the least. 

With another groan, Aldo got to his feet and fetched new trousers for the day, and when he pulled out his fascia, he narrowed his eyes and peered at it. The silk was off, just a shade wrong from everything else he was wearing. Fuck, he hoped everyone who needed to see him today was colorblind. Or just blind. 

This was not his. This sash of red silk was not his specific sash of red silk. 

Aldo squeezed his eyes shut, and he raced to chug his coffee. The thin, piping-hot liquid burned his tongue, rendering him unable to taste the bergamot notes of his Peruvian pink bourbon roast. The next sip from his pourover was unbearable; any taste of heat made him recoil. Swearing to himself, Aldo fetched some ice and oat milk and drowned the fruits of his labor. 

Thomas. The fascia was Thomas’. His dear friend could not tell a blue from a teal from a periwinkle! Good God. He must’ve found Aldo’s hastily-discarded accessories in the morning and thought they were his own, and Aldo only noticed now, considering he had packed it away in its correct place. 

A week, two weeks if Aldo counted nights sharing hotel rooms during the tour. That was all it took for all of his shit to be intermingled with Thomas’. Lord help him. 

Aldo’s back ached again as he tied the fascia, and suddenly, he blanched. His own body had betrayed him. The only reason he woke up sore and in some strange position was because that was how Thomas usually trapped him when he passed out. Even in his absence, Aldo was still somehow accommodating his friend. 

Friend. 

He laughed, doubling over. He laughed and laughed, and his neighbor yelled at him through the bedroom wall for him to “Shut the fuck up!”  

“Your Holiness, what is that?” 

Startled, Vincent dropped his phone, which had been open to an unknown message log. He instead fumbled for a pen and put it in the inner spine of a dotted notebook. “Oh, Guilio, it’s a bullet journal.” 

Aldo noticed Sabbadin holding in an exasperated sigh. 

“Right. And may I ask why?” 

“I heard it’s a simple and mindful way to collect thoughts. And track life statistics. This page is a sleep tracker!” Vincent held up the spread for all to see. 

Considering Sabbadin seemed well-versed in the stationary community, Aldo figured he probably had seen countless failed bullet journal attempts. His colleague balked. 

“I know this is forward, Your Holiness, but is it supposed to be incomplete, or did you really get no sleep at least twice this week?” 

“It is forward, Eminence,” Vincent insisted. 

Sabbadin dipped his head. “Duly noted. Please keep that locked away, because that is prime gossip material. Have you heard from Adeyemi?” 

Aldo was about to weep. As he reached out to clutch the corner of the table, he lowered himself into a chair. “What is he up to?” 

With a smile, Sabbadin shuffled through the contents of a manila file and said: “He sent me a draft of an open letter, and perhaps others have seen it too? About the situation in Uganda. It’s meant for this archbishop—hold up—and forgive me, Your Holiness, but that man must be possessed! He’s on your side!” 

A sheet of paper was pressed into Aldo’s fists, and he unclenched them just to grab it. At the top of the page, he read a line about “Complicit bishops allowing the government to trample over the faithful.” 

That usually wasn’t good, but as he read on, it actually looked like Adeyemi had somehow loosened his restrictions on “the gay lifestyle,” and was talking about genuine threats on people’s lives as a result of the new bill. A man possessed, indeed. 

Sabbadin chuckled, elated. “Is that guy’s mistress lesbian or something?” 

“Do you really think that’s an insightful comment?” Vincent said, coolly. 

Only in the awkward silence that followed did Aldo notice the light, ambient mix of synths and marimbas filling the office. The CDs. He tried to pay no attention to it, certainly not mimicking the baffled expression Sabbadin was wearing as he, too, noticed the sound. What he did notice was that it seemingly had an effect. Vincent looked far less tense than the previous meetings Aldo had sat in, although he noted that he should not fall prey to false causation. 

Maybe the win with Adeyemi caused the relaxed mood, and the music was a byproduct. But that seemed wrong, especially after last night. 

“I wonder why he’s doing this,” Aldo finally said, searching Vincent’s face for a clue. 

“I like to think the self-reflection journey I sent him on is working,” Vincent said, triumphant. He brushed his hair out of his face, and Aldo figured he must’ve put some new product in it to get that level of shine. 

Unable to help himself, Sabbadin snorted. Vincent happily let that transgression go. 

Aldo was sitting outside, trying to ignore lost and gawking tourists while checking the sources for his peer review, when Thomas briefly walked by the pond. Aldo glanced up, and he carefully set his computer off his lap and tried to flag his friend down. 

Initially, Thomas seemed not to notice him, and he knelt on the concrete lining the pond. He pulled a crushed hibiscus flower out of his pocket, and to the delight of the tourists, offered it to a turtle basking on a rock. 

Aldo kept his arm firmly down in his lap now, unwilling to let the goddamn lost tourists see him continue to fail to get Thomas’ attention. Ignoring the Secretary of State? What a dismal image to get sent around. 

The little turtle poked its head out of its shell and grasped onto the petals, and that was when Thomas struck. No, he was not offering food out of the goodness of his heart. He was a green heron, using the bait to gain just enough trust to snatch the turtle off its rock. 

Gaping, Aldo watched. This menacing side of Thomas was one he kept under wraps, at least not in the view of murmuring outsiders. 

When Thomas rose, the turtle now fruitlessly squirming in his hands, he finally faced Aldo and smiled like a little kid. The turtle was now resorting to biting the air. 

“Thomas!” Aldo hissed, keeping his voice low, “that was mean!”

Considering that Thomas was now standing right beside the bench, Aldo was at eye level with the turtle. He had never really looked in the eyes of a turtle before, until the sea turtles, that is. What a frightened turtle looked like, he didn’t know. 

Thomas frowned. “Vincent can do this without bait. They come to him. He reads them spells, and they come.” 

The turtle continued to squirm, now more forcefully, and Thomas said: “Aldo, dear, there’s more flowers in my pocket. Can you give him one?” 

“Thomas, I think you need professional help,” Aldo joked—although disapprovingly—but he nonetheless snaked his hand into Thomas’ left pocket. 

Goddamn. His index and middle fingers gently pried open the red flap of fabric, and the weight of the material pushed down upon his hand as he reached inwards. He nearly jolted as his knuckles brushed against Thomas’ hipbone, still notably bony even under all those layers. Eventually, the rough, aged and calloused, pads of his fingers met a spongy mass. It enveloped him, and he gingerly grasped the stem of a flower. 

As he pulled out, he stole a glance to the tourists, who had since attracted the attention of security and were thus not looking at them anymore. 

He held the flower out to Thomas before remembering he had to bribe the poor turtle. The creature didn’t hesitate to take the bait, chasing the nectary petals. 

“Thomas,” Aldo said, “where did you get the flowers?” 

“I picked them in the yard.” 

He replied so nonchalantly that Aldo had to laugh, and the tremors of his hand spooked the creature, which retreated into its shell. The fright didn’t last long, and it soon reemerged to finish off the hibiscus. 

Thomas tentatively sat down, raising the turtle to his face. “Brave, stupid boy. You know how stupid he is, Aldo? Every day, I do this very trick on him. He never learns, never shrinks away from me. Vincent said you can train them, but I cannot see how.” 

The scathing words were spoken with a form of reverence, a curious coexistence. 

“Perhaps you think of it wrong. I think you’ve trained him well, and he expects you to lift him,” Aldo said. 

Thomas seemed relieved, and he set the turtle in his lap, his grip loosened. “I hope so. That’s the point of all this. Vincent says I must accustom them to being handled, so they’ll cooperate with the vet.” 

Aldo thought back to Joe the ice plant. It appeared as if they were in a minimum security prison, and their warden was assigning vulnerable things to take care of to all his inmates. Gently, Aldo reached out to stroke the turtle’s shell, two-fingered. Like an aquarium touch pool. 

Many times he had been to the Aquarium of the Pacific, the home of his ultimate favorite touch pool. Surrounded by screaming kids that jarred his brain around in its skull, he would sink into nothingness. His body knelt at the saltwater altar, and his arms would be dunked into the freezing water. Bat rays, guitarfish, and the occasional shark drifted between his arms, sometimes venturing by for a scratch or two. 

Perhaps it was the only time Aldo interacted with wildlife without the ripping urge to pose and photograph them. 

Not that they were really free in the touch pool. 

Once a volunteer at the aquarium told him the vast majority of the animals were in treatment, and they were set for future release or a transfer to a conventional exhibit with more enrichment. Had she been lying to ease his guilt? If not, did they ever miss the touch?

“To confirm, you are not picking up turtles for fun?” Aldo said. 

“I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there is a little bit of excitement in it all.” 

The tourists were now gone, and Aldo could breathe freely. He faced Thomas and said: “I apologize for my brusque behavior last night; I could have finished my work in the morning. I have neglected you.”

Clearly taken aback, Thomas replied: “Nonsense! I know you’re more efficient at these later hours. I sometimes do forget the lightness of my workload compared to yours.” 

They sat in silence for a while, the turtle in Thomas’ lap now tranquil, and eventually, Aldo smiled and jabbed Thomas in the arm. “I’ll come work in your kitchen. Someone needs to protect you from those menacing gulls.” 

Thomas merely smiled. 

Aldo piped up: “Oh by the way, you have one of my fascias. This one is yours.” 

Thomas frowned. “I do?” 

“Look!” Aldo pushed both of theirs together. “They’re the same color! It doesn’t match my cover!” 

“Now that you mention it…” Thomas plucked the zuchetto right off Aldo’s head and compared it to the scarlet pooled in his lap. The turtle, thinking it was being served another treat, lunged for it. “That is different. My apologies.” 

“It’s quite all right.” 

“No, no, Aldo” —Thomas drew the soft fabric in between his fingers— “you should come pick up yours tonight.” 

Aldo’s head spun. His gaze was inexplicably glued to silk held taught in Thomas’ hands. His silk, on Aldo. “Of course.” 

None of his nights were normal anymore. Not at all. From Thomas especially, but also from Vin— 

“Cardinal Bellini!” said Vincent, who had apparently materialized out of nowhere. 

Aldo whipped around to meet his gaze, unsure whether to genuflect (which Vincent hated) or scream “It’s not what it looks like!” (suspicious). It didn’t even look like anything suspicious? “Oh, Your Holiness. My apologies. Am I late to something?” 

He pressed his fingers into his cheeks, finding them burning very, very hot. Fuck, could he blame sunburn? He clashed terribly with Vincent’s pallid face, who was dabbing at his forehead with his sleeve. 

Vincent stepped back, furiously shaking his head. “Not at all. This is on me. May I have a word? We have a…um…update.” 

“An update?” Aldo echoed, slowly replacing his cover and stumbling to his feet. “I’ll come right away.” 

“Hi, Thomas,” said Vincent in the meantime, “they’re starting to like you!” 

Cardinal Bellini but also Thomas. Aldo stifled a sigh. Maybe it was just a slip-up. Sounded plausible enough. 

Thomas shook his head. “No, not really, I fear. I’d ask for help, but I don’t want to take up precious time.” 

“Of course. Unfortunately this is pressing. Over dinner, maybe?” Vincent gave Thomas a warm smile before waving Aldo over. Still shaken, he followed the Holy Father, who was looking over his shoulder. 

The two of them kept a brisk pace between buildings, too fast to even acknowledge the litany of salutes the Guards were giving Vincent on the way. Every now and then, Aldo noticed Vincent stealing glances at his phone…still open to a message log. 

Quiet Aldo, he told himself, he’s merely overcorrecting from lack of reliable internet on the job. Exactly as Vincent had told Ami last night. 

“Your Holiness, I’d advise you to turn on the setting that always asks for a password whenever you turn over your device. Just in case someone swipes it, I suppose.” 

“Thank you,” Vincent said, curtly. 

Aldo glanced at the walls. Why bother? He wasn’t a security officer. Vincent could fuck up himself, if he preferred. 

But it turned out Aldo was yet again making assumptions. Vincent was not mad about that, he instead was mad about… 

“I was actually lingering in the quad earlier, but people had gone off-course? I hunkered down behind a marble pillar.” —Vincent gestured to his white robes— "Camouflage in action.” 

“Yes. I’m surprised it was even allowed to happen.” 

Vincent’s frown seemed pained. “I regret that I wanted to hide from them. They are the faithful, after all. They would be betrayed to know I was there and didn’t come out.” 

“Considering safety risks, it’s a valid concern. It is wise to only greet people if you know it’s safe,” Aldo reassured. 

“Safety?” Vincent scoffed. 

Aldo pressed, unable to let this slide. “In your earlier work, you must have needed to eschew risk aversion to help your flock. Now, you can do that without exposing yourself. It is not what it once was, I beg you to understand.” 

“You’re right. Not as it once was; I am now a simple and petty man.” 

Upon reaching his office door, Vincent detoured the conversation: “Aldo, I must ask you one thing, and to not…assume.” 

“Anything, Your Holiness,” said Aldo, knowing full well he was prone to great assumptions and could not promise anything. The Conclave let him know as much, that was for sure. 

Vincent shut the door behind them, not quite moving to turn on the lights. “Don’t go around telling people about my friendship with Ami. I trust you, but no one will understand if it gets out. And to defend us would be to expose him. Do you understand? Perhaps I’m not clear.” 

“Doesn’t matter if I understand or not. I won’t tell. I promise, Your Holiness.” 

Satisfied, Vincent nodded, and he flicked on the overhead lights. “Thank you, and also for being there last night. I was…unsure…if our meeting would be friendly in real life. I hope you didn’t feel too left out.” 

There were a multitude of things to say: feelings to divulge or warnings to give. Aldo stared at the white of Innocent’s robes, now far less glaring in the brightness of the office. The image of Vincent folded in the arms of a human, a perfect peer even in stature, reappeared in the back of his mind.

The Holy Father wandered to his desk, and he folded his hands above the wood. Aldo followed, sinking to his eye level. 

“My mother believed in astrology, a little,” said Vincent, wistfully, “I’m a Gemini, and she swore up and down the personality matches. I never saw it. Ami’s a Gemini, too. We’re perfect twins. If some of your brother eminences would hear me now, they’d call me a heretic. I still don’t believe in astrology, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something divine in our meeting.” 

Aldo braced himself for a confession. The Late Holy Father had blurted one out before. Something like…He’s my soulmate. Or I love him. Or I know it’s wrong, but this is God’s work; I can’t deny Him. 

But instead, Vincent beamed and piped up: “I’ve never had a brother before!!” 

Aldo blinked, uncertain relief coursing in his neurons. “Um...that’s wonderful!” 

“As a child, I would beg for one. How foolish I was. But all I needed to do was wait, oh some…fifty years!” Vincent looked like a child on Christmas. 

It took a while, but a genuine response eventually found Aldo. “I’m happy to hear that. The papacy can be very lonely. To be frank, I don’t think that man cares at all what position you hold. And you seem to share a language?” 

“Yes. Dari. We both speak poorly. I never had a formal teacher, and he’s always lived as a migrant in Pakistan. Truly, thank you for listening.” 

They sat, sharing wistful smiles and generously-flowing relief for a few moments. The cries of the fledgling gulls filtered in between the shouts of tourists and sputtering engines of motorbikes. The air conditioning fluttered sheer curtains. 

Then, Vincent sighed and said: “Unfortunately, we now have work. A delegation from Uganda is coming, and I’d really like us to draft some talking points. Now, if you don’t mind—”

By the end of the day, Aldo had turned into houseplant mode alongside Thomas, and he promptly blamed the lack of sleep last night…even though he ended up sleeping and waking at standard-fare night owl hours. 

He sat in the cantina, wilting towards the cool laminated table. Only his elbows kept him somewhat propped up, and he typed up the last of his meeting notes to send to appropriate papal legates. At least the room buzzed with staff cleaning up and stray priests with late-night coffees. Only this peer pressure was keeping him semi functional. 

If he were wilting, then Thomas had already died. He lay, an organic puddle, on the table, and passing sisters gave his body a concerned look before giving an accusatory look to Aldo. The piercing glares got to him, and he slammed his laptop shut and revived Thomas. 

Thomas barely managed to lift his head, and his eyes could only open into slits. Did he have pink eye? Poor Thomas kept getting it from his hospital appointments years ago, and the pharmacist had sent him straight to ophthalmology after his fifth refill of antibiotics. Something about those eyes, so beautiful, and yet far too welcoming. 

“I am just tired, Aldo,” Thomas reassured when Aldo brought it up, his weight firmly slumped into Aldo’s side as they waited for a car. “I know the sting of conjunctivitis better than a lover.” 

“We’re back to kindergarten with all these diseases,” Aldo said, bitterly. He remembered the whooping cough outbreak right before he was due for his booster vaccine. The Holy Father had coughed through homilies for two months, breeding a truly monumental amount of conspiracy theories. Unwilling to let clerical vows come in their way, the PR department started to reproduce asexually to fill their inflated levels of labor demand! Aldo found Father Bo scattered in five different hallways within the same hour, and surely they couldn’t all be the same man. Aldo vividly remembered cajoling Vincent into using this little epidemic to denounce some anti-vaccine rhetoric brewing in small ultra-conservative circles, and he even more vividly remembered making a Kentucky archbishop cry over it. Success? Unsure. 

“You were a cute kid, Thomas,” Aldo blurted. 

Thomas shook his head, halfway nuzzled into Aldo’s neck. “Nonsense. I was covered in snot from crying all the time.” 

After being dropped off at Thomas’ apartment, his friend promptly passed out. As if the mere act of removing his uniform pulled his plug! Not even eleven pm, Aldo thought, but he still drew up the unmade covers to Thomas’ chin and sat down above them. Yes, he had been tired at the office, but that was just work. He now blinked at the wall, wide awake, and with racing thoughts. His fingers itched to browse Adorama or worse…eBay. At least Adorama only had camera stuff. 

Aldo had promised Thomas to be more attentive, to not neglect him…which he had done yet again. He ought to know better; Thomas would never ask Aldo to go back early. Even as he drifted off into weariness, it still had been Aldo to call the car to bring him home. Thomas had wanted a drink, no? Some soft conversation and the exchange of lost fascias. And then…maybe…Thomas would ask Aldo to stay. Would he? 

He furrowed his brows. Exhale, he told himself. Meanwhile, each of Thomas’ tickled Aldo’s knuckles. How often was it that they were close enough that Aldo could feel his breath, let alone softened in sleep?

Considering that Thomas hated having to fold his knees on Aldo’s sofa or walk busy streets, most of their friendship had been spent in this very property, retained throughout Thomas’ Vatican tenure. Thomas loved a good ritual, and moving his belongings two floors down would disrupt his very nature. Therefore, while all of their brother colleagues earned larger and larger spaces, Thomas stayed put. Aldo had taken the opposite extreme; he entirely moved out. The courtesy apartments may be luxurious, but his salary was…not so much. But being alone lent him distance, even if his space was rather small with leaky pipes. 

At the very least, pretentious and skittish Curia officials were too afraid of his stripper neighbors and resident stray dogs to bother him at his home. His place had been Sabbadin’s prime strategy headquarters. 

It was funny, then, that Aldo had not spent a night alone in almost three weeks. Distances were blending together, just like the strange, spooky new shapes in Thomas’ darkened apartment. But truly, Thomas was a creature of habit, perhaps its very dictionary definition. Thomas had tried his best to turn down travel jobs even when the late Holy Father was still well and touring. Traveling with Vincent had merely jolted Thomas’ habits in a different direction. There was no other reason why he would start moving his little things into Aldo’s room when he previously refused a move down the hall! Poor Thomas. Aldo ought to push him back to where he felt comfortable, just like tonight. 

He glanced at the walls again, his heart far too clenched to bear looking down at Thomas’ sleeping form. 

I am a grown man. I am not afraid of the dark. Thomas just wasn’t very tidy. He made piles of loosely-related things, and in the stark Vatican silence and the near-absolute darkness, they made creepy shadows. That was all. Hell, if Vincent had to listen to nothing but his own breathing, Aldo understood his midnight scramble for soft, ambient records. If Thomas could be cozy here, then both Aldo and Vincent were twins in being completely incompatible with him.  

Aldo did what he always did when things slowed to unbearable levels: flood his senses. Without disturbing Thomas, who lay halfway on his side with the crown of his head brushing against Aldo’s gut, Aldo reached for his work laptop and turned the brightness down. A good hour for busy work, he figured, and he reopened his notes for the peer review. Once he got settled, he reached for his earbuds and set off a podcast about runaways stealing other runaways’ Social Security numbers. The Supreme Court podcast he normally loved had gotten far too depressing recently. Voices rambled in his ear at an artificial speed, and texts he had read a million times filled his screen. Every five minutes, he looked at some vintage camera gear as a distraction for his distraction. 

Even so, his thoughts drifted. Thomas had clearly invited him over, as often in the past. Plans made in advance for cool laughs with movies as mere background lighting. Aldo finally glanced down at his sleeping friend. Again, would Thomas have asked Aldo to stay over, or did he need to be on the precipice of unconsciousness to do so? Staying up until the body shuts down, taking the choice entirely out of hand? Not even a chance to ask God to watch over one’s vulnerable body? It was also deeply intriguing that he was seemingly seeking comfort. Aldo had to pull tricks to even learn Thomas had goddamn fucking cancer and was going to treatment alone, slowly losing his own morale. But today…hadn’t he clearly wanted awake time with Aldo, who had rejected it?

Maybe…they were just…incompatible. Neither of them would ever be able to fulfill promises to each other.  

Thomas’ brows were furrowed, concerned and restless even in slumber. 

Aldo’s heart wrenched, not even metaphorically. A sharp pain emanated in his chest, sort of like his lungs had wrung themselves out. 

Reluctantly, he returned to his work, hoping to finish up his comments as soon as possible. The more he read the unfinished research paper, the more it began to seem like a window into his soul. 

After all was said and done, Aldo pushed all his work aside. Removing all of his external stimulus made all the oppression of his environment flood back in. He shuddered; he ought to let Thomas move in, even if it uprooted the soul that had grown like mold on these very walls. Even if they lived as virginal fuckbuddies: slumbering together and nothing else. Quietly, he ended up cracking open the blinds just a tad, muting the stark blackness. Meanwhile, Thomas stirred a little from the light, and Aldo did not let himself fully lay down before pulling Thomas into his chest, resting his chin atop his head. 

“What do you want?” he whispered to no response. 

Chapter Text

Aug 22

An Aug 22 twenty years ago…

“Careful, Your Grace, don’t go any further.” 

An amused chuckle met Aldo’s ears, and even clad in uniform, a man knelt by his side in the sand, gazing out at the landscape. “Why is that?” 

“It’s set to a sixty-minute exposure,” Aldo said, gesturing at the camera nestled in the sand, “and it’s my last frame.” 

The man smiled, revealing a gap between his teeth. Aldo knew him as Archbishop Fishie; he was certain more people could recite the Pope’s childhood nickname than Fishie’s legal name. It seemed almost derogatory in nature, but he wore it like a badge. “It seems a little like basic of a landscape for your tastes, Aldo.” 

Aldo smiled. He had gotten lucky tonight. There were fragments of a felled sapling in the surf, and something about the tree had called him. But he couldn’t have anticipated the local power grid shutting down from fire risk, leaving the entirety of downtown San Diego shrouded in total blackness. If darkness was both inside and outside, the local population had found worth in venturing outside, and Aldo had spent the last forty minutes glaring and shouting at people threatening to mess up the shot. 

Bad priest, concerned with trivial matters; yeah, he knows. 

“I’m trying to get startrails,” Aldo explained, gesturing at the dim constellations visible only in the outage.  

Fishie hummed. “And what is that flashlight for?” 

“Lighting that dead tree.” 

The origins of strange oceanic driftwood had always eluded Aldo. There were no trees on beaches; where had they come from? Maybe it was why he was trying to get startrails over a stupid fucking tree instead of the darkened cityscape or the cathedral. 

“Alfie has a new slave,” Fishie said, playfully. 

Yes. A slave. That’s what Aldo was, an auxiliary. Perhaps Fishie and his beloved Venetian Patriarch were trying to play matchmaking with their cronies. Sure, Aldo had his own superior, but there was no pretending that he hadn’t claimed himself a space under Fishie’s wing. Or would it be a fin in this case? 

“What is he like?” Aldo asked. 

“Studies in your theological niche, actually. Perhaps you’ve heard of a Tedesco?” 

Aldo shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow Italian politics at all. The Curia Rat per capita figure is insane!” 

Fishie chuckled. “You dare call my Alfie a ‘rat?’” 

“You can domesticate a rat. They’re quite good pets.” 

“I’m sure the New Yorker would know about that.” Fishie’s smile faltered, and he pushed a cardboard envelope into Aldo’s hands. 

In the darkness, the creamy white pulsed. 

“I believe you may have to invest yourself in the motherland soon enough,” Fishie said, “His Holiness asked me to give this to you. Avoid losing it in the mail, you know.” 

Aldo considered ripping it open. Bad news deserved to be revealed in shitholes. He hated San Diego. A prime shithole! He found it amazing that good men like Fishie and his congregants could populate a town like this. He hadn’t quite gotten over the military-industrial complex literally poisoning him with rotten strawberries at Fleet Week. Or those stupid Marines scaring away Aldo’s prized golden eagles the second they realized he was trying to photograph them. Or coming to the best burrito place with Fishie and realizing it had been replaced with a “Latin Kitchen” too afraid to call its cuisine Mexican. Or the sin of Seaworld’s existence. Or that time his roommate had a tele-interview with a local company, and the boss told him “you’re a nice guy, but I’m ultra-conservative” when he heard his Cantonese accent; of course, his roommate didn’t get the job and— 

“You’re zoning out,” Fishie said. 

“I’m sorry, I just…I don’t know if this is good news.” 

Fishie sighed. “Ah, you don’t want to leave New York, or had you planned to return here?” 

“I thought I could return, take over from–” 

“As much as I would like to have you a brother here, I did need to get embroiled in all the ratty politics to gain perspective. I think Rome would be a good experience for you. And! I heard that Englishman of yours is being harassed into accepting some university position there. He’d come right there if you went. You wouldn’t be lonely.” 

Lonely. Was it so clearly etched on Aldo’s face that Fishie felt compelled to bring it up? “Oh, I don’t know.” 

“You’ve already gotten the attention of the Holy Father.” 

“I’d much rather not be perceived.” Aldo could imagine the prying eyes in a place much more conservative than California or New York, making assumptions before he could even speak. Wouldn’t Fishie’s Venetian Patriarch protect him? But he wondered if Fishie and that man were the most open of secrets, and whether that protection would just implicate Aldo. And whether he should feel bad for thinking such a demoralizing thought. 

Fishie shook his head, and he pressed a hand into Aldo’s shoulder. “Unfortunately, you don’t get a choice in that.” 

The timer went off, signalling the end of the hour-long exposure. Aldo reached across the cool sand to grab his camera, and he rewound the finished roll of film into the canister. He pried it out, and Fishie grabbed the canister and read the label aloud: 

“Fuji Velvia 100. I think I shot with this some time ago! Nothing creative with it, though. Just blurry landscapes. You have the eye, and I don’t.” 

Aldo already could imagine his roommate—not for much longer, apparently—complaining the second he broke out his E6 developer. Yelling roommates would be the price to pay for the crime of being too broke for the film lab. Perhaps the Vatican had their own darkroom. 

“Take credit for getting me into this rather expensive mess, Your Grace,” Aldo said. 

Fishie smiled, shaking Aldo by the shoulder. “Oh, I will.” 

Words on Aldo’s screen blurred, and his phone fell out of his trembling hands and landed directly on his chest, mere inches away from where Thomas’ head rested on his chest. The thud woke Thomas up, who slowly lifted his head and assessed the situation with growing panic. 

“Aldo, dear, what happened?” 

Aldo was fully sobbing by then, gasping like a fish out of water. He frantically pried off Thomas’ hands and sat up. God, he felt like he was a ray kidnapped from the aquarium touch pool. He begged to be put back, to a time before any of this happened. 

Thomas asked again, and Aldo wished he would read his goddamn phone for once and see the simple message from Cardinal Fishie. He didn’t want to repeat it, he didn’t want to say— 

“Alfie died!” Aldo gasped. “Alphonse Cagnati.” 

First the late Holy Father, and now…Alfie, the retired Patriarch of Venice and the only true check on Tedesco’s power. Fishie would be devastated. God, why was Aldo already strategizing for the loss at lightning speed? What the fuck was wrong with him? 

“Oh, Aldo, I’m so sorry,” Thomas said, visibly trying to reach out in the corner of Aldo’s eye, but Aldo hunched in on himself. 

“I need to call Fishie,” Aldo declared, unable to look at Thomas directly. 

“Alright. I’ll make you coffee, okay?” 

Aldo knew he shouldn’t trust Thomas with even instant coffee. But he shrugged and let him fuck up his daily coffee, whispering a thanks. 

When Thomas retreated, Aldo saw one more message from Fishie. All the previous messages in the chat log were filled with links to dumb videos and Japanese emoticons; Fishie would one day be reincarnated as a Harajuku decora girl. But “Alphonse has passed away” and “It wasn’t sudden, but he didn’t want anyone to worry” were notably unadorned. 

Aldo had been in contact with Cagnati over the last few days, unaware of…anything, honestly. He had emailed him updates from Innocent, gotten pictures of red squirrels back. They jointly listened to and discussed the same Supreme Court podcast. How not-sudden was his declining health? He had stood on his own feet while greeting Innocent after the Conclave, although he had taken frequent breaks while walking alongside him. Wasn’t that normal for an 82-year-old man? 

…Cagnati had wanted Aldo’s input on a spontaneous gift for Fishie a week ago…not spontaneous at all, apparently. Aldo felt cold. 

The call went through. “Aldo,” said Fishie, oddly calm. The background revealed nurses talking in Italian, although the content of their words was too muffled to hear. 

“Fishie, I’m—” 

Fishie cut Aldo off. “It’s okay.” 

They sat in silence for minutes, hearing each other breathe. In the meantime, Thomas pushed open the door and came in with hushed steps, leaving the coffee on the bedside table. It was nearly white. Aldo sipped on the first drink of life while he thought about death. 

Finally, Fishie heaved a sigh. “His last request was to turn on Vivaldi’s Spring. Right before that, he asked me to give his cross to Tedesco.” 

Aldo was silent. 

“They’re on the same floor. I couldn’t get in to see Tedesco…he’s…he’s really out of it. I was relieved when he didn’t catch Tedesco’s illness, but in the end, it’s Tedesco hanging on by a thread and not Alfie.” 

“Um…” 

Fishie chuckled, weakly. “Funny how that works.” 

Silence. 

“He was the one who started calling me Fishie. He hated me when we first met.” 

Aldo whispered: “I wasn’t aware.” 

“Yeah, well. He gave me Fishie, and yet I still carry that identity without him. It’s a bit of a burden now.” 

“It doesn’t ease,” Aldo said, remembering another pallid face and another pair of closed eyes. 

“I know, Aldo.” 

Just outside the door, spreading butter on toast, Thomas said: “Poor Fishie. I can’t even begin to feel his pain.” 

They made eye contact. Aldo opened his mouth, but his own tongue laid like a crumbling brick in his jaw. I almost did. 

“Cagnati, do you remember him?” said Thomas to Vincent, in possibly one of his first pertinent meetings as the Dean of the College since the Conclave. Statements had to be published, the Venetian power vacuum reigned in, funerals to be planned…a solid, very impersonal mess. 

Aldo recalled Vincent’s earlier insistence about refusing to die on the job, one desperate attempt to avoid the pageantry he was now helping to organize for a mere cardinal. Every further task to acknowledge made his jaw clench even more, until Aldo was sure the Pope’s teeth would fall out from tension. 

Vincent pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m afraid I hardly remember anyone from those first few days.” 

Aldo sat to the side, simmering in his rage. He thought of Fishie, alone in an empty hospital room so far from home.

Sabbadin had pulled up a swivel chair next to him, and he swung back and forth as the Dean and the Holy Father talked. He looked so damn nonchalant, and Aldo wanted to shake his spindly frame and yell that if it hadn’t been for Cagnati, he too would’ve been fat toast. The protective influence of his stupid political dynasty held nothing compared to the work of their own brothers. 

“Please jog my memory, Thomas. It’s only faces I don’t remember. What did he say?” 

Thomas looked concerned, and he placed the offer of a hand flat on the table. “Do you really not? Faces? Any?” 

Vincent frowned, and he curtly replied: “It is true I can’t recall faces. Even yours. And mine, to that fact. But I remember you, Thomas. And them.” —he gestured to Aldo’s and Sabbadin’s presence— “It simply takes a while to learn all your other features.” 

“I see.” 

“During the stress of my ascension, I fear I was not paying attention at all. It was as if I were in some awake coma. Forgive me.” 

“Coma? Should we not get that checked out, Your Holiness? I worry that–” 

Vincent finally snapped. “I thought Your Eminence wasn’t judgemental of our differences!” He tugged at the collar of his cassock. “This is not helping me right now!” 

Next to Aldo, Sabbadin whispered: “Holy shit.” 

Aldo did not want people fighting when a man was dead. It was too much of a repeat of the last time. 

“But your health…” Thomas continued to protest, and Aldo just knew that he was, too, shaken from the loss of their predecessor. A mentor right within the ranks of the departed Cagnati, also hiding his declining health until the tipping point. He knew this, and he knew that Vincent didn’t. 

“May the man who has not refused check-ups for a decade cast the first stone!” Aldo piped up, trying desperately to keep his voice humorous. It didn’t come easy. The smile pained his lips, causing the cracks within his chapped flesh to part and bleed.  

Thomas, stunned, fixed his icy gaze right at Aldo. He mouthed something, but Aldo wasn’t reading it. Meanwhile, Vincent relaxed his shoulders and smoothed his pellegrina. 

“Indeed,” Vincent said, serene once again. It was shocking how quickly the man could recover his expression. The Holy Father was putty in his own hands; the softness of his face really did resemble clay. 

After a pause, during which Thomas hung his head, Vincent finally spoke again: “Aldo, would you be up to reading this draft? Or would it be too much for you today?” 

Gulls, just outside the office window, snapped their beaks at some passerbys. A warning that one had ventured too close. Aldo reached out his hand, and the papers—still warm from the printer—sliced into his soft palm. He winced, but he took the task with grace. Couldn’t be worse than reading the late Holy Father’s will…couldn’t be worse than— 

Last rites were performed by Card. Eric Sardini… 

The middle of the page had caught Aldo’s attention first, and the words instantly blurred. Aldo found himself mumbling something about allergies, and the cuff of his uniform was harsh against his swollen eyelids. A piece of fiber lodged itself into the corner of his eye, making tears well up in an incessant loop. 

Aldo soon found himself scrambling to excuse himself. What? Like the fifth time rinsing his face today? The single setting of tap water was horrifically warm, scalding even, and Aldo drew his hands away with a yelp. 

It’s fucking August! 

He slumped against the tiled wall, pressing his damp hands into his face. When he shifted against the wall, fighting his trembling legs, he suddenly felt a dense wetness press into his backside. Fucking hell. He didn’t even bother prying himself from it. 

Fishie holding Cagnati through his last prayers. Aldo could not imagine doing anything worse. The thought used to come to him in the throes of nightmares during Thomas’ illness. How had that man, his old colleague from California, held his composure… 

Last rites. A gesture that could not be traded. Aldo often joked with Sabbadin about the cycle of confessions in the Curia, held in confidence mostly by Mutually-Assured Destruction and not through the sacrament of confession itself. All things recycled, except…the end. 

Rather recently, Aldo had learned that Cagnati himself had given the comfort to one another, although the recipient still lived. Tedesco, possibly too ill to even hear the words but somehow still breathing. 

All he could think after loitering in the bathroom was that Aldo and Sabbadin and even Thomas had failed Cagnati’s generation. The older cardinals, now dropping like flies, had painstakingly tempered their glass skin after they landed, fresh off the boat, in Rome. Perfect meat for the mosquitos no more! And for all their effort, the likes of Tedesco and Adeyemi had almost grasped the papacy. All in all, they had still been too afraid of shattering. They all walked around, failed investments. 

Aldo didn’t think he could handle this. He’d selfishly rather sleep through Fishie’s grief and wake up after the man had been glued back together. 

Aldo figured he’d been gone for a while, landing more burdens on the rather inexperienced Holy Father. He marched back to the office, finding it empty save for Vincent himself. Aldo backed up, saying: “I’m sorry. Meeting has been adjourned?” 

“Not for you. Come sit,” Vincent said, patting a chair next to him. 

Aldo did; he had no choice. When he sat down, he brushed his skirts to the side, keeping his hands flat in his lap. Deja vu. He had been here before on a late November evening. The day after Fishie and Cagnati had left Rome, each giving him an uncertain embrace. The day when he sat in Innocent’s office—exactly like this—and expected to be dismissed. There hadn’t been signs, not at all, but the feeling had been so instinctual it felt like the hand of God Himself. 

“First, I must ask if you’re alright. I can leave you alone a little longer if you need it,” Vincent said, quietly. 

“I think I’m good,” said Aldo, “I think I bit off more than I can chew.” 

Vincent nodded, although he seemed thoroughly unconvinced. Aldo couldn’t blame him one bit. He had taken on a task and blew up in the biggest display of emotion in his last five years. As they sat, both looking outside the same window and not at each other, a sense of equality settled in the air. Aldo had seen Vincent’s paranoia and his desperation; Vincent had seen the instability of his grief. Fair trade. 

“I will not ask you to work the rest of the day. I’m not Big Brother, but please relieve yourself of your duties.” Vincent chuckled, clearly trying to be a little humorous, but it fell flat. 

Aldo nodded, trying to avoid leaning into the relief that was starting to flood his veins. “Thank you, Your Holiness. I’m sorry for…” He vaguely gestured to his own person. 

“Please don’t apologize,” Vincent said, mournfully, “take care of yourself. Do something really dumb, steal my CD’s, raid the pistachio cake they put for me in the fridge—” 

“You don’t want it?” 

“I’d be happy if you stole it” —Vincent grinned– “my point is, you have my full authority to do so.” 

Numbly, Aldo parroted more thanks. He looked at Vincent, questioning. He couldn’t just straight-up ask him if this was all, but the lingering sense that something rotten was brewing didn’t quite leave him. 

Tentatively, Vincent started to speak again. “Sardini, just in the last five minutes, sent Thomas and I an email informing us he should be on his way whenever it would be convenient to us. I haven’t yet drafted a reply, but that’s not my point. I’m assuming somewhere in this appointment, he’ll ask for some time off, maybe to finally go home. I’ll only ask of you what you’d be okay with doing, but would you accompany him? Take some of the burden off his shoulders?” 

Aldo blinked. The words churned slowly in his mind, settling into a glob of thoughts in his head. “Your Holiness, would this be a request to greet him in Venice?” 

“Not merely. I regret to inform you that I have been discussing with Guilio and Thomas in your absence. I’ve had only very limited contact with His Eminence myself, but there appears to be a consensus that he is independent to a fault. I asked Guilio whether I should call him to give my personal condolences, and I was told it would be a terrible idea.” 

“He did it to me,” Aldo blurted out, “cut me off when I tried to say something.” 

Vincent sighed, drumming his fingers on the desk. “So it’s true.” 

After a pause, he continued: “Knowing likely he won’t ask any of us for assistance, I’d like to send you on the task. It’s not really an order. You know the man, and I don’t. However, if you think he’d appreciate your presence with all this madness, I’d encourage it. I don’t wish to shut out a brother in a time of need.” 

All Aldo could do was nod, unable to find anything else to say. 

“Talking to Thomas, I realize I may have inherited a rather uncaring administration. It’s quite difficult to reconcile a man who halted his entire day to give me comfort and…” Vincent’s voice trailed off, and he looked confused. What was he looking for in Aldo’s face? Encouragement? Disagreement? 

He could say no more. 

“Is that all?” 

Earrings shone like blackberries in the girl’s ear, and glossy fingernails toyed with the small box in her palm as she awaited an answer. She—perfectly composed even in the lack of air conditioning—looked at Aldo with what he swore up and down was a critical eye. It had to be paranoia talking, and yet he couldn’t quite shake the stranger off. 

“Just that,” he said, glimpsing a sign that no cash was accepted. 

The girl handed the box back to Aldo, who grasped it within his reddened and heat-swollen fingers. The small camera store had felt like trekking the desert, even with his uniform lying discarded in his office like old snakeskin. 

Her exasperated expression notwithstanding, she said: “If you’re gonna use the film now, can you leave behind the plastic canister? We recycle them.” 

He nodded, hurriedly. “Of course.” He pried the box of Ektar 100 open, internally decrying how damn expensive it had become in the last decade. After being dismissed by Vincent and feeling far too jittery to sit and ferment in his office, Aldo had dusted off his camera and found the memory full. After trying five more stray memory cards and finding one with about twenty exposures left, he then noticed the battery was dying from disuse. The poor machine had sat almost exactly in the same spot Aldo left it before checking in for the Conclave. 

And fine! If Aldo had to wait around for his camera to charge, he knew he’d lose the will to even leave the Vatican. He was better off bringing his really stupid and really arcane fully-mechanical film camera he hadn’t touched in years. The sweltering bus ride to this shop had been spent brushing up on the manual. 

The grey plastic canister clattered on the counter, and the young woman picked it up with a sort of disgust. 

Before he could pay, she said: “It’s covered. You’re lucky.” 

“Is there a promotion or something on these?” Aldo said, suspiciously. He watched the woman pick under her nails, aloof in a way that mirrored his own usual expression. 

She shrugged. “No. Forgive me or whatever for the sin of gossip, but I told a friend one of his dudes was around. And he told me you’re going through some shit, and he’d cover you. But also not to tell you…but I couldn’t really figure out how to do that…so it looks like I told.” 

Voice low, she rolled her eyes and said, incredulously: “I can’t believe a priest told me to lie.” 

Aldo blinked. “Are you one of the Facebook people?” 

She frowned. “That sounds a bit…condescening, you know, the way you said it.” She paused and heaved a theatrical sigh. “But I guess today’s a bad day, so I forgive you.” 

Frankly, Aldo could not imagine someone as open and welcoming as Vincent to be chummy with someone this callous. To his credit, Ami had seemed like a wonderful personality match, the very kind of person missing in the Vatican. 

He stumbled over his efforts to thank the girl, regardless of the deadpan expression she wore the entire time. 

“You know I bet on you,” she said, sullenly. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“On Polymarket, during your Conclave. I don’t know. My roommate said you were cool.” 

Aldo stood there, aghast. Now was Vincent friends with people who treated the holy office like a meme stock? Perhaps she had been wise enough not to let him know, which was moot now because she had told Aldo. No way he wasn’t telling Vincent. Holding back a scoff, he said: “Well, I’m sorry for your loss!” 

The woman shrugged again, but a small smile had creeped onto her face. “Just a euro, who cares?” 

A single euro. He had lost…his reputation, his job, and nearly Thomas’ friendship. And all she lost was a euro. The sting emanated in his chest, and it really looked like God had brought him to experience a nice gesture from Vincent only for one of his stupid friends to ruin it. Apparently the Holy Spirit handpicking one’s election to the papacy did not guarantee a good asshole radar! God, was this what Thomas thought of Sabbadin, a mean influence on Aldo? No, that’s different. Aldo openly advertised his bitchiness; it was no surprise he attracted others. Thomas also had that dog in him; the Conclave had demonstrated that at the very least. Vincent was the prey animal here, surrounded by wild dogs! Ami seemed sweet enough, but honestly, Aldo couldn’t expect that much from people prank-following the new Pope on Facebook, and for some reason, a grown-ass man didn’t find that obvious— 

“He told me that during the next Conclave, he’d lend me a million to bet on you. ‘As he deserves,’ he says. Does that count as insider trading? I think so…” 

The rest of the woman’s sarcastic musings fluttered out of Aldo’s ears, completely unnoticed. He returned to the August afternoon in a daze, immediately being blinded by the descending sun. Tourists barked at him to move, and all the yelling barely resonated through the cotton filling his skull. Aldo sat on a random curb, using his body to shade the film as he threaded its leading edge into the camera. This was too much for one day, even for him. 

But why had he brought the camera out? As a distraction. Indeed, this was the perfect opportunity to use it. Despite the enriching puzzle of trying to be a creative hobbyist photographer trying in a city where hobbyist photographers were a dime a dozen, Aldo’s mind kept drifting back to the woman’s comments about the fucking betting. His exposure counter sat at 1, glaring endlessly at him. 

Jokes aside, a kernel of truth nestled somewhere. “He deserves it” didn’t mean that the Holy Father thought Aldo would win another election, it very clearly meant that he thought Aldo should win. 

Aldo knew, logically, that Vincent could not have voted for him in the last, definitive ballot. A couple people had, but Aldo knew who they were, by their own admissions. Had Vincent lost faith in whoever his final ballot had gone to? That was a leap of logic, Aldo figured. What was he doing assuming that the only reason Vincent may prefer a candidate was because he hated all the others? He could merely like Aldo more…but a million euros seemed steep for a slight preference, didn’t it? 

God, not even Cagnati would have put that much faith into Aldo. Aldo still vividly remembered peering down from the balcony at the elderly man in the square, who looked so confused and a little panicked at the sight of the strange man in white. And then asked Aldo “what the hell happened?” And poor Vincent, the best of them all, handpicked and handraised to do so, was falling into the same old trap: putting faith in Aldo. 

Cagnati had learned his lesson this year; he hadn’t even trusted Aldo enough not to worry and fuss as his death approached, leaving him lost at a dead end. Not even a real farewell. I don’t even think I wished him goodnight on our last call. Aldo’s line had died; someone in the building had fucked with the power. Aldo had just let it go, thinking he’d just call Alfie in a few days and explain. Fuck, he had spent that call mostly bitching about his own problems. Had the stress of his complaints shortened Alfie’s life, if only by a few hours? That could have been more time for him to see one last squirrel, maybe feed one, finish Spring in its entirety? No, that was ridiculous. Aldo was fretting again, giving credence to why Alfie should have kept him in the dark. 

Of course Aldo had looped back around to the grief Vincent had sent him out to forget. Lo and behold, he had also looped back to his office. He swore he hadn’t meant to. His energy had drained out of him, and he slumped into his desk chair with a sigh of resignation. 

Still no exposures in, he set the camera on his desk and shut his eyes. The fading light was still too far bright, and he was treated to a 360-degree panorama of fire behind his eyelids. The cool mahogany desk met his cheek, and even though his neurons were still clambering to come up with new bullshit, it was a little subdued. 

Cries of the fledgling gulls and squawks from herons in flight, shouts from somewhere in the quad, whispering voices passing by beyond his walls…

Unnoticed by Aldo at the time, Joe the ice plant had already embarked beyond its pot, and succulent tendrils reached for the windowpanes. In the golden light of sundown, iridescent flakes glowed on the tips of its leaves. 

That was how Thomas found Aldo, mirroring Joe, both of them stretched to something unable to be reached. The door—old and terrible just like all things in this shithole—creaked open, and Aldo wearily tilted his head, just enough to peer out of his left eye. The frame of his glasses had slid up to block Thomas standing in the middle of his field of vision. A black void in the space his friend occupied. 

“I heard from Vincent you went out for the day. At least you’re not working now,” Thomas said. 

The cold, steely look Aldo had received after defending Vincent was thankfully gone. Thomas looked as he always did: placid and calm, and perhaps just on the edge of silent tears. Warm amusement graced his features. 

Aldo fully sat up, rubbing at his eyes. Despite it being early evening, he felt a little as if he had awoken from the night. Memories from the morning already seemed so far behind, dreamlike in their quality. “He told you right. It looks like my undersecretary is taking over emails in real time.” 

On his dimmed desktop screen, Aldo saw new emails ghostwritten by himself. If a genie offered to delete Outlook permanently in exchange for five years of Aldo’s life, he would consider accepting, even if it meant it would delete all the drafts containing drunken poetry to Thomas…

Actually, maybe that was also a benefit. 

Thomas smiled, in his classic stilted manner. He picked up the film camera from the corner of his desk and examined it. “I haven’t seen this in a while.” 

“It’s been on that shelf since I’ve had this office,” Aldo retorted. 

“Alright, well, I haven’t seen it used in a while.” Thomas tilted it in his hands, touching buttons and levers but not properly moving any of them. He continued: “I was glad to hear from Vincent about it. You used to go out with the other camera all the time, but ever since…” 

The late Holy Father…

Aldo had put the camera down and hadn’t really seriously picked it up since. After the Conclave, getting his laptop back had spurred a little bit of an editing spree, and Aldo had subjected everyone on his Instagram to brand-new edits of old, previously unopened images. And then, he decided one weekend that the edits were too bright, and the clarity was unrealistically low, and these images were the epitome of the false perfection seen in digital photography. So he deleted all the posts. 

And now, he browsed endlessly on Ebay for deadstock vintage gear…

Aldo sighed. “I know, Thomas. I suppose it’s hard knowing what to even do when you’ve taken a break.” 

“Was this the camera you used when you were in LA?” Thomas asked, pushing his short fingernail into the scratches and scuffs of the metal. 

“No. That one broke…shortly after I moved back to New York, I think. I finished a roll and rewound it, and then it fell out of my hands and shattered. I think I gave the corpse to some mechanic at the lab.” 

Thomas’ eyes brightened at the memory. “Forgive me! You did tell me about this.” 

“I couldn’t afford a new one at the time. Remember George? The alter server? His university rented cameras for free to students, and I had to resort to helping edit all his essays so he could take some out in his name. The corruption started early.” Aldo chuckled, but Thomas frowned. 

“Aldo…you’re hurting yourself.” 

“It is a mere act of jest,” Aldo said, watching Thomas remain wholly unconvinced. But thank God, Thomas changed the subject. 

Thomas set the camera back down and said: “Where did this one come from, then?” 

Aldo swallowed. “A promotion gift from Fishie and Al. They insisted I get something modern, but I told them ‘oh no, but then I’d need to buy new lenses,’ and a bunch of other excuses.” 

In retrospect, Aldo didn’t even know why he had refused an offer of a more advanced machine. Perhaps it was because he hadn’t yet gotten into wildlife and aircraft; all the fast digital features would be wasted on him and his manual focus lenses. He had been trying to perform humility while jittering with dreams of changing doctrine wearing his very premature reds. Yes, they had been premature. In dark nights since the Conclave, Aldo wondered if his early elevation had, in fact, helped cause the traditionalist swing prior to Vincent’s election. Had he been so obviously favored? But then he chided himself for thinking he would be anywhere close to his office without such assistance. 

“I’m sorry—” 

“They asked that I spend my first frames taking pictures of them making out. I did it; they couldn’t slow down for a moment, and all the exposures were blurry.” 

At least this made them laugh a bit, shattering the growing unease sitting in the room. 

Thomas smiled. “You may have accidentally created a more sentimental image.” 

“Truly, I was ahead of the curve. Unfocused, blurry wedding pictures are all the rage now,” Aldo said, unable to keep disdain out of his otherwise light voice. 

Softly, Thomas said: “Considering you’re supposed to be not working, would the Secretary mind joining me for an early dinner?” 

They didn’t end up going very far. Thomas insisted on delivery to his apartment, sensing Aldo’s impending weariness. In the reverse of their usual encounters, Aldo ended up slumped against Thomas’ side, watching the sunset, blurry through his mild myopia. His glasses had been left…somewhere. He couldn’t even wear them comfortably in his current position, with his head against Thomas’ sharp shoulder. Out in his peripheral vision, Thomas was spearing his California rolls with his chopsticks. How did it take 40 years for a man to still not be proficient in chopsticks? Never change, Dean Lawrence. 

Thomas stabbed a browned piece of avocado, and the rest of the roll fell loose around his chopstick and clattered onto the takeout tray. “I can’t do this.” 

Aldo, meanwhile, had finished his sashimi bowl twenty minutes ago, even though he had insisted Thomas eat most of his rice. “Do you want me to get you a fork?” 

Suddenly, Thomas’ arm clasped around Aldo’s waist. Duly noted. Aldo’s breath caught in his throat, and he ended up foolishly coughing on his own aspirated spit. Thomas held him through it, gently rubbing his back. 

“I’m good now, Thomas, thanks,” Aldo said, immediately seeing apprehension grow on Thomas’ face. 

The hand around him slipped off, and Thomas fiddled with the thumbs that now sat in his lap. “Sorry, sorry. I just…I want to help. Let me know if I’m going overboard because I left you in the dust last time.” 

He looked distressed, and as Rome plunged into night, Aldo took the initiative to grab his hands and say: “It was your loss, too, Thomas. I couldn’t be a steady presence, either.” Aldo brushed his fingers over Thomas’ knuckles, relishing in the softness of his skin, his well-worn hands. He felt Thomas peacefully hum. “Did I ever tell you how glad I was that you didn’t retire?” 

Thomas shook his head, laughing so lightly it may as well be a hidden sob. “I would’ve made a dreadful monk, Aldo.” 

“I don’t want to come off as a bully, but I’d have to agree. Poor me, I’d fold and come join you, and we’d be terrorizing the monastery together. They’d ban cardinals from then on.” 

“Oh, dear. They’d make indie horror films out of us!” 

Aldo giggled, positively giggled. “But seriously, I pray I didn’t make you feel as if I didn’t care if you left or not. I think…an insecure version of myself told me that I shouldn’t try to guilt you into staying.” 

Grimacing, Thomas simply nodded. “Insecure?” 

“I didn’t want to be a repeat of…you know.” 

“No, I could never see it that way. But I admit if you told me this before the Conclave, I might have been too far gone to listen to it.” Thomas bit his lip, and he dug his fingers tightly into his sleeves. The fabric wound between locked joints, and Aldo tentatively reached out to ease them loose. Thomas sighed, and his lips parted to reveal reddened canyons in the dried flesh. 

Yet again, he changed course. “I heard from Vincent that you met one of his friends today.” 

Aldo suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “He has an…interesting taste in friends.” 

“Looking at ourselves, I can’t bring myself to judge the others,” Thomas said, smiling. 

“Are you saying we are the bitchy friends, or that we have bitchy friends?”

Thomas chuckled, but he didn’t answer.  “It’s good to see your passion back, Aldo.” 

“Just a distraction. If I stop, I will start to cry. Again.” 

Wordlessly, Thomas got up and retreated to his bedroom, leaving Aldo sitting on the couch, dazed. But at the threshold, Thomas turned and hovered, his hand turned up to offer his palm. 

Aldo followed. 

Just a few hours later, Aldo perused the darkened halls by his office. Of course he couldn’t last. Even with the windows and blinds open, the stark stillness of a quiet Vatican apartment chilled him to his core. Despite falling asleep clutching each other, they had drifted apart in the night, and Aldo had glanced over Thomas’ slumbering body and decided against waking him with his troubles. The man got little sleep as is. 

So here he was, pretending to water Joe even though Joe could survive perfectly well being deliberately abused. Goddamn ice plant. Aldo sang a rhyme about the London Bridge falling down, hoping it could telepathically communicate with its brethren choking out native oak saplings by the dunes. The fact that practically no LA local even really knew there were supposed to be native oaks showed the extent of the damage done. 

He nearly drowned Joe, who seemed to get pruned leaves like a human would. Uncanny, but whatever. 

Sometimes even Aldo couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he had it out so bad for Tremblay now when he didn’t even hate him to that level during the Conclave. Feeling the onset of another spiral he couldn’t emotionally afford, Aldo fled. 

His footsteps thundered in his wake, and muscle memory took him around strange corridors and stairwells. The building spit him out in the middle of the courtyard, where Aldo was arrested by Vincent’s downturned expression. Dejection. What a horrible emotion for a pope to have. 

“Let’s go,” Aldo found himself saying. 

That horrid, piercing gaze disappeared. Vincent smiled, and he staggered from the spot he had likely been glued to. “I’ll get the keys.” 

They may say all roads lead to Rome, but they were desperate to leave. The highways out of the city were deserted, and perhaps a tad bit of mental clarity would have made it painfully obvious how suspicious it was for a Vatican car to speed right into the countryside. 

Blue signs flashed by, bearing the name of small towns Aldo hadn’t heard of. Vincent paid them no mind; they had decided to go due north until they got the urge to stop. The destination was the total abandonment of will and the dominance of the spirit. 

Aldo rested his head against the window, evidence of his breath fogging the window and promptly dissipating. Coolness rushed into his scalp, and the thrum of the engine seemed to quiet his brain. Just a little. 

“Feeling better?” Vincent asked. 

Aldo sighed and deadpanned: “Yes, actually. The thrill of putting the Pope in danger from a single command has cleared the heavy heart.” 

Vincent shook his head, smiling. “Twice I’ve forcibly dragged you out. It’s only fair.” 

“You don’t go out on your own, do you?” Aldo asked, fearing that his leading question may have actually induced Vincent to lie. 

But Vincent didn’t. He cocked his head and simply answered: “I don’t think alone would be beneficial to me at all. I’m assuming you can empathize?” 

“Evidently.” 

They were silent. Vincent let Aldo play his music, but after endlessly scrolling through his library and wincing at every option, Aldo had forced them to spend the last two hours in silence, save for the choral ring of the electric car. 

“I haven’t yet thanked you for the plant,” said Aldo, looking over at Vincent. His expression seemed far more neutral, but concentration had enveloped him fully, and he was constantly scanning the empty roads. 

After perhaps too long of a wait, he finally processed what Aldo said. “Oh, I didn’t expect you to thank me. I thought you were already planning revenge.” 

“You overestimate my dedication, Vincent. I folded the second I read that note. What? Did you want me to begin agricultural warfare with you?” 

A small smile tugged at Vincent’s lip. “I’d be interested in the depth of weird plants you’d subject me to.” 

“I assure you I’d be doing most of my research on the spot. I only figured out a week ago that the deadly berries from The Hunger Games aren’t real.” 

Lowering his voice, Vincent teased: “So, who do you wager will release the anthrax spores first?” 

“Your Holiness!” Aldo cried, scandalized. 

With an overexaggerated pout, Vincent mused: “Yes, not a plant. I suppose you’re right.” 

“It’s too cumbersome a bioweapon, anyway. Just bring in the kindergarteners again, and half of us will be dying from some novel flu.” 

After a short pause, Aldo realized he had perhaps distanced himself too far from the events of the day and said: “Are you alright today? You didn’t look good in the garden. Just busy?” 

Vincent’s teasing expression faltered. “I love Thomas, but he really upset me today. What you saw…wasn’t just all. It’s alright. I’m sure we’ll talk on it within the week. I don’t want to burden you. It’s just stupid drama. I’ve started to care about all this crap.” 

In retrospect, it seemed minor. Aldo, personally, was used to raised voices within his friendships. Him and Sabbadin fought like it was a love language, and although he knew Thomas couldn’t be handled the same way, both of them could be snappish given their environment. But what was minor for Aldo likely wasn’t such for Vincent. First of all, Aldo had never heard Vincent actually swipe at someone. Sure, he loved shutting people down with passive-aggressive comments, but that had always seemed like a controlled response. 

“I’m sure you will resolve it,” Aldo said, "he cares about you.” 

Emotions flashed by on Vincent's face, mirroring each of the incandescent streetlamps they passed. He finally spoke when they approached a dark patch on the road, somewhere far too remote to bother fixing the lamps on time. “Sometimes, I’m only too aware of his care.” 

White knuckles gripped the wheel. 

“But you did defend me back there, something I must thank you for. If you hadn’t said something, he would’ve kept pressing on it. I hate to refuse his obvious affection, but I must. I don’t want to be the cause of his unfounded stress.” 

Aldo still could recall that icy glare, momentary and purely emotional, as if a father had taken away a child’s toy. If Thomas hadn’t ignored the topic for the rest of the day, Aldo would have folded immediately and apologized with perhaps unneeded fervor. Aldo’s line had been an exaggerated fib, sure, but he had still weaponized Thomas’ medical history. Thomas likely had not expected any such comment from the man who lied about shirking the responsibilities of the Secretariat to be at his friend’s side on his weakest days. 

“I can tell him that perhaps he’s taking on far too much of a parental role rather than a friend? That seems to be part of the problem,” Aldo suggested. 

Vincent suddenly pulled off the road, still far from the light of a lamp. They sat in semi-darkness. Aldo should say something, but in the near-desert they presided in, he wasn’t sure if he could make a convincing case about avoiding danger. “Sorry, I just. I shouldn’t be trying to navigate like this.” 

Aldo shook his head. “Please. It’s alright.” 

“Don’t talk to him. I beg you. I know he’s a natural obsessive. What did they say about him: a manager? I do think all this energy causes him extra stress.  It’s just a slip-up. It’s fine. I think he thought I developed some aggressive dementia. I think the trauma of his illness may be making him very sensitive to a perceived health issue. By the way, I’m fine. But was he like this before, Aldo? You know him well.” 

Aldo paused, unsure of how to answer in response to Vincent’s blatant attempts to rationalize. The obvious response seemed…worse. In fact, the slick and rotten jealousy creeping into his lungs—the idea that Thomas had never considered fussing over Aldo the way he was apparently frightening poor Vincent—was threatening to overflow. All of it would come out in a rushed cough, and Vincent would catch the illness while Aldo would merely free himself from the weight. It wasn’t fair. 

Carefully, he answered more diplomatically: “I think it may be your station, rather than his own experiences with health scares.” 

“Yes, I figured,” Vincent said, ruefully. 

Even that wasn’t wholly true. Aldo didn’t think his own white-robed body would be handled as delicately. Something changed. The election of Vincent had seemingly switched something on in Thomas’ brain. 

“I think it may be because Thomas is very intimately familiar with the stress and abuse of the papacy, but he’s only abstractly familiar with your strength. Like you didn’t confront terrorists in front of him. Perhaps his brain is struggling with it.” 

Vinent seemed to mull over it, and he then said, with venom: “I’m not Syd Barrett.” 

Aldo chuckled, although it hadn't really seemed like a joke, had it? Granted, Aldo consistently forgot all the different white boys in that Pink Floyd band. He only vaguely remembered that Barrett had been kicked out of the band, even though there was another guy also kicked out…or he left, or something. If Vincent were faceblind, maybe Aldo was genetically unable to remember classic rock musicians. “I warn you, I may misremember the name,” he said. 

“Well, then. Don't bother.” Vincent cracked a smile. Then, he said: “Imagine us both as women.” 

“Alright?” 

“Would this conversation have passed the Bechdel Test? The Sisters have let me know it’s impossible to have a passing interaction around here, and it’s been on my mind ever since.” 

“I was going to say we talked about plants, but I gave your gift a male name, so perhaps not, actually.”

Vincent guffawed. “Tell me, Aldo! What is it?” He clutched his gut as he laughed, his short, delicate fingers clawing into his sweater. Again, Aldo thought, fucking August. 

“Joe,” Aldo admitted, perhaps too bashfully to avoid revealing his petty nomenclature. Vincent caught on immediately, widening his eyes. 

“My, my! I hope you aren’t some clairvoyant foretelling his demotion,” Vincent said, cheeky. Yes, the investigation was still ongoing, and frankly, Aldo thought that if one were to demote Tremblay, they better go all the way instead of leaving him in his purples. 

Aldo said: “He seems to be loving St. Patrick Cathedral. I heard that he personally cleaned up a lot of drug dealer tags from his ‘Share the Gospel’ banners.” 

Vincent dramatically shuddered. “Ah. Urgent business, I see. I appreciate the effort nevertheless.” 

Suddenly, Vincent unbuckled himself and kicked open the door. “What’s out there?” 

Suspicious, Aldo followed him. He let the passenger door fall closed, and joined Vincent by the driver’s side, nestled out of view from the road. The gentle wind rustled what sounded like a wheatfield. Sweeping qualls of breeze let the sound rise around them like a chorus, and Aldo found himself only daring to exhale when the breeze met his sector. With the plants, he existed. 

“I’ve always loved farm landscapes,” Aldo said. 

Beside him, Vincent’s eyes were wide, and he looked almost…boyish. Just like the way people looked when they heard him speak. 

“They’re so bad for the environment,” he continued, shifting his feet until they pressed together, “California drains such a large percentage of our water just for almond trees. I’m glad oat milk is a thing now, because we really don’t need more almonds around. I could go on.” 

“I didn’t know that,” Vincent said, softly. 

“Don’t even get me started on how much land animals need” —Aldo searched Vincent’s silent face— “and possibly the worst part is…so much of the stuff I see in markets now is imports. We don’t even eat our own drought babies. Ironically, I get California garlic here. And the oranges would be in New York, and the Anglican Archbishop…kind woman, but she insisted the Florida ones were better, and I think it was just to fuck with me.” 

“She must have known you were attached.” 

Aldo bit his lip before continuing. “Yet despite all that, I find them…beautiful. I would go to San Francisco on a day trip and fill up one roll, maybe one and a half if the film was cheap. But on the way back, I’d pass through the valley, and I usually went in spring so it was all green. I easily could waste six rolls—36 frames each, you know—walking abandoned paths and pulling off highways. I should be documenting the beauty of nature instead.” 

“I’m happy to listen, I promise. You can stop and take a breath.” 

Ignoring Vincent’s advice, Aldo rambled on. “You know Bliss? Possibly the most viewed image in the world. The Microsoft hill. It’s actually a vineyard, and I’ve been there on pilgrimage…like we all have. But the year the photograph was taken, there was some disease, so grass had taken over the land. There’s something…poetic about all that. I can’t put my finger on it.” 

He had locked eyes with Vincent the whole time, and after reinforcing his wistful smile, Vincent started to shift. He pressed up against Aldo’s side, and a featherlight touch found his shoulder. As if he was pushing through thick oil, Aldo swam his arm around, coming to push against Vincent’s back and complete the embrace. 

God, sometimes Aldo got overwhelmed…he often weeped softly in its throes while Thomas slept against him. The notion that he was holding something alive, something that he could feel breathing against his own evidence of life…something that shuddered imperceptibly if not for their proximity. The electricity of existence…perhaps an energy older than God Himself…but he didn’t want to get sacrilegious, no. If Aldo gripped his own torso, the movements of his own self didn’t move him the same way. God, he couldn’t image cloistered anchorites locked in churches of their own volition…how could anyone do that? And how could their beautiful Church find that inspiring? Sometimes Aldo doubted God, wondering if a benevolent Father would create life that distrusted others of its kind and found solace alone…sometimes he looked towards Thomas, so willing to suffer. And now to Alfie, choosing to isolate in his final days…

…And none of that was remotely acceptable to say around the goddamn Pope. 

“I don’t want to fire you, my dear Secretary…God, I talk like our Dean now. Anyway, I don’t want to fire you” —each movement of Vincent’s jaw jolted loose the sadness in Aldo— “but maybe Los Angeles needs you back.” 

“I was only there for three years. Maybe five if you count trips,” Aldo protested, but he soon hung his head and said: “I love Rome, but I’ve always been a worker here and not a resident.” 

The movement of his head had brought his nose to Vincent’s hair, and he was struck by the scent…the very same brand that Thomas had littered Aldo’s shower with. 

“It would be dangerous if I sent you there…because then I’d have an excuse to practically live there, too. Official trip after official trip. It has not been my favorite destination on that tour, but it was the most familiar to me.” 

“Even Mexico?” 

“I’m not used to living at home anymore,” Vincent replied. 

Aldo squeezed his watery eyes shut. When home wasn’t home anymore. What a concept! He cracked his eyes open again and found an orange slit hovering at the horizon, a disgruntled cat’s eye. “I feel…invasive.” 

Vincent shifted. 

“I am ice plant. Sounds dramatic, but…oh…I don’t know. It’s dumb.” 

The hand on Aldo’s shoulder squeezed, almost painful. “Well then, we’re ice plant together.” 

That was no comfort. Aldo shook his head, although Vincent wouldn’t be able to see it. “I’ve never seen different colors of ice plant coexist. Or any plant, really. Ice plant chokes it out.”

“I know we’re trained on metaphors, but don’t take this one too far. We’re not landscaping flora.” 

Dawn’s early light, weak and pale, cast out among the wavering tails of wheat. A car sped by towards Rome, and Vincent startled, whipping his head up to look after it. 

“Wait, before we go…” Aldo fumbled for his camera, watching Vincent light up a little. “Thanks for the film. This would look nice.” 

The image would come out beautifully, he figured. Before he could pack it away, Vincent darted a bit down the ravine, almost tumbling into the wheat. “Aldo! Do me?” 

They had to reverse their positions for the photo, with Aldo further down in the ravine to get some light on Vincent’s face. He pondered over using his shitty flash but ultimately decided against. The shutter went, but Vincent’s smile didn’t falter, so Aldo took another frame. One was bound to be good. 

After Vincent embarked on some deadly maneuver to get them back going towards Rome, he said: “I see long drives make us both feel better.” 

“I never knew this place existed until now.” 

“I don’t see why you never renewed your license. You could go out and explore on off days,” Vincent said. 

Aldo clicked his tongue. “Oh, I…I never drove in Italy. And I never left Rome. I let it die ages ago. And I’d have to go through that exam again…” 

Vincent beamed. “Why not? It’s free! Something to try. And it’s probably good for memory health; always a bonus at our age.” 

“You just want to see my shitty mugshot, Your Holiness.” 

“My motivations are sure selfish, but why not consider how much farther we can get doubled up?” He winked. Dear God. What had Aldo just signed up for?  

Chapter Text

Aug 25

Tedesco had been extubated. He was also supposed to have been taken off the sedation that had come with it, although from what Aldo was seeing, clearly that hadn’t kicked in yet. 

The man was sprawled on his back, legs tangled between the sheets and various wires and tubing. The nurses were telling Aldo that the strange, contorted position was a sign that he had been at least conscious enough to move, but he wasn’t hearing it, not really. He stood, sheltered by the fogged glass lining the open door, as if Tedesco would suddenly sit up and resume the last fight he picked with the liberals. As if he could see Aldo delivering a pity prize that wasn’t even his. 

Mono that had traveled its merry way to the brain and became a raging case of meningitis; that had been the rather condescending way Sabbadin had delivered the news. Aldo had the good sense to think he was joking until Vincent brought it up in Mass. A week and a half later had been the end of Cardinal Cagnati. Despite his baffling illness, Tedesco had outlived his predecessor. The natural order of things, no? Doctors in the hallways spoke of the case like a legend, describing much younger and durable patients nearly succumbing to the darkness. 

Aldo looked down into his arms, holding the fuzzy white legs of the plush animal Thomas had made him bring. Truthfully, he’d never come here otherwise. A small card had been tied to the animal’s long neck, decorated in Thomas’ looping handwriting. 

Fucking Arcaeus. 

Aldo couldn’t believe it. He had told Thomas that picking out a Pokemon plush for Tedesco and his grand-nephew to share as Tedesco recovered didn’t mean buying him the literal Pokemon God. Why not Pikachu? If he already had that one, get him Eeve. But Thomas had seen Aldo’s protest as more of a reason to buy Tedesco the plush Arcaeus, even if it had come with a hefty price tag.  

So now, he was walking slowly to a hospital bed in the ICU to gift it. The chatter of the nurses drifted behind him, and he really tried not to focus on it. However, his brain was really trying to latch onto anything else but the sight in front of him. 

Tedesco lay with a lifelessness so severe that it was setting off Aldo’s uncanny valley instinct. Not quite human, not quite a corpse. The once-domineering man had been reduced to skin and bones, and a checkered hospital gown drooped off his frame, revealing even more tubing. Even his hair had lost its shine and lay in a matted clump against the pillows. As Aldo approached, no movement came as a response. 

Aldo set Arcaeus on the mattress, gently lifting a pale, wrinkled arm to wrap around its body. Like the instincts of a young infant, Tedesco’s hand curled around the plushie’s leg. It was only then that he caught sight of a small, faded tattoo on his colleague’s bicep. It had to be somewhat recent, considering it coincided perfectly with the current trend of minimalist fineline tattoos. A spilled glass of wine, represented only in one single stroke. 

Why was that so…discomfiting? Perhaps it seemed far too self-defeating for a man like Tedesco. Aldo could ask him about him once he had recovered, however much recovery was even possible. He didn’t know. But the image of Tedesco, scandalized and a little frightened, met his thoughts. So far, they have been on relatively equal footing. They knew as much about the other as he knew about his colleague, and this visit had tipped the scales. 

With a sigh, he bent by the man’s bedside and pressed a blessing into his forehead. Guilt still grew vines creeping into the forefront of his racing mind by the time he stumbled outside the building, watching Fishie turn and cast his forlorn gaze on Aldo. 

“Done?” Fishie asked, rising from the bench. 

“It’s not pretty,” Aldo admitted. The vines started to choke him as Fishie’s gaze faltered, and he grimaced. This wasn’t going great. It had started going wrong when Aldo met his brother cardinal at Cagnati’s residence, and Fishie hadn’t even offered him water, far too eager to finally leave. The side entrance was the only functioning door of the building’s residential wing, and Fishie couldn’t even get a clean break from it. He had to pull and jiggle it closed, and then he stared at the key in his palm and listlessly dumped it into his pocket. 

“It’s useless now,” Fishie had said, “I guess give it to Tedesco’s nurse.” 

It had then continued to go wrong when Fishie refused to visit Tedesco again, something dark flickering behind his eyes. But they were now early at the train station, peering down the empty rails rippling with heat haze. So maybe now it was starting to right itself. Aldo wasn’t so sure. 

Aldo felt a tap on his shoulder, and he found Fishie holding out a glass bottle of Orangina, a smile crinkling the old man’s face. He must have waited too long, perhaps wondering how he hadn’t noticed his travel companion leaving for the grocery stand, and Fishie tapped Aldo’s arm with the bottle. 

“For you,” he said, “don’t say no.” 

Left with no choice, Aldo accepted it. The wet glass nearly slipped through his palms, but he persisted. Fishie had already cracked open his drink and was muttering something about the locomotives on the regional trains. 

Of course. 

Whenever Aldo visited San Diego, they would meet up at the same hill, facing opposite directions. For Aldo, the single runway at SAN. For Fishie, the railroad behind it. 

“Just painting them white doesn’t make them newer,” Fishie complained, “they’re rather inefficient. And this ticket practically costs the same as a flight.” 

Aldo frowned. “I know I take the side of aviation quite frequently, but a one-hour hop is also a poor use of a Triple 7.” 

“You’ve flown from Rome to Venice on a Triple?” Fishie was aghast. Little he may know about planes, but that aircraft was known to tackle the longest direct flights in the world. Twenty or more hours! The engines on its newest iteration were larger than the fuselages of regional jet aircraft. Quite a roomy flight deck for a Boeing aircraft, too. And considering it shared a type rating with the B787, another long-distance workhorse, it was a very valuable license to have. What a pleasure to fly! Sometimes Aldo fantasized about controlling those Rolls Royce Trent 800 engines and also the—

“Oh, not me,” Aldo insisted, “I could never. But Tremblay would post pictures from the first-class cabin.” 

Fishie barked, doubling over in laughter. A splash of the Orangina spilled onto the ground. When he righted himself, he said: “What’s he up to? Believe me, I was vindicated seeing those envelopes. Who knew Blondie could bite?” 

Aldo bristled, and he tightened his grip against the glass bottle. “He’s very comfortable in Toronto. Which is funny, because I think His Eminence Seghers is suspiciously interested in ordering him around.” 

“You mean Matty?” Fishie leaned against a lamppost, intrigue glittering in his black eyes, “of course! Tremblay threw him under the bus, oh it was years ago. Don’t you remember? They co-wrote this thing about contraception and AIDS, and when Benedict got mad about it, Tremblay argued he barely wrote the thing at all! I bet His Holiness didn’t believe it—who would?---but he was so happy he folded!” 

Fishie mimed crumbling a paper ball and tossing it onto the tracks. “Frankly,” he continued, “I’m more surprised Trembaly is taking it so well. But he seems painfully…unaware of how others view him.” 

They paused, settling into silence. At least Fishie seemed happier now, even if Aldo had provided no emotional support other than gossip. Even through his new levity, his colleague seemed to shudder with forces from within, perhaps from the very effort of keeping Cagnati’s spirit safe within him, unexposed to blemish. The undercurrent of loss strummed through them both. 

“I’ll say one thing, though,” Fishie said, his voice drowned out by the churning of the incoming train, “I do fully believe Tremblay when he said he was ordered to bring that woman to Rome.” 

Sister Shanumi. Aldo heard quite frequently about her; Vincent had some form of consistent communication with her, even if he wasn’t quite sure how this had happened. Most of the time it was his opinion about her very thorough Substack page, which took Aldo for a surprise considering how silenced she had been at the Conclave. But just a month ago, Vincent had fled a briefing and only imparted later, in a very vague manner, that she had been discussing something about her family life. Urgent, he assumed. 

As Aldo scanned for their seats, he whispered: “What makes you say that?” 

“You and I both know why. Don’t be naive, Aldo. The Holy Father was a desperate man, in his final months. But I don’t believe the conspiracy that he always knew. I think—” Fishie heaved a sigh “---we can sense when things start to degrade, and he went on a reconnaissance spree.” 

Aldo grimaced, a bitter taste flooding his mouth. We can sense when things start to degrade… 

As always, Fishie did not want to sober any conversation. He scrambled for his phone, patting the pockets of his black jeans and pulling out random knick-knacks. 

Just looking over his shoulder, Aldo saw that the phone automatically opened to an iMessage log. Good morning, read the text, complete with a red heart. He didn’t need to look further to know who the recipient was, even though it had been sent three days after his death. 

Delivered. 

The thin grey text tattooed itself into Aldo’s retinas, unable to be blinked away even as Fishie frantically opened a news app. Fishie forced a smile, and he gave Aldo his phone. Unnerved, Aldo realized how small the device looked in his own hand while it dwarfed Fishie’s. Just a normal iPhone. Fishie’s dark skin shone, spotted with age, and when their hands brushed against each other, the skin felt like it harbored the flesh of an overripe plum. 

Aldo blinked. If the Conclave had been two months later, Fishie would have been too old to attend. For some reason, they hadn’t managed to replace him in San Diego, and his mandatory resignation letter had still not been accepted. Perhaps Vincent’s predecessor had considered this a strategy, but who knew? Either way, his retirement would be brought up in Rome today. 

The screen displayed a Vatican press release about Innocent’s upcoming biography-memoir. It was a strange concept, dreamed up by Sister Agnes and Aldo after they had read too much Rachel Cusk together. Great times! Vincent had been vehemently opposed to writing a memoir, for reasons that were scattered but everyone was forced to accept. He also thought a biography would be a puff piece for “a man who never lived.” 

“So we came up with this idea,” Aldo was explaining to Fishie, “that the biographer would provide life details as dry as possible, and there would be Vincent ‘scribbling in the margins’ with whatever he felt was important to write there. Of course, a million rounds of editing and whatnot. And most of our inserts are now homilies he wrote around that time period. It was the only idea that seemed to intrigue him, so we went with it.” 

What Aldo didn’t include was Vincent checking out towards the end, delaying the release of the book for a couple months. A glimpse of his new bullet journal showed mood trackers bleeding with a bright red pen on the days the publicist and editors showed up. One of those days, Aldo had silently crept out of the office before meeting Vincent for a short drive, and he remembered the weak yet appreciative smile when the shitty, milky McCafe latte touched the Pope’s hands. “With hazelnut syrup, of course,” Aldo had told him. 

And then Vincent had repaid Aldo’s kindness by forcing him to listen to Deftones’ newest album, which was a bit much for a midnight drive, but it was endearing seeing him try to whisper the lyrics to all the screaming bits. 

“He also snuck in a quote from Roger Waters, which made Thomas go a bit insane. And Thomas says he doesn’t actually like Waters’ solo work all that much, but that the Holy Father just wants to be contrarian.” Aldo shrugged. He didn’t get it, but he was happy Thomas had found someone new to bother with band drama and which one of them was the real musician. 

Fishie nodded, saying: “Right. It’s about time we had an official publication. I get things have started off hectic, but you know how the critics talk.” 

About time. Aldo winced, even though he was not the person the light jab was directed at. He barely registered Fishie smiling with encouragement and clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

Unaware, Fishie continued: “So, the new Holy Father. How’s he doing? Sounds chummy with Blondie, right? That’s good. He’s an outsider; all his little allies are so far away now.” 

“Oh! He’s okay, considering well…everything, I suppose. Man, can’t you call Thomas by his name?” 

“It’s not Blondie? I swear I saw it on his passport!” Fishie winked. 

Aldo tsked disapprovingly, but not without a light chuckle. “But yes. Thomas and him have been a duo of sorts. They make each other more adventurous, so we’ve had a great time pushing policy through them. And you know what’s funny? Did you know I got my permit?” 

“Permit? Like to drive?” Fishie shook his head, incredulously. 

“Oh yeah! And the Holy Father offered to teach. But it’s like a bicycle. I’ll pass the test in no time. So now I got favor with him. Look, Fishie, when I get my license back, I’ll drive us to Yosemite. Why not? I’ll time it with the government shutdowns they’re threatening!” 

“Bellini, no way I’m stingy enough to go there when it’s free. Imagine the crowds. I’m old, my child. People scare me now. Handle the old man delicately, alright?” Fishie shuddered, theatrically, and for a moment, it was so easy to forget why Aldo had been tasked to bring him to Rome. They laughed like always. Fishie was still disarming in a way most of his countrymen weren’t. Sort of like the liberal Tedesco, but Aldo couldn’t ever say he had seen him genuinely mad. A big grin, always shaking like a leaf with some easy laughter. Perhaps that was why he had never been a true papal contender…too unserious, too flippant. 

When Aldo had been diagnosed, he had a bit of a mental crisis about it, pondering aloud to Cagnati why he couldn’t be a Fishie. Only for Alfie to tell him that Fishie had once been exactly where Aldo was. But Aldo never grew out of it, not even with all the antidepressants. Aldo was remembering it all again listening to all their little gossip and musings, just three days after— 

Still a little conspiratorial, Fishie said, in a very low voice: “Don’t lose your British boy to Innocent. I’ve heard rumors, but they’re rumors. I imagine he wouldn’t do that to you.” 

Ice water. It had been thrown onto Aldo with those words. Stunned, he glanced at Fishie, who started laughing. “What do you mean he?” 

“Blondie—I mean Thomas.” 

Before Aldo could collect his thoughts and reply, Fishie started rambling: “Oh, I had to be really quiet before the voting. I didn’t want you to chicken out by saying anything. But it would make me so sad to see you and him torn apart because of the papacy. Things got a bit strange when it looked like Lawrence was winning, but still, same effect. Doesn’t matter who’s the bride, the marriage is ruined all the same.” 

Slowly, Aldo came to himself. “Does Your Eminence think me and Thomas are together?” 

Fishie quieted. “Oh…has that…changed? I’m sorry if I made myself unavailable to you, but you can talk about it now, if you want.” 

“Wait, no. We’re not broken up,” Aldo hissed, mindful of some passengers he was beginning to suspect were stealth Americans, “we’re not together. Or were ever.” 

“For sure. No, I get you. But in the priestly sort of…hm…socially acceptable way. No? Not at all?” Poor Fishie looked like Aldo had told him the world was flat. Scandalized, almost. Like a kid losing faith in Santa or maybe God entirely. 

Aldo thought back to the day at San Gabriel River, also slowly realizing that Dave from the turtle counting group thought him and Thomas were married. If Thomas had caught onto the implication, he had refused to mention it since. But Thomas had told him he hadn’t regretted “following” Aldo to Rome. Now he was oddly…close to Aldo. 

“Aldo, you love him, and he loves you,” Fishie said, plainly. 

“I know. I’ve known.” Aldo swallowed. 

“Okay? So? What gives, then?” 

“Look, Fishie, I think those guys there speak English—” Aldo said, chuckling nervously. 

His mentor wasn’t having any of it. He switched languages in a flash, saying: “Okay! Practice Spanish with me, then.” 

Aldo sighed, rolling his eyes. Regretfully, he said: “I’ve known for a long time. Our relationship…it’s at an equilibrium. I don’t try to rock the boat. I don’t know where the other steady state will be. I know I’m generally miserable, but with Thomas, there’s a happiness. We don’t need a relationship.” 

“Things can be abstractly real,” Fishie mused, slumped in his seat, “if the Bible were never written down, never reproduced, God would still exist.” 

Aug 25, 2 years ago…

Now at night, drenched in the nighttime silence, the words from Aldo’s last meeting—more of an argument—echoed in his head. He had been insubordinate, not over matters of policy and morals, but over his stupid personal life. Crumbling in front of the Holy Father over chess, Aldo had refused his refusal for time off. “I will go,” Aldo had said, “or else our Dean crumbles.”

The look in the Pope’s eyes had said it all, and Aldo was readying his next attack, perfectly poised to bring up his knowledge of the man’s little lover— 

And then…no response. A careful acknowledgement of losing the fight, the Holy Father had nodded. 

Aldo let all his coffee equipment fall onto the countertop. The beans rustled as they went. He gently pushed aside all the apple sauce stocked in the top cabinet and carefully slid an electric scale into it before stacking more apple sauce on top. He had found it in Thomas’ bathroom, and the poor man made no objection as Aldo hid it away. Using some dull kitchen scissors, Aldo had cut away the nutrition labels from Thomas’ soft foods, hoping that he hadn’t memorized the calorie count by then. 

He spent the next few hours mentally stabbing himself, wondering how it had taken him too long to realize all the weight loss and subsequent gains as Thomas got on treatment would cause him to fall right back into his younger years. It was one thing if his medical team sent him to psych a bit too late; they didn’t know him. Not like Aldo did! 

And Thomas, bless him, had fretted every time that Aldo saw him that he had single-handedly screwed the liberal cause (or even the whole Church) by being fucked-up. The two little words now added to his diagnoses underneath the cancer…somehow it would get out, and he would be fucked. He chastised himself for falling away from God’s path of humility and into vanity, concerned with mirrors and numbers. The doctor had kept reminding Thomas that there was no “good” kind of restriction; it all hurt the body. The team of oncologists seemed, frankly, baffled. Not their circus, unfortunately their monkey, they were probably thinking. 

Didn’t matter what Aldo or Thomas said, Dean Lawrence was locked in the hospital for over a week, just to see if the diet supplements were working, that the medication hadn’t made him too weak…a plethora of other things. Aldo had been given some caregiving sheets, now folded away in his pocket. It would be a hard road ahead, but not one Thomas hadn’t completed once before. And Aldo had dedicated himself to assisting Thomas through the worst of it. He had taken just a week of leave, but he told himself he would still linger after it was up. 

Hearing some rustling from the bedroom, Aldo headed over, seeing that Thomas had risen from his sprawled slumber. He still mostly lay where Aldo had set him down, wrapped up in a borrowed robe. 

Aldo reminded himself to do all his laundry tonight. “You okay?” 

Wearily, Thomas shook his head. “I’m disgusting. You think a shower is a good idea?” 

The worst of the medication had been pumped inside Thomas, part of a “deep clean” before he would be put on a rest to recover. Of course, his problems with eating made unrestricted feeding a priority, but not enough to grow the tumor back! Aldo knew the care teams fought over it. The idea was that this plunge would shrink the growths to disappear after some hormone thing…all that eluded Aldo. A short, harsh treatment to facilitate an easier one, something that would let Thomas go back to work. Good for morale, they assured. 

Whatever the concoction was, it did indeed smell quite sour. It sank into Thomas’ skin despite being delivered intravenously. Aldo understood, even if he had gone quite noseblind to it. 

“You look a little bit tired,” Aldo said, carefully. He nevertheless could see Thomas getting up and testing his weight against the ground. Okay, committed then. “Hey, I could put up that little chair thing for you.” 

He was met with silent pleading, a wince or two as Thomas tried to stretch his arms. Five minutes later, he found himself crouched on the shower floor, moments from slipping, while Thomas crowded on the little stool. To equalize them, Aldo had also gotten almost naked—nothing Thomas hadn’t seen before, although this was a new environment—and was trying to make nothing else awkward at all. 

Aldo kept rambling about Thomas’ shower products as he helped with his hair, his friend leaned against him from exhaustion. “Are you seriously using this one? How is your skin barrier still functioning? Go get you a normal body wash.” 

“I regret letting you into my life,” Thomas deadpanned, but clearly teasing. 

“I’ll get you some good stuff. I’m unfortunately not up to date with hair recommendations. Woe is me.” 

Thomas tilted his head back, letting any small motion of Aldo’s hands be a pull in any direction he pleased. Fully at his mercy. He rested his forehead against the hollow of Aldo’s neck, and they sat there, unmoving. Thomas’ breathing seemed a little labored, and Aldo fretted about the ventilation in the bathroom. Too much steam? 

Eventually, Thomas groaned and said: “I’m cold. More water?” 

Aldo wordlessly handed him the showerhead, and if Thomas hogged it for too long, leaving Aldo to suffer a bit, he didn’t protest. Before long, they had him lathered in a creamy lotion, something with a mild and calming scent and dressed in plush pajamas. A new addition to his closet. Aldo thought they looked cute, but he figured any reference to Thomas’ appearance would probably not go too well at that moment. 

When Thomas was laid down again, he finally seemed comfortable. His skin was still flushed, supple to the touch, and gone was the perpetually-frantic expression he had worn in the hospital. “I’m tired, but I want to stay awake.” 

Aldo raised his brow, gazing down at Thomas. Slowly, as if waiting to be stopped, he lowered himself down to be on his level. Thomas unceremoniously dumped half the duvet over his body. “What do you want to do? Movie? Talk?” 

“I suppose talk. What about?” 

“We can call Guilio. He texted me earlier about this crazy story. Apparently it’ll take an hour to retell.” 

Thomas smiled. “His tolerance for crazy is quite high. I’m intrigued.” 

If Guilio had been wondering why Aldo was seemingly babysitting Thomas during work hours, he didn’t treat it as anything but normal. 

Aldo had offered Fishie space in his apartment, just in case he needed distance from the Vatican during his brief stay. But Fishie had earnestly refused, saying something about needing to catch up with old colleagues to make up for the time he had spent wallowing. 

“Thank you for the offer,” Fishie said, capturing Aldo’s hand between his warm palms, “if I come crying at midnight, do know I’d have changed my mind.” 

They walked, Fishie on Aldo’s arm, to the Casa. The uncaring marble halls gave rise to tremors in Aldo’s veins, and when he passed his assigned suite, he tensed enough to warrant sympathetic platitudes from his colleague. 

“Our Innocent fought terrorists, and I get trauma from a fucking door,” Aldo remarked, watching Fishie dismiss his comment. 

“Who’s to say even seasoned wartime missionaries won’t get trauma from a door? I bet he gets all stiff returning to the Sistine. Ah, here is my room.” Fishie pointed ahead, and Aldo noticed it had been Tremblay’s during the Conclave. He wasn’t sure if Fishie remembered that. But Aldo had spent more time in that goddamn room than morally acceptable, trying to negotiate with the devil. 

And now Joe was an office plant, and Aldo had noticed a purple bud embedded in its mass of thick leaves. Just the memory of it made him grimace in equal parts to the warmth growing in his chest. What an odd feeling. 

Once inside, Fishie opened the windows, rising on his toes to peer into the courtyard. “Oh no. More of us have perms! God help us all.” 

Fishie turned back to Aldo and unzipped his suitcase, wrangling out his uniform. “The times are eluding me, son.” 

“I feel like that’s a bit dramatic. Do you…do you need help with that?” 

Aldo wondered if he had managed to offend Fishie, and his colleague’s hand brushed over the black and red fabric. He nodded, slowly. 

“Just with my pellegrina,” said Fishie, “my fingers have been slippery lately. Sometimes I wish I were a bit taller; there would be more space between the buttons.” 

They both held their breaths as Aldo hooked the small, red fabric buttons all the way to Fishie’s chin. Just centimeters above his fingers, Fishie’s skin trembled against his collar. When they parted, he exhaled, deep enough to rustle him all the way down to his skirts. Had he shrunk? Or was it worn-down shoes? His bright red hems dusted the ground as he silently hovered beside Aldo. He glanced around himself, turning his head in the direction of noontime light shining blindingly through marble arches and single-paned windows. How disturbing it was to witness Fishie’s silent wistfulness, perhaps a final farewell? 

Brothers passed them, many veering out of their way to greet Fishie. Instructions had already spread amongst the staff; no one dared dole out condolences. One such brother cardinal, although missing his reds, perked up and rushed to grasp Fishie’s hands. 

Aldo’s eyes widened. He was finally glad to have Fishie next to him, for this sight could not be believed unless directly witnessed. 

“I have been told you would be here, Eminence!” Adeyemi said, bowing his head to briefly rest against Fishie’s grasped hands, “It has been too long since I’ve seen you last.” 

“My, my! You look…reguvenated?” Fishie said, exchanging a couple confused glances with Aldo, “but perhaps I have not yet had the honors of seeing you without the uniform.” 

“The cassock,” Adeyemi corrected, prompting an involuntary eye-roll from Aldo. Oh dear God. The man could get a third or fourth puberty and somehow stay stagnant in the same breath. 

Backing up to read the slogan on Adeyemi’s shirt, Fishie read aloud: “Empathy is Democracy. Indeed! I uh…it’s always nice to have reminders around here. By any chance, are you falling ill, Joshua? It is quite warm for that cardigan. I have Tylenol if you—” 

Adeyemi profusely shook his head and laughed, confident and boisterous. “You’re too kind! It was very cold on my flight. I still haven’t warmed up.” 

However, Adeyemi began shedding the layer, rambling about it being made by indigenous sheep herders from Mozambique. “A dying tradition, really.” He stuffed it into a cotton tote bag embroidered with balloony letters declaring: Your Trend is in the Landfill! 

“Well, I’m glad you’ve made it to be with us today. I’m afraid I haven’t kept up with the news, so you’ll have to catch me up on your mission later. I hate to leave you hanging, but I must be with His Holiness soon,” said Fishie, the warmth in his voice cooling towards the end. 

Adeyemi took it graciously, saying that he desperately needed to suit up before presenting himself to politicians and also politicians of the cloth. He laughed at his own joke, clapping Fishie’s bicep with far too much force. He left with a friendly salute, and his Dr. Marten loafers squealed against the tile floor, growing quieter as he went. 

Fishie limply looked after him before grasping Aldo’s arm again, tugging him down the hall. “I swear to fucking God, what happened to him?” 

“This is the first I’ve seen of him since he lost the papacy,” Aldo said, “but I hear he has embarked in new directions.” 

Fishie snorted, shaking his head in disbelief. “Perhaps his countrymen have dropped him, and he has fled to new mothers, better skirts to hide behind.” 

Was this how Aldo had appeared to legions of disillusioned liberal voters? A man with many slogans, let alone in the dreaded vernacular? He still remembered the brand of Fishie’s fingers against his forearm, much like they walked right now, in the south stairwell on the second night of sequestration. 

“I’m sorry, Aldo. We must change course…” 

And: 

“It will be alright.” 

Aldo had been sacrificed to Thomas’ morality ten minutes later, and his hand had been on the verge of popping right off from the crushing myriad of fingers tugging him around. He went to sleep half-cradling his wrist, half pushing his fingers into bruises to make them much more apparent. 

“Well, I have a meeting with him sometime soon, probably after your appointment with His Holiness,” Aldo said, noticing that Fishie had begun to look at him, expectantly. 

Fishie clapped Aldo’s shoulder, still steering him down the hallway. “Atta boy! Update me, for I believe it will be entertaining.” 

Aldo should have set the record straight, explaining exactly what kind of meeting this was going to be. Not one for juicy gossip, that was for sure. He vibrated with nerves, hoping the walk to Innocent’s office would stretch longer into perpetuity. The prospect of being left alone to his thoughts bothered him, including the anticipatory fear of fighting for a cause to get violently shut down. 

They ended up intercepting Vincent just outside of his office door, except Vincent was too busy wolfing down an unspecified pastry to notice them. An awkward grimace was plastered onto the face of the nearest Swiss Guard. Vincent managed to chug a cup of stale drip coffee—may the Lord spare him from its taste—and only then could he be alerted to their early arrival. 

“Your Holiness,” Fishie greeted, taking Vincent’s hand to kiss his ring, and Aldo noticed how his fingers tried to wriggle free in his grasp. “Thank you for receiving me so soon.” 

Vincent firmly shook Fishie’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet with you again, Cardinal Sardini.” 

Fishie snorted, waving his hand dismissively and widening his easy smile. “Oh, if you’re going to call me anything, call me Fishie. We’re friends! You even sent me a travel buddy,” he said, tilting his head in Aldo’s direction. 

Vincent’s face morphed into a slight, diplomatic confusion, and Fishie clarified: “Oh, Aldo didn’t tell me anything, don’t worry. But Fishie always knows.”  

Meanwhile, Aldo apprehensively stepped forward, watching Vincent search his face. He had been disarmed, all right. They all wondered when they started to fumble. “Your Holiness, I’ll take my leave. Meeting at three?” 

“Yes, yes of course,” Vincent stammered, glancing between Aldo and Fishie, who already had his hand resting flat on the office’s double doors, “See you soon, Eminence.” 

The doors shut. 

There were slides, probably somewhere buried in Aldo’s office, about twenty years old. Aldo pulled open a dusty cupboard, finding coils of developed film and boxes of color-positive slide film. He used to be a rather adventurous photographer; if one of the Greats said something in a magazine about using military surveillance film, he’d lie his way into getting his own spool. He pushed past heaps of cinema films and eventually dug out a box with the correct date. 

Sun streamed through the blinds, and as Aldo pried open the slides, the light instantly brought the small image to light. 

Slides were like magic. Aldo always struggled with exposure, but when he wasn’t actively an idiot, he could have finished art in his pocket. A window into the past, something replicable again and again in its full fidelity. This was Ektachrome, but it was one of the last batches he had ever picked up. 

Then he kept buying cheaper color-negative films, and Kodak stopped investing in slide films shortly thereafter. After that came the dominance of digital photography. He always tried not to be too upset about it. His shitty cameras never let Ektachrome shine to its full potential, and frankly, new digital sensors were better than them all. 

He held the slides to the light. A man in cardinal red drifted among flowing cattails, his back turned to the lens. The same man sat against the pillars of Mono Lake, his reds contrasted against brilliant russet. And then one taken in the lawn of a cathedral Aldo didn’t quite remember, the man propped up on his elbows, now gazing into the lens with a youthful glow despite his age. For a while, that image had been Fishie’s official portrait, and Aldo had been paid with six tacos for his effort. 

Only a few minutes later, Adeyemi drifted into Aldo’s office, now dressed in a newly-pressed uniform. Aldo’s still needed to hit the dry cleaner’s, and when he stood, a new crease appeared at his knee. 

“You here to collect me?” Aldo teased, watching Adeyemi smile. But it was not directed at him. He ran to pick up Joe, whose flower had finally bloomed. 

“Ah! This is beautiful! Where’d you get this?” Adeyemi said, beaming. 

“A gag gift from the Holy Father,” Aldo answered truthfully. 

Adeyemi paused, setting the plant down with confusion. “Why? Do you not like it? It reminds me of home. Ah! How weakened I am. Missing home after just a day!” 

Stunned, Aldo remembered the little information card. Native to South Africa, and his further research had uncovered that there were native populations all around Eastern Africa. Right. “Well, he did it precisely because it reminds me of home, but it was invasive there. It’s fully legal to uproot. He thought it’d get me mad.” 

With a nod, his colleague said: “But because it’s from him, you take care of it.” Wistfully, he hummed. 

Dark times had befallen them. Literally. Briefing Room B was large enough to handle their small gaggle of politicians, aid workers, and lost priests, which would be amazing if it wasn’t in the fucking basement without window access. The Pope—honest to God—wheezed when he pushed open the door, and he reemerged with his robes two shades darker. 

“Let’s go down the hall,” he croaked. 

Aldo suppressed the urge to rush to Vincent’s side, to hold his heaving body as he hacked out the dust from his lungs. Meanwhile, the politicians shuffled awkwardly, clasping their hands behind their backs, already poised to flee. 

Briefing Room A was a little smaller and far less dusty. It sat between floors, undecided between the savagery of the basement and ground floor civilization. Aldo had almost been fired here once, and judging from the twisted look on Adeyemi’s face, so had he. In the light filtering through a yellowed plastic skylight, plumes of dust mated in the stagnant air. One of the Guards had to stand on the O-shaped table to crack the skylight open, and the room exploded in a blinding glare. 

“I had no idea the Vatican is in such a state of disrepair,” said one of the politicians, unloading a comically-large iPad. 

An air of satisfaction fell over the Holy Father, and Vincent sat up straight. People all glanced towards his serene smile, including a rather awestruck Adeyemi. 

“I, too, had no idea,” Innocent replied, earning a little flurry of chuckles from the crowd, “but we’re all here to fix it, however many meetings it will take us.” 

Gravely, a blonde woman from the refugee legal team said: “I appreciate the sentiment, Your Holiness, but we don’t have time.” 

Off to the side, Adeyemi nodded, although bowing his head as if ashamed. 

“Yes, today we shall have an official statement,” Aldo offered, although he may have been getting ahead of himself with the promise, “by tomorrow it shall be released, and then we go from there. Our hopes are that more substantial international backlash can follow.” 

Sometimes Aldo wished the Papal States were still a thing, and he could personally command a Navy to go invade places. Of course, he couldn’t imagine a world in which Tedesco had been two steps away from having his own nuclear weapon codes, and everyone would be obligated to listen to classical Italian opera and/or Lynyrd Synyrd. He may also ban the Arabic language, meaning Bohemian Rhapsody would be eliminated on a technicality. Why was he even bothering to think of Tedesco? That man had been taken off a ventilator two days ago; he was totally incapacitated. If today went to shit, Aldo only had himself to blame. 

He glanced between his buddy diplomat, who was cheekily smiling at him, and the blonde woman, who glared. When Aldo had shaken her hand, she had introduced herself as a specialist for queer refugees. Very nonchalantly she had added: “None of my colleagues have ever been invited to Rome before.” 

Aldo had watched Adeyemi awkwardly fiddle with the straps of his tote bag. 

“If anyone here tries to edit in any line about ‘family values,’ my team will take that as capitulation to the Ugandan government,” she said, gaze boring into Adeyemi. She clearly knew her targets. Aldo couldn’t help but wonder how big of a hypocrite she must be viewing himself as. 

Sabbadin, underneath the table, pinched Aldo’s thigh, forcing him to look upon his panicked expression. He was pushing the fine, delicate nib of his fountain pen into his notepad, and a purple blotch was steadily convulsing on the page, seeping into the aged wooden table. 

Adeyemi nodded again, his hands folded in front of him. “I believe, perhaps, that we should include it only to mean the government should not feel as if they can tear families apart, to rip a child away for merely a perceived flaw of a parent. Or parents forced to lie about their child so they’re not reprimanded for ‘encouraging unnatural behavior.’ Because this is what this is: irrationality.” 

Aldo couldn’t help himself; Sabbadin’s jaw was agape, and he ought to steady his friend before he fainted. If only the room wasn’t so starkly silent, he’d lean over and whisper: “I think you’re right about the lesbian mistress thing.” 

This was the same man who hadn’t batted an eye towards higher age of consent laws for same-sex relations, if it wasn’t outright illegal already. Same man who stood in the ranks of conservative bishops, arguing that the homosexuals should not be priests. Same man who wondered what the little girl victim had done while swarming to shield a boy victim. Same man who got enraged with the late Holy Father when he expressed sympathy for mothers dying in the fearful landscape of post-Roe America. Same man who had said God-knows-what to a young, pregnant Shanumi years ago, and continued to harp on the sisters’ vows of obedience despite knowing she had leadership positions as a nurse. Aldo could go on. Adeyemi had been a mere calmer version of all the conservative fanatics he feared. He could listen with a straight face for hours—perhaps it was this very quality that had made him the ideal conservative candidate until his fall—but he would turn around and forget it all when it came time for decisions. 

Of course Aldo believed in change! But he couldn’t understand this. Was this ass-kissing? But Adeyemi, for better or for worse, always seemed legitimately principled. Either his integrity had given out, or he had somehow…started to loosen up? Aldo didn’t think a scorned man would start to loosen up, despite what Vincent was saying. 

Innocent ended up doing the work of a frozen Sabbadin, and he said: “Let’s put that in the letter. It’s very good.” 

The meeting progressed, and their group condensed. People stood around close to the Holy Father, beginning to throw ideas into the atmosphere, increasingly conspiratorial in tone. The diplomats started to bring up practical dangers to democracy. What is deviant behavior? It can be anything, a whole political party, even! Adeyemi likened “aggressive, baseless measures” to indulgences, likelier to drive people away from faith and virtue than to ensnare them, which wasn’t the point anyway! At least it seemed he hadn't totally changed. The blonde woman had bristled and embarked on a spiel of church and state separation, which she also admitted was a bit tricky to argue in the midst of the Vatican. One politician loathfully said that his mother—a teenage bride—had never been allowed to divorce his father because her lesbianism would be discovered in court, and he would have never seen her again. Momentarily, Sabbadin extended his hand to cover the man’s wrist, his lips pressed thin, and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes. People looked at Aldo, consistently looked at him, begging…desperate. He said nothing, he said nothing, he said—

Buzzwords galore! Talks about migration and international duty to accept refugees— 

The blank stare of the blonde woman reminded him that nothing he was saying was impassioned. All meaningless stuff that anyone would have added. He still shook when considering if he ought to share his own experiences—

The bright light shining in the meeting room warmed itself, turning a vibrant, technicolor orange. Adeyemi’s eyes ablaze, the reddish tones in Vincent’s skin all the more apparent. The glare in Aldo’s glasses was unshakeable. He took them off. He swore he could still see the same. 

Pastries were brought in, crumbs beginning to dot the tables. Aldo fixed everyone coffee from a dented liter-size French press. Mostly, he was patted on the back for effort, and politicians made up flavor notes that surely didn’t exist, just to boost his pride. No pun intended. Adeyemi and the blonde woman were locked in a debate over whether Third Wave coffee was actually ethical and how migrant labor went unnoticed. All while drinking the Third Wave coffee, of course. 

In the blink of an eye, it was dark, and a draft was marked up on a luxurious, cream sheet. Aldo reviewed it, his fingers brushing over newly-dried ink. In the meantime, Sabbadin was actively typing it up, boasting how inflammatory it was. By Aldo’s side, he could feel Vincent’s breathing, growing shallower as the examination persisted. 

Indeed, the letter had it all. A summary of the disastrous effects of the new law, the progressive redefinition of “family values” that Adeyemi had suggested. Aldo reread a passage on how it was so easy to scapegoat an uniquely vulnerable population, creating a landslide ought to be nipped in the bud. He held his breath as he softened its language, instead scribbling in how the Church ought to protect vulnerable citizens, regardless of background. His fingers burned. He was gripping the pen too hard; Sabbadin would kill him for the disastrous handling of the nice pen he wasn’t supposed to own. They reviewed the call to action for local bishops to speak up against the weaponization of their Church. The blonde woman scribbled in links for migrant organizations. 

“It is done,” breathed Innocent. 

Not truly done, naturally. A larger media team would make final edits and prep a questions-and-answer sheet for all of them, just to stave off prying, rabid media. There would be policy action, more speeches and interviews, and Adeyemi would have to return home only to instantly leave and make connections in Uganda. 

Nevertheless, the frenzy had broken. Surface tension reestablished itself, and everyone returned to their seats to pack. Poised and smoothed yet again, the participants wished the Pope goodbye in all the meaningless pleasantries that had been abandoned during deliberations. The people who had used Aldo’s first name immediately forgot it. Sabbadin’s calming gestures had reduced to gruff handshakes and blank stares. 

Aldo turned to Vincent, who for once, seemed relieved. 

Never before had Aldo noticed that Vincent had never, ever, carried a look of relief since he had known him. 

“I’ve been given some crazy things in return for flattering pictures,” Aldo was saying, gripping the steering wheel with unnecessary fortitude, “Lowenstein gave me a Lamy 2k for his official portrait, but I let Sabbadin steal it, considering I hadn’t handwritten anything in about two years.” 

“Did he ever find out?” Vincent had dangerously curled up in the passenger seat, and his eyes glittered as he looked up at Aldo. 

Aldo shrugged. “It’s a basic-looking thing. So, probably not. The reason it’s so damn expensive is because the pen has multiple parts, but the margins are so small, it looks like one single piece. I suppose it’s midcentury, too, but again, I don’t write anymore. God bless the scrutineer who had to read my ballots.” 

“Had a hard time reading your edits tonight.” Then, Vincent directed Aldo to turn left. 

They were on the way to Ami’s, to celebrate, apparently. Aldo had circled around the Vatican for hours, trying to find a trace of Fishie—he wasn’t in his room, either—and eventually capitulated to Vincent’s request to go out. Vincent had frowned when Aldo recounted the story, saying that if he had been around, he would have welcomed Fishie on the ride. The mention of Fishie had then gotten them into discussing Aldo’s role as an unpaid headshot generator for Linkedin and illicit Hinge pages alike. 

“Aldo, will you provide your creative labor for the book launch?” Vincent said, turning up the volume of what he described as “Italian Tame Impala.” 

“I thought you already had a cover.” 

Like all papal book covers, it was just some black-and-white portrait, preferably shot on an 85 millimeter lens and in really inopportune lighting conditions! The only acceptable poses would be either waving to a fake crowd or Rodin’s The Thinker. Aldo had glimpsed some of the preliminary jpegs, finding them inoffensive enough. And the photographer had been astute enough to listen to Vincent’s “no side profile” rule. 

Now, Vincent shrugged. Nonchalantly, he said: “I rejected them all. Feel bad for the photographer, but I think she got paid anyway.” 

“She likely has. Was there something wrong with the edits?” 

“You know how when you listen to your voice, you’re like ‘no way I actually sound like that?’ Same thing. I didn’t want to publish a book I couldn’t look at.” Vincent sounded…chirpy. Like a little tweety bird, which was really strange for the content of his message. 

Aldo frowned, unsure of how to respond. Was it the focal length? 85 millimeters was quite forgiving, but maybe she had shot it on cropped settings? A trick of the shitty lighting? 

Vincent straightened, clapping his hands together. “But it’s a great opportunity to get something really creative on the cover! I was thinking still life.” 

It took everything within Aldo to suppress a groan. He had started with landscapes, naturally evolved to wildlife, but the rest of his life, people had forced him into portraits and now still life? “I’m not good at still life. Indoor lighting…eludes me. But what image did you have in mind?” 

“Something from my childhood. It’s a biography thing, no? Perhaps a pitcher of juice, and a sliced prickly pear, framed with a kitchen window. It’s specific, but I’ve always been able to find it growing wherever I’ve went.” 

Yes, prickly pear was widespread and often invasive. It had swarmed the Australian desert, garnering it the nickname “the green hell.” In Italy, Aldo found it much more contained, but it was even visible from the Papal Offices despite no one actually planting them in the gardens. There was no doubt it had followed Vincent around the globe. 

Aldo could only think about how difficult it would be to expose such a shot. “I think I can help find you a similar image if I doomscroll Flickr for a week, and we can get the rights to the image. Or, I can go out and find some in natural lighting.” 

“Is it selfish to say I wanted a picture from you?” 

Why me? It was hard to even form the question on his tongue, but it bounced off the walls of his skull. For a Vincent biography, Aldo probably made it onto a mere footnote. He tried to think whether Vincent had ever seen his portfolio. He glanced at the Holy Father, who looked delightfully hopeful. He finally managed to utter it, and instead of seeing offense, Vincent cocked his head. 

“It seems like all of my colleagues have hired their friend. Is that wrong to want?” 

Aldo chuckled, disbelieving. “Not to call you naive, Your Holiness, but ninety-nine percent of them just wanted cheap—even free—labor. Nothing personal. Even that expensive pen was still cheaper than all of the good photographers in Rome.” 

“Maybe I should get you another,” Vincent mused, “oh, shouldn’t I be critiquing your curbside parking?” 

“You mean Sabbadin will get another Lamy 2k! At least get him the green one this time.” 

This time, Ami was waiting for them on the sidewalk, tantalizingly waving a bottle of Aperol in front of Aldo’s very eyes. Ami looked Aldo over and said: “Did you dress up?” 

By this point, the Holy Father and his cardinal had merged, close enough for their blood to be shared between them. Which had surely been replaced by the acerbic, tangy orange liquid. 

“Doesn’t this look like Briefing Room A?” Aldo said, slamming Vincent into a playful headlock to wrestle the Aperol from his greedy little hands. 

Vincent could barely look around, but he agreed. “It’s better. Homey.” 

Turned out Ami lived in the basement of the record shop, and boxes of new stock stacked up against the peeling stucco walls. If it were morning, light would have filtered in from frosted windows on the ceiling. The rooms were open-concepted to hell, and before the alcohol had started flowing, Aldo had been acutely uncomfortable at peering into a near-stranger’s private spaces. Now he was drunk enough to even ignore the deluge of Maximum the Hormone tracks in the background. 

“If Anais were here, she wouldn’t have let you two drink that thing straight,” Ami said, finally snatching the bottle from Aldo’s hands, “we came here for cocktails.” 

Vincent groaned, his head falling limply onto the couch. That fucking couch! It was the very piece of furniture Aldo had been two minutes late to claim on Facebook Marketplace. He had spent years wondering who had scored such wonderful art only to find it in a record shop basement! He had cursed Ami out, and Ami barked with laughter. 

“Ugh, I need to meet Anais!” Vincent’s words were slurring together. 

Lightweight, Aldo teased. His legs were putty. 

“You will,” Ami replied, “she’s always here now. She fucking like…replaced my entire shower setup. That’s how crazy it is right now. And she claimed my favorite towel for herself!” 

Aldo chuckled, dreamily saying: “Isn’t that the worst?” 

“You win some, you lose some,” said Ami, taking a small sip from his half-finished beer. 

Vincent collapsed against the couch cushions, suddenly torn away from Aldo and Ami. The cold immediately rushed to fill where he had once lay. Aldo shivered. Now alone, Vincent looked quite tiny. “You lose some,” he echoed, shaking his head. 

Ami stood up, fluid and sober. “Before I forget, I come bearing gifts!” —he leaned in towards a giggling Vincent— “call me goddamn Baltasar.” 

“You’re not funny!” Vincent called after Ami, who came back with one of the stacked boxes. 

“Before you guys complain about my…generosity, I’ll have you know I got these as a loyalty reward from the T-shirt guys,” Ami announced, taking out a stack of black fabric. He flung a blob in Vincent’s direction, who failed to catch it. They unfurled in his lap. 

“We all know Vincent hates white, so we got you good clothes. Shit you wouldn’t dare ask your Prefect for—” 

Vincent hated white? Aldo hadn’t known about that. He lazily observed Vincent unfolding his small stack of bootleg band shirts. They all seemed to be from rock bands; Aldo only recognized System of a Down. The Holy Father was beaming, laughing, talking about some random albums and throwing a pillow at Ami when he admitted he really didn’t like one of them. 

“And for the Secretary,” Ami handed Aldo a shirt, “let’s call it a joint effort.” 

In the background, Aldo could already hear Vincent cackling in anticipation. He heaved a sigh. Here goes nothing. He unfolded the shirt and read out: “I am the State. Is this Louis the 14th?” 

“With your face on it.” 

Aldo blinked. “Yep. I noticed that. Dear God.” 

“Look, you have hair now!” 

Ami grabbed Vincent’s shoulder and shook it, vibrating the whole man like a ragdoll. “This isn’t even as bad as that one shirt that guy wore. What was it? Some performative shit.” 

“Ami, you told me men who wear trendy slogans and Doc Marten loafers are trying to get women. This one is trying to get me?” 

“I’ll admit,” said Aldo, glaring at Vincent, “I have no idea where to wear this to. At least Adeyemi was trying to look…progressive.” 

“And you’ll inspire fear,” Vincent offered, unable to keep down a laugh. Oh, he was so drunk. His entire face was red! Aldo self-consciously touched his own cheeks. 

“Hm. I needed a sleep shirt. Why not?” 

Aldo normally slept shirtless; he got too hot but also needed a heavy blanket. But ever since Thomas had been staying nights, Aldo had been wearing scratchy, threadbare and ancient undershirts. One millimeter tighter, and they’d be obscene. The only thing worse would be clammy fingertips against his bare shoulder…the knobs of his friend’s spine indenting into his belly…and his breath. Jesus fucking Christ…he slept so frequently against Aldo’s chest. The thought of warmed water vapor dancing across his naked collarbone, the furs on his chest…

Downright dizzying. 

God’s hand then dropped Aldo, and he was allowed to make one of the dumbest mistakes of his life. 

Dreamy, loose, and fucking drunk, he piped up: “Oh my God, Thomas will throw a fit when he comes over!” 

Vincent choked. Ami yelled: “Who’s Thomas?” 

Aldo, forcibly sobered just a little, scrambled to defend himself at the same time Vincent was trying to jog Ami’s memory. 

“The Dean, Ami! He’s friends with Aldo; we went to see the turtles together!” 

“Friends?” 

“We just work together late sometimes!” Aldo protested. 

Vincent grasped Aldo’s knee. “No, no. I saw you guys. He fell asleep on you—” 

“You were there, too! Hypocrite!” 

“But was Vincent on you? Not gonna lie, this is kinda cute,” Ami said, teasingly. Then, searching Aldo’s distressed face, he seemed to backtrack. “Actually, I think you two need to get sober.” 

He padded off to fetch some water. The glasses were warm from the dishwater, almost impossible to hold. Delicately, Aldo decanted some of it through his lips, the voice of the Holy Father still losing his shit echoing in the background. From his peripheral vision, he could see Ami trying to force-feed poor Vincent. 

“What if I consecrate it?” 

“I’ll still make you drink it.” 

Vincent turned to Aldo, and he found him a very sudden enigma. He looked relaxed, somewhat euphoric, but Aldo couldn’t shake off the feeling that Vincent also looked…scared. Terrified, almost. Ami was standing by with a whole-ass measuring cup full of ice water. 

“Aldo, you have my blessing,” Vincent said, theatrically. 

“What?” Aldo’s first thought was offence. He didn’t need permission! Not from Vincent, at least. 

Even Ami said: “Are you the Dean’s dad?” 

“Doesn’t help that we all call each other ‘Father’,” Aldo said, sardonically. 

“I’m just saying, you won’t find anything but acceptance from me. But only in exchange for helping me embarrass him at every opportunity. I need an ally.” Vincent grabbed the measuring cup and sipped from it. He exhaled. “It’s nice when he takes it easy.” 

In the background, Aldo could hear that Ami had clearly Googled Thomas. “He gave a five star review to Dan Brown? On Goodreads? But he looks so intelligent! Can we send him a vintage styling box?” 

Aldo cackled. “I swear to God, you two will turn him into Adeyemi.” 

Vincent spilled his water while choking yet again. 

Aldo returned to the Vatican running on the fumes of euphoria. Ami had driven them back, and Aldo had been a giggling mess in the backseat, spurred on by the wasted Holy Father. Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn’t returned wearing one of the bootleg metal shirts. Even in that inebriated state, the dark, stoic halls had dulled Vincent into solemnity, and the walk back to his quarters persisted in absolute silence. 

“Hadn’t had a night like that in…years,” Vincent said, softly. A couple of guards lingered just outside earshot, and Vincent frantically glanced at them every other minute. 

“Same,” Aldo breathed, “not much to celebrate.” 

“Not even me?” 

“Oh, piss off!” —Aldo smiled— “and now you’re pouting at me? Your Holiness!” 

One of the guards turned their way. Vincent was thankfully unaware. The Pope shrugged, balancing himself against the wall. 

The man laughed, his voice gravely and spent. Aldo didn’t think he sounded much better. “Goodmorning, Eminence.” 

They parted. Aldo nearly staggered down the hall, the events of the night still echoing in his skull. How was he to get back home? Whatever. No fucks to give! He smiled. He didn’t always like it; his lips were always chapped to absolute fuck, and he could feel his flesh tearing when Thomas told jokes on cold, dry nights. 

Thomas…

There he was, locking the door to his office. Dear God, where was his cassock? He had slippers on his feet and clutched a bathrobe to his chest. And he had noticed Aldo. 

Aldo waved at Thomas, nearing him only to see his face grow more and more confused. “Oh, come on, Thomas, seeing me out now isn’t strange. It’s you. Like the old days. All nighters and—” 

Thomas anxiously clutched at the doorknob, his key still lodged inside. “Aldo? What are you— Wait, are you drunk?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” —He clutched his friend’s shoulders— “Why are you so pale?” 

With a nervous chuckle, Thomas whispered: “Oh, just the light. I’ll fetch you some water.” 

While Thomas reopened his door and stepped aside to let Aldo in, he continued rambling: “No, I swear it’s not the light. Is it me? I’ve scared you..” 

“No, no, my dear. It’s not you, although I’ll admit I’ve never been sober while you’ve been plastered,” Thomas smiled with amusement. Cute as hell. 

“My dear.” Vincent was right. Why the hell was Aldo fooling himself? He watched Thomas tremble as he pulled open his ancient cupboard, and mountains of poorly-stacked sheets tumbled out. The man swore. 

Thomas sighed, but before he had any time to make a movement, Aldo was upon him. He found Thomas’ shoulders again, apparently forcefully enough so his friend stumbled back into the wall. “Aldo?” 

Aldo kissed him. 

Aug 27

It was hot enough that perhaps hell descended on the Vatican. Flies had come to land upon glassy-eyed sardines, their flesh sagging and shining under the oppressive rays. And they were dead, but they were breathing. In and out, consistent and forceful. The sweet music of hymns echoed in the background, but all Aldo could hear was the breathing. 

In and out. 

The glassy eyes of the sardines, dazed in the heat. 

Across the pavilion, Aldo locked eyes with Vincent, who only had one spot of white on him, right upon his head. He blended in with the rest of them, a stylistic choice that Aldo knew he had offered behind closed doors. Because no one would dare ask him, even if they wanted to. Beside him, Adeyemi was mumbling prayers. 

Lots of telephoto lenses surrounded them on rooftops, on raised press platforms. The curvature of the lenses that Aldo coveted so so badly directed concentrated sunlight directly into their faces. 

Poor Thomas was squinting, shifting his head to avoid the wretched glare. His ornate dress rippled as he moved, now bent over his homily. He was the perfect balance, indeed. The Holy Father was too new, too impersonal. Aldo…well…he would conduct his own memorial mass in private. Anything to honor Cagnati’s legacy would be to betray him, to reveal too much. 

His voice was muffled under the breathing. Aldo had passed the fish market on his way—bent under the weight of his duffel bag and lugging a suitcase—watching a woman scoop the withering sardines into a plastic bag before the sun spoiled them completely. 

A brass cross glinted in the sunlight. The breathing stopped. 

Hadn’t he said that cross was to go to Tedesco? Shouldn’t it be him at the pulpit, were he not blissfully asleep, clutching the arm of a plush toy? 

Heavy wood slid into place, trapping humid and heated air inside. The cross was laid on top. 

It was sudden, so sudden. The procession moved like sullen ants, but to Aldo’s right, Fishie crumbled into a sea of red, not quite fainted but certainly not present. Aldo caught him, aided by the blurry face of a brother cardinal. Red silk tangled between Fishie’s knees, and he was weak. Every step up brought him back down, just like newborn foals. 

The procession couldn’t stop. 

“Beautiful aircraft,” said Fishie, shielding his eyes from the setting sun. 

“Yes, amazing,” Aldo said, their shoulders brushing as the bus brought them to a halt outside an ITA Airbus A350. 

There was something about the way that the plane was built. New construction materials allowed for her iconic, subtly-curved winglets. Almost all of them were painted so that the windshield was wearing permanent eyeliner, even if Thomas thought it made her look like a raccoon. Despite all of that, the lines of her tail—the vertical and horizontal stabilizers—were cutting. The aircraft stood out from boring white AirFrance and boring white British Airways; she was a metallic blueberry. Sleek, shiny, and new. And yet…the APU exhaust on the back of the fuselage had stained the surrounding metal black with grime. Somehow, it all felt contradictory and perfect. 

Fishie nudged him. Playfully, he said: “Even for an Airbus?” 

Aldo nodded. “Even for Airbus.” 

Thankfully, Fishie had scored them business-class tickets using his miles, so they boarded from the forward door. Aldo nearly fell on his face while leaning to get a good view of the flight deck. All glass cockpit, with a head-up display on both seats! 

Fishie sighed, settling into his window seat. The least Aldo could give him was that. “You didn’t have to come, you know.” 

“I’ll brave Shit Diego for you. It’s alright. And…I get out of work.” Aldo patted his mentor’s arm. 

“I was saving miles for him,” said Fishie, “go somewhere nice. And look at us now…using it to leave Rome for Shit Diego.” 

“I don’t think the local cardinal should be calling it Shit Diego.” 

Fishie shrugged. He grinned, relaxed. “Don’t tell them. I didn’t raise no snitch, Aldo.” 

After takeoff, which Aldo had been ardently tracking on a woefully-glitchy seatback display, the flight attendants handed out headphones to help everyone ignore each other as well as shareable caviar to get people to interact. “God, our winds are terrible.” 

Their ground speed was inching slower by the moment. 

“We’re not in a rush,” Fishie pointed out. Suddenly, he said: “Meeting your buddy Pope was interesting.” 

“How was he?” 

“Oh, very pleasant. Respectful and a bit funny,” Fishie said, although he frowned. With a sigh, he continued: “I don’t think he’ll last.” 

Aldo shook his head. “He’s healthy. Is he…not?” 

“He’s fine. But I think God has a path for us all…I don’t think I’ll see him for a long while. What a shame.” 

“Has he…accepted your retirement?” 

Weakly, Fishie shook his head. “But I’m on a timeline, if that’s what you’re asking. He has recruited my help cleaning up Venice and some other minor things. Custodial work. I do think I’ll see Tedesco again; I have something to give him.” 

Fishie dug in his pocket, taking out a pectoral cross that shot Aldo with memories. “This was not the one on the coffin. Alfie switched them a while back. Ideological changes and whatnot.” He turned over the metal, tracing his thumbnail over a small fish carved into the underside. 

“Why, though? They always fought.” 

“Beats me, honestly. But we all know that sharing your life with someone is a farce. Love them all you want, but they will always be unknowable to us. I can imagine that perhaps begrudgingly, Alfie cared for someone who struggled against him every…single…day. Maybe it’s admirable.” 

Fishie reached out, his arm snaking behind Aldo’s head and gently pressing against his cheek, guiding him down. Aldo rested his head against Fishie’s shoulder, willing himself to relax and ignore the tears biting behind his eyes. 

They breathed, exhales matching each other. 

When their airspeed finally hit 420 knots, they were both comfortable enough to laugh like teenagers.