Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

If you do not know,

O most beautiful among women,

follow in the tracks of the flock,

and pasture your young goats

beside the shepherds’ tents.

- Song of Solomon 1:8

~ ❦ ~

The turtle died on Monday.

It happened during morning Mass, when most of the Swiss guards stationed around St Peter’s Basilica to ensure the Pope’s safety and the Gendarmerie was busy patrolling the area around the church.

The building was always packed with faithful. There were nuns with rosaries wrung around their delicate fingers. Priests, old and new, silently admired Pope Innocentius XIV behind the benches, the light pooling from the stained glass windows enveloping him in a golden aura that made him look like an angel come from Above. Cardinals listened closely to the soft words of his homily at the front, a sea of red surrounding the altar, their wrinkly hands joined in prayer and foreheads bowed with reverence.

There had been no one in the Gardens at that hour to stop the small reptile from straying too far from its pond, leaving its brethren behind to paddle in the water as their brother met an untimely end on the hot asphalt.

Had it been a car? A truck? Perhaps some scooter carelessly mavouvered by a high schooler, drunk on the freedom provided by the road? There was no way to tell and, frankly, it didn’t matter.

Countless of animals died like that. Mostly during the night, when visibility was reduced. Cats, rats, even foxes sometimes. Their limp bodies would lay on the road, the street red around them, until some kind soul moved them aside or the traffic reduced the corpses to an unrecognizable pink pulp.

It mostly happened on roads in the countryside, or on the outskirts of cities, where grass grew taller and nature was closer to man. But casualties happened even in the beating heart of Rome, and so it was that stray cats would disappear overnight and that the body of a lone turtle would show up out of seemingly nowhere.

God had welcomed its soul into His realm right as Pope Innocent XIV had raised the host above the altar, silence falling among the faithful. A quiet, heavy stillness, respectful of the Sacrament turning the wine and the white bread into something more, something sacred.

One of the gardeners had found the body, on his way to start his shift.

A couple of hours later the Pope personally asked the man to describe the scene to him.

The turtle had been sitting right in the middle of the road - the gardener had recalled - resting on its shell. A long crack had opened after the impact, and a trickle of blood had created a crimson puddle on the ground. The turtle’s tiny legs, so small yet so resilient, had been turned towards the sunny sky, as if the animal had reached for it in its final moments on Earth, ‘as if it knew what waits beyond’, the gardener had said, lowering his head.

Summer was hot and humid in Italy. Rome, in paticular, was an oven.

The roads were the main problem. Too many, too cramped with vehicles. A magnet for the heat.

That was why flies had been alredy dancing around the turtle’s corpse when the gardener had arrived.

With a wave of his meaty hand, he’d shooed the insects away. He’d picked the turtle up, cradling it between his fingers like a precious gemstone, and had set off to find a Swiss guard or some other official to deliver the news to the Holy Father. Everyone knew Innocent cared deeply for those round-shelled creatures, even more than his predecessor had.

The Pope had been informed by a member of the Gendarmerie right after he’d concluded the Mass. Thomas, who’d kept his postion as Dean of the College of Cardinals under Innocent’s papacy, had been with him when the guard had approached them and had briefly asked to have a word with the Holy Father.

Thomas, much to his chagrin, had watched as Innocent’s smile had quirked downwards upon hearing the unfortunate news, delivered in a monotone, almost cold voice.

“È stato il Signor Gigliotti a trovarla, Santità,” ^1-1 the guard had said.

Innocent had nodded somberly, hands clasped together in front of him.

“Preghiamo che il nostro amico rettile troverà più sicurezza vicino al Signore.”^1-2

He’d crossed himself, and Thomas had done the same. Then, the Holy Father had switched back to English, since Italian, a language he hadn’t gotten the chance to practice during his time in Kabul, still proved to have some intricasies for him.

“Thank you for telling me,” Innocent had adressed the guard. “Please make sure its body is buried, and not thrown in one of the trash bins.”

The guard had nodded, then had saluted and left the Basilica, off to ensure the Pope’s orders would be obeyed.

Innocent had then turned to Thomas, the sparkle he usually carried in his eyes after Mass no longer there.  His gaze had been sadder. Guilty. As if it had been his fault that the turtle had been run over.

“I’m deeply sorry, Your Holiness,” Thomas had said. He probably should have added something else at the time, something more comforting, but the Brit had never been good with his own feelings, let alone someone else’s.

And so, he’d stood silent as cardinals and monsignors began moving around them, each too preoccupied by their own problems to notice the Pope’s sagging shoulders and lowered stare.

Everyone except for Thomas. Thomas always noticed. He couldn’t help it. As Dean, Thomas worked closely with the Holy Father, taking part in meetings and often accompanying him in his travels around the world. It was only normal that he’d learned to pick up a hint or two.

After a beat of silence between them, Innocent tilted his head in Thomas’s direction, dark brown meeting blue as their eyes locked together.

“Would you like to join me on a walk in the Gardens? I’d like to speak personally with Carmelo,” he’d asked.

Thomas hadn’t been surprised at the use of the gardener’s first name.

Innocent had met with pretty much every sigle member of staff during his first few days as Pope. He had shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with all of them, smiling, benevolent, his white cassock swishing behind him as the light reflected on the white fabric and enveloped him in a kind of holy light.

When his schedule allowed it, Innocent often stopped to check in on their day or have a coffee together with the people who helped run the perpetually working machine that was the Vatican. The Holy Father had learned all their names, a feat only made possible by his relatively young age, and so nuns, Swiss guards and priests greeted him with a smile every time they crossed paths with the Pope.

It was no longer only an act of reverence. It was the happiness he brought to the faithful, the knowledge they weren’t simply people in the background to him. Thomas found himself smiling like them when he happened to come across Innocent in the hallways or when he was summoned into his office.

So, he’d agreed to the Pope’s request in the Basilica without much of a second thought, and his personal Swiss Guards – Mael and Leonardo - had quickly run up to them as soon as they’d seen Innocent walk out of the church with his Dean.

After Mr Gigliotti finished his sad tale, Thomas accompanied Innocent to the turtle pond to check if something was amiss, even if both men secretly knew it hadn’t been lack of food or dirty water what had made the turtle try its luck with the traffic outside.

They found the rest of the turtles completely unbothered. A couple were sunbathing near the stone wall, while the others were calmly paddling in the water, swimming under lilypads and bumping their noses together.

They probably hadn’t even noticed one of their own was gone. And yet, Innocent considered them ‘clever’.

“It doesn’t look like anything’s wrong, Your Holiness,” Thomas observed, the July sun making him sweat under the layers of clothes he was wearing. He glanced behind him towards the Swiss guards and wondered just how they managed to stand up for so long under the scorching heat, clad in their long-sleeved uniforms.

Innocent hummed and pursed his lips, brows furrowing in an expression that meant he was thinking deeply about something. Thomas pushed aside the rising questions in his head asking him how and when exactly he’d started to understand the Pope’s facial movements, choosing to place a comforting hand on his arm instead.

“And the dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it,” ^1-3he cited, and Innocent turned his head to smile at him. He brushed Thomas’s hand with his fingertips and the Dean, remembering there were guards – devoted and trustworthy, of course, but witnesses nonetheless – behind them and that they were in a public setting, let his arm fall to his side once again.

Him and Innocent were colleagues, confidants since the days prior the Holy Father’s election. A particulalry bold thinker could have maybe gone as far as to call them ‘friends’, though their relationship was in no way close to the real meaning of such a word.

Thomas could be considered friends with Aldo. With Ray, even, but not with Innocent.

Aldo – the Secretary of State to that day - was the closest out of the two no doubt. He and Thomas had worked side by side for many years and they shared certain viewpoints that had made the bond easier to tie. The Dean often found himself visiting the Secretary’s apartment to nurse a glass of wine in good company after a long day at the Vatican, or welcoming Aldo in his own for similar reasons.

Who knew? Maybe he could have had something similar with Innocent, if the Lord had planned a different ending for the Conclave. Now, it was no longer possible to nurse such thoughts. Innocent was no longer Your Eminence, he was Your Holiness, and certain boundaries had to be maintained.

Thomas had been close with the late Holy Father once, true, but their excanges had still never crossed a certain line of propriety. In the end, they’d always been the Supreme Pontiff and his Dean. That was why Thomas had taken a figurative step back after Innocent’s election, though (and may God forgive him for harboring such feelings) he felt a tang of disappointement curl around his chest every time he was reminded of what could have been.

Thomas had confessed to it more than once, but so far, the thoughts stubbornly remained lurking in his mind. And right when he’d started to perceive the Holy Spirit’s presence beside him once again!

By the pond, the feeling of Innocent’s touch on Thomas’s fingers stubbornly refused to fade after he dropped his hand. The Pope contemplated the pond, as if pleading its inhabitants with silence alone could have ensured their future safety from the vehicles running rampant outside.

Thomas knew the turtle’s death would occupy Innocent’s mind for a while. He was already a few months into his papacy, and yet that had been the first time a creature had met its end outside of the pond since the late Holy Father’s passing.

Innocent cared for the turtles. He visited them every morning after he got dressed and every night before dinner, bringing lettuce and other goods to the pond. The turtles had taken quite a liking to him, and some even allowed Innocent to pet them. The Holy Father often got so caught up into such visits that Thomas had to physically walk to the pond and remind him that he had duties waiting for him beyond the gate.

Thomas didn’t particularly like having to do that. He suspected Innocent loved the turtles so much because they were one of the few things left in his life that he could enjoy privately.

The papacy, after all, was a heavy burden.

It was, in all honesty, quite ironic. Innocent was The Pope™, spiritual leader of over a billion faithful, the most powerful man in the Catholic Church, and yet, he was the least free. A golden cage still had bars, Thomas guessed with a faint smirk.

One of the sunbathing turtles got up to waddle towards the water, and that was when Innocent’s phone buzzed in his pocket. The vibration snapped the two men back to reality.

Innocent fumbled with his cassock and took out a fairly beat-up cellphone. The small, black device looked like it had lived through several bombings. Its screen was cracked, and the cellphone in itself was so old that it charged extremely slowly, and only in a very specific position (upside-down on the nightstand).

Aldo had once proposed to change it, given that Innocent’s new position required a functional cellular. The Holy Father, however, had waved his hands dismissively, stating that his phone worked perfectly well and that he was in no need of a new one. He’d been so categorical Aldo hadn’t brought up the issue again.

Innocent, as it had rapidly turned out, was a pretty stubborn Pope.

“Greetings, Raymond,” the Holy Father said into the speaker once he’d accepted the call. Thomas heard the sharp cackle of static, and then the Monsignor’s voice replied from the other end.

As Innocent spoke with Thomas’s personal assistant – assistant that, in a way, had become a shared figure between the Pope and his Dean - about something regarding Innocent’s supposed summer break at Castle Gandolfo, Thomas watched as one of the sunbathing turtles dove into the bright blue water, its surface shimmering with the morning sun.

Thomas badly wished he could dunk his head into the water as well. His cassock was starting to cling to his back from all the sweating.

Suddenly aware that the heat was making him feel lightheaded, he gently ushered Innocent towards the shade alongside himself as Ray talked on the phone in his usual professional tone.

“I assure you, Raymond, as I’ve surely done many times before, that I’m in no need of a vacation,” Innocent said dryly, feet walking on autopilot as Thomas gestured for him to move out of the sun’s beams. The Pope was no doubt more used to the high temperatures than him, but they were both advanced in their age, and a man could never know.

Thomas didn’t catch the Monsignor’s reply as he dabbed at his forehead with a napkin, but it seemed to only annoy Innocent further, as he continued, “Forgive my frankness, but what workload are you talking about? I’ve been Pope for only a handful of months, and in this time I’ve achieved very little. I can’t leave my par – the millions of faithful our Mother Church has for two weeks because you and Cardinal Bellini think it would be better if I hid from the heat.”

The Dean rolled his eyes, and though he couldn’t see it, he suspected Ray had done the same at the other end of the line.

Innocent was an exemplar man, and an exemplar man made for an exemplar Pope: kind, humble, and deeply caring.

The Holy Father had began working towards a better world since day one of his promotion to the Catholic Church’s higher office on mortal land.

His homilies promoted self-care and acceptance. Many fundraisings had been opened per Innocent’s request, and the money collected was used to provide food, water and shelter to those poor souls that needed it most and to send humanitarian aids in those regions of the globe still tackled by war. The Church also invested good sums of money on organizations that promoted accessibility to education for all and that supported the achievement of equal rights for men and women alike.

The Pope himself had chosen to live modestly, becoming a human beacon of his teachings. He’d refused the move into the Apostolic Palace, coming to live in a small room of the Casa Santa Marta instead. Much to Aldo’s chagrin, if Thomas may have added. The poor man now had to constantly run from the Palace to the Santa Marta and viceversa every time Innocent urgently requested a particular document which couldn’t be delivered by e-mail when duty happened to knock at his door in the late evenings – or in the early mornings.

“I swear, one might think he’s trying to kill me,” Aldo had vented to Thomas during one of their catch-up-and-drink-wine evenings. Thomas had simply shook his head lightly and had taken a sip of his drink.

But Aldo’s patience wasn’t being tested by Innocent’s living quarters only.

Just a few weeks after his election, the Secretary had had to wrestle the Pope into wearing something different from his worn-out red Converse shoes (complete with grass stains and dry mud on the soles) for a press conference, because ‘I’m begging you, Your Holiness, the Catholic Church can’t be represented by a man wearing dirty sneakers! Thomas, would you stop grinning and come back me up?’

Thomas was beginning to understand why the late Holy Father had appointed the then Father Benítez as cardinal.

Of course, the was no such a thing as perfect on Earth, and Innocent ‘s virtues were also the cause of some of his negativities.

The Pope’s liberal views annoyed the trationalists to no end, Goffredo Tedesco standing (and vaping) at the top of the list, therefore security measures had been strenghtened more than once to ensure Innocent’s safety while in public. No one in the Vatican had yet forgotten the bombings that had taken place during the Conclave, nor the angry mobs that had stormed St Peter’s Square shortly after the late Pope’s death.

Not to mention that Innocent’s efforts were starting to take a hold on his health.

Thomas had found him passed out more than once in his office, a word document open on his computer’s desktop, cursor blinking on the screen, waiting for input.

Innocent also often skipped lunch or breakfast, and he’d had a nun deliver meals directly to his office more than once, so that he could multi-task at work.

The Pope’s intentions were noble, but those were not feasible options for the long run, hence why Raymond and Aldo had joined forces to convince Innocent into taking a two-week break at the papal summer residence, Castle Gandolfo.

“…a meeting, I see. Very well, if that’ll get things settled. And, one last thing, if you would, Raymond?” Innocent asked, eyes focused on the pond.

For how long had Thomas spaced out? Judging by the amount of sweat running down his back, way too much.

He glanced at the pond from his spot under the shade. The heat had gotten so unbearable all of the turtles were now resting underwater.

“Could I come over to your office later this day? I wanted to ask you something regarding the…well, it’s best if I just explain it in person. Do you have a chart of the Vatican Gardens I could consult?”

The phone let out a prolonged hiss, and the Dean realized a few seconds later that it was the Monsignor’s voice.

“Certainly, Your Holiness. I have a free spot this afternoon at three, and I can provide the chart. Is there anything else I might assist you with?”

Innocent waved a hand in the air, as if the Monsignor could actually see him move.

“No, no, thank you. That’s all.” He checked his wrist watch. “I’m afraid I must end the call now. Cardinal Tedesco will be arriving from Venice shortly, provided his train isn’t late again. Thank you for your time Ray, as always.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow at the mention of the Patriarch’s name. Innocent removed the cellphone from his ear and pressed the ‘End call’ button before slipping it back into his pocket.

He turned towards Thomas with a timid smile and gestured for the guards to follow them. As they began making their way back, the Dean couldn’t help but ask:

“I wasn’t aware of Tedesco’s visit, Your Holiness. Has he requested to meet with you?”

“You didn’t?” Innocent sounded surpised. “Forgive me, I told Cardinal Bellini that I’d notify you myself, but then I must have forgotten.”

“No offense taken, Holy Father. You’re a busy man.”

“Very well. And, to answer your previous question, I was the one who summoned him,” Innocent said. They passed by Mr Gigliotti again, who was busy watering the flowerbeds. The gardener raised his head at the sound of footsteps and politely bowed at them both with a forehead smudged with soil before returning to his work.

“Summoned him for what? Has something happened in Venice?” Thomas inquiered, already imagining the possible scandals, the reports, the press conferences and the paperwork. Especially the paperwork. A new layer of sweat coated the Dean’s forehead, completely unrelated to the heat.

Goffredo Tedesco was like Mount Vesuvio. A dormant volcano, at least since the new papacy, but who knew for how long still?

“Oh, no. I simply wish to speak with him. As I’m sure you’re aware, Cardinal Tedesco is taken as example by many of our colleagues and young priests. His image is an imposive one, and while he may come out as brash and offensive, he’s secretly a very clever man. It would be good to have him support some of our campaigns.”

Thomas hummed, lifting the hem of his cassock with a hand to climb the stairs to the Apostolic Palace more easily. The doubts began creeping in, like cold slipping through the cracks of a roof during winter.

Tedesco was a stubborn man. Thomas couldn’t think of a reason convincing enough that would lead the Patriarch into siding with the more liberal parts of the Church.

But, then again, nothing was impossible for God. ^1-4The Dean forced his perplexities into the back of his mind.

“I see,” he said after a small pause. “Do you think he will actually consider it?”

“I hope so,” Innocent replied. “I shall speak with him over a cup of coffee, or tea. I know his ideas are…radical ones, but I trust that God will lead us towards the path of agreement.”

Thomas hesitated for a brief second, then nodded and followed the Pope through the quiet corridors of the Apostolic Palace.

Their figures looked out of place amidst the richness. Two men who’d vowed their obedience to Christ and his teachings surrounded by grandeur. Thomas understood why Innocent prefered to work in the Casa Santa Marta and was efficiently but quietly transfering some of the most important documents in his make shift office inside his bedroom.

The men’s footsteps, combined with the steady thuds of the guards’ behind them, echoed in the vast rooms, bouncing on the window panes and on the heavily-decorated walls.

The Palazzo had a sitting room fit for welcoming guests, complete with golden chandeliers and frescos, where Innocent hoped to greet Tedesco. Thomas, on the other end, was heading to his office, located not far from it.

Innocent insisted on accompanying him all the way to the door. Since the Patriarch hadn’t yet arrived, Thomas could not find a good enough excuse for denying him the pleasure. He wondered what the Pope found in his sunken eyes and deathly pale skin to make him cherish his presence so.

The Dean’s office could be accessed via a thick, dark wooden door, the heritage of hundreds of years of history. The only relatively modern element was a plaque with ‘Dean of the College of Cardinals’s office’ written in bold letters on top, sparkling with the morning light on its spot attached to the panel.

Thomas wished Innocent good luck for his meeting with Tedesco, silently reciting a prayer for him in his head, and was already placing a hand on the doorhandle when a thought struck him anew.

“Your Holiness?” He called from the threshold. Innocent, a few steps down the hallway, stopped in his tracks and turned towards the Dean, a questioning look on his face.

Thomas swallowed, suddenly feeling extremely small under the gaze of those rich, chocolate brown eyes. “Forgive me…I was simply curious as to who is going to welcome Eminence Tedesco at the gates?”

Innocent immediately understood what had gone unsaid in the Dean’s question, and his face relaxed into a reassuring expression.

“I asked Sister Agnes to wait for him at the entrance,” he replied.

Thomas let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and he pushed the door open.

“Perfect. Thank you, Your Holiness.”

Innocent nodded at him and resumed his walk, and Thomas entered his office, where a stack of papers was already waiting for him on the desk, placed by Ray no doubt. The small side-door to the assistant’s own office, tucked neatly between the shelvings on the left wall, was currently closed, but Thomas knew for certain the Monsignor was keeping busy behind it.

The Dean sighed and sat down on his chair, leather squeacking ominously under his weight, a messenger of the bureaucratic struggles to soon follow. He picked up the first folder of the pile and got to work.

In hindsight, Thomas thought as he booted his computer and fumbled for his reading glasses, I should have figured it out. The Holy Father would never allow Aldo and Goffredo to spend more time together than strictly necessary. Those two are like…how do the Italians say it? ‘Come cane e gatto’^1-5…why are there so many papers on this desk? I swear, the documents seem to be reproducing somehow…

The Dean found his glasses behind a stack of notes scribbled in his own nervous hand. He put them on and turned towards the computer screen, an anonymous view of St Peter’s dome stretching over it, bathed in the orange glow of a Roman sunset.

Yes, it was a good thing that the Pope had sent Sister Agnes to collect the Patriarch and bring him inside. Her steel gaze could shut up the fiercest of protestors, and it would no doubt prevent Tedesco from running his mouth too much in front of a newspaper microphone.

~ ❦ ~

The hours slipped by as Thomas worked tirelessly in his office, sending e-mails and proofreading homilies, signing letters and drafting others. The side-door to Ray’s office opened once in a while, letting the Monsignor on the other side to deliver stacks of fresh documents on the Dean’s desk. Thomas suspected those papers would take over the Vatican one day.

He didn’t notice when Ray left for dinner, nose still buried into official correspondence. Thomas had a meeting the next morning, so he’d set his sights on skipping dinner to work off some paperwork.

He was used to fasting. His body could take a night without food.

The hanging clock on his wall was pointing at the number nine when there was a polite knock at his office door.

“Avanti,” ^1-6he said distractedly, eyes glued to the computer monitor. How did you add images on Microsoft Word again? Ray had showed him once, but Thomas couldn’t remember…

The door opened with a soft creak, letting a rectangle of yellow light into the room.

“Are you working in the dark?” A familiar voice rang loud. Thomas’s eyes abandoned their exploration of Word’s functionalities and settled on the black silhouette standing near the threshold.

Sure enough, Pope Innocent stepped into the room, cassock brushing the carpeted floor. He reached for the switch on his left and turned on the light, revealing the chaos of books and documents sprawled on the desk and on the various shelves. Thomas had gotten so caught up in his duties that he hadn’t realized the lights were off.

Blinking out of his stupor, the Dean rose from his seat, reading glasses slipping down his nose.

“Holy Father.” He bowed, rounding the desk to approach him.

“No need for that, Thomas,” Innocent waved a dismissive hand in the air when he kneeled to kiss the Fisherman’s ring. “I simply meant to check on you. Ray told me you were too busy to come down, so I brought you this.”

Thomas finally acknowledged the bowl Innocent was holding in one hand, a plastic plate covering the contents. Something smelled like chicken.

“I thank you, Your Holiness. But really, there was no need...” Thomas begun. Innocent interrupted him, “You need to eat, Tomás. Have you taken a break since I left you here this morning?”

Thomas was silent.

Innocent looked at him severely. “That’s what I thought.”

He moved past the Dean and approached the coffee table. He set a spoon wrapped in napkins down and used his now free hand to move the papers out of the way, creating a small empty square for the bowl. Thomas, a bit embarassed by the fact that the Pope was having to sort through his own mess, moved to free the coffee table of its clutter.

Once he was done, Innocent settled on one of the plush blue chairs, and gestured for him to do the same.

Thomas sat and lifted the plastic plate, warm to the touch, and peered at what waited for him inside the bowl. Pasta with chuncks of pale meat and carrots  could be seen floating in orange liquid.

“Chicken broth, made by the sisters today,” Innocent explained. “It’s really good. You should try it.” He pushed the spoon closer to him.

Thomas had to admit, the smell was delicious. His stomach suddenly felt unnaturally empty, and his mouth was rapidly filling with saliva…

He supposed a few spoonfuls of broth wouldn’t set him that far behind on his work.

Thomas unfolded the napkins and picked up the spoon under the Pope’s watchful eye. He dipped it in the bowl, blowing the steam away before bringing it to his lips.

The broth was perfectly seasoned, its warmth pleasant against his cheeks despite the July heat outside. Thomas hummed and dipped the spoon back inside, picking up a piece of chicken. The meat was tender, nothing like the rubbery thing they’d been served during the Conclave. The carrots were sliced well. He went for a third dip, gathering the pasta while Innocent smiled like a greedy kid in his seat.

And so, before Thomas knew it, the broth was completely gone. The spoon touched the bottom of the bowl with a final clinck and he leaned back in his seat, placing a hand on his satisfied belly.

“You were right. It was really good,” Thomas admitted.

The Holy Father beamed. “I told you so.”

Thomas wanted to get back to work immediately, deeming his dinner break sufficient rest, but Innocent had other plans in store for him.

The Pope unceremoniously dragged the Dean out of his office to join him on an evening walk around the Vatican Gardens. He’d already dismissed Mael and Leonardo before dinner, so they were alone when they stepped out of the Casa Santa Marta and into the outside world.

They talked about this and that, slipping clerical matters into the conversation, like the celebratory Mass Innocent would be holding on August 15th^1-7, in honour of the Catholic Assumption of the Virgin Mary.

The pair got all the way to the Square Garden, where they settled on a bench near the fountain.

The garden was empty of tourists at that hour. It was just them, the gurgling fountain, and a pair of silhouettes walking behind the treeline. They were too far away to make out their faces and roles in the Church, but Thomas could see one of them was gesturing wildly with their hands. An Italian, most likely.

He pointed them out to Innocent, who smiled fondly at the sight. Then, his lips dropped, gaze turning distant. A shadow arrived to cover his eyes, cloaking their usual shine.

“Have you heard about Chieti?” he asked, voice low and gentle, as if speaking of something sacred.

“The Pescarino family?”

The Holy Father nodded somberly.

“I saw it on the news this morning. I dedicated a prayer to the boy,” Thomas said, lacing his fingers together.

He was referring to an episode of homophobia in Central Italy. A young boy, eighteen year-old Luca, had received a beating from his father after he’d discovered his son’s preference for men. That evening,  his poor mother had arrived home to find Luca bleeding on the floor and had called the police in tears. The boy was now healing in the hospital, and the officers had retained his father for domestic violence.

The event had made the news not really for the episode itself – God knew how many of similar caliber took place in Italy alone – but rather for the effect it had generated on the population.

The event had led to a protest in Chieti.  Luca’s classmates and other youngs, as well as some parents and even elders, had marched in the streets, holding signs that read ‘NOI SIAMO CON LUCA’ and ‘SIAMO TUTTI PERSONE’^1-8 in the air, rainbow flags painted over their cheeks.

It had troubled Thomas deeply, to learn that parents still used such brutal methods on their own children.

“I’m thinking about publishing a statement,” Innocent said, watching as the two figures disappeared from sight.

“On the use of violence?” Thomas asked.

“Yes, but also for Luca. I’d like to let the world know that there’s nothing shameful in being yourself.”

Thomas’s eyes widened.

“Your Holiness,” he spluttered, the title slipping from his lips ungracefully, “surely, you do not mean - ”

“I think you understood me quite well, Thomas,” Innocent replied, tilting his chin with a knowing look.

“But, Vin – Holy Father.” The Dean took a deep breath, then continued. “Your objectives are admirable, but I must advise you to avoid speaking about…the boy’s sexual orientation. The Church’s position is stable in that regard. A display of such high positivity on the matter – despite being show of great empathy and acceptance - would shake the foundations that have sustained us for centuries.”

“Well then, if it would stir the waters, I dare say it’s quite needed!” Innocent countered.

Thomas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He shuffled in his seat, wringing his fingers in his lap.

“Holy Father, as an advisor and as a friend, I ask you to weight the possibilities carefully,” he tried again after a small pause. “A statement like that, published by the Pope…the conservative faction would no doubt move to defend one of the Church’s most ancient tradition. They’d take it as an opportunity to attack you like they did with the late Pope. Cardinal Tedesco - ”

“I’m aware of the Patriarch’s stand on the subject, and on many others,” Innocent gently but firmly interrupted him. “I also know that a statement like the one I have in mind would…ah, ‘ruffle some feathers’, as you English say it.” He giggled at his own phrasing.

Thomas couldn’t help but find the sound incredibly endearing, despite the circumstances. He opened his mouth to speak again. The words got caught in his throat when Innocent's hand landed on his arm, in a familiar gesture to what he’d done near the turtle pond that morning. The heat coming from the other’s skin was enough to run Thomas’s brain into offline mode.

“Do you know Nietzsche?” Innocent asked, seemingly out of subject.

Why is he talking about philosophers now? Thomas blinked. “Yes…of course. I’ve read some of his works.”

“There is a quote, attributed to him by most. ‘The truth doesn’t mind being questioned. A lie does not like being challenged’,” Innocent recited. His thumb brushed the other’s cassock with semi-circular motion. “I think about it often.”

Thomas nodded, only half-focused on the conversation. He’d gotten what Innocent was trying to tell him, either way.

“As you wish, Your Holiness,” he murmured, relenting to his cause.

Innocent squeezed his arm and removed his hand. “Your suggestions are valid ones. I won’t be too direct, do not worry.”

Oh, Thomas would worry. Very much so. He swallowed a lump of saliva, eyes locked on the gravel below his feet.

Innocent brushed non-existent dust from his white cassock and rose from his seat, gesturing for Thomas to do the same.

“Come,” he said, with that disarming smile of his that couldn’t make Thomas deny him anything. “It’s getting late. I’m afraid of what the guards might think if they don’t see me returning soon.”

They walked back to the Casa Santa Marta in silence, though the Dean’s mind was far from quiet.

That night, sleep eluded him.

The next day, the Pope wrote a statement. He asked Thomas for a revision. Soul wary, he accepted for duty’s sake. Then, his eyes landed on a quote from the Bible, scribbled in Innocent’s wobbly handwriting. 1 Corinthians 13:4 – 6.^1-9

Thomas approved the document and passed it down to Ray for official publication.

It did cause a stir. The liberals rejoiced. The conservatives less so. Aldo nearly had a heart attack when he first saw the news. Apparently, the Holy Father hadn’t specified the contents of his words beforehand.

By some divine miracle, Goffredo Tedesco only tweeted thrice about it.

Chapter Text

As an apple tree among the trees of the forest,

so is my beloved among the young men.

With great delight I sat in his shadow,

and his fruit was sweet to my taste.

 He brought me to the banqueting house,

and his banner over me was love.

- Song of Solomon 2:3-4

~ ❦ ~

Thomas Lawrence, Dean of the College of Cardinals, sat next to Aldo Bellini, current Secretary of State, with a cold glass of whiskey in one hand and a dull throbbing in his left eye that announced an in-coming headache.

The cardinals, stripped of their official wear, were sitting on two velvety chairs, with soft cushions carefully placed to support their aging backs. The lights in Aldo’s living room were all turned off, except for a tall lamp in the corner that coated the furniture in artificial yellow, making the shadows stretch like ink tendrils along the floor.

Thomas - may God forgive him - had always hated that lamp.

It was of the kinds enclosed with a paper-like cover, the material twirling around the pole in a green spiral that reached the base. It had the typical dents and scratches brought by years of use, and since a hole had opened in the cover Aldo had had to shove it in the corner of rooms to hide its bad side from the world. Adding the fact that the light it generated felt way too unnatural to be considered cozy, the lamp was something which resembled a crafted disaster.

Still, the Secretary refused to get rid of it.

There was sentimentality involved in the decision.

It had been a gift from Aldo’s mother when he’d moved into his rectory in New York, a freshly-ordained priest with a substantial cultural baggage and the diplomatic abilities to make himself known inside the Church. It held much sentimental value, as the poor woman had crossed the bridge to a better life shortly after Aldo’s move from the seminary. And so, he’d kept it close, hauling it across cities and continents as he’d climbed up the pyramid of the Catholic hierarchy.

In its years of service, the lamp had not wavered one bit, always illuminating the environment with its sickenly-vibrant rays. For this reason, Aldo liked to joke on how his mother’s stubborness had engraved itself into the cables.

Thomas, despite his negative opinion on his friend’s interior design’s choices, respected his will, and had never given voice to his thoughts. But good Heavens, if that lamp didn’t defile God’s very own Creation…

“Long story short, the situation is…well, quite dire, Thomas,” Aldo muttered behind his glass, letting out a nervous chuckle.

Thomas made the amber liquid aimlessly swirl in his drink, watching as the ice slowly melted. Perhaps accepting the alcohol had been a bad idea. The throbbing in his left eye continued, increasing in intensity.

“His Holiness is a compassionate man,” he said matter-of-factly after a beat. “He spent years personally caring for the sick and the poor before the Conclave. The papacy stripped him of that, of the closeness to the suffering. He’s trying to make an important difference with the tools he’s been given. That is nothing short of admirable.”

Aldo huffed, turning his head this way and that. “I can certainly appreciate that, but Rome is not Kabul, nor Baghdad. And he’s no longer a simple priest, not even a cardinal. He’s the Pope.”

There was frustration in his friend’s voice, but not malice, not enmity. Despite having been denied the papacy, Aldo held the new Holy Father in high regard. He, too, had felt the Holy Spirit speak to him in the closed-off halls of the Casa Santa Marta, pointing with a divine hand towards the one most worthy of the title of Bishop of Rome.

Thomas knew Aldo was speaking for the good of the Church. As Secretary of State, the matter of His Holiness’s health and work largely interested him, as he often served as bridge between the Curia and the Holy Father’s will.

“He can’t keep doing this,” Aldo continued with a certain gravity. “The Holy Father is overexerting himself. What if he dozes off during a conference? What if rumours that he’s unwell start circulating in the Vatican? He can’t afford to appear weak! Tedesco and his cronies would immediately disseminate the news, and the liberal faction would take some blows. After the reforms the Holy Father has been trying to integrate, they’d jump at the slightest whisper.”

“Ray mentioned you two attended a meeting with the Holy Father, to talk about his break to Castle Gandolfo. How did it end?”

“Terribly,” Aldo sighed. He looked at his half-drunk glass with supreme disappointment, then knocked his head back and downed all its contents in one big gulp. It was a kind of act he’d only allow himself in front of few. Thomas was glad to be amongst them.

The Secretary clicked his tongue and placed the now empty glass on a small side table.

“His Holiness doesn’t seem to carry the word ‘break’ in his vocabulary,” he said with a tinge of irony. “He agreed to spend time at the Castle, but only if he can bring his laptop along with him. Why, that would be like transferring the papal office near the lake!”

Thomas actually snorted at the words. Aldo directed him a pointed look. “This is no laughing matter, Thomas!”

Exasperated, the younger man got up from his seat and walked to the liquor cabinet. He took out an opened bottle of whiskey and refilled his drink, but didn’t return to his armchair. Instead, Aldo dropped his head and leaned on the windowsill, sporting the same defeated resignation of a soldier coming back from a lost battle.

Behind the glass, Rome buzzed with the usual late-night activity. The city lights twinkled, constellations of pale stars illuminating the streets. Cars zipped past Aldo’s apartment down below, and music could be heard coming from the open bars and lounges, ready to welcome clusters of lively teenagers and good-timers inside them.

Thomas shuffled in his seat, feeling uncomfortable despite the soft cushion supporting him. He enjoyed Aldo’s company, truly, but the conversation had taken a turn he hadn’t expected. Now, the atmosphere around Thomas had gotten heavy, pressing his body into the chair. His stomach was reduced to a hollow pit, his skin prickled.

Maybe he shouldn’t have skipped lunch that day. And breakfast. Thomas’s self-destroying habits hadn’t disappeared after the Conclave. Not even the return of the Holy Spirit, of the Lord’s presence, had been enough.

Thomas felt guilty. He was a man of God. If the prayers, if His word, couldn’t heal him, what could? Was he a lost cause?

His temples ached, knives burrowing into his head. The light coming from the lamp hurt his eyes. Thomas settled his glass on the side table and massaged his face. He was definitely done drinking for the night.

“Headache?” Aldo’s voice startled him from the window. Thomas recovered from the surprise quickly. He hummed.

“It was…a long day.” He leaned back into his armchair, dropping his hands. He didn’t want Aldo to notice his discomfort. He wasn’t in the mood to be mother-henned into drinking more water.

Of course, Thomas forgot that Aldo wasn’t just a friend. He was his best friend. And there was no hiding from that, from the knowledge decades of shared experiences brought to the table.

“I didn’t see you at lunch today,” Aldo mumbled, moving away from the wall to sit back down in his armchair. Thomas would have preferred for him to stay near the window, in the darkness. The shadows always made conversations easier with their innate ability to shield the soul from reality. Meanwhile, the yellow light shining off the ugly lamp allowed Thomas to see all the silent reprimand in Aldo’s eyes.

The Dean scrambled for a reply.

“I was with the Holy Father,” he said, hoping Innocent hadn’t picked that very day to stray from his routine and actually show up at lunch.

Since Aldo didn’t scoff or roll his eyes, Thomas assumed he’d landed a safe one.

“You’re always with the Holy Father,” the Secretary said, crossing his arms.

“I’m the Dean.”

“Obviously, but that’s not an explanation.”

Thomas frowned, begging to differ. A car honked in the distance, too loud for his tastes.

As Dean of the College of Cardinals, he had his responsabilities inside the Vatican. You’re a manager, the late Holy Father had told him. So, Thomas was managing. That was what he was good at. Certainly that was what Innocent had seen as well, since he’d asked Thomas to stay after his appointment as Pope. And Thomas had stayed. Gladly. The Holy Spirit had shown him the way in the Sistine Chapel. He wasn’t going to leave.

The fact he liked Innocent helped. Despite his stubborness, the Holy Father had many virtues. He couldn’t care for his flock the way he used to, not anymore, but that had never stopped him from bringing a plate of food over to Thomas’s office when he noticed him skipping meals, lingering by the doorframe to make sure he actually ate, or from inviting him every once in a while in his office to chat over a cup of Italian espresso.

Sometimes, when they both found the time, they prayed together. Thomas always found praying next to Innocent easier. Perhaps it was the whole Pope thing, though such clarity had never neared him beside the late Holy Father’s presence. Thomas was so scared to lose his path again that he dared not question it.

There were idle conversations here and there, moments of calm they shared. Innocent always showed Thomas his homilies, because he considered his opinion important, and Thomas often updated Innocent on some of the more subtle on-goings in the Curia during their walks in the Vatican Gardens.

The Dean couldn’t understand why the Pope preferred to spend his scarce hours of free time with him, but since Innocent looked genuinely happy about it, Thomas obliged. He supposed it was Innocent’s role as Pope to check on his staff, either way.

“I feel like it is,” Thomas huffed, midly indignant. “I participate in most of the Holy Father’s meetings. I…I manage the Curia, Aldo. His Holiness can’t keep track of over a hundred cardinals by himself, scattered as they are around the world. And after Adeyemi lost his titles and the Tremblay scandal was somehow leaked to the press, and probably by one of our own brothers nonetheless, the pressure on the Holy See has been significant. In fact, today His Holiness summoned me into his office for matters regarding his meeting with Tedesco - ”

“Oh, that’s quite enough!” Aldo raised a hand to stop Thomas’s torrent of words. “We’re lucky Sister Agnes dragged him inside just in time. Tedesco walked in, phone in hand, ready to make another tweet after speaking with a reporter.”

Thomas pressed a hand to his mouth, faking a yawn to hide his smirk. Mentioning Tedesco always distracted his dear friend. The amount of resentment those two bore for one another was almost comical.

“Anyway,” Aldo picked the conversation back up, sipping his whiskey. “We must change our strategy. The Holy Father needs a vacation, and I’m gonna ensure he has one if I have to drag him to Castle Gandolfo myself.”

“Imagine the headlines they would write for that one.”

Aldo dismissed his comment with a shrug. “Ray suggested introducing a third party to the cause.”

He looked at Thomas, eyes shining with purpose. Thomas’s headache started to feel personal. It was the lamp. That ridicolous, too-bright lamp. It was blinding.

“And…who’s the unfortunate soul supposed to be?” He asked in a whisper, regretting coming to Aldo’s apartment at all once he saw the playful smile widening on his friend’s face.

The Secretary leaned back into his armchair, looking like a cat who’d just got the cream. He drunk the rest of his whiskey, letting the silence stretch on with badly-repressed amusement. The knives dug deeper into Thomas’s skull.

“You said you hang out with His Holiness only because you’re the Dean. Fine, let’s pretend to believe that. But still, the Holy Father likes you, no?”

“I - ”

“You can convince him! I’m sure he’ll take what you tell him more seriously than anything Ray and I could come up with.”

Thomas was about to argue back, but the knives in his head tunred into sladgehammers, and he clutched his head with a small groan. He felt nauseous despite only having a few drops of alcohol in his stomach.

Maybe that was the problem. Why hadn’t Innocent brought him food in his office that day? Thomas wouldn’t have been happy, but at least he would have eaten, and maybe now he wouldn’t be in such a situation, unable to answer such a pathetic suggestion.

Shame washed over him at the thought. Who was he, to demand that the Holy Father assist him for such simple needs? Innocent had many more, much more fundamental problems to deal with than taking care of an aging cardinal who was so stressed out he forgot or refused to eat.

My God, forgive me. Pride is withering my heart.

Aldo had got it all wrong. Thomas wasn’t that important for Innocent. He was just a manager!

His friend, apparently convinced his groan had been born out of frustration and not from the shattering pain in his head, leaned towards him and patted his shoulder affectionately.

“Just reason with him, Thomas. You’re good at that. I saw it, during the Conclave. It’s why I voted for you.”

I didn’t want your vote, Thomas thought grimly.

Nevertheless, you had it, a soft voice replied in his mind.

Thomas buried his head in his hands to hide. From the lamp. From Aldo’s expectations. From it all.

He sighed, unable to do anything else. A passage from the Bible rose to the surface of his tired mind, a direct quote taken from one of Innocent’s homilies.

‘Bear one another’s burdens, and so you will fulfill the law of Christ.’^2-1

~ ❦ ~

The next morning, the headache was mostly gone.

Thomas woke up at four, the broken shards of a dream still swimming in his mind. He lay in bed for a few minutes, focusing back on his surroundings, then manouvered himself off the bed and set his will to start the day.

Thomas had a shower and got dressed. He carefully knelt in front of the crucifix in his bedroom and whispered his morning prayers, head bowed under Christ’s closed eyes.^2-2

He asked God for guidance, for strenght. He prayed for the Lord to bring the right words into his mouth when the moment of broaching the topic of Castle Gandolfo with Innocent would come.

Thomas sat in complete silence for a long time, skin sweating between his palms. He opened his soul to the Lord without hesitation, leaving the gate of his heart open for Him to see.

A dog howled to the moon outside. The old lady that lived on top of him flushed the toilet. Thomas kept waiting.

Then, in the stillness of his rooms…a movement.

The curtains rustled, brushing against the wall, yet both window and door were closed. An idea sparked in Thomas’s mind, like a mushroom poking out of the soil after rain. The Dean nodded, heart overflowing with gratitude, and crossed himself.

He got back to his feet and approached the desk, drawers overflowing with letters. It was still early in the morning to go to the Santa Marta. Thomas could do some work first.

Thomas busied himself with paperwork for the next two hours. Then, at six, he rose, bones creaking, and walked into his small kitchen to prepare two sandwiches.

He opened the blinds cloaking the room in darkness and was immediately assaulted by the summer sun. He blinked rapidly, eyes getting used to the light, and looked out the window.

Outside his apartment, Rome was already awake, or maybe it hadn’t slept at all. Thomas saw a group of excited tourists heading to St Peter’s Square, chattering as they waited for the light to turn green near the zebra prints. A mother was trying to keep her toddler still so that she could apply some sunscreen on him.

The Dean rubbed his eyes, black dots dancing in his vision from the sun, and opened the pantry to pick up some bread. He placed four slices on the counter and took out cheese, lettuce and mortadella from the fridge. He added mayo in his sandwich – a little treat – but didn’t add it into Innocent’s because he didn’t really know how the Holy Father liked his sandwiches. Thomas hoped he wouldn’t mind the mortadella.

He put everything back in its place and carefully wrapped the sandwiches into transparent foil before putting them in a paper bag.

Then, Thomas walked back to his room and opened the wardrobe. He slipped into his black cassock and fastened the thirty-three buttons, one for every year of Christ on Earth, muttering prayers as he went. He tied his fascia around his waist and kissed his pectoral cross before wearing it.

Finally, Thomas placed his zucchetto above his head, grabbed his keys and the bag with sandwiches, and opened the front door to step into the hallway. He locked the door behind him and took the lift to the ground floor.

It was a fifteen-minute walk from his apartment building to the Casa Santa Marta. Despite the traffic and the crowds that one often met in Rome, Thomas liked strolling through the city streets, even if his outfit often caused many requests of blessings and adoring looks from the more religious tourists.

That day, however, Thomas hailed a taxi, which reduced the fifteen minutes to five and had the bonus of air conditioning. The heat was unbearable, and he didn’t wish to faint while crossing the street. It was too early in the morning for that.

He left the driver a generous tip and entered the Santa Marta’s courtyard, nodding towards the Swiss guards saluting him near the gates.

The first thing he saw was Aldo playing with a cat.

It was a sturdy one, with a hairy tail and grey fur with black spots on its pawns and back.

Curious, Thomas walked closer, and realized he’d been mistaken. Aldo, a folder bulging with papers tucked under one arm, was actually trying to shoo the cat away, but the furry thing kept pawning at the hem of his black cassock as if it were the most wonderful toy it had ever seen.

“No…no! Just – let it go! I don’t have time for this.” Aldo gently pressed the tip of his shoe to the cat’s belly and pushed it aside, but the cat jumped over his leg and resumed its attack.

“Buongiorno,^2-3 Aldo,” Thomas greeted, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

Aldo raised his head and noticed Thomas standing a safe distance away. He sighed. “Good morning, Thomas. How are…hey! Don’t you dare rip it!”

The cat meowed, mischief glinting in its yellow eyes.

“Making some new friends?” Thomas asked, cocking his head to the side.

“More like enemies…” Aldo grumbled. “This cat saw me heading out and evidently thought my cassock was the perfect punching bag.”

“It doesn’t look to be a stray,” Thomas mused. It is too well-kept.

Aldo retreated, tip-toeing around the animal. “I bet the nuns feed it, and so it keeps coming back here,” he huffed. “Let’s just pray it doesn’t find the turtles, or the cars won’t be the only things to worry about.”

Thomas grimaced. That would have been a disaster, indeed. He mentally took note of the information and filed it in his brain to speak about with Ray later.

The cat, noticing his toy’s refusal of keeping still, meowed indignantly. Then, it gathered weight on its hind legs, and jumped. Paws thrust forward, it latched onto the Secretary’s cassock to keep it in place.

“No!”

In a last manic attempt to free himself, Aldo grabbed the lower part of his cassock with a hand and pulled it upwards.

The cat stumbled back with an offended yowl, fabric tugging sharply out of its grasp. An audible riiiip resounded in the air, mocking.

Aldo lifted the hem of his cassock to survey the damage while the animal stumbled backwards. Black threads dangled from the claw marks visible on top of his clothes.

The cat got back to his feet, looked at Aldo with pure contempt, and scurried off.

The Secretary exhaled a long breath.

“Wonderful. Now I need to get this fixed, and I have a meeting in an hour. What’s another thing to add to my schedule?” The Secretary said, voice bordering on hysteria, while steadying the folder under his arm.

He then turned to Thomas, expression apologising. “Would love to chat, but His Holiness wants me to run this through Ray immediately.” He pointed at the folder. “I suspect he’s trying to keep us busy.”

“Don’t worry. I got that covered,” Thomas replied, and lifted the paper bag in front of him so Aldo could see it better.

The man smirked, seeming to forget his most recent scuffle with nature. “Relying on bribery? I thought you were better than that, Thomas.”

The Dean rolled his eyes. “This is merely an incentive.”

Aldo giggled and began walking the opposite direction towards the gates.

“Good luck, either way,” he said as he passed Thomas by. The latter thanked him and covered the remaining distance to the stairs of the Casa Santa Marta.

On his way to the lift, he stumbled into Sister Agnes, speaking with a middle-aged man holding a drill. On the back of the man’s shirt was the logo of a repair agency Thomas had seen on TV.

Once Sister Agnes noticed Thomas shuffling nearby, she dismissed the repair man with a few murmured words. He nodded and disappeared down the hallway, from which the clang of metal hitting metal could be heard.

“Good morning, Your Eminence.” She lifted her skirts and bowed slightly. “Looking for His Holiness, I suppose?” Sister Agnes eyed the paper bag in his hands knowingly.

Thomas smiled sheepishly. Since the nun had come to his aid during the Conclave, saving him from the printer’s wrath, the ice between them had melted significantly, and Thomas wasn’t as intimidated by her anymore. As Cardinal Sabbadin like to say, he’d ‘gained another ally’.

“Indeed…I am,” Thomas replied. “Has he had breakfast yet?”

Sister Agnes shook her head no. “He usually gets dressed around this hour. I’m sure you’ll find him in his room, though I’m afraid that you’ll have to take the stairs. The elevator has stopped working.”

Just as she finished the sentence, a loud bang! erupted from the end of the hallway, making Thomas flinch. The noise was quickly followed by a long string of curses fired in rapid Italian.

Sister Agnes frowned, not with anger, but with exasperation.

“Forgive me for cutting the conversation short, Eminence, but I must go check on the repairs.”

Thomas blinked, unconsciously clutching the paper bag tighter. “Oh, uhm – yes, of course. I’ll be heading upstairs.”

The nun bowed her head and left, blue robes swishing as she turned the corner. Thomas pitied whatever poor soul would end up under her steel gaze.

He turned on his heels and walked the way to the staircase, tucked near the building’s corner. The gap was wide enough for only one person, and the steps creaked under the Dean’s weight as he climbed up to the third floor. Thomas hoped whatever those repair men were doing would fix the lift in little time. The stairs were far too impractical given the coming and going of nuns, priests and other staff members in the Casa Santa Marta.

Once he got to the third floor, Thomas walked to the end of the hallway, where Mael and Leonardo stood guard at the Pope’s door. Thomas dipped his head in greeting at the guards, balled his hand in a fist and knocked, three clear taps on the wood. He lowered his hand and waited, not for long.

Innocent creaked the door open seconds later, completely dressed except for his fascia, the white of his cassock glinting in the artificial light cast by the fixtures above.

Thomas took a moment to look at him properly. Soft strands of jet-black hair, recently combed, framed Innocent’s delicate face. A few rebel curls had escaped, now tenderly cradling his jaw, smoothing over the bronze skin. It crinkled slightly near his eyes, warm chocolate over a pearly white sclera. Welcoming, inviting.

Thomas had been mesmerized by that gaze since the very start, when the Holy Father, then Cardinal Vincent Benítez, had looked up at him in that small room in the Santa Marta, hands clasped gently in his lap, with nothing to his name but a few official documents. Thomas had felt his heart skip a beat when those kind yet strong, unyielding eyes had settled into his own, Vincent’s lips quirking upwards just so.

Thomas had never been able to shake that feeling away. Not after their first dinner in the Conclave, not after his election, not ever. Everytime they locked eyes, it was renewed all over again. Like a phoenix rising from its own ashes.

As soon as Innocent registered the Dean’s presence at his doorstep, a smile broke on his face, a bright sun appearing behind a cloudy sky. Thomas felt his stomach do a curious little flip. He shrugged the movement off and blamed his empty stomach for it.

“Tomás! It’s so good to see you,” Innocent greeted him, opening the door a little wider.

Thomas produced himself in a small courtesy and, ignoring Innocent’s shake of the head at the sight, said, “Your Holiness. I hope I’m not disturbing you? Sister Agnes downstairs told me you were getting dressed.”

“Ah, sí…^2-4Don’t worry, you’re always welcome at my door. Come in, come in.” Innocent waved him inside, stepping aside so Thomas could enter.

The Dean walked into the Papal apartment, not for the first time. Innocent often invited him there to nurse a glass of wine together or to discuss about possible reforms in the privacy of his home.

The apartment itself constisted of only three rooms. A living space, where Thomas and Innocent where right now and where they always sat to have a chat, a small but tidy bathroom, and a bedroom for sleep and prayers.

It was all very modest. Very Innocent.

The furniture was simple and kept to the bare minimum. The Holy Father had originally been offered a suite on the ground floor when his desires to move into the Casa Santa Marta like his predecessor had been known, but he’d quickly refused the unnecessary comforts and had personally chosen his new apartment.

Thomas knew His Holiness prefered to live like a true follower of Christ, casting richness aside, but a part of him suspected it was also a way for Innocent to feel closer to his flock in Kabul, and for extension to all the unfortunate souls in the living world.

“Sit, please. Can I offer you some coffee? Tea?” Innocent asked, moving towards the kitchenette huddled in the corner.

“Tea would be nice, thank you,” Thomas replied as he settled on the green sofa. The Pope’s white fascia was draped over one of its arms, and so the Dean sat at the opposite end.

Innocent began moving around, opening cabinets and rummaging through pots. He hummed a melody under his breath as he went, likely a Mexican song Thomas didn’t recognize.

“I – I brought this…” Thomas began, mentally reproaching himself for his stuttering voice. He placed the paper bag on the coffee table, since Innocent didn’t have a proper dining room. “A sandwich, for breakfast. There’s cheese, lettuce and mortadella inside.”

Innocent lit up the gas under a pot of water and turned towards him, another one of his smiles lighting up his face.

“That was so thoughtful of you, thank you. Did you prepare one for youself as well?”

Thomas, having anticipated the question, nodded. “I have.”

“Perfect. Then we shall eat them together. Let me just finish making the tea.” Innocent marched to a glass cabinet near the wall and took out a tray with two ceramic cups.

As he prepared the tray while the water slowly boiled, Thomas let his eyes wander around the room. The window was open, welcoming in the mosquitos and the hot Rome breeze. The smell of incense mixed in with the scent of flowers coming from the Gardens wafted in the air.

The bedroom door was left ajar, allowing for a peak inside. From his position on the sofa, Thomas could see the foot of Innocent’s bed, already made, slippers resting under the wooden frame, slightly mis-aligned. Innocent’s Bible, worn-out from years of use, rested on a side table near the bathroom door, next to his rosary. The cross was chipped at the left tip. A scar from the past.

Thomas was snapped out of his reverie by the sound of ceramic tinckling near him.

“I’m afraid I only have Earl Grey,” Innocent apologised.

“It’s quite alright. I’m not that picky.”

Innocent nodded and placed two steaming cups of tea on the coffee table, along with two containers for milk and sugar next to them. Thomas noticed the set had tiny green turtles painted on top of the creamic.

Instead of sitting on the armchair in front of the sofa like he usually did, Innocent settled on the couch next to Thomas.

Cataloguing it as one of the Pope’s many quirks, Thomas thanked him again for the tea and joined btoh hands in front of his chest.

“Would you like to bless our breakfast, Thomas?” Innocent asked.

Actually, Thomas had expected him to do it. He was the Holy Father, after all. Was there a better person for blessing food?

Plus, Innocent’s voice was perfect for blessings. Honey sweet, especially during prayer, words flowing out of his lips in a way that made Thomas think it was God Himself speaking through the man. The effect multiplied when he spoke in Spanish, his native language. Thomas felt a thrill run down his spine every time.

Still, he wouldn’t deny a request coming from the Pope. Thomas nodded and adjusted on the couch, closing his eyes.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty…”

His mind took him back to that first day of the Conclave, when he’d stood, hands clasped in front of him like now, next to Vincent Benítez, listening to the man’s quiet yet steady voice in a dining hall full of cardinals.

He remembered the way the weight pressing on his shoulders had lightened for a moment as Cardinal Benítez had turned his mind to the struggling, to the hungry and to those who’d prepared the food that they were going to feast upon. His memories shaped themselves into words.

“…and please, listen to our prayers and bless those who are not here with us, but that are living between hardships. Provide them nourishment and water, so that they shall not starve and suffer thirst, and protect those close to them, so that they shall not weep their losses. Most of all, protect them from the cruelty of man. Through Christ, our Lord - ”

“Amen,” Thomas and Innocent chorused.

They both leaned in to grab their tea. Thomas added a teaspoon of sugar and a few drops of milk into his cup before bringing it to his lips, while Innocent picked up his own right away.

The Pope prefered his tea bitter – another habit inherited from living in a warzone, where everything was limited and luxuries like sugar in your drink didn’t exist.

After they both drank, Thomas picked up the paper bag and handed Innocent his sandwich. His eyes lit up as if he’d just gifted him the moon.

“Mmm…Es veramente delicioso,” ^2-5Innocent sighed after the first bite.

Thomas averted his eyes, a faint blush tinting his pale cheeks. “It’s just a sandwich…” he murmured, biting into his own, despite not really feeling like eating. Thomas had worked with the Holy Father long enough to know he had terrible eating habits and that he would never accept food from someone if they hadn’t brought a second serving for themselves, hence why he’d prepared two of them.

Yet, if suffering through a sandwich was what it took to make sure the Pope nourished himself, Thomas would happily do it every time it was needed.

“Yes, but you didn’t have to make it and bring it to me, so that makes it ten times better,” Innocent said, already on his third bite.

Thomas swallowed his own before replying. “I’m glad you like it, Your Holiness.”

Innocent’s expression turned reproachful. “I’ve already told you, there’s no need for that. When we’re alone like this, you can call me Vincent.”

“But…you’re the Pope.”

Innocent grinned. There was a tiny piece of lettuce stuck between his teeth. “And? I know I’m technically your boss, Thomas, but I’m sure you’ll agree when I tell you that our relationship isn’t reduced at this. We spend a lot of time together. You know...cosas sobre mí,” ^2-6Innocent looked at his lap, where the secret Thomas would take to his grave rested peacefully.

The Holy Father raised his eyes towards his Dean again, a new light shining behind them.

“I like to consider us friends. Don’t you?”

Didn’t he? Thomas wasn’t sure how to reply. The chunck of sandwich resting in his stomach burned against his skin. His mouth dried up, and he had to take another sip of his tea.

Truthfully, he was scared of crossing such a boundary.

It had been easy during the Conclave, to slip into amiable chatter with Innocent, sweet and caring Innocent.

My dear Vincent – may I call you Vincent?

Friendly words and pious soul. A prayer to those who worked amidst the shadows and the silences, a black cassock rustling by the turtle pond, a firm vision in front of danger.

What do you know about war?

But back then, of course, they’d been on the same level. Was Thomas even deserving of calling Innocent his friend? He wouldn’t know where to go after. The lines blurred in front of his eyes, a labyrinth of possibilities unfolding.

He could work with Thomas Lawrence and Innocentius XIV. The Dean and his Pope. Scheduled meetings, crowdfundings for the poor and for the sick, paperwork piling infinitely on his desk.

It wasn’t the same with Thomas and Vincent. The two friends. Walks in the Vatican Gardens at dawn, trips to the turtle pond, shared laughs, coffee cups on a table and then…then more. Things that would come Thomas couldn’t predict, that he couldn’t really control, just live through.

Could he handle that with the Pope, with the Head of the Catholic Church?

When Thomas opened his mouth to reply, his gaze fell on the sandwich, already half-eaten, held in Innocent’s hands. On the two teacups on the coffee table. His thoughts travelled back, analysing every interaction. The food plates brought by Innocent into his office, the shared prayers in the quiet of the chapels, the reviewed homilies.

Thomas realized he couldn’t shy away from something he already had, even if he’d forged it without meaning to.

He looked into Innocent’s – Vincent’s – hopeful eyes, jaw set in a firm line.

“I do,” Thomas told him. He looked at his sandwich, mayo starting to sog the bread. “It’ll be Vincent then, I guess.”

Vincent’s smile could have gotten the sun blushing for its unique brightness. Thomas wondered how he’d even fathomed the idea to reject such an offer, imagining how saddened Vincent could have been. Thomas took a bite from his sandwich. For the first time in a long while, he felt like finishing a meal.

“That’s wonderful to hear,” Vincent whispered in his usual soft-spoken tone.

A drop of mayo fell on Thomas’s hand. He reached for his paper bag, then remembered it was empty.

“I forgot to bring napkins,” he said, more to himself than anything, though Vincent heard him anyway.

“It’s okay. I have some.”

He got up and picked up a stack of white napkins from one of the cabinets. He placed it next to the sugar and handed one to Thomas. As he leaned in to grab it from Vincent’s hands, their fingers brushed for a second, and an electric jolt run throught Thomas’s body, all the way to his toes.

He clutched the napkin hard, retracting his hand perhaps a bit too quickly, and cleared his throat.

“As a friend, then…might I make a suggestion?” Thomas asked to calm his skipping heart. Was he about to experience a cardiac arrest? At his age, it was more than likely, even if his heart was healthy. The heat certainly could’ve…Actually, no. Thomas needed to stop focusing on death when he had much more urgent matters to take care of.

“Of course. What kind?” If Vincent had felt the jolt as well, he didn’t show it. He sipped on his tea peacufully.

Well, here goes nothing…

Thomas braced himself.

“It has come to my attention that you do not wish to follow your predecessors’ steps and go on the usual two-week break at Castle Gandolfo this summer. Could I advise to reconsider your decision? I heard on the news the other day this is a summer so hot like we haven’t had in years,” Thomas said, choosing his words carefully.

Vincent huffed, placing his sandwich on the coffee table to cross both arms over his chest. His zucchetto was knocked askew in the process, and that made him resemble a pouting child in Thomas’s eyes.

“Not you, too!” Vincent exasperated.

“I’m merely concerned for your health, Your H- Vincent,” Thomas protested. “And so are many others. Why, I found you passed out on your office desk at the Aposotlic Palace just the previous week!”

“I appreciate your concerns, Thomas. Really. But, as I have already explained to Cardinal Bellini and Monsignor O’Malley in our meeting, there is simply too much to do for me to go on vacation. This is my final decision, and one I’d like you to respect. You may inform Raymond about it, so that he can prepare the official Vatican declaration.” 

The tone with which that final sentence was delivered made it clear that Thomas had to drop the matter.

He nodded measly, rubbing his temples with a hand while chewing on his sandwich slowly.

The conversation drifted towards safer ground as they finished their breakfast, settling on Vincent’s visit to Egypt scheduled for the start of August, where he wished to hold Mass at various orphanages and speak at a conference about the country’s high rates of child abuse.^2-7

When the sandwiches were reduced to lonely crumbs and all the tea was drunk, Vincent tied his fascia around his waist and invited Thomas to accompany him to the turtle pond.

The Dean, as always, accepted.

They left the Papal apartments for the nuns to clean and closed the door behind them. Mael and Leonardo straightened their backs as Vincent exited and began to diligently follow the Pope and his Dean as they walked down the hall, attached like a second and third shadow to Vincent’s frame.

As they neared the staircase, Thomas made one last attempt at convincing Vincent of going on a break, lest he fry his last braincell only a handful of months into his papacy.

“Holy Father,” he began, inching slightly closer. “I understand that perhaps Castle Gandolfo is a bit too…bold of a choice for you. You could always go somewhere else. A house near the beach, or a retreat in the mountains, if that’s more to your liking. I’m sure the Swiss Guard would have no problem in securing another area.”

Vincent binned his suggestion with a practiced wave of the hand.

“I cannot relax while there’s children of God suffering, and I hold the power to help them.”

Thomas frowned. “And yet…” he said as they began descending the first flight of stairs. The two guards had to stay behind a few steps, since the staircase was too tight. “Even our Lord, in His infinite power, dedicated a day to rest as He shaped Creation into existence.^2-8 Why would you reject repose when you know that even God needed it at a certain point? Were His actions less holy than your own?”

Vincent’s eyes widened, heading snapping towards Thomas. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words never made it out. His concentration faltered, and Vincent lost his footing on the staircase.

He tripped on his cassock.

Thomas acted on instict. Right as Vincent’s body leaned forward, about to fall down, the Dean seized him by the wrist in the hopes to stop his tumble.

He miscalculated.

His own knees betrayed him, still weak from a morning spent bent in prayer, so that instead of catching the Holy Father and steadying him on his feet, Thomas’s actions only made the Pope lose his balance more, and he ended up getting dragged down the stairs alongside Vincent.

The Pope and his Dean descended the last seven steps flying, a flurry of white and black rolling towards the floor. Thomas hit the back of his head on one of the steps, and for a moment he saw the angels willing stars into the night. A loud groan escaped his lips, a sharp bout of pain ringing in his skull.

Vincent hit his back on the carpeted floor of the Casa Santa Marta and Thomas fell on top of him.

An audible crack resonated in the air and another round of pain enveloped Thomas’s wrist. Vincent whimpered quietly below him.

From the top of the stairs, two voices shouted in unison.

“Santità! / Decano!”^2-9

Footsteps thundered down the steps, and soon a pair of firm hands grabbed Thomas by the shoulders, carefully helping him to his feet.

Thomas realized Vincent’s wrist was still clutched in his hand. He dropped it and groaned as he got back up.

“Fai piano…Attento,” ^2-10Mael, standing near Vincent, told his colleague.

“I’m fine…Sto bene, grazie,” ^2-11Thomas told Leonardo, even if his head throbbed. “Go help His Holiness.”

Vincent was still lying on the floor, mouth twisted and eyes half-open. His right arm, the one Thomas had fallen on top of, was pressed tightly to his chest. He tried to move it as the guards got him off the floor, but his body winced with pain and he stiffled a groan.

Thomas only then realized the sharp sound he’d heard earlier had been produced by Vincent’s bone. A wave of nausea suddenly enveloped him, and the Dean swayed on his feet. A young nun run up to him, hands steadying him in place.

“You should stay seated, Holy Father. You too, Eminence. Can someone bring some chairs here?” Mael asked, speaking directly to the small crowd of nuns and bewildered priests that had surreounded the stairlanding, having heard the commotion from the adjacent rooms.

“Que s'est-il passé?"^2-12A sister asked.

“Ils sont tombés de l'escalier…” ^2-13another replied.

“Make room, please! His Holiness and the Dean are hurt!” The guards tried keeping the crowd at a safe distance.

Thomas leaned on the wall, the sickness keeping him from standing upright on his own. His skull felt too small for his brain, temples pulsing.

He was starting to regret putting mayo in that sandwich. The young nun was fussing in Italian next to him, but his mind was too shaken up to translate.

Eminenza, Eminenza! Si sente bene? Sta svenendo?^2-14

Thomas looked down at his aching wrist. He pressed two fingers onto it. Pain shot up his arm at the touch and he winced. He carefully rolled up his sleeve a hunch and saw the swollen skin, a bruise about to form.

He felt like his head was about to explode. Thomas pressed his body to the wall and carefully slid to the floor, vision duplicating. Now there were two nuns speaking to him.

Meanwhile, the guards were taking care of Vincent. They told him to stay seated and helped him rest his head against the wall while they waited for help to arrive, despite the Holy Father’s attempts at reassuring them that only his arm was hurting and nothing else.

One of the nuns called Sister Agnes. She arrived swiftly, marching down the hall like a general on a battlefield. She didn’t need to speak. The crowd immediately parted to let her through.

Her eyes briefly settled on Thomas, eyes unfocused and face a shade paler, then moved on the white and red zucchettos lying on the floor and on the slumped form of the Pope, surrounded by guards and panicking staff members.

She slipped a hand in her pocket and took out a phone right as a priest brought two chairs for Thomas and Vincent to sit on.

“Hello, Doctor Catambrone?” Sister Agnes said into the speaker. “This is Sister Agnes. Come to the Casa Santa Marta immediately. His Holiness and the Dean require medical assistance.”

Chapter Text

My beloved is radiant and ruddy,

distinguished among ten thousand.

His head is the finest gold;

his locks are wavy,

black as a raven.

His eyes are like doves

beside streams of water,

bathed in milk,

sitting beside a full pool.

- Song of Solomon 5:10-12

~ ❦ ~

Doctor Cesare Catambrone, the Holy Father’s personal physician, was a discreet man. Fairly tall and broad shouldered, he sported a greying mustache and a pair of brown eyes, watchful and lively.

‘A soft-spoken person, not prone to gossip. Should the need present itself, we could trust him with His Holiness’s…condition,’ Ray had assured Thomas a few days after Innocent’s appointment. The Dean had actually been relieved to find out his assistant found nothing to object on the matter after he’d deduced Vincent’s secret from his clinical records. The two men had unofficially promoted themselves to keepers of the Pope’s secret physiology, and had filled the Vatican with staff members that wouldn’t hopefully raise too much dust if the word ever spread.

Doctor Catambrone delivered the diagnosis in a detatched professional tone, placing the green ballpoint pen he’d used to sign the papers back into his pristine white coat pocket.

Transverse fracture of the radius for Vincent and a grade one sprained wrist along with a mild concussion for Thomas.

“It could have gone worse,” the doctor said, offering them a smile, a gesture so genuine that it clashed with his overall distant demeanor. The golden cross dangling from his necklace glinted in the artificial light cast by his office lamp.

It could have gone better, Thomas thought, pursing his lips, but didn’t say. His head felt stuffed with cotton, mind struggling to focus on the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth. Thomas silently admonished his brain for not letting him hear clearly. He narrowed his eyes and focused on the doctor’s moving lips, but his mind was a jumble of nerves refusing to cooperate.

Dr Catambrone kept using medical terms Thomas couldn’t have understood even with an un-injured head. He suspected that was how folks in medieval times had felt when going to Latin Mass on Sundays, back when a large chunck of the population didn’t have the money to afford a proper education.

Thomas managed to wrap his confused mind around some of the more common terms. He recognized words like recovery, rest, pain, work.

Fortunately, Ray had come to the rescue as soon as he’d heard of the incident, and was now nodding along to the doctor’s instructions as he restlessly scribbled on his ever-present clipboard. For once, Thomas could afford to not pay attention, even if the circumstances of such an event irked him.

The Dean gave up listening altogether after two more minutes.

Overwhelmed by the technical terminology, he turned towards Vincent, sitting in a chair right next to him in that room that reeked of disinfectant and rubbing alcohol. The Swiss guard had brought them to the Apostolic Palace shortly after the doctor’s arrival at the Santa Marta, since the former had a few rooms that could provide the necessary medical equipment to deal with an emergency and more.

Vincent had his right arm pressed to his chest just like after the fall, except that now the white of his cassock’s sleeve had been substituted by the white of a splint, which was wrapped around his arm all the way to his elbow.

Since the Holy Father hadn’t banged his head on the stairs (Thomas had somewhat protected his lithe frame with his own body, thank God) his mind was lucid enough to understand what Dr Catambrone was actually saying.

Judging by his slight frown, it wasn’t anything pleasing, but Thomas could have figured.

The Dean adjusted in his seat, and a blanket of pain wrapped around his left wrist. He winced without meaning to and looked down at his bandaged skin with great offense. He could feel his flesh pulsing around the bone. If a sprained wrist could cause so much discomfort, Thomas didn’t dare imagine what Vincent was going through at that moment.

It should have been me, he thought grimly, lowering his head in front of the Lord’s perpetual gaze, oh Lord, why didn’t you make it so that the Holy Father was the one to land on top of me, and not the contrary? I could’ve cushioned his fall.

The Holy Spirit remained silent.

The concussion was barely a problem. Thomas was used to the migraines, to the nausea that shook his old body on the days he forgot to drink enough water or chose paperwork over meals. The wrist would be more of an issue, but nothing serious, not like a broken bone.

Someone had told Thomas – he couldn’t remeber who, perhaps a nurse? – that his wrist would almost fully heal in one, two weeks max. They’d prescribed him painkillers and two months of physiotherapy sessions to make sure the muscle would recover after the trauma.

Thomas was doctor only in his faith, but even he knew a fracture would take more time. And with how much energy Vincent usually put it his work, the attention he dedicated to the life of the Church, it was going to be extremely taxing on him. To limit him in his movements, in his time spent where he did best, surrounded by the faithful.

Ray was likely rescheduling Vincent’s entire itinerary for the next three months in that very moment. His mind, too, was one of those kinds that never really stopped running.

Right as the thought crossed Thomas’s fogged up mind, he felt a light tap on his shoulder. A brush of fingers on his cassock, gentle like a mother’s touch.

He raised his head back up to see Vincent leaning closer to him, fingers still hovering over his shoulder protectively, a worried expression rapidly settling on his face.

“Are you in pain?” He asked, gesturing to Thomas’s bandaged wrist.

“I should be the one asking you that,” Thomas retorted with pasty voice. Vincent’s eyes softened, but the concern didn’t quite leave. It was simply hidden behind a veil.

Thomas felt silly, sitting on a chair like that, fussing over a simple sprained wrist. Vincent must have seen him wince before, when he had shifted in his seat, otherwise his question would have made no sense.

Despite the splint and the fact that one of his bones had literally been snapped in two hours prior, Vincent wasn’t even showing half of the same distress as Thomas, when really he would have been the only one in the room allowed to complain.

Instead, Vincent sat back in his chair and picked up the half-melted bag of ice Thomas had come in the room with, placing it on top of his wrist with the outmost care. The cold seeped into his skin, making it uncomfortably numb, but the pain began to subside.

“Thank you,” Thomas whispered, not really looking Vincent in the eyes. He knew he’d only find pity he didn’t deserve there.

Vincent squeezed his shoulder and went back to listening to Dr Catambrone.

Thomas ignored the needles sticking into his head by dedicating a prayer to Saint Raphael the Archangel, the patron saint of healing. He prayed for himself, but mostly for the Holy Father. He also thought a few words for Aldo – if his desk hadn’t collapsed from the weight of all his paperwork yet, Thomas suspected their tumble would have brought the unfortunate piece of furniture to its limit.

“That’s pretty much all,” the doctor said finally, taking off his glasses and placing them on his desk. “His Holiness and Cardinal Lawrence are expected next week for a check-up visit. We’ll see if it’s necessary to put on cast on your arm, Holy Father, once the swelling subsides. For the moment, be sure to take your medications and avoid moving it too much.”

Vincent hummed. “Thank you, Dr Catambrone.”

“Your Eminence?” The doctor adressed Thomas, who had to blink multiple times to focus back on the man in front of him.

“Yes?”

“Prioritize rest above all, both for your concussion and for your wrist. If you feel nauseous during the day at first, that’s normal. Take the painkillers as prescripted and put ice on your wrist at least thrice a day. It’s a good vasoconstrictor, and it’ll help soothe the pain.”

Thomas lost the doctor’s train of thought at ‘vasoconstrictor’.

“It means it slows the blood flow, Your Eminence,” Ray explained by peering over his shoulder, having noticed his bewildered expression. “Don’t worry. I’ve jotted down all the necessary informations.”

Thomas nodded and immediately regretted it, since his head exploded with pain and his vision doubled.

Two Vincents turned towards him, two identical frowns and four rich brown eyes scanning his face for something wrong. Thomas couldn’t hold their gaze at that moment.

“Right. Of course. I know I could count on you, Raymond,” he said, turning towards the doctor – the two doctors - again. He waited until they fused back into one being before continuing.

“And…when is it that I’ll be able to go back to work?” Thomas asked.

“Tomás,” Vincent muttered reproachfully, loud enough for only him to hear. Dr Catambrone’s eyebrows pinched together.

“I suggest you take it slow, Your Eminence,” he said seriously. “You’re not in your twenties anymore. Your body takes more time to heal now, and often a bad recovery has more consequences than the injury itself. The break period recommended for a concussion like yours is of a month.”

A month?!

The words were like a lighthouse amidst the fog in Thomas’s brain. The cotton disappeared, and he opened his mouth to reply, but Ray beat him to it.

“I’ll make sure your instructions are followed to the word, Doctor.” The Monsignor shot a petulant look at Thomas and Vincent both, who recoiled in their seats like two high schoolers caught cheating in the middle of an exam.

Dr Catambrone beamed at the Monsignor, evidently considering him the only voice of reason aside from himself. “Excellent. Very well, then, gentlemen. I have nothing more to add.”

He shook hands with Ray. Thomas and Vincent got up to do the same.

As the three exited the office, Mael and Leonardo straightened their backs. They abandoned their posts on either side of the door to follow the Pope towards the van that would bring him back to the Casa Santa Marta.

Vincent obviously thought it unnecessary to employ a moving vehicle for a walk that would take minutes, but Raymond’s steadfastness had prevented him from complaining for once.

Cloaked by silence, they all got in the van. Thomas sat in the passenger seat to avoid Vincent’s penetrating gaze from his place squished between two Swiss guards.

Once the van stopped in front of the Santa Marta, Mael and Leonardo helped the Pope off and escorted him inside. Thomas watched Vincent’s white cassock swish behind him with the light wind in the rearview mirror, only breaking contact when the car took a turn and the sight of the Holy Father was substituted by a grey wall.

The van stopped at a pharmacy and then went down the road to Thomas’s apartment building. Despite his protests (‘I’m fine, Ray. Really, there’s no need’), the Monsignor escorted Thomas all the way to his apartment, sending messages to fifty or so people while the Dean watched the lift display slowly change numbers until it settled on a bright, orange 5.

The doors opened with a ding and the two men stepped into the hallway, covering the short distance to Thomas’s apartment. The Cardinal fumbled with his keys and unlocked the door. He briefly wondered if his housekeeper had already stopped by. He’d lost track of time in the Apostolic Palace.

Ray roamed the place, eyes analyzing every crack and corner for possible threats to his boss’ health. He made sure Thomas had enough food in the fridge and checked if the AC functioned properly so that he wouldn’t die cooked alive. He even offered to help Thomas unbutton his cassock, but he sharply refused. The situation was already pathetic enough as it was.

“I’ll manage,” he told Raymond as the Monsignor stood on the threshold, left wrist pulsing again now that he’d removed the ice. I always do.

Ray looked at him severely. He clicked his tongue, clipboard hanging between them like a weapon.

“Rest, Your Eminence. They’re the doctor’s orders. And mine.”

Thomas didn’t nod this time, scared the needles would come back for another attack.

Instead, he hummed weakly and closed the door. Even with the wood separating them, Thomas felt Ray’s eyes boring into his head as he shuffled back to the kitchen to fetch his painkillers.

~ ❦ ~

“You know, when I asked you to reason with His Holiness the other day, I didn’t think you’d choose violence in the end,” Aldo quipped from behind his dark mahogany desk, computer open on an Excel file.

Thomas huffed and tucked another document in his folder.

They were in the Secretary of State’s office, a few days after The Fall™, as it had been kindly labeled by the Vatican staff in the hours following the staircase incident.

The Dean’s wrist still pulsed and he’d been forced at home by his assistant, but the throbbing in his temples had ceased to a level Thomas considered tolerable, so he’d taken the initiative that morning and had sneaked inside the Vatican to collect some letters and other paperwork to go through in his apartment.

He needed something to keep his mind busy.

Thomas couldn’t bear idling in his home no longer. Vincent’s injury would set him back on work, and the Holy Father couldn’t afford stressing about his job while his arm healed. He required rest, and Thomas was set on granting it, even if he had to check every corner before turning in the hallway since Ray was of the opposite opinion, and would no doubt physically kick him out of the Palace if it came to it.

Aldo himself had nearly closed the door in his face when Thomas had knocked on it a few hours prior, bag hanging from one shoulder.

“Please tell me you have kept your jokes to yourself and no one in the Vatican actually thinks I pushed the Pope down the stairs,” Thomas begged behind the coffee table - Aldo had forced him to sort through the documents while seated.

The Secretary shrugged and averted his eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. He didn’t reply.

Thomas sighed and picked up another stack of papers. The AC whirled above him.

Aldo’s phone chimed on the desk, and he unlocked it to check the notifications.

“Ray informs me that everything is ready for your move to Castle Gandolfo,” he said, slowly typing a reply. His eyes squinted as they scanned the screen to find the tiny letters.

“Do you also have a date?” Thomas asked.

Vincent’s injury and prescribed period of recovery had forced him into taking a break from leading the Church, and so Aldo’s dream of seeing him at Castle Gandolfo for the summer had become reality.

When Aldo had proposed staying with the Holy Father during his ‘vacation’ to Thomas, stating Vincent had already agreed to the arrangement, he’d accpeted the offer without a hint of hesitation. He’d still be forced away from work, but at least he’d have company, and a wonderful one at that.

The Dean knew, of course (he was concussed, not dumb, thank you very much) that sending both him and the Pope to the Castle was a way for Aldo and Ray to keep a better eye on them both, making sure they actually took the time to rest.

And yet, he’d agreed to do just that. Thomas wanted to be there for Vincent during his recovery and maybe, just maybe, he also wished to spend time with him out of official assignments. Since Thomas had been relocated into his apartment for the entire day, they’d only been able to speak through very brief text messages.

However, that didn’t mean he was going to passively relent to his fate. In fact, Thomas was working on a way to smuggle in some work at the castle, so that the Dean’s business wouldn’t fall behind during his absence.

“On Monday, the 22nd of July,” Aldo replied from his desk, placing the phone down.

Thomad hummed, signing the date into his mental calendar, and went on to examine his folder. He’d already collected a good portion of documents, which Aldo had been so kind to retrieve from his office while Ray was busy somewhere else in the Vatican. Though, despite the heaviness of his folder, Thomas knew they weren’t enough.

Right as he stuck his hand (the right one, so that his wrist wouldn’t hurt) in a pile of official letters, Aldo politely cleared his throat from the other side of the room.

Thomas raised an eyebrow at him, fingers brushing the letters.

The Secretary held his gaze for a few seconds, then let out an exasperated sigh and folded his glasses.

“Thomas,” Aldo began, massaging his nose with two fingers, “don’t you remember what I told you? Before I let you in? You can only take a maximum of twenty-five documents.”

He eyed his bulging folder, mouth twisting into a frown. “You have at least fifty in there!”

“I don’t have a broken arm like His Holiness, Aldo. I’m perfectly capable of doing my job.”

“You’re concussed!” Aldo shot back, raising his arms in exasperation. “You banged the back of your head on a staircase, for Heaven’s sake. It’s why you’re going to the Castle with the Holy Father in the first place, so that you can recover. And recovery does not involve paperwork.”

“Then I’ll finish with these - ” Thomas gestured to the documents, voice perfectly even “ – before Monday.”

“You can’t just choose on which days to rest and on which ones not. That isn’t how the human body works,” Aldo huffed and hastily got up from his chair, abandoning the Excel file behind to move towards Thomas.

He stopped in front of the coffee table and began taking the piles of letters and notes from him, placing them on the bookshelves lining his office walls.

“You don’t have to carry the weight of the entire Curia on your shoulders alone, Tom,” Aldo reassured him as he went.

Tom? How long had it been since he’d called him that?

“And yet, I’m the Dean…” Thomas muttered, staring at the chessboard open on his left, the same one the late Holy Father had so loved to play with in his time.

The pieces were scattered across the board, a silent battle of wits left on hold. The whites were missing a knight and nearly all the pawns, while the blacks lacked their queen and a bishop.

Thomas wondered who Aldo could have invited in his office to end up playing chess with them. Certainly not him, stuck as he was at home. Raymond, perhaps? Maybe even Vincent, though he’d once told Thomas he didn’t particularly like the game. There was too much strategy involved.

“We can delegate. Split responsabilities. The Vatican will find a way,” Aldo said, placing the last bits of paperwork in a desk drawer. He turned to Thomas, hands on his hips, gaze sharp as steel. “Funny thing. I’ve had a very similar conversation with the Holy Father just yesterday.”

Thomas softly shook his head, ignoring the reprimand in his friend’s voice.

Another headache was fast approaching. His wrist pulsed. He’d only meant to collect some papers and go back to his apartment, damn it…not all that was happening.

Aldo’s phone chimed again, twice in a row, but he let it be, settling on an armchair across from Thomas instead. For a long while, they looked at each other without speaking, each trying to find logical arguments to defeat the other with, the Secretary’s phone buzzing on his desk at regular intervals.

Finally, Aldo spoke: “If one part suffers, every part suffers with it…”

He stared at Thomas expectantly.

“…if one part is honoured, every part rejoices with it,^3-1the older man concluded for him after a beat of silence.

The Secretary nodded, satisfied.

“You understand, then? You must heal not only for your own good, but for the good of the Church.”

Thomas pressed his lips together. Aldo took his folder from the coffee table and placed it in his hands. A concession in a sea of medical prescriptions and orders.

“You can take this home with you, but I don’t want to see you sneaking back here for the next three weeks, alright?”

“Mph. Fine,” Thomas relented, and got up from his seat, Aldo following his example.

As the latter walked back to his desk and the former prepared to leave, a loud meow was heard coming from outside the window, and right after a dark-haired cat jumped in plain sight on the sill.

Thomas recognized it immediately. Yellow eyes, bushy tail – why, it was the cat that had attacked Aldo outside of the Casa Santa Marta!

“Oh, not this again,” the Secretary muttered under his breath.

The cat stared at him behind the glass, pupils blown wide. It meowed even louder.

“Has it come for revenge?” Thomas joked from the other end of the room.

Aldo turned sharply on his heels. Something in his expression told the Dean his barb hadn’t been received well.

“This brute,” Aldo seethed, index finger pointing at the fluffy animal outside his window, “had the absolute audacity to follow me from the Santa Marta to my office, and now, it comes over daily to scream at me through the window!”

Perfectly on cue, the cat let out a prolonged yowl, yellow eyes focusing on the finger directed to its chest.

Thomas chuckled at the absurdity of it all. He cocked his head to the side, feigning surprise, and tilted his chin towards the metal bowl resting on the windowsill next to the cat, empty except for a few lone crumbs.

“I suppose that bowl is a piece of modern decor, then?” He innocently asked.

The tip of Aldo’s ears became red. He took a couple steps to his left, covering the bowl from sight with his frame. The cat, clearly a familiar guest inside the office, patted the glass with a black paw when the Cardinal stubbornly kept his back to it. The meowing continued.

The Secretary’s eyes scanned the room, settling on everything except for Thomas’s face, as if looking desperately at the shelves would gift him a way to escape the hole he’d dug himself.

Thomas knew coming to the Vatican had been a good idea. He hadn’t had that much fun in days.

After a minute of awkward silence, broken only by the perpetual meows of their furry companion, Aldo settled for: “My assistant pitied the thing and autonomously decided to feed it.”

“And you gave him permission to bring cat food into your office? The space you consider almost as sacred as the Basilica’s altar?”

Aldo frowned. “All animals, loud as they may be - ” the cat patted the window again “ – are creatures of God.”

Thomas rolled his eyes, a subtle grin tugging at his lips. His friend hadn’t sounded so protective of the thing before Thomas had pointed out the obvious to him.

Waving his good hand dismissively in the air, the Dean collected his bulging folder and approached the office door.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Aldo,” he deadpanned, checking the hallway for any trace of Ray before quietly slipping outside.

The Secretary mumbled a strained ‘see you’ and dropped all defences once the door closed behind his friend’s back with a soft click.

In an instant, Aldo’s head snapped back to the cat. It stopped mid-meow, yellow eyes narrowing, whiskers quivering, as if it knew. Its bushy tail flicked near the metal bowl, brushing the rim with annoyance.

Aldo held the animal’s gaze for a few, agonizing seconds, then sighed deeply and kneeled to open a drawer in his desk.

Brushing aside the popping of his own vertebrae, Aldo retrieved a green bag of cat food from the bottom and used the edge of the table as a support to get back on his feet.

The window opened shortly after, the hot air of Rome slapping him right in the face. The cat, finally silent, watched with smugness as he poured the brown kibbles into the bowl and dove right in to eat, knocking Aldo’s hand aside.

He huffed, repeating the previous operation to put the bag back into his drawer, where no one except for him could see.

The Secretary leaned on the windowsill with defeat, clutching at his pectoral cross to utter a weak prayer. The cat munched loudly on the kibbles and the cicadas sung around him, tree leaves rustling with the calm breeze.

Once the cat was done eating, it raised its round eyes back towards Aldo. The Secretary quircked up an eyebrow in silent question. Then, in a surprising act of complete trust, the cat brushed its body on the man’s joined hands. The meow it let out this time was quieter, almost thankful.

Aldo was caught unprepared. He moved his hand tentatively, fingers gliding through the cat’s soft fur.

It purred. Purred!

“Your heart’s not as hard as your shell, huh?” Aldo murmured, scratching it under the chin. The cat closed his eyes, enjoying the pets.

Aldo’s phone chimed behind him, calling him back to his duties. He retracted his hands and grabbed the window handle.

“You still owe me a cassock,” he reminded his companion before closing it shut. The cat meowed one last time and jumped off the sill, disappearing behind a bush of blooming camellias.

Aldo returned to his desk, computer having entered stand-by, and picked up his phone.

There were over twenty notifications on his home page, but one name stood out in his messages.

Tedesco – 15 new messages

Perhaps it was time to change his contact name to something less hostile.

Aldo and the infamous Patriarch of Venice had butted heads since the start of their acquaintenceship. They were two opposites. The Ying and the Yang. The liberal and the conservative.

And yet…a name that usually carried hate and resentment had begun changing shape in the last few weeks, causing the pieces of Aldo’s heart to rearrange themselves. He didn’t even know how, but him and Tedesco had reached a certain close familiarity. Aldo had a scheduled trip to Venice in only two weeks, and he’d never looked forward to anything more. The Patriarch had promised him a private tour of Piazza San Marco.

It had been the Conclave. God had truly operated miracles in the auditorium of the Casa Santa Marta. First, Innocent’s papacy, with the added bonus of Thomas’s intentions of staying in the Vatican. Then – Aldo eyed his phone briefly - whatever that was going to evolve into.

The Secretary looed at the unfinished chess game on his coffee table and unconsciously smiled. He opened up his Whatsapp chat with Goffredo, and typed in a reply.

~ ❦ ~

Raymond stopped by Thomas’s apartment on Monday to help him carry his luggage to the car, and also to personally verify he wouldn’t be smuggling paperwork on his vacation.

Not that Thomas had packed much. He was a simple man, a man of Christ. His necessary belongings all fitted in a single suitcase, and a few others he kept on his person, like his phone or his pectoral cross.

Castle Gandolfo would be fitted with staff ready to satisfy the Pope’s needs…and his Dean’s. There would be guards securing the area arund the lake and the nearby streets and nuns to clean rooms, cook and wash and fold laundry. Due to his broken arm, Vincent’s stay had been extended from the usual two-week period to an entire month, starting on the last days of July and to finish around the middle of August.

As the lift brought them to the ground floor, Ray showed Thomas a few files on his ever-present clipboard, to give him an idea of the Vatican’s current position before he took his leave.

There was a detailed planimetry of Castle Gandolfo with all the guard posts signed with red pen, documents upon documents filled with columns of names, and some notes scribbled in Ray’s neat handwriting mentioning a ‘pond expansion’, though the rest was written too small for Thomas to see without glasses.

“And that’s only the tip of the iceberg!” Ray joked as the lift doors opened in front of them with a ding.

“I’m sure you’ve got everything under control,” Thomas said, letters still swimming in his vision. He remembered Vincent making a phone call not too long before, asking Ray for a…was it a chart of the Gardens? Goodness, his memory really wasn’t the same anymore.

Thomas shook his head and let Ray carry his suitcase outside, where a black car was parked on the pavement, sunlight shining on the dark metal. A Swiss guard sat in the front passenger’s seat, concentrated expression and straight back.

The driver, who wore a grey suit complete with gloves and sunglasses, got off the car to load the luggage into the trunk. Thomas began sweating by simply looking at him.

Trunk closed securely with the Dean’s belongings inside, the driver nodded towards Ray and Thomas.

“Siamo pronti per partire, Eminenza,” ^3-2he said.

Thomas nodded and thanked him, watching as the man slipped back into the vehicle before grabbing the car handle to the backseat with his good hand. Raymond’s own hand on his out-stretched wrist made Thomas still.

He raised his eyes to meet the Monsignor’s face, who was directing him a look usually reserved for rebel seminarians caught in places they shouldn’t have stuck their noses into.

“What is it, Raymond?” Thomas asked patiently, sweat rolling down his nose.

“I simply meant to remind you, Eminence,” Ray began, tone changing from casual to professional in the blink of an eye, “that your stay at Castle Gandolfo was specifically programmed to grant you the time and the space to rest. Therefore, I’d like you to focus on that. I’ve done my absolute best to ensure that the void caused by your temporary absence will go unnoticed, bureaucraticly speaking.”

Thomas’s fingers tightened their grip on the handle. He pursed his lips, holding his assistant’s firm gaze for a few seconds longer before replying.

“Very well. Goodbye for now, Ray.”

He glanced at his apartment building one last time: the closed shutters on his kitchen window, the drying rack on a balcony, a child’s toys scattered on another…

Thomas got in the car, AC a sharp contrast to the heat outside. He muttered a few distracted words to the driver as he fumbled with his seatbelt and they were off, mixing in with the Roman traffic on their way to Castle Gandolfo.

Raymond watched the car until it turned behind a corner and disappeared from sight. He nodded to himself, clearly satisfied, and walked the way back to the Vatican with a certain haste to his steps. After all, the Catholic Church couldn’t remain without his guiding hand for long when both the Pope and his trusted Dean were missing from the scene.

~ ❦ ~

Thomas wasn’t really that excited at the prospect of spending an entire month without the ability to sort through his e-mails and notes.

He grieved all the hours of lost work as the car drove along the A90, watching with empty eyes as they zipped past trees and buildings, colours blurring together the more the speed increased.

His phone chirped from his pants’ front pocket, snapping Thomas out of his reveries. He had to lift his right hand and extend it to the other side to grab it, since his phone was on the left side of his body and his bandaged wrist still sent stabs of pain through the Dean’s arm at every movement, but otherwise all went well.

Thomas balanced the white rectangle on his thigh, screen turned to face him, and typed in his code with a finger, eyes quinting to make out the numbers. The screen lit up, unlocking with a bubbling sound he didn’t remember selecting.

There was a notification for an unread Whatsapp message. Thomas pressed his index finger on top of it to make it open.

            Vincent: Ray texted me that you’re on your way. I’ll be waiting near the entrance😊

The smiley emoji did things to Thomas’s chemistry he’d never experienced before. Suddenly the hour-long ride to Castle Gandolfo lost its gloom, with the thought of Vincent – Thomas could picture it, the sunny smile and soft curls framing his face – patiently waiting near the entrance for him to arrive settling on the seat next to him, providing a comfort he desperately needed.

The driver rounded a sharp curve in the road and the phone nearly flew away from his grasp. Thomas quickly sent a yellow thumbs-up as a reply and placed the device in his left pocket. As he raised his head again to look out the window, he saw a small smile was tugging at his lips.

When the car got stuck in some traffic, he felt something inside him grow frustrated at the thought of being kept apart from Vincent by those cars, a feeling then replaced by shame. Thomas mentally reproached himself for thinking like an impatient child during a field trip.

The car ended up dropping him at the papal summer residence after a hour and a half.

The cicadas sung all around, hidden between branches and dry grass patches. The building itself was a sight to behold – a brick complex that stood tall on a small hill, surrounded by lush greenery and blooming gardens, with the sun highlighting the warm colours of the constructing material. Thomas couldn’t see the Lago Albano, the castle shielding it from view with its grandeur, though he could easily imagine the turquoise water’s shimmering surface under that clear sky.

The Swiss guard escorted Thomas into a closed-off courtyard, where a staff member materialized out of the shadows to take care of his luggage.

Thomas’s ‘thank you’ froze on his lips when his eyes landed on the marble fountain gurgling not too far, and specifically on the person sitting there. The staff member didn’t seem to notice. They dragged his suitcase away as Thomas stared, dumbfounded, towards the courtyard’s center.

Vincent had his head cast low, his body slightly off-center as he peered at something in the water. Gone was the white cassock he usually wore, exchanged for something less formal, a white button-down paired with black slacks and with his usual red Converse. His splint had been replaced with a cast, held up by a cloth tied around his shoulder.

What struck Thomas wasn’t really Vincent’s presence, but the way it was presented to him. The white fabric of his shirt accentuated his bronze skin. The sunrays filtering through the canopy of leaves above reflected on his jet-black hair, surrounding Vincent’s head with a glowing halo. His face features were smoothed in a gentle expression, lips smiling, sligthly parted, eyes glinting. He was the image of purity. Sinless, sincere, holy –

Beautiful.

Thomas choked on his own saliva as the thought took shape in his head. He disguised it behind a cough, and Vincent’s attention shifted from the water to him.

His brown eyes shone, smile widening. “Tomás! You’re here.”

“I – I am,” Thomas cleared his throat. Then, remembering there was still a guard behind his back, he waved a hand in the air, not daring to turn around.

“You may leave us,” he dismissed him. The guard nodded courtly and left, boots stomping down the path. There were no other guards in the courtyard – Vincent had likely expressed his wishes to enjoy some time on his own. The Pope and his Dean were alone.

Vincent went to get up from his seat to welcome him, but Thomas spoke first. “Oh, it’s quite alright. There’s no need to trouble yourself, Your Holiness.”

“Vincent,” the man gently reminded him, sitting back down.

“Vincent, right,” Thomas said, “May I?” He then asked, gesturing to the empty spot next to Vincent.

“Please do.”

The Dean settled near the Holy Father. They exchanged pleasantries and slipped into amiable chatter soon enough, water sloshing and bubbling as they spoke.

Vincent showed Thomas the orange fish swimming in the fountain, pointing at each one with a finger, and Thomas took the chance to ask him about those pond expansion plans he’d seen on Ray’s clipboard.

Vincent was ‘happy that you’ve mentioned them, actually’. Since that poor turtle had found its demise on the Roman streets, he hadn’t stopped thinking about how to avoid such an awful event from happening ever again. Vincent had attented a meeting with Ray for that very reason.

He’d initially proposed relocating the turtles somewhere else in the Vatican Gardens. The Monsignor, however, knowing moving the turtles would have been difficult, had proposed to put a fence around the pond. Vincent had promptly refused.

In the end, they’d settled for expanding the turtles’ living space. “Hopefully a bigger pond will result in less attempts at making an escape,” Vincent finished with a dry laugh.

They sat in silence for a while after that. Thomas listened to the steady hum of the cicadas outside. Vincent traced random shapes in the water with the tip of his fingers.

The Dean lost track of time as he admired the motion of the Holy Father’s hand gliding through the water. His mind drifted back to thoughts similar to the one he’d met with at his first glance of Vincent sitting by the fountain.

Thomas frowned, water rippling in front of his eyes. What was he even doing, using such inappropriate language to describe Vincent?

It was the casual attire, Thomas concluded, running his eyes over the younger man’s frame. At the sight of Vincent’s warm skin and flushed cheeks from the heat, his stomach did a little flip.

Yes, it was probably the clothes. It had to be.

The words had slipped out because the visual barrier provided by Vincent’s cassock had dissipated. Thomas coudn’t explain it in any other way, wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Because Vincent was the Pope. The Pope. As in, the head of the Roman Catholic Church.

And Thomas was the Dean of the Sacred College of Cardinals. Titles aside, they were still priests. Thomas had escaped the temptation of sin for all those years, he wasn’t going to start lusting over the Holy Father anytime soon. No, it couldn’t happen. Thomas wouldn’t stain Vincent like that, he had no right.

Vincent continued playing with the water, unaware of the other man’s penetrating gaze mere inches from him. Thomas tried looking away, but found it very, very hard. Vincent’s fingers moved with such grace…it was mesmerizing.

Luckily, the moment didn’t last for long. Vincent raised his head while Thomas kept his own lowered and asked: “Would you like to see the lake before we head to lunch?”

Thomas mustered the courage to meet his eyes. The chocolate brown turned almost hazel in the early afternoon light.

“It would be a pleasure,” he said, surprised that had come out so smoothly.

Vincent nodded and both men got up from their seats, albeit with different levels of difficulty. The Dean’s lower back protested at the movement, but he paid it no mind. He followed the Holy Father as they abandoned the courtyard and entered the castle’s walls, heels clicking on the polished floors.

As they passed by Swiss guards and nuns pushing carts from one room to another, Thomas stepped closer to Vincent and lowered his voice so that only the two of them could hear among the general ruckus.

“May I ask you something, Vincent?”

“Of course,” he replied, nodding with recognition towards a sister who had bowed at their passage. “What is it?”

“After our unfortunate incident, when they took us to the Palace to be examined…” Thomas brought his voice to a light whisper, as if the building itself were listening for scandals, “did the doctors hint at any more…thorough check-ups?”

Vincent stiffened, face turning slightly towards the Dean.

“No, they did not,” he said, the apprehension in his eyes fading. “They ran a few extra exams on me to see if my back or head had been damaged during the fall, but since the results came back positive and I assured them I felt well, no further visits were done.”

Thomas let out a puff of breath, shoulders relaxing a hunch. “Good, that…that’s good.”

Their conversation shifted onto safer territory until they reached the staircase that would lead them down near the lake’s shore.

They descended carefully, bodies aching with the memory of what had brought them there. Thomas went first, feet searching the steps for any cracks or bumps that could result in another casualty. He periodically reminded Vincent to tread carefully and kicked rocks and leaves to the sides.

“I appreciate your concerns Tomás, but I’m not a complete desastre, ^3-3you know?” Vincent laughed after his umpteenth warning.

An embarassing amount of time later, they finally reached the grassy terrain surrounding the Albano Lake. Thomas found with pleasure that he’d been right – the sight was truly something.

The water was a shimmering slab of blue, dotted here and there with green from the trees’ reflections on its clear surface. Families of ducks paddled near the shore, some sitting under the shade to rest away from the heat. Thomas himself was starting to regret wearing long sleeves in Italy at noon.

“Let us find a spot where the sun won’t bother us,” Vincent, seemingly reading his mind, suggested.

Thomas nodded. “Yes, let’s.”

They walked along the coastline and came to stand under a tall tree that provided a substantial amount of shadow.

“The water looks so refreshing. I wish I could dive right in,” Vincent commented.

“It’s not a bad idea. You could put a plastic bag over your cast.”

Vincent shook his head lightly. “It’s not that. I don’t know how to swim.”

“You don’t?”

“My parents didn’t have the time to take me and my siblings to the beach when we were little,” Vincent explained, eyes unfocusing as his mind went back in time. “Then, I joined the seminary, and the occasion never presented itself.”

“Oh,” Thomas simply said, letting the conversation fade away.

For a while they simply remained there, sharing a comfortable silence, admiring God’s handiwork on Earth. Birds chirped above their heads, flying from one branch to another. The air smelled like summer and nature in full grow.

Thomas closed his eyes, finding a certain quiet peace in the undisturbed environment around them. He couldn’t interwine his fingers to pray, so he though a few thankful words in his head and hoped the Lord would be able to perceive them just as well.

“Thomas?” Vincent broke the silence minutes later. The Dean reopened his eyes and turned towards him, a serene smile paited on his face.

“Yes?”

“I meant to tell you - ” Vincent began, than stopped, mouth snapping shut. He bit the inside of his cheek, clearly pensive. Thomas waited patiently for him to find the words, knowing his friend sometimes struggled to carry his thoughts out in English, a language that didn’t really belong to him.

“I thought about what you told me in these few days we spent apart,” Vincent slowly said, eyes locked on the horizon.

Thomas blinked, a bit lost. “Pardon?” He said, not grasping the full meaning of Vincent’s words. His concussed mind struggled to keep up at times, brains turning into jelly.

“You know, on the staircase? Before we fell?” Vincent gently reminded him. “You were trying to convince me to agree to a break. You told me that even God, back when He created the world as we know it, took the time to rest on the seventh day. I never got the chance to reply.”

“Ah,” Thomas hummed, shooing the mental fog away, “I remember now. What about it?”

“Well, it is true that our Lord dedicated a day to Himself, a day that we all celebrate now, but that only happened after He’d accomplished creating the Earth. I, on the other hand - and let us ignore our present circumstances at the moment - should only do such thing once at least some of the objectives I’ve set for my papacy are completed. Up until then, I have no right to a break, because the seeds I’ve planted haven’t grown into plants yet.”

“Vincent,” Thomas gaped, unable to – no, refusing to stand idly while such thoughts plagued his friend’s wonderful mind, “Who – why would you say such a thing? You’re undermining your very actions as Pope!”

“But - ”

Thomas raised a polite hand to momentarily silence him. “Haven’t you heard?” He asked, somewhere between surprised and skeptical. “Our statistics show it quite clearly. Since your appointment as Pope, churches all around the globe – and not just Catholic ones – have seen an incredible increase in attendance. More and more people linger inside after Mass and participate in community activities. Charity organizations, helped by the Vatican funds you have sent, have managed to aid thousands of souls who struggle to live in nations shattered by war. They have food and clean water, shelters where to protect themselves and sleep at night. Villages in remote areas are finally getting electricity. There are medics ready to aid the injured and sick.”

As Thomas remembered all the good Vincent had brought into the world, his voice grew higher, stronger, fueled by the accomplishments of a papacy he’d only dared to dream about a few months prior.

“You’ve brought people closer to faith, closer to our God. They whisper your name between prayers and offer their help to the struggling. Songs praising Christ and the Lord echo off the high naves of cathedrals. Jesus said to Simon, ‘Do not be afraid; from now on, you will be catching men.’ ^3-4Never has a Pope been truer to our Master’s words than you. My dear Vincent, if I had to voice every single good deed you’ve done in the past months, we’d be here until tomorrow’s sunrise, and the guards would have to come here and drag us both back inside.”

Vincent cast his gaze low, cheeks turning a shade darker. Thomas’s eyes shone, twins flames fueled by something that had burrowed roots into his heart, something that went deeper than reverence.

He allowed the weight of his words to settle between them, to ripple the surface of their souls. Thomas meant it all to the last syllable, and how could he not? To him, there was no one else in the world more deserving of his praise, of his eternal gratitude, than the man standing next to him.

“It is hard to see,” Vincent spoke, voice ushed by a heavy emotion.

Thomas thought back to the conversation he’d had with Aldo over whiskey a few days prior.

“I understand. This is not Kabul,” he said, grass rustling beneath his feet as he shuffled closer. Vincent raised his gaze to look at him, and his heart skipped a beat at the unfiltered – yes, at the innocence behind those rich brown eyes.

“Birds who fly high above the clouds cannot see the ground. That doesn’t mean the earth is not there. As Pope, your actions have an echo. It resonates through the people, and so it is carried far. Every prayer murmured in the stillness of a chapel, every warm meal handed to a starving child, every smile, every caress – those are the proof of that echo. You may not see it, but it is there.”

Vincent smiled. “You see? This is why I voted for you…” he said, cocking his head to the side. A black curl escaped its place behind his ear, moving to rest on his left cheek.

Thomas didn’t know what pushed him to move.

Maybe the dizziness, maybe the trill of the cicadas all around them, maybe the scent of Vincent’s soap floating in the air, herbs and oranges and something else he couldn’t name.

Whatever it was, Thomas lifted his right hand, his healthy one, and picked the soft lock between two fingers, knuckles brushing with the skin. Vincent held his breath, pupils blown wide, as Thomas carried that strand of hair back behind his ear, hand lingering for a few extra seconds before dropping again at his side.

Neither man spoke.

They stood there, shadows shifting as the sun floated west above.

It wasn’t a tense silence. It felt more like an awakening, the sound spring made when the colder season ended. The melting of the ice that allowed new flowers to bloom.

Then, bells rung in the distance, and the spell broke.

They broke eye contact at the same time. Vincent cleared his throat. Thomas adjusted his collar, clinging to his neck with sweat. The sunlight reflecting on the water began to hurt his eyes. He tried conjuring something to say to fix the fast-developing awkwardness, but the thoughts slipped from his fingers, disappearing in the fog.

His stomach churned, his mouth filled with saliva that felt too painful to swallow. Thomas blinked rapidly, trying to get a hold of his own body. He swayed forward.

“Thomas!” Vincent exclaimed. A hand gripped his elbow to stabilize him. “What is it? Do you feel like fainting?”

“It - ” Thomas hesitated, took a deep breath. The leaves were doubling under his feet. “It’ll pass,” he reassured, steadying himself. Still, Vincent’s hand didn’t leave him. The touch burned hot on his arm.

“Are you sure you don’t wish to seat down?”

Thomas murmured a faint ‘yes’. Vincent took a few seconds to reply. He clearly wasn’t convinced.

“Alright,” he relented in the end. “Let’s head back inside anyway. It’s too hot out here, you need water.”

Thomas liked the thought of heading inside very much, but his pride didn’t let him voice it. He followed Vincent back to Castle Gandolfo, his gentle hand on his arm featherlight, grounding, never faltering as he guided him up the stairs.

Chapter Text

The voice of my beloved!

Behold, he comes,

leaping over the mountains,

bounding over the hills.

  My beloved is like a gazelle

or a young stag.

Behold, there he stands

behind our wall,

gazing through the windows,

looking through the lattice.

- Song of Solomon 2:8-9

~ ❦ ~

Their monthly permanence at Castle Gandolfo passed swiftly thanks to each other’s presence. Vincent and Thomas developed a form of routine, a sort of silent agreement they did their best to respect.

After their morning prayers, they met up to have breakfast together on the terrace overlooking the main courtyard. A lush canopy shielded their heads from the rising sun, so they drank their cappuccinos without haste. The sisters brought them fresh cornetti every morning, along with a pitcher filled with juice made of fruits harvested and squeezed during the week. Neither Thomas nor Vincent could spread jam very well on their bread, and since they didn’t feel like bothering the staff for something so trivial, they simply did without.

They spent the first few days mostly inside the residence. Vincent was worried for Thomas, whose concussion wasn’t yet fully healed. For this reason, he tried keeping him in the castle’s vicinity, where help was always available in the case of an emergency. He said he didn’t mind, but Thomas knew how much it cost the Holy Father to remain behind closed doors.

They distracted themselves with a vast array of activities. Thomas took Vincent on a complete tour of Castle Gandolfo, since it was his first time there. During it, they stumbled upon a cabinet filled with board games, some even quite old. The two men sorted through their bounty with the same excitement typical of children unpacking presents on Christmas.

In the end, Thomas taught Vincent how to play Cluedo - a game his niece had shown him - and they spent the next five hours solving murder cases together, pace slower than snails due to their respective injuries.

They prayed inside the small chapel connected to the castle and read books in the evenings, sitting in expensive leather armchairs and with two glasses of wine on the coffee table.

Granted, Thomas and Vincent weren’t completely isolated from the world. Ray updated the Holy Father and his Dean on the Vatican’s situation weekly via scheduled phone calls (“Are the turtles safe?” / “They are, Your Holiness”) and they ran some check-ups with Doctor Catambrone during the month.

Once the concussion-induced nausea stopped coming, Thomas joined Vincent on his daily walks around the gardens and nearby the lake’s shore. The cicadas and the rustling of leaves were the perfect background noise for their long conversations.

Thomas learned a lot about Vincent during that month. His favourite colour was yellow because it reminded him of his childhood home in Mexico, walls painted lemon that reflected the sunlight in the afternoons. Vincent also had two elder sisters, Juana and Paloma, and when he was a kid he’d wanted to become a chef before seminary life had eventually come through.

In return, Thomas told him about his family. Of how his mother had melted into a puddle of joy when he’d been accepted into the seminary. Of his younger brother, Andrew, and of the pride he felt towards his children. He explained why he loved crime fiction so much, what had made him pick the path of priesthood.

Both never mentioned what had happened near the lake. Thomas kept blaming his sick mind for his lapse in judgement, while Vincent thought it an act without real meaning behind it.

Between whispered rosaries and coffee cups, the days flew by. Just like that, it was time for Thomas to go back to his apartment in the bustling center of Rome.

Wrist and head both fully healed, Thomas had to make an emergency trip to the tailor upon discovering that his cassock had gotten a bit too tight around the waist. The nuns had kept him well-fed at the castle, and Vincent had always made sure to place a few extra leaves of lettuce in his salad or some more grams of pasta in his plate at every meal.

On his first day back in his office, Thomas found Ray had handled the added workload excpetionally well. There were no overdue letters lying on his desk, nor had the paperwork multiplied to swallow him alive upon return.

That same evening, shortly before dinner, Vincent stopped by with a plastic container in hand and a giddy smile on his face, arm still wrapped in a cast.

“Would you like to see the turtles?” He asked, bouncing on the heels of his feet. Vincent had missed the tiny creatures terribly during those weeks.

As an answer, Thomas put his pen down on the desk and followed the Holy Father outside.

Vincent showed him the turtles’ expanded enclosure, complete with two waterfalls and plenty of added rocks to sunbathe on. They sat on the edge of the pond together that night, thighs flush and shoulders occasionally brushing as they fed the turtles leaves and fruits from the container.

They slipped into their usual amiable chatter and lost track of time. Aldo had to saunter over an hour later to drag them both to dinner, voice trying to sound annoyed despite the satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

After two more weeks, Vincent was finally rid of his cast and began physiotherapy. His trip to Egypt was rescheduled to September.

Thomas would have liked to accompany the Pope in Africa, but his duties chained him to the Vatican. Innocent’s first anniversary as Holy Father was fast approaching, so he had to stay in the Apostolic Palace to discuss logistics and attend meeting after meeting while Vincent boarded a plane and set his foot on another continent.

A few weeks later, after the main issues were all handled, Thomas took a week of leave from work and travelled to the UK for his brother’s 60th birthday in October.

~ ❦ ~

The intercom announced the plane’s safe landing in Birmingham’s airport. The passengers were kindly asked to remain in their seats until the opening of the doors.

Thomas watched from the window seat as the aircraft moved towards the building, moon high in the night sky as the other passengers pulled close backpack zips and shrugged on coats. He placed the rosary he’d been praying in his pocket and set to arrange his belongings as well.

Stepping out onto the metal staircase, the frigid wind slapped him in the face. Thomas tugged his collar upwards and breathed in the English air, letting out a long breath filled with relief.

It was good to be home.

He retrieved his suitcase at baggage claim and hailed a taxi to the train station. There, he waited for thrity minutes until his train arrived, then took the ride that brought him to Kenilworth.

He found Andrew waiting for him on the platform, hands clasped behind his back and beard perfectly trimmed.

“Thomas!” His brother exclaimed upon seeing him, opening his arms in silent invitation. Thomas accepted the hug, abandoning his suitcase to the side.

“Hello, Drew,” he mumbled against his shoulder, patting his back. Andrew pulled back slightly, hands coming to rest on the other’s biceps. His eyes scanned Thomas’s entire body, lingering a bit longer on his belly.

“You look…good,” he said, sounding skeptical. Thomas let out a short laugh. Of course his brother was surprised. Up until a few weeks prior, Thomas had resembled more a walking corpse than an actual human being.

The Dean run a hand through his thinning hairline and offered a sheepish smile. “You could say I gained a few pounds.”

“It’s not just that…” Andrew dropped his arms. “Thomas, you look healthy. The last time I saw you like this was…I can’t even remember!”

Another train pulled up on the track and they were forced to move out of the way, passengers flowing out of the doors. Thomas grabbed his suitcase and dragged it with them next to a column. The space around them quickly filled with family reunions and excited tourists.

His brother urged him towards the exit with a wave. “Come on, we can keep talking in the car.”

They reached the parking lot and walked the way to Andrew’s car, a red dot amidst an ocean of greys and blacks. Andrew loaded the suitcase into the trunk and they were off, slipping inside the evening traffic.

“So, I dare say things are going smoothly in Rome,” his brother commented from the wheel.

The mention of his adoptive city made Thomas immediately think about Vincent. His laugh. His voice. His hair. God, the hair.

Thomas squashed the thoughts back down and cleared his throat to reply, “Yes, everything is going well.” And it was true. His mind felt sharper, the migraines had gotten better.

Andrew nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m glad to hear it, especially after what happened in July. I confess…We were a bit worried about you, with Milly and the kids. Not just for the staircase accident. It’s only that - everytime I saw you on the news, next to the Pope, it looked like the job was sucking the life out of your body.”

Thomas turned to stare at him, but his brother was too focused on driving to reciprocate. The only thing Thomas got was a wonderful view of his profile, illuminated red and yellow by the traffic lights.

“The first few months of a new papacy are always more tiring,” he said, leaning against the cold window.

“It isn’t just the new Pope, Thomas. We both know that. You’ve been neglecting yourself for years.”

“Well, I’m doing better now,” Thomas shot back, averting his gaze and crossing both arms over his chest.

“Of course, of course. I can see that,” Andrew reassured him, slowing the car to make the turn into his neighbourhood. Rows of brick houses entered their vision, chimneys puffing smoke in the sky. “Maybe this is your sign to have a vacation every year or so. Seems like the month at Castle Gandolfo did you good.”

The conversation veered to its end as Andrew pulled into his house’s driveway. The building looked like all the others lining the street. White and black windows, trimmed edges and a flat front.

When the thought of travelling to England had formed in Thomas’s mind, he’d thought about booking a hotel. He’d called his brother to explain him his intentions, but Andrew had proposed a change of plans.

“Come over to our house!” He’d said on the phone, the sound of pots slamming in each other in the background. “The children are coming, too. It’ll be a beautiful family gathering!”

And so now he stood next to Andrew as he opened the front door to his humble home. The smell of washed laundry and lavender-scented candles expanded in the entryway. Thomas followed his brother’s instructions and left his suitcase next to the other two crowding the entrance.

He didn’t take two steps into the house that Emily, his brother’s wife, popped out of the kitchen to welcome him, oven mits in hand and bronze curls dancing around her head.

“Thomas, darlin’! It’s so good to have you here!”

“Oh! Emily, good evening, thank you for having m- humph!”

Thomas got crushed into his second hug of the day (his brother’s wife had always been the lively kind).

After two seconds spent deprived of oxygen, Emily released him and squeezed his shoulder affectionately, moving to kiss her husband on the cheek. She excused herself before skipping back to the kitchen, claiming she had a dinner to serve, while Andrew reserved Thomas an apologetic look.

His brother invited Thomas to get comfortable in the living room, where his children, Noah and Carrie, were arguing over a Monopoly game near the coffee table. Upon noticing him in the doorway, they left their argument on hold to greet their uncle.

The three of them settled on the sofa to exchange life updates, Andrew stalking away to help his wife. Thomas congratulated Noah on his promotion at work and listened as Carrie listed the main points of her university thesis on stem cells cultures.

A few minutes later the smell of roast intensified and Emily loudly called for them from the kitchen. Thomas walked under the open archway separating it from the living space and came face-to-face with a wonderful roast sitting on top of a bed of potatoes and greens, a container filled with gravy nestled on the side.

Noah clapped his hands, already licking his lips, and followed his sister to occupy one of the chairs at the dining table. Emily untied her apron and cocked her head in Thomas’s direction, who was still with a foot in the living room.

“Well, Eminence? Sit down, sit down! You don’t want your dinner gettin’ cold.” She gently guided him by the elbow and gestured towards the empty chair at the head of the table. Thomas settled in his seat, a bit awestruck.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered.

“ ‘Course we had! We haven’t seen you in such a long time,” Emily piped, curls bobbing with every movement of her head.

Andrew reached for the bread basket and took out a white loaf. “We don’t usually bless our meals, but since it’s important for you…” he said, handing it to him.

Thomas accepted the bread with a nod of thanks and placed it in front of his plate. He joined his hands in prayer, watching as everyone else followed his example except for Cassie, who had declared herself an atheist a few years back. Thomas closed his eyes and recited a short blessing, then picked up the loaf and broke it in pieces, distributing it to the others.

Andrew proposed a toast, even if it was his birthday they were there to celebrate, and dinner continued to proceed smoothly after. They chatted about everything and nothing. Emily excitedly shared with the table the new recipe she’d learned from Bake Off. Andrew grumbled about the rising prices of avocadoes in supermarkets. Noah told a joke Thomas didn’t understand, but laughed at anyway.

An hour and a half later, with dirty dishes piled in the sink and the crumbs of a strawberry tart spread on the tablecloth, it was due time to head to bed.

Emily explained that she’d reserved an entire room just for Thomas, leaving Noah and Carrie to sleep in the living room. The Dean desperately tried to raise an objection, but he probably would’ve had more luck if he’d talked with a brick wall.

“This is very nice of you, Emily, but I really can’t evict your children from their room - ”

“Oh, hush you!” She’d said, pinching his cheek with two long nails. The contact left a temporary dent in his skin, and Thomas lightly rubbed his face as the woman continued. “You’re the guest, are you not? The kids are still fresh and full of energy! They don’t have to worry about aching joints like us. A few nights on the sofa bed won’t hurt ‘em.”

“It’ll be like a sleep-over!” Noah, an enthusiastic like his mother, chirped from the hallway. Emily turned to look at his brother-in-law with an ‘I told you so’ look, and Thomas’s shoulders sagged in defeat.

“I already brought your suitcase in the room,” Andrew told him while balancing two glasses in each hand, walking to the dishwasher.

“Thank you, Drew.”

Thomas bid goodnight to the family and went to retrieve his toothbrush and toothpaste from his suitcase. Opening the door to the guest room, he switched on the lights and found it completely changed since the last time he’d been there.

There were no longer two school backpacks thrown near the wardrobe, nor was there a mountain of sweaters and T-shirts on the desk chair. The two single beds had been pushed to the center of the room to function as a double mattress. The bright orange rug had been changed for something of softer colour, the beige curtains had been bleached to their original white. There wasn’t a molecule of dust in any of the corners. Thomas almost felt like he was breaking his vow of poverty by simply sleeping in there.

Smiling to himself, he carefully pushed his suitcase on top of the bed and opened it, grabbing his night clothes and beauty case. He changed his normal shoes for comfortable slippers and travelled to the bathroom to have a quick evening shower.

Thirty minutes later, he was under the covers, arms crossed over his chest, duvet warm and soft around his toes.

The door to his room was closed, but he could hear movement coming from the end of the hall. The siblings were speaking in hushed tones in the living room. There were footsteps, floorboards creaking.  Thomas dozed off to the sound of running water in the bathroom.

~ ❦ ~

He was sitting in a wide room, particles of dust floating all around him with the afternoon light. All around him were other cardinals, faces blurred and zucchettos moving with their heads. The Chapel was filled by the sound of pens scratching on paper. There were frescos of lavender flowers on the walls, stems contorting and twisting around each other.

Thomas suddenly remembered. He was in the Sistine, he needed to vote.

The Dean looked down at his slip of paper. He picked up his pen, but didn’t write a name. He’d forgotten who to vote for.

Thomas raised his eyes again to look at his brothers, but their face features remained anonymous. They were just bodies dressed in red. A hundred nobodies coughing and sniffing and muttering in twenty different languages.

Embarassment burned hot in Thomas’s gut. What kind of cardinal was he, if he couldn’t even decide who to pick as Pope?

Some of the scratching stopped. A few cardinals lifted their heads, expectant, probably wondering why Thomas hadn’t voted already. Crushed by the pressure of those foggy gazes, the Dean wrote the only name he knew – his own – and got up to cast the ballot.

Except he didn’t find the urn placed on the white tablecloth, nor were there people sitting behind the table. There was only a book, worn-out at the edges. Thomas stepped closer and realized it was a Bible, yellow pages and smudged ink, open near the middle. His eyes landed on one of the sentences:

‘A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.’^4-1

Just as he finished reading, the ground below his feet trembled. Thomas looked down, slightly alarmed. His fears multiplied when he saw that he wasn’t dressed as a cardinal.

He was wearing red sneakers and a white cassock, paired with an equally white fascia, golden trim glittering in the light. His pectoral cross was made of simple wood, no jewels or decorations. Heavens, Thomas wasn’t even holding the slip of paper that contained his vote!

He felt like an impostor in his own body. The cassock was too tight. The shoes closed uncomfortably around his feet.

The floor trembled once again. Thomas wanted to turn back, but his legs wouldn’t obey him.

The lavenders on the walls began losing petals. The Bible closed shut with a bang!

Then, the window on his right exploded.

Thomas jolted awake with a start, bedsheets tangled between his legs. He could still feel the glass shards cutting through his skin, hear the debris falling on the floor.

His hand instinctively flew to his left temple, to the spot where stone had chipped the skin off months before. His fingers pawned at the soft skin, gliding over the small scar.

There was no bleeding. It didn’t even hurt.

Thomas’s surroundings came back to him slowly. The room was dark, but he could make out the silhouettes of some of the furniture. The desk next to the wardrobe. His suitcase in the corner, closed.

He was in the kids’ room, at Andrew’s. The Conclave was over.

Taking a shaky breath, Thomas kicked his legs free from the bedsheets and slid off the bed. He opened the door to the hallway as silently as possible and slowly made his way to the bathroom, hands extended in front of him to avoid bumping into something.

Once his bare feet met the tiled floor of the room, Thomas closed the door behind him and turned on the light. His eyes closed from the sudden brightness.

Blinking rapidly, he came to stand near the sink. Thomas turned the tap on the coldest setting and raised his sleeves, letting the freezing water wet his wrists. He focused on his breathing, on the feeling of his skin burning under the jet. His heartbeat slowed, the trembling in his hands evened.

It was a dream, Thomas repeated in his head, over and over. Just a dream. Everything is fine. You’re not the Pope. There won’t be any more Conclaves soon.

He remained a few more seconds with his wrists bare, then the Dean turned off the water and dried his hands with a clean towel, pulling the sleeves back down.

He swallowed. His throat was painfully dry.

Thomas decided to go and get a glass of water. Turning off the light, he stepped out of the bathroom and made his way to the kitchen, only to find that he wasn’t the only one awake.

Cassie was leaning against the counter, a glass of water in her hand. Her phone was sitting face-down next to her, top peaking out to allow the torch to light the floor in blinding white. She flinched when she spotted Thomas hovering near the archway.

“Goodness, Uncle. You scared me,” she whispered.

“Sorry,” Thomas said in an equally low tone, stepping fully into the kitchen. “I was looking for a glass of water.”

Cassie wordlessly put her own drink down and opened a cabinet. She took out a glass and filled it with water from a bottle resting on the counter, then extended her arm towards him.

Thomas accepted it gladly. “Thank you.” He took a little sip, water smoothly gliding down his throat.

“Did I wake you up?” Cassie asked, taking back her own glass.

“No, no…” Thomas reassured her. “I just - ” he hesitated. “ – had a strange dream, is all.”

Cassie hummed in acknowledgement. Thomas finished his water and set the glass in the sink, but his feet didn’t turn around to take him back to his room.

He realized he was more shaken than he cared to admit. The Dean’s mind wandered back to the words he’d read inside the Bible. Vincent’s Bible, he found out with a start. Yes, now that his mind was cleared, he recognised it. The worn-out cover and the yellow pages, marked by years of use.

Not only that. Thomas had been wearing Vincent’s shoes. Vincent’s cassock. Vincent’s cross.

The Bible had been opened on the Gospel. John’s, to be precise. The name he would have taken, had Vincent Benítez stayed in Kabul.

Thomas sucked in a sharp breath. Could it have been a coincidence? Thomas read John often. He also met with Vincent on a regular basis. It made sense that his mind would insert some elements into one of his dreams. They were all pieces of his life, slotted together to create an odd picture.

And yet…Thomas couldn’t help but think that God was trying to send him a message. That the night’s dream hadn’t been a coincidence. It wasn’t the first time he’d dreamt about the explosion, but this time it felt…different. Charged with something he couldn’t quite name.

But what is it? Thomas lifted his head to look at the kicthen roof. Lord, I received your words, yet I do not understand them.

Cassie’s voice caught him by surprise. “Too restless to sleep?”

Thomas’s eyes snapped to hers, glinting in the pearly light of her phone’s torch. A knowing smirk was plastered on her round face.

“Oh, uhm…Well, you could say that,” he mumbled.

His niece finished her drink and placed the glass in the sink, next to his. “Neither can I. Noah keeps kicking me in his sleep,” she said, mildly annoyed.

A muffled sound came from the living room, followed by the rustling of sheets.

“Grab your jacket,” Cassie told him, retrieveing her phone. “We can talk outside, if you want.” She disappeared behind the archway, leaving him in the dark.

Thomas found the prospect of getting some fresh air quite alluring. He did as he was told and returned to his bedroom to grab his jacket and slippers, then followed Cassie onto the small backporch of the house.

The two sconces behind them were the only source of light. The grass below turned a shade darker after each step away from the porch, eventually losing all its colour to the night outside. The stars lined the sky in white dots. An owl flew by the house, its song getting lost to the breeze.

Thomas put his hands in his pockets and breathed in deeply, clouds of hot air escaping from his mouth.

“Do you want to talk about your dream or would you rather I distract you?” Cassie asked, leaning nonchalantly on the railing. His niece had always been the straight-forward type. She didn’t hide behind methaphors or double meanings, never run around a topic in circles.

Perhaps that was why she loved science so much. The clear definitions, the nearly non-existent ambiguity. Thomas appreciated that of her, even if her down-to-earth views had made her walk away from the Church.

“A distraction would be most welcome,” he said. He needed to be alone to decipher God’s message.

“Good. Then I’ll give voice to my curiosity.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. He shifted his weight between his feet, and the floorboards creaked under him. “And what is it you’re so curious about?”

Cassie shot him a mischievous grin, bronze curls shining in the low light. Her mother’s hair.

“Does the Pope have any other favourite cardinals, or is it just you?”

Thomas spluttered. “I – I beg your pardon?”

“Come on,” Cassie giggled, dragging out the last word. “Don’t play dumb on me, Uncle Tom. Everyone in the family can see it. Heck, I think the whole world can see it. Pope Innocent adores you. If he weren’t a priest, I’d dare say he’s got the hots for you.” She winked.

Thomas nearly choked on his saliva. Heat creeped up his neck and he was forced to tug his jacket collar all the way up to hide from the embarassment. He desperately tried to string a sentence together.

“Cassie…I – Vincent – I mean, the Holy Father, he isn’t - ”

Thomas placed both hands on the railing, letting out a deep exhale. He needed to stay calm.

Why did things always become so complicated when it came to Vincent? It was like the mere mention of his name brought Thomas on the edge of an abyss, clogging the words in his throat and shattering his usual composure.

“Where did you even get that from?” He managed to rasp out.

Cassie giggled again. “Oh, please. You know.”

Thomas really didn’t.

Faced againts his bewildered look, his niece huffed as such a thing were obvious and crossed both arms over her chest, eyes looking at the stars above.

“It’s everywhere, Uncle Tom,” she began. “On TV. On the Vatican social media accounts. On articles inside newspapers. It’s always Pope Innocentius and his Dean. Vincent Benítez and Thomas Lawrence, standing close in pictures, sitting together in the Popemobile. Innocent can’t say three consecutive sentences without adding your name to the conversation.”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s not about favourites, Cassie. I’m the Dean of the College of Cardinals. Of course my position leads me to being closer with the Holy Father,” he told her.

The girl rolled her eyes, bronze locks lifting from her shoulders.

“You weren’t so attached to the late Pope, from what I can remember,” she pointed out sharply. The words hit a sore spot in Thomas’s heart, grief dripping from a wound not yet fully healed. Any protests he’d come up with turned to dust on his tongue. The Dean turned around towards the garden in front of him, gaze losing itself in the night.

The silence stretched out between them, thick like morning fog.

Eventually, Cassie sighed and pushed herself off the railing.

“Listen, this wasn’t meant as an attack on the Pope,” she explained, stepping close to him. Thomas kept his eyes on the horizon.

Cassie’s voice evolved into a softer tone. “I’m simply saying…when you walk into a room, Innocent’s entire face lights up, as if he’s just witnessed the second coming of Christ. And you do the same thing, Uncle Tom.”

Thomas stiffened. His grip on the railing hardened so much it turned his knuckles white.

The girl rubbed his arm affectionately, then turned on her heels and walked away, floorboards creaking under her weight.

Before opening the door, she told her uncle one last thing.

“You and I both know why my religious visions changed, but I’ll have you know…even when I still believed, I never thought that God had created love - strong and pure love - only for it to be condemned by man after. In any form or in any way.”

Then the door clicked shut behind her.

Thomas stayed on the porch for a few more minutes, fingers rapidly growing numb from the cold. A million thoughts ran rampant in his mind. Interactions he’d shared with Vincent, conversations they’d had in the past, memories of him simply existing next to Thomas. He thought about jet-black hair, soft like silk to the touch. Of skin the colour of warm bronze. Of sunny smiles and cheerful laughs that made that distinct something flutter and sprout wings in his chest.

Thomas thought about all of that and wondered what it meant.

He returned to his room, soft snores accompanying his footsteps to the door. Noah, most likely.

The Dean hung up his jacket on the desk chair. Then, carefully, he lowered himself to the ground in front of his bed and picked up his rosary from the side table.

Thomas joined both hands on top of the covers. He dipped his head low, fingers reaching for the first bead, and started praying, trying to get closer to the truth, one Hail Mary^4-2 at a time.

~ ❦ ~

Thomas returned to Rome, blood sugar likely at its limit after all the cake he’d eaten, right on time to prepare Pope Innocent’s celebrations for his first year as Bishop of the city.

The Dean, his assistant and the Secretary of State had convened together to ensure everyone would live through the day’s events smoothly. Litres of coffee, countless nights spent hunched over desks, and one broken computer keyboard later, they’d come up with a sophisticated schedule that left nothing up to interpretation (with added counter-measures for any kind of inconvinience, per Aldo’s request).

Vincent had pretty much left the matter in their capable hands, stating he fully trusted Thomas and his colleagues to do a wonderful job at organizing the day. His only demand – though it had been spoken in such a gentle and soft voice that it could have been classified as a suggestion – had been to focus the activites on charity work for the struggling.

“This day belongs to the people as much, if not more, as it belongs to me,” Vincent had said, and no one had even thought of denying him.

The schedule went as follows:

8:00 - Morning Mass held in St Peter’s Square. TV screens to be mounted on each side to allow for better vision. Extra units of Swiss Guards to be deployded by the Chief Commander to protect His Holiness. Nuns will travel around the Square, holding baskets filled with food and clothes to be given to the unlucky;

10:00 – Interviews with local and international press;

11:30 – Meeting with the President of the Italian Republic and the Italian Premier;

13:00 – Lunch break;

14:00 – Meetings with the delegations;

15:30 – Start of volunteer work at the Mensa Sant’Egidio. The Pope wishes to travel to Trastevere on foot. Crush barriers to be set up to avoid casualties;

17:00 – Visit to the pediatric ward of Gemelli’s hospital. His Holiness asked for no personal Swiss Guards, as to not initmidate the children. Dean Lawrence set to accompany him.

18:00 – Return to the Casa Santa Marta. Start of preparations for the celebratory dinner in the building’s private courtyard.

The last point had been Vincent’s idea. After a day spent preaching the Gospel and helping the poor and the sick, the Pope wished to thank those who’d made the feat possible in the first place. The cardinals and monsignors who sat every day behind their desks, pursuing filing out paperwork like an Olympic sport. The soldiers who had dedicated their life to the Vatican’s protection. In addition to this, all the staff members, the priests and the nuns whose silent actions went often overlooked on such occasions.

For this very reason, Vincent had roped Aldo into organising an informal party for the day’s evening, with invitations open to everyone in the Vatican. An occasion to relish in the year’s accomplishments and have a chat between old friends, with good wine and an open buffet.

“I don’t think I’ll be wearing my cassock,” Vincent had confessed to Thomas a few days earlier as they’d stepped away from their umpteenth meeting. “I wish for the party to be an occasion to relax and unwind, at least temporarily. The Vatican is a complicated organism, and one we often struggle to control. I’d like to create a lighter atmosphere.”

Thomas had nodded, shoulder brushing Vincent’s for how close they had been walking. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, Your Holiness. I’m sure many of our brothers and members of staff will rejoice from it. I’ll ask Ray to spread the word.”

Vincent had smiled then, eyes glinting with pleasure, and the Dean had felt his entire body warm up despite the chilly autumn air entering from the windows.

Thomas returned to his apartment shortly after their visit to Gemelli’s Hospital. He had a quick shower and changed out of his cassock, putting on black slacks and an equally black jumper under his clerical collar. He wanted to show Vincent that he believed deeply in his cause, so much that he’d foregone offical wear as well. Plus, who knew? Perhaps seeing the Dean stripped of his usual attire would have encouraged some of his more closed-off colleagues to loosen up, too.

Thomas stepped into the Santa Marta’s private courtyard to find the Pope running around chairs and columns, helping the nuns finish the dinner’s preparations. He smiled at the sight – Vincent in simple black clothes, something any priest could have worn, distributing napkins and adjusting the fairy lights hanging above their heads in a form of boyish endearment.

Despite it being November, the evening was a pretty warm one. The peninsula had lived through a hot week in the previous days, and there were no suspicious clouds in the sky that hinted at the possibility of rain. One could remain outside comfortably while only wearing a simple jacket. It was the perfect night to host an outdoor event.

Once Vincent took notice of Thomas shuffling near the door, he excused himself with Sister Agnes and hopped over to welcome him, energy vibrating beneath his skin.

“Tomás! You arrive just in time. We’re just finishing putting up the buffet,” Vincent said. Thomas’s gaze travelled behind the Holy Father’s shoulder, over to the long table covered with a white tablecloth, dishes of all sizes forming a straight line from one end to the other.

“I came a little early on purpose. I thought I could maybe help with something,” he replied, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly.

Vincent waved a hand in the air, huffing. “You already did enough, my dear Dean. Here, let me show you around before the guests start filing in.”

Thomas barely registered the movement of Vincent’s hand, which came to wrap around his elbow as the Pope began dragging him deeper inside the courtyard. His brain had short-circuited at the words ‘my dear Dean’, that were now bouncing around his skull like an error message on a Windows desktop. His chest filled with a fuzzy kind of warmth.

Vincent showed Thomas around the place with a liveliness that didn’t feel natural for a fifty-four year-old man who had spent the previous hours running from one official meeting to another.

The tour ended just in time for the first cardinals and bishops to make their appearance. Some of them were wearing their usual cassocks while a few others had foregone official wear for more casual clothes.

A drink was thrust in Thomas’s hands, fingers clutching around the paper cup for nothing better to do, right as Vincent excused himself in rapid Spanish and went to individually welcome the new arrivals at the party.

The couryard filled up quickly. The fairy lights were turned on as the sun dipped below the horizon. Soon, everyone was roaming the grounds with a plate of good food in hand. Small groups of people began forming under the balcony and near the buffet table, the buzzing of conversation rapidly filling the air.

Thomas couldn’t find Vincent anywhere among the crowd. It was fine. He was probably chatting with some of his fellow countrymen, or checking up on staff members and cardinals he hadn’t heard from in a while. That was a good thing. Thomas didn’t feel ready to speak again with him just yet – he was still processing the ‘my dear’.

The Dean walked over to the buffet table and got himself some green olives and a few slices of prosciutto, then begun wandering the place in search for a familiar face.

After getting pulled in at least five different coversations, Thomas finally spotted Aldo in the distance, chewing on a mozzarella ball and, most importantly, standing blissfully alone. Thomas politely extricated himself away from Cardinal Barbieri’s presence and marched over to the Secretary of State.

Aldo, like Thomas and Vincent, wasn’t wearing his official attire. Instead, he’d switched the red and black of his cassock for a navy blue jacket and simple trousers, which were a good fit for his lean and tall form. Vincent had likely asked him to make an effort for the night, given the man’s initial reluctance at allowing the party in the first place.

‘But think about the security risks, Your Holiness!’

“Aldo!” Thomas called once he came in earshot. His friend’s attention immediately snapped towards him. Aldo swallowed and greeted the Dean with a polite nod.

“Thomas, hello again,” he greeted. “I thought you were with His Holiness.”

“I was, but the Holy Father had to attend to the other guests, so I came looking for you.” Thomas stopped a few paces in front of the Secretary and took a sip of his wine. He watched as Aldo popped another mozzarella ball in his mouth, eyes sweeping the crowd around them. Thomas couldn’t help but notice the way Aldo’s body had relaxed. Gone was the usual tension in his shoulders and the frown he bore when analysing documents.

“Your mind seems quite for once,” Thomas allowed himself the quip. “Do you still claim this party to have been a bad idea?”

Aldo directed him a pointed look. With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he replied, “Britain did you no good.”

Thomas reserved him a look. Aldo puffed, “Alright, I shall raise a white flag…His Holiness’ suggestion is satisfactory.”

Thomas, noting the sour tone in his friend’s voice, swapped his smirk for a small smile. He inched closer and pressed their shoulders together for a second, for lack of a free hand to pat his arm in a reassuring movement. By doing so, Thomas caught a whiff of Aldo’s scent. He noted a slight change in the fragrance – his friend’s perfume was different, a sweeter edge clouding his usual body wash. A fruit, maybe?

“Did you change your cologne?” Thomas asked, raising a curious eyebrow.

Aldo blinked. “No? What makes you think that?”

“Your perfume is different,” Thomas said, before the conscient part of his mind had a chance at interpreting the signals, signals that would have told him to let the matter drop. “It’s almost like…like cherry?”

The Secretary’s cheeks tinged a peculiar shade of red at the comment. He drank a nervous sip of wine and cleared his throat while questions piled up in the Dean’s brain.

“Well – I…ehm, you see - ” Aldo began to stutter, voice dropping to a whisper. It made Thomas’s eyes widen. Cardinal Bellini wasn’t a man to stammer in his speech. What could have caused him so much distress that he’d lose track of his own sentences?

Luckily, Aldo was spared from formulating a reply by the clincking of metal hitting glass resonating in the air. The buzzing ceased to near silence as all the guests turned towards the buffet table, the rustling of cassocks and skirts filling the air.

Standing in front of the table, Vincent directed a delicate smile to the crowd of Church officials and staff members, slender hands clasped near his chest. Thomas took a couple steps sideways, allowing the Holy Father into his field of vision. His eyes settled on his soft hair, then travelled down his forehead, his shining brown eyes, his nose, his pink lips, all the way to his long fingers, interwined on top of his shirt. The hands of a sheperd.

“Mis estimados amigos,”^4-3 Vincent began in his native tongue. A shiver run down Thomas’s spine upon hearing the language being pronounced in the Pope’s sweet tongue. He clutched his plate tighter, desperately trying to recollect himself. My dear Dean, my dear Dean…

“Forgive me for cutting in so abruptly. I can see that you’re all enjoying yourselves, which is something I highly appreciate, but I wanted to dedicate a few words to the year that has gone by. I promise I won’t be too long. You know how direct I like to be.”

Vincent winked, letting the reference sink in the cardinal’s minds, then continued.

“The past months have been a whirlwind of emotions for me. In November of last year, I found myself coming to accupy a role never in my entire life had I thought about approaching. The first year of my papacy has been a journery of wonderful discovery. I’ve tried my hardest to fulfill the role God has bestowed on me, and I feel – no, actually, I know that I couldn’t have done it without you. All of you. I may be the Pope, but the Vatican cannot be run by one man alone. Everyone has an indispensable role in the life of our Mother Church. It’s why I gathered you here today – to celebrate our achievements, yes, but most importantly to celebrate our community. El corazón de la fe”^4-4

Vincent stopped briefly, reaching out to grab his paper cup. “The Lord said, ‘Behold, they are one people, and they all have the same language. And this is what they began to do, and now nothing which they purpose to do will be impossible for them.' ^4-5This, my friends and colleauges, this is our Church. A union of people who battle against the difficulties posed by our trying times. I personally thank each and every one of you, for the effort and care you put in your work each day.”

The Holy Father raised his cup in the air. Dozens of hands, male and female, followed his example.

“Let’s toast. A nosotros y a un nuevo año maravilloso,” Vincent said.^4-6

“A nosotros,” a chorus of voices replied.

Thomas finished his drink, placing plate and cup down on a nearby table, and joined in the applause a group of young priests had started. Vincent bowed slightly, ever the humble man.

The crowd closed back around him, bishops and nuns coming to congratule him for his speech, priests asking for handshakes and blessings.

Thomas turned back to Aldo, a fire crackling in his chest. He opened his mouth to make a comment, but he was abruptly cut off by a louder, more confident voice that began inching towards the pair.

“Tommaso!” Goffredo Tedesco all but shouted from behind.

Thomas deflated. He’d forgotten about the Patriarch’s stay in Rome in occasion for the anniversary. The Dean managed to put on a practiced expression of general politeness just in time, because as soon as he turned around, Cardinal Tedesco was already stopping beside him, scarlet pen clutched in hand.

“Goffredo. It’s good to see you. We didn’t get the chance to speak at Mass this morning,” Thomas said. He didn’t mention that he’d actually avoided the Patriarch on purpose.

Tedesco cackled, replying in his usual heavy-accented English. “Yes, yes, I remember the line for the Eucharist.” He pulled Thomas into a side hug, slapping his shoulder with vigor before taking a hit of his electronic cigarette. A cloud of peach-scented smoke flooded Thomas’s senses.

He forced himself not to cough.

“How are things in Venice?” Thomas asked instead.

“Mah, lo sai come vanno le cose da quelle parti,” ^4-7Tedesco replied casually, waving his occupied hand in the air. “Piuttosto,^4-8 how are you? I see you’ve gained some weight. About time, I dare say!”

“The sisters at Castle Gandolfo liked to spoil us,” Thomas confessed, placing a hand on his stomach.

“Lo vedo. I see.”

It was at that point that Aldo huffed, stepping into the conversation. “Good evening to you, too, Eminence.”

Oh, no. It begins. Thomas started sweating. The fire in his chest evaporated into a pile of ash.

Tedesco narrowed his eyes at Aldo, a playful smirk coming to tug at his lips.

“Bellini!” He said, pupils glinting with barely contained mirth. “Forgive me for not greeting you, but I just couldn’t recognize you without your cassock on! I thought a man respectful of the Church like you wouldn’t have participated in this…honestly ridicolous attempt at informality,” Tedesco added in sour tones, taking another hit of his vape.

Thomas took notice of the way the Patriarch was dressed for the first time. But really, perhaps Tedesco’s outfit hadn’t sparked his attention because nothing had changed. The Italian was dressed in his official wear, black cassock with red piping, his flamboyant cape draped over his shoulders to match. Judging by the disappointed looks the Patriarch was throwing at the people who’d come dressed casually, he considered Vincent’s idea as yet another affront to the Church’s values.

Another reason for Thomas to get out of that situation as quickly as possible.

“Ridiculous?” Aldo laughed. “Do you even hear yourself when you speak, Tedesco? All His Holiness wants is to make the fellow people of his Church feel at ease amongst themselves, and there you go, jumping at the first occasion for rebuttal.”

“Questo è l’inizio della fine, Bellini! ^4-9First, it’s the cassocks and the mozzettas, becoming obsolete. Next, who knows what will become of the Vatican! Will the Holy Father start removing parts of the Catechism as well?” Tedesco exhaled another cloud of artificial peach, vape stabbing the air around him.

“It’s just for one night,” Aldo exasperated, scrunching his nose in mild disgust.

“Just for one night…Just for one night, he says!” Tedesco rebuked. “I’ll tell you what will happen! The ‘just’s will pile up. Soon, it’ll be ‘just for one meeting’, then ‘just for one Mass’, then…”

“Your Emincence,” Aldo warned.

“Non lo vedi, Bellini? Questo è il segno della decadenza. La decadenza, ti dico io!”^4-10

As the two bickered on, Thomas desperately searched his mind for a good enough excuse to leave. His eyes scanned the crowd, desperate for a familiar face. By divine intervention, the Dean spotted Vincent not too far away, crouched near one of the white porch columns.

Thomas coughed awkwardly, retrieving his cup from the table. “If you’ll excuse me…I must speak with His Holiness about...ehm, urgent matters.”

The two men stopped their debacle, watching with different levels of satisfaction as their colleague fled the scene.

Aldo sighed deeply, taking a sip of his drink. “You scared him,” he spoke once Thomas was out of earshot.

Tedesco shrugged. “Bah, we both know that il vecchio Tommaso non si spaventa facilmente.”^4-11

They watched as Thomas brushed Innocent with a hand on his shoulder, alerting him to his presence. The Pope turned, expression visibly softening at the sight of his Dean, and gestured for him to lean forwards more.

“Tomás, look at who I met today!” They heard the Holy Father exclaim. Right as the words left his mouth, a fluffly tail curled around his legs, and a familiar cat appeared from behind the stone column.

“Ah, yes…Aldo’s cat,” Thomas replied with a nod.

“Since when do you have a cat, Aldino?” Tedesco teased, bumping their shoulders.

Aldo huffed. He went to drink some more wine, but found his cup annoyingly empty. “That’s not a cat. It’s a nuisance.”

Innocent began petting the cat, who meowed at such display of affection. Since Thomas hesitated, the Pope used his free hand to gently take a hold of the other man’s wrist, guiding him down to caress the animal’s fur. The Patriarch of Venice and the Secretary of State witnessed the absolute spectacle of the Dean of the College of Cardinals turning five shades darker with the Pope’s touch on his skin.

Tedesco chuckled and leaned into Aldo’s personal space, hot breath ghosting against his ear as he whispered, “Innocente di nome, ma non di fatto, eh?”^4-12

Aldo ignored all the signals his body was currently sending him and took a precautionary step back.

“Goffredo. We’re in public,” he seethed, looking around for any eavesdroppers, then back at his empty cup. He seriously needed a wine refill.

“Half of the guests are already swaying on their feet, Aldino. Nobody is looking at us, and if they are, they won’t remember it anyway come morning. Non vorrai negarmi questa occasione ora che possiamo finalmente parlare con calma!” ^4-13Tedesco pointed out and for once, Aldo had to admit the Patriarch was right. Some of his colleagues were roaming the courtyard, searching for a free chair to sit on because their legs were failing to support them.

Tedesco took a hit of his vape, peach enveloping them in a protective fog. This time, when the Italian stepped closer so that their fingers could brush, Aldo didn’t push him away. He did wonder, however, why God had decided to make his torture so tempting.

~ ❦ ~

The party proceeded until well over midnight. Thomas kept at Vincent’s side, eating an olive once in a while. The pair spent a good while speaking with Ray, who looked naked without his clipboard in hand, then bounced from one bishop to another for the rest of the night.

Thomas didn’t see Aldo nor Tedesco again. When Vincent and him passed by their previous spot, they found it empty. Thomas didn’t know if he should have been glad or have started praying. I guess that only time will tell if my temporary peace will lead to another conservationalist attack or not come morning.

Once the last guest stumbled out of the Casa Santa Marta, Thomas helped Vincent and the remaining nuns and staff members clean up the courtyard. The Holy Father, despite his tired face, was positively gleaming – the party had been an overall success.

“Are you tired, Thomas?” Vincent asked him after the last paper cup was thrown into the trash. The nuns had begun filing out, black and white robes swishing in the breeze. It was only them and a few Swiss guards left in the open.

“A little bit,” he admitted, running a hand through his trousled hair. “It’s been a busy day.”

Vincent hummed, lacing his fingers behind his back. He began rocking on his heels. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Would it be too bold of me, then,” he whispered, “to invite you over to my rooms to nurse a drink between friends?”

Sweet Mother of Jesus. This was somehow worse than ‘my dear Dean’. Thomas’s heart started beating frantically. What was wrong with him?

Seeing he delayed his reply, Vincent quickly stepped back. “You don’t have to, of course. You’ve worked a lot this past few months. It’s just…we haven’t really had a chance to talk since - ” he hesitated, “…no, actually. It’s fine. It was a silly question.”

“What – no, not at all!” Thomas recovered. It was true, he was tired to the bone, but a hidden part of him desired Vincent’s company deeply. The preparations leading to Vincent’s anniversary had stolen a lot of free time from their days. Thomas couldn’t even remember when had been the last time they’d prayed together.

“A drink sounds wonderful. Please, lead the way,” he said.

Vincent’s entire demeanor changed, confidence coming back to his posture. They bid their goodnights to Sister Agnes and took the lift to the papal apartments.

There were already two Swiss guards standing watch at the door when they arrived. Thomas didn’t recognize them – Mael and Leonardo didn’t work the late hours.

Vincent asked to not let anyone disturb them unless there was an emergency, then opened the door and walked inside his chambers with Thomas shortly behind.

Once the door clicked shut, it was like the entire outside world disappeared. Thomas found himself in a bubble of happiness, detatched from the Vatican and Rome. There were only Vincent’s steady presence in the room and the aromas of pressed coffee and incense around him.

Thomas watched, seated on the sofa, as Vincent moved around his apartment with grace, retrieving a lighter before starting to distribute candles around the living space.

“To create a more relaxing atmosphere,” he winked, golden flames flickering on his bronze skin. Thomas felt his entire face flush, and he dipped his head low as he mumbled a reply. Fortunately, the low lighting didn’t allow for very clear vision, so Vincent had no way of noticing his odd cheek colour.

Lavender and other similar fragrances wafted in the air. Vincent retrieved two wine glasses and a bottle from a cabinet. He uncorked it and filled them about halfway, then made his way to the sofa and handed one to Thomas.

“Thank you.” He took a sip. The richness of the wine curled comfortably around his tongue, spreading like a soothing balm down his throat.

They began talking. About art, about religion, about life. Thomas told him of his trip to Britain. Vincent spoke of Egypt and the Muslim culture, which was deeply fascinating to him. Big things, little things, all mixing together beautifully. Conversation had always come naturally for Thomas in front of Vincent. He wished the bubble would never pop.

At one point, they landed on the topic of the day’s party.

“I wanted to put some speakers for music, but Sister Agnes veto’d me,” Vincent giggled, sipping his wine. His lips came back slightly redder. Thomas focused his gaze on the small doll of Innocent XIV that had been gifted to him, resting on one of the shelves, to avoid looking at those lips.

“She told me that the younger nuns have plenty of distractions from their duties already.”

“She was probably worried about a cardinal or archbishop dropping senseless to the floor. Music can lead to dancing, and that can be dangerous at our age,” Thomas mused.

“Mmh…I think you would have been a good dancer,” Vincent replied, casting his eyes low.

There it was again. The heat creeping up Thomas’s neck. He chuckled nervously. “Hardly. I have two left feet.”

“Dancing at its core is a simple act. You underestimate your abilities, as always, my friend.”

A beat of silence followed, during which the Holy Father dedicated a very concentrated look to the coffe table. Then, he finished his wine and stood up abruptly, as if possessed by an exterior force.

“I bet I could show you wrong,” he said, brown eyes sparkling.

Thomas peered at him from the couch. “You want me to dance?”

Vincent nodded enthusiastically, clapping his hands. “Exacto!^4-14 Come on, up you go!”

“Vincent, I really don’t - ”

The Pope shushed him with a rapid gesture of the hand. “Hush. None of that now. Dancing is easy. Just move to the beat.”

He picked up his phone and began tapping furiously on the keypad. A few seconds later, a song began playing, a deep woman’s voice erupting from the speakers.

“Baci pensati e mai spesi / “Kisses thought of and never spent
Sguardi volti ad orologi appesi” / Looks turned to hanging clocks”

Vincent deposited his phone on the kitchenette counter and kicked off his shoes. He started bobbing his head and moving his arms to the rhythm of the song.

“See? Easy,” he said. “Come dance with me, Tomás!”

“Alla stazione, un'emozione / “At the station, an emotion
Alla vita che si fa sognare” / To the life that turns itself into a dream”

A bit reluctantly, Thomas placed his glass down and got up from his seat. He followed Vincent’s example and removed his shoes, socks thumping on the floorboards as he came to join the Pope at the center of the room.

At first, Thomas mimicked Vincent’s movements. A leg here, an arm raised over his shoulder. He focused on the position of his feet, careful not to slip and fall.

“Sento il suono del metallo che stride / “I hear the sound of metal grinding
Mentre passo qualcuno sorride / While I walk someone smiles
Frena il treno e mi sposta un po'” / The train brakes and moves me a bit”

“You’re too stiff,” Vincent laughed. “Relax, my dear. It’s just us.”

My dear. The fire in his chest returned in full force. Thomas smiled, his moves gaining purpose. He began swaying this way and that, humming quietly to the music.

“Adesso lo so, sto arrivando da te / “Now I know, I'm coming to you
Niente di più semplice / Nothing simpler
Niente più da chiedere” / Nothing more to ask”

Vincent grabbed Thomas’s hands. They were calloused but warm, fingers slotting perfectly in his larger palm. They moved in circle, linked together. Vincent laughed again, the sound sweet like honey, thrumming in the other man’s veins. Listening to Vincent laugh was a bit like getting drunk, except that Thomas’s head was perfectly clear, and he could bask in the moment fully.

“Rimanderò tutto a domani / “I'll postpone everything to tomorrow
Sono di carta tutti gli aeroplani / All airplanes are made of paper
Sei tu il mio re, io la tua regina / You are my king, I your queen
In un'eterna Roma” / In an eternal Rome”

“E all'aria tutti i piani / “And all plans are up in the air
Ravviciniamo i sogni più lontani / Let's bring closer the farthest dreams
Che tu lo sai che non c'è segreto per vivere a colori” / You know there's no secret to living in colours”

“Per vivere, vivere a colori / “To live, live in colours
E vivere, vivere a colori / And live, live in colours
E vivere, vivere a colori / And live, live in colours
E vivere, vivere” / And live, live”

Vincent had been right. Dancing was incredibly easy. It came to Thomas as naturally as breathing.

The low candlelight painted Vincent’s features in a portrait so beautiful he didn’t want to ever cast his gaze away. His smile held the brightness of a thousand suns. His eyes hled the richness of the earth.

Age caught up to both men. Head dizzy, Thomas drove their spinning to a stop. He looked at Vincent, really looked. Parted lips, still red from the wine. A bead of sweat rolling down his temples. Wild hair sticking in all directions.

Thomas was overwhelmed by the sudden urge to kiss him.

He didn’t know why, but neither men dropped their hands as the song entered a new verse. The Dean pulled, feeling Vincent’s body following the movement. A moment of clarity allowed him to fix the trajectory in time.

Their lips didn’t meet. Instead, the two men crashed together in an unsteady embrace. Thomas wrapped his arms around Vincent’s waist. The other sighed, nuzzling his nose in the crook of Thomas’s neck. His hands came to rest on the Dean’s shoulder blades.

Thomas could feel Vincent’s heartbeat against his chest through the soft cotton of his clothes, accelerated from the physical activity. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

His scent enveloped him, incense and soap and clean laundry and something uncharacteristically Vincent. Thomas felt like the luckiest man in the world.

“E penso che tu sia un fiore / “And I think you are a flower
Di un raro colore / Of a rare colour
Che riesce a stare fermo con lo sguardo altrove / That manages to stay still with a gaze elsewhere
E oltre che tu riesci a vedere / And beyond what you can see
E oltre che tu sai sentire” / And beyond what you know how to feel”

They stayed like that, swaying to the music, listening as their heartbeats slowed down and their breathing synced.

“Amo te, niente di più semplice / “I love you, nothing simpler
Amo te, niente in più da chiedere” / I love you, nothing more to ask”

~ ❦ ~

Thomas floated outside the Santa Marta an indeterminated amount of time later. His cheeks hurt from all the smiling, and there was a certain spring to his step as he rounded a corner and entered the Gardens. Thomas didn’t want to alert any staff members of his presence, afraid they could have gotten the wrong idea at finding the Dean roaming close to the Pope’s rooms, so he’d decided to take a slightly longer route and get to the street through the Vatican Gardens.

Walking in the direction of the turtle pond, Thomas’s thoughts circled back to those fleeting moments in Vincent’s chambers, when he’d nearly pulled the Holy Father into – he shuddered at the memory – a kiss!

The Dean shook his head, sobering up. The silence of the Vatican at that late hour allowed his mind to go back to thinking rationally.

It must have been the wine, Thomas thought as gravel crunched under his shoes. Yes, perhaps I was a little bit tipsy.

He hadn’t been thinking straight, that was sure. Thomas couldn’t kiss Vincent. It was preposterous. He had no right of staining his figure like that, a soul so divine, so tenderly made.

He needed to pray, ask forgiveness to the Lord. Then, in the morning, Thomas would go looking for a confessor, someone trusted that could cleanse his mind from such improper fantasies. Perhaps he could message Aldo and see if he had a free spot in his schedule…

The threads of a conversation reached his ears, snapping Thomas out of his reveries. He stopped in his tracks, eyes scanning his surroundings.

His gaze settled on two figures, walking not too far away from him on one of the many paths that slythered around the gardens. When they stepped under a street light, their faces became clear. They were…but no, it wasn’t possible –

Am I hallucinating?

The faces belonged to Goffredo Tedesco and Aldo Bellini.

It was just the two of them. Alone. Arms linked. Walking as if everything was good in the world.

Thomas rubbed his eyes and looked again. The cardinals’ identities didn’t change.

They weren’t arguing, or shouting at each other like they did during meetings. They were talking like two civilized men. Aldo was actually smiling. As in, an actual smile, not one filled with irony or visible restraint.

Good Lord. Aldo Bellini is smiling at the Patriarch of Venice.

Tedesco took a hit of his vape, smoke rising from his lips. The sight struck a chord in Thomas’s brain.

Aldo had come to the party smelling of cherry.

Oh.

Thomas blinked, mouth falling open. The conclusion he’d come to would have been impossible, if only all the visible hints hadn’t been pointing right at it. Of course, Thomas knew of Aldo’s preference for men. He also knew many priests and cardinals often broke their vows, and with each other nonetheless. Thomas didn’t really judge. That was God’s work, not his. But to think that Aldo, with - with Tedesco...

Thomas shook his head. No, he was done thinking for the night. There was still too much wine in his circulation.

Realizing he was standing in the open and a simple turn of the head would have been enough for Aldo and Tedesco to spot him ogling, Thomas sharply turned on his heels and speed-walked to the gate near the turtle pond. Aldo was a free man, concluded the Dean. He could dedicate his affection to whoever he pleased.

Thomas set a new personal record that day, reaching his apartment in only nine minutes. He climbed the stairs instead of taking the lift to exert himself, pulled open the door and dropped jacket, phone and keys on the couch before making a beeline to his bedroom. There, he sunk to his knees in front of the crucifix and recited all his evenings prayers and the rosary twice.

Despite it all, when he came to lay in bed later, with both arms crossed over his chest, Thomas found sleep eluded him. There was a song stuck playing in his head, over and over and over…

Chapter Text

On my bed by night

I sought him whom my soul loves; 

I sought him, but found him not.

I will rise now and go about the city, 

in the streets and in the squares; 

I will seek him whom my soul loves. 

I sought him, but found him not.

- Song of Solomon 3:1-2

~ ❦ ~

Thomas woke up the next day feeling somewhat rejuvinated, despite having gone to bed well past his usual hour. The previous night’s emotions still sizzled under his skin, bubbling below his fingertips. Vincent’s laugh, clear as light, still echoed in his head. The sensation of his hands grasped in the Dean’s own still tickled his palms.

Thomas got up from the bed with a vigor he’d thought lost forever when he’d turned sixty. He went about his morning routine, reciting his prayers with a serene heart and humming under his breath while he waited for the coffee pot to finish brewing.

It was as if he’d been attuned with the world, as if God had changed the trajectory of his life during those few hours he’d spent asleep.

Walking to work, Thomas took the time to speak with the tourists that approached him, the November sun hidden behind a cloudy sky. He stopped more than once to bless the homeless people on the streets, dropping coins in their cups and kneeling beside them to utter small prayers.

Once the Dean stepped foot into the Vatican, he crossed St Peter’s Square and entered inside the Basilica.

The smell of incense and melted wax immediately surrounded him. All outside disturbances were cut off abruptly. Thomas could no longer hear the ambulance sirens nor the sound of cars zipping past the buildings. In the Basilica reigned the kind of peace only proximity with God could bring.

It wasn’t just the silence, either. It was the knowledge that someone was there, willing to listen.

Thomas sat in one of the back pews, hands interwining on his lap.

All around him was movement. Nuns sweeping the floors for Mass. Swiss guards distributing between their posts. Monsignors and priests setting up the altar. Thomas dipped his head low and closed his eyes, distancing himself from the electric activities taking place in the Basilica. His mind was for God and God alone.

Slowly, as the clouds opened up little by little above their heads, the faithful began piling in. The wood squeaked as everyone took their place in the benches. A young seminarian brought a microphone near the altar, and soon after, the door of the Sacristy creaked opened.

Thomas’s gaze shot upwards. There he was, Pope Innocent, green chasuble draped over his shoulders and jet-black hair curling at the sides of his face. An angel descended from Heaven, spreading the teachings of Christ as he throdded the Earth.

Thomas’s chest tightened at the sole sight. His eyes followed the Holy Father as he waved a kind hand in the direction of the crowd, flashing it a warm smile before climbing the few steps up to the altar.

All the Cardinals currently in Rome were standing at the front, red mozzettas fusing together from how close everyone was to each other. Were that any other day, Thomas would have sat with them. Not that morning though. He needed space and time to think, and attending Mass from the back pews prevented the Dean from getting dragged into any unwanted political discussions.

Thomas kept his eyes locked on Vincent, the object of his agitated mind, throughout the entirety of the morning service. He followed the Pope as he began the Introductory Rites, listened with his soul torn open as the chorus sang of Christ’s word.

A priest handed Vincent a sheet of paper – his homily for the day. Thomas had personally revised it, so he knew its contents already. Still, he listened carefully, a message of hope for the future rolling off Vincent’s tongue, his voice unwavering in the quiet of the Basilica.

Then, the Pope’s chocolate brown eyes found Thomas as they sweeped the crowd. A flash of recognizement crossed his gaze, and the Dean bowed his head in silent greeting. Vincent’s smile widened. He suddenly appeared taller, bigger than all of them combined as his voice rung loud between the church’s walls.

A single, pale ray of sunlight filtered through the cupola’s glass. It bathed Vincent in a divine aura, bronze skin turning golden.

That day’s homily was directly inspired by Saint Paul’s letters to the Corinthians.

“We are afflicted in every way, but not constrained; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed,” ^5-1Vincent quoted from the altar.

An elderly nun sitting next to Thomas began weeping quietly, tears pooling inside the map of wrinckles on her aged face. Thomas couldn’t blame her. His own throat felt too tight to breathe.

Mass ended. The people got up from their seats to resume their work days. The old nun wiped her cheeks with a hand and went to join a group of sisters huddled near the exit. Thomas watched as Vincent stepped down from the altar and returned to the Sacristy to change. Only when the door closed once again behind him did the Cardinal get up from his seat to begin his search for a confessor.

Usually, the Dean liked to entrust Aldo with his sins, and the Secretary of State often did the same. Their bond made the words flow easily inside the confessional. Their friendship was like a balm that helped cleanse their souls in front of the Lord.

However, Thomas couldn’t go to Aldo now, not yet at least. He still remembered, way too vividly, the event of which he’d become an involuntary witness to: Aldo and Tedesco, alone in the Vatican Gardens. Talking, laughing. Arms linked like two companions and peach clouds floating above their heads.

Thomas hadn’t quite wrapped his head around the notion yet.

He wasn’t questioning the ways of the Lord – Heavens, never that! He was…surprised, to simply put it. He’d never pictured his best friend and the Patriarch of Venice doing something that differed from shouting at each other in the middle of a synod.

So, no. Thomas couldn’t confess to Aldo. He needed someone else. Since the issue he was dealing with was…a delicate one, the Dean required someone who would have been open-minded enough to listen to his thoughts. A man of the cloth, but of the more pragmatical kind. A sharp mind, a careful tongue.

Who best could fit that description?

Thomas stopped walking halfway down the nave. His eyes landed on a technician, black uniform and professional stance. They drifted to her left, over to the Monsignor speaking with her in ushed tones, clipboard clucthed near his chest.

Of course, Raymond! One of the few people Thomas completely trusted, and also the man he desperately needed in that moment.

The Dean waited for the technician to finish speaking. When the woman bid her goodbyes and scurried off, Thomas marched over to Ray.

“Greetings, Ray,” he said, stopping a few paces away from him. “Do you have a moment to spare?”

Ray turned around to face him and bowed, purple vestments following the movement. “Your Eminence,” he said, then rapidly continued with, “Naturally, I’m at your complete service.”

“Good, good…I meant to ask you something.”

Ray made a ‘go on’ gesture. Thomas took a deep breath, hands wrung together.

“Would you take my confession?” He asked, voice dropping to a mere whisper.

The Monsignor cocked an eyebrow. His expression remained carefully blank. “Right now, Eminence?”

“If that is possible…”

Ray held up a hand. He adjusted his glasses and began riffling through the pages on his clipboard, the sound of shuffling paper echoing off the high ceiling of the Basilica. Thomas remained frozen in spot, a layer of sweat forming between his eyebrows.

A few seconds later, his assistant let the pages fall back down and turned to look at the Dean once again.

“We have forty minutes until your meeting with the Apostolic Nuncio from France,” he said.

Thomas nodded. “That’ll suffice. Thank you, Raymond.”

“God’s work, Eminence. God’s work,” Ray replied as they made their way to the confessional booth, passing by muttering Cardinals and over-excited seminarians.

The Monsignor placed his clipboard on a nearby table and entered the priest’s compartment through a small side door. Thomas took a deep breath and moved over to the penitent’s side.

The Basilica had more than one confessional. This one was fairly small, all dark wood and sharp edges, providing only enough space on both sides to squeeze in a bench. A black grid separated the two halves, a bit rusted at the corners.

Thomas sat on the wooden bench. He heard Ray do the same on the opposite side, robes rustling as he adjusted his vest and pectoral cross tinkling against his chest.

“Whenever you’re ready, Eminence,” Ray assured Thomas.

The Dean cleared his throat, sparing a few seconds to organize his thoughts and his words before commencing.

He crossed himself.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two weeks since my last confession.”

Ray’s voice rumbled from behind the grid. “What is it that troubles your soul?”

Thomas swallowed. His right hand automatically flew to grasp at his pectoral cross. The sensation of the metal’s cold surface digging in his palm was grounding.

“My mind has been troubled, in the last few months. Sinful thoughts - unworthy visions are filling my head. They surface at night, or when I take a moment to rest. I have prayed hard and long, but they haven’t dissipated.”

“What are these thoughts about?”

Thomas hesitated, even if he knew how deep the bounds of the confessional run. He struggled to voice them, even if he’d summoned the words to speak of them during Mass, reciting them in his head while the object of his desires stood only a few metres from him, preaching a message full of holy love and hope.

Thomas was scared of admitting to his…fantasies out loud. As if opening the doors of his conscience to the outside would make him lose control of what little self-discipline he had left.

Sensing his agitated state, Ray was quick to remind him, “Do not worry. The seal of confession is sacred. God is listening to you, speak freely of your doubts with Him.”

Thomas’s head sunk in his shoulders. He answered the question, voice slightly shakier than before.

“These are…filled with lust. But not as a general desire. There is…a person involved. Someone who my heart cherishes greatly, though I find myself living through moments when – my body craves more.”

Ray hummed. Not judgemental. Contemplative. “I see.”

His even and calm tone somehow increased the Dean’s discomfort.

“Have you made any attempts at imposing yourself on this particular person?”

“No!”

Thomas winced at the harshness of his own voice. He leaned back on the bench and took a deep breath before continuing. “Forgive me for yelling,” he said. “No, I have done nothing, at least in my conscient mind, that could drive this person into distressing territory.”

“That’s good,” Ray said. Thomas could hear the small smile tugging at his face. “As I often like to say, shame is an indicator of healing. It means you recognize your sin, and can begin the path of absolution.”

“But…But my shame is little thing compared to my yearning,” Thomas rebuked, inching closer to the metal grid. “When I’m with this person, when we speak, when we laugh – it feels good. There is no shame involved. I can’t help but feel like…like I’m doing something right.”

The other man fell silent for a long time. Thomas tried concentrating on his breathing as the Monsignor formulated an aswer, pectoral cross digging so much into his skin that it became painful to hold on.

After some long, agonizing minutes, Ray finally spoke from the other side. “You told me you’ve prayed to God for this. What message have you perceived coming from Him?”

Thomas thought back to the nights spent bent on his knees in front of his bedroom’s crucifix. He thought about the dream he’d had in England. Vincent’s clothes on his body and the Bible open on John’s Gospel.

“I still haven’t been able to decipher it,” he admitted. “There are elements which confuse me.”

“Have you received a sensation of hostility at any point? The feeling of there being something wrong in your life?”

Thomas shook his head. Then, realizing Ray couldn’t see him, he said, “No, I haven’t.”

“Then perhaps God has lead you on this path for a reason,” Ray explained.

Thomas shook his head again, more firmly this time. He wouldn’t be dragging Vincent’s name, the Pope, into the conversation, but he still needed to make Ray understand he was speaking of no ordinary person, and therefore his feelings were born from the evil present in every man’s heart.

“There is one thing I haven’t mentioned,” he said. He let go of his pectoral cross and watched the red dents that had formed on his skin, palm aching and fingers stiff.

“Tell me.”

“This person…” Thomas closed his eyes, pressing them so tightly together he saw white dots dancing in his vision. “They – He is a man of the cloth. I cannot fathom such thoughts for someone who has dedicated his life to our Mother Church. To Christ’s work on Earth.”

“That is not the problem,” Ray gently pointed out. “We are all human, vows or not. We are allowed to experience things, feel things…even between each other.”

“But - ”

“From what I’ve gathered from your confession,” Ray gently but firmly interrupted him, “lust isn’t the predominant part of your sin, if there is any sin at all. The sensations you’ve described are proof of great affection, which the Bible and our Lord’s teachings do not condemn. We know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them.”^5-2

There it was, the Gospel of John again. Should Thomas have interpreted it as yet another sign from the Almighty?

“What is my penance?” He managed to utter. Ray deflected his attempt at a conclusion with another question.

“This man you speak of. Do you trust him?”

“Completely,” came the Dean’s immediate reply. “There is no man I would trust more.”

“Then I say you should speak with him. Share your feelings, find your way forward together,” Ray said. Since Thomas didn’t reply, he continued, “This is my advise to you. Let us pray an Act of Contrition.”

Thomas sighed. He joined his hands in front of his chest, the skin of his right palm still pulsing slightly.

“My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good…”

After the prayer, Ray spoke again.

“God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

“Amen,” replied Thomas, crossing himself.

Both men exited the confessional. The Dean felt like he had accumulated more questions than the ones he had entered with.

Ray picked up his clipboard and turned towards him. His usual expression of utter neutrality morphed into one of his rare smiles. Thomas cast his eyes low.

The Monsignor lay a gentle hand on the Dean’s upper arm. He tightened his grip, once, a thousand unspoken words hidden behind a single gesture. Something in the way his eyes shone made Thomas realize his assitant knew more than he’d originally let on.

Then, Ray dropped his arm and adjusted his glasses. The smile disappeared with the smooth motion.

“It’s almost time for your meeting with the Apostolic Nuncio, Eminence,” he said, voice switching back from patient and caring to professional in the blink of an eye.

Thomas nodded faintly, fingers playing with the hem of his fascia. “Very well. Let’s head to the Palace.”

~ ❦ ~

By the time Thomas concluded his hour-meeting with the Nuncio, a headache was already fast approaching and the Dean was also in desperate need of a coffee. And maybe early retirement.

But first, he needed to stop by his office to sign some papers. Only that, upon opening the heavy door, Thomas found the number of papers on his desk had somehow risen. Heart sinking, he thought they’d actually began multiplying. Then, he noticed the slightly darker paper resting on top of his laptop was simply a well-folded newspaper, and the Dean let out a relieved breath.

It dawned on him when he picked up the newspaper that, if such a thing had found its way to his office without him requesting for it, then something critical had happened in the Church. Thomas’s blood pressure rose again.

The one morning I don’t turn on the TV…

He unfolded the paper with shaky fingers, handling it like a ticking time-bomb. Unfortunately, the article he was looking for was right on the front page. An explosive notice, written near the top in bold, black letters.

IL DECLINO DELLA CHIESA? PAPA INNOCENTE DESTINA FONDI VATICANI AL SUPPORTO DI ASSOCIAZIONI LGBT+^5-3

The Dean’s knees grew weak. He stumbled towards his chair and sat down, newspaper clucthed hard in one hand. He took five deep breaths, then forced himself to read through the rest of the article before making a rash decision, like bursting into Vincent’s office and shaking him violently by the shoulders to reset his brain.

The article grew more and more concerning as Thomas scanned the typed lines. His eyebrows shot up so high they reached the exosphere when he found out Vincent had managed to rope Cardinal Tedesco into sustaining his campaign. The Patriarch wouldn’t actually be contibuting economically to the project, but he’d offered the Palazzo Patriarcale as neutral ground where representatives from both sides could meet and talk. Innocent had already planned on visiting Venice come Friday of that week, to ‘ringraziare personalmente il Cardinale e gettare le basi per un confronto sereno con i membri più tradizionalisti della Curia…’^5-4

The article contained a small interview with Cardinal Gozzola – one of Tedesco’s cronies – whose harsh words towards the Pope’s decision made Thomas so sick he had to close his eyes for a minute.

The Patriarch of Venice himself had declared in an official statement, published shortly after the Pope’s plan of action was made public, that he was merely doing it to ‘prove the inefficiency of a liberal approach towards degraded institutions such as these’.

Thomas folded the newspaper in two. He rubbed his temples, body officially aching for a coffee, then got back to his feet once he felt like his legs weren’t going to betray him just yet.

He approached the side-door to his assistant’s office, knocked twice in a row.

“Come in.” A muffled voice said.

Thomas creaked the door open, head poking inside. The office smelled of fresh ink and old books.

“Raymond,” he whispered, because the only alternative was screaming like a madman, and Thomas didn’t want to lose all his dignity in a day.

The Monsignor cast his gaze away from the thick stack of documents on his desk. His eyes met the Dean’s. Calm, collected. Back straight, zucchetto perfectly aligned, not one hair out of place. As if he hadn’t delivered a tsunami on his boss’ desk only a few minutes before.

Thomas extended an arm into the office, letting the crumpled newspaper come into view.

“What is this?” He asked, dangling the article in the air.

Ray blinked, a ray of sunlight shining off his glasses.

“His Holiness’ most recent attempt at inducing some prematures death inside the Vatican, Your Eminence,” he deadpanned. He picked up his pen and signed a document while Thomas gaped at him from the threshold.

“I…” The Dean didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think.

What should I do?

His temples throbbed. His arm started hurting from keeping it suspended in the air.

“I think…I think I’ll go get a coffee.”

Ray nodded. “I was just about to suggest it, Emincence.”

“Right.” Thomas dropped his arm. The Monsignor kept signing letters and typing with his computer keyboard, completely unbothered. “Right, okay…I’ll be – uhm, I don’t know how much.”

“Take all the time you need. I’ve got everything under control,” Ray reassured him, an odd twinkle in his eyes.

Thomas closed the door, returning to his own office. He came very close to throwing the newspaper in the bin, but then he remembered he might need it later, so he buried it under a stack of folders and made his way to the Palace’s cafeteria space.

There, he found Aldo, holding a ceramic coffee cup with trembling hands. His skin was the same washed-white of the marble columns.

Thomas hesitated briefly. The previous night’s events played in his mind. Paired with what he’d just read in his office, he suddenly felt like he’d been living in carefully-constructed simulation that entire time. What eventually convinced the Dean to step inside the cafeteria was the look on his friend’s eyes: focused on the coffee machine in front of him, gaze so intense it could have pierced through the metal.

“I assume you just found out as well,” Thomas muttered. No greeting, no ‘good morning, how are you?’. It was very clear that morning was neither good nor was Aldo going through it well.

The Secretary sighed. Raw and deep, a sound coming from his very being.

“He’s done it,” he murmured. His hands shook more violently for a second. “He’s actually done it…”

Aldo downed his coffee in one gulp and immediately placed the cup back inside the coffee machine to refill it.

Thomas walked over to a neatly-arranged tray and picked up a cup of his own. He waited for Aldo’s coffee to finish brewing before placing it inside the machine. Thomas pushed one of the glowing buttons on the display, then clasped his hands behind his back.

“What do we do now?” He asked while the coffee machine prepared his drink, sputtering and rumbling on the countertop.

Aldo whipped his head back and laughed. Actually laughed, shrill and long. Thomas began seriously worrying about his friend’s mental health.

“What do we do now?” Aldo parroted back between giggles. He turned to fully face Thomas, glasses slightly askew on his nose.

“What do you think we can do?”

Thomas pressed his lips together. He shrugged, not knowing how to answer. Vincent wasn’t the kind of man to walk away from his promises. He wasn’t like the previous Pope. He played by no tactics, tricked no one.

Vincent liked doing things that were fundamentally good. It didn’t matter if the Vatican fell apart or if reporters stormed down Rome. ‘Let all that you do be done in love,’ ^5-5he so loved to say. Vincent firmly believed the Lord would eventually lead humanity on the right path, and stubbornly refused most attempts at reasoning with him.

The Secretary nodded, taking a controlled sip of his drink. “Exactly. Nothing.”

The coffee machine bipped, signaling it was done. Thomas retrieved the warm cup and blew away the steam before drinking. The coffee helped him feel a bit more alive, warmth settling comfortably in his belly.

He raised a hand and placed it on Aldo’s back. A comforting gesture, something that said I’m here, you’re not alone.

They exchanged no words – they didn’t need to. For a few minutes, Thomas and Aldo remained just that: a couple of friends drinking coffee at work, surrounded by walls of expensive marble and century-old paintings.

The coffee was drank, the cups set down on the table to be cleaned up by the staff. Aldo held his face with both hands and exhaled, episcopal ring glinting in the low light of a cloudy day. Thomas lingered, allowing him to take time.

Eventually, Aldo’s fingers opened and his eyes resurfaced to peak at the Dean.

“You probably think I’m being melodramatic,” Aldo chuckled, looking down at his feet.

Thomas’s expression softened. There were many things he didn’t know about his friend, or thought he knew. His…situation with Tedesco was only the most recent one. Before that there had been his ambition to become Pope, and before that something else. Facets of a man, mingling and interwining to create a kaleidoscope of colours. That didn’t mean he valued Aldo’s friendship any less.

“You’re always melodramatic,” Thomas said with a small smile. “To tell you the truth…I find it quite endearing.”

Aldo huffed, waving a hand in the air. “There you go, making fun of me while I suffer. Thank you, Thomas.”

“Aldo, the Holy Father has been Pope for barely over a year. Knowing him, this is likely the least scandalous decision he plans on making. How are you expecting to survive until retirement?”

“Simple. I’m not going to.”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Well, in that case, I shall make use of the time that we have left together in the best of my abilities.”

He grabbed Aldo by the elbow and began dragging him away from the coffee machine, back into the long hallways of the Apostolic Palace and towards his office.

“Come,” Thomas said. “God is strong, but the Vatican won’t be kept running by prayers alone.”

~ ❦ ~

Due to an unfortunate combination of meetings, papal interviews, preventing Aldo from suffering a mental breakdown and rising stacks of urgent paperwork on the desk, Thomas wasn’t able to speak with Vincent for the entire day.

Hoping for the possibility to exchange at the very least a few words with him at dinner, the Dean abandoned his office and walked to the Casa Santa Marta with Ray at his side, hands stuffed under his fascia to protect them from the rising cold.

The sisters had already set the long table when they arrived, white ceramic so polished it reflected the nuns’ faces. Baskets of bread were being placed between seats at regular intervals and bottles of wine were being popped open.

Thomas barely heard Ray excuse himself to go and use the restroom as his eyes scanned the wide room for a head of jet-black hair and a white cassock swishing about.

There was no sign of Vincent anywhere. The crowd was a picture of blues, black and purple dots, some already taking their place around the table, whose central seat remained stubbornly vacant.

“Looking for someone in particular, Your Eminence?”

Thomas jumped, heart skipping a beat. He turned sharply on his heels to find Sister Agnes peering at him, a tray covered with an enbroidered silk towel held under one arm.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, bowing her head in respectful greeting.

“It’s…ehr, it’s fine,” Thomas said, clearing his throat and adjusting his pectoral cross. He winced when the cuts he’d procured himself that morning met the cold metal, tender flesh still sensible. Sister Agnes obviously noticed his lapse of discomfort, but made no comment on it.

“Is the Holy Father still in his office?” The Dean asked.

The nun raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow at him. “You’re the one coming from the Palace, Eminence,” she pointed out.

“Yes…you’re right. I simply didn’t see him, so I thought he might have already arrived.”

Sister Agned balanced the tray under her arm, nose scrunching as she evidently searched her memory for informations on the Pope’s whereabouts.

“Sister Céline mentioned spotting His Holiness on the way to the pond. He’s probably feeding the turtles,” she said in the end.

Thomas hummed. “I’ll be heading there, then. Thank you, Sister.”

“Anytime, Eminence. If he starts making up excuses to stay, tell him we made fried eggs. His Holiness so loves those.”

“I…will do?”

The nun winked and flashed him a smirk before disappearing inside the kitchen, hot vapor coming out of the swinging doors.

Thomas located the side exit of the dining room and stepped back into the freezing night once again, off to look for their vanishing Pope.

The gravel crunched under his shoes as he approached the turtle pond, the tiny light fixtures on the floor pointing him the way. His breath formed clouds of mist as it exited through his nose, cold air biting into his cheeks and making his fingers numb.

As expected, Thomas found Vincent crouched near the water, his back turned from the staircase and a container filled to the brim with fresh lettuce and cucumbers opened next to him. The Dean stopped briefly near the gate. His aching appendices and his chapped lips were all forgotten as he admired the spectacle laid in front of him.

The white of Vincent’s cassock created an harmonious constrast with the darkness of the night surrounding him, shadows stretching from the trees and the walls. The fabric itself pooled around him like a gown, and Thomas could see Vincent’s face reflected in the calm water as he extended his arm to feed a greedily approaching turtle. Serene, content, absolutely stunning.

Splendor and majesty was before him, a sanctuary filled with strenght and beauty.^5-6 So wondrous in fact that Thomas thought about leaving him there, thinking he had no right to disrupt the peace of such a wonderful moment.

He approached slowly, descending the stairs with featherlight steps. Once his feet met the grass however, leaves rustling under his soles, Vincent’s body immediately tensed. He retracted his hand, smile faltering and back straighteing as his eyes snapped to the side to locate the source of the noise.

Thomas held up both hands in mock defense. “It’s just me.”

“Oh.” Vincent’s posture visibly relaxed. He shuffled to his feet, an half-chewed bellpepper clutched in his hand. The juice had stained his palms in a bright shade of red.

“If you’re here, I assume it’s time for dinner already?” Vincent asked, cocking his head to the side. A silky lock fell on his forehead after the movement, making that distinct something unfurl in Thomas’s chest. He brought both hands behind his back to avoid any temptations.

“It is,” he said.

Behind Vincent, Thomas caught sight of a small turtle climbing its way up a rock. Its little legs slipped on the wet surface, and the turtle tumbled into the water with a soft splash. It quickly re-emerged, snout poking out from behind a lily pad.

Vincent giggled softly at the scene. “They’re adorable, aren’t they?”

“I can certainly see how much they enjoy their new pond.”

Vincent crouched back down, reaching for the abandoned plastic container. He took out a piece of lettuce and handed it, as well as the rest of the bellpepper, to the fallen turtle.

Thomas politely cleared his throat, causing Vincent’s gaze to shift back to him.

“Sister Agnes informed me that there’ll be fried eggs this evening,” he said, suppressing a shudder when a gust of wind hit his body. “You wouldn’t want to eat them cold.”

“But the turtles haven’t finished their dinner yet,” Vincent said, eyebrows knit together. He picked the container, still half-full, and raised it in the air.

“Come feed them with me,” he proposed.

Thomas hesitated. It was getting too cold for his tastes, he didn’t want to linger outside too much. He also knew for a fact, after of listening to the previous Pope’s complains in the winter months for years, that the papal garments were layered, but didn’t shield. Vincent was going to catch the flu if he stayed outside draped in simple silk and cotton.

Thomas was about to voice such thoughts, but then Vincent, sensing his hesitation, batted his lashes and reserved him a pair of puppy-eyes that made all his resolutions of eating a hot meal crumble in an instant.

“Pleeeease?” The Holy Father drawled, resembling many begging children.

The Dean sighed.

He shuffled over to the pond, knee joints protesting as he bent down to sit beside Vincent. The latter’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he placed the plastic container on his lap, urging Thomas to take something. He settled for a slice of cucumber and carefully dropped it in the water. A pair of turtles immediately appeared from its depths and began to chew the vegetable excitedly.

They fed the animals slowly. Vincent wanted to make sure everyone got a share of everything, and Thomas was forced to comply. As the silence of the night settled comfortably between them, his thoughts drifted to that morning’s confession, which had been pushed to the back of his mind by the day’s duties.

Share your feelings, find your way forward together.

The Dean risked a peak at the Pope’s profile when he leaned forward to give a slice of peach to one of the turtles. The stray lock of hair was still resting on his forehead. Delicate, tantalizing. Thomas’s mouth run dry, and he quicly averted his eyes. How was he supposed to share such images with the Holy Father?

“How’s Cardinal Bellini?” Vincent asked after the peach was eaten, face turning to look at him. “He had Claude delegate for him during a meeting today. He told me he wasn’t feeling really well.”

It took Thomas a few seconds to remember Claude was Aldo’s personal assistant.

“Ah, yes…That,” Thomas chuckled softly. “It was nothing, don’t worry. Aldo is perfectly fine. It’s just that…well, this morning he read the newspaper article regarding your decision to dedicate Vatican funds to LGBT+ organizations and had to take some time to process it all.”

Vincent blinked back at him. “But I’d already told the Secretary my intentions. How did this come as a surprise to him?”

“Oh, there’s no reason to sound so shocked. Knowing the man, it was probably the logistical whipslash such a decision will entail, rather than the act itself. Aldo is an open-minded brother,” Thomas explained, handing the last piece of cucumber to a lone turtle. This time, he let the creature come to him and eat from his palm, eyes softening at the obvious display of trust.

“Oh – very well,” Vincent said. Then, he continued with: “And what about you?”

Thomas’s eyes abandoned the turtle. “What about me?”

“What do you think of it?” Vincent asked.

Thomas searched for the right words to voice his perspective with. The atmosphere seemed to tense, filling with a sort of electric anticipation. The turtle kept munching on its piece of cucumber, eyes closed with bliss.

“I think…” Thomas began, voice ushed, “that it was a daring move.”

Vincent shrugged, picking up the - now empty - plastic container to close it. “Yes, well – I was always a bit the troublesome kind. I like to think it’s what drove me to Baghdad in the first place, and then in the Congo and to Kabul.”

He bit his lip, contemplating his next words.

“You also gave me a good example.”

“Me?”

“Of course! You stood up against Tremblay - againts your own brothers - during the Conclave. It was quite inspirational.”

The Dean felt heat rise to his cheeks despite the surrounding cold. He rubbed his neck with nervous hand. “I was doing it for the good of the Church…”

“So am I,” Vincent said calmly. He looked down, a flash of hesitation crossing his gaze. After a second it was already gone, and Vincent confidently reached out to grab a hold of the other’s hand.

The Dean’s breath itched. His face was definitely matching his zucchetto now. He could hear his heart threaten to burst out of his ribcage as Vincent rubbed his hand with his thumb, warm fingers gliding over the wrinckled skin.

Vincent’s own face had gotten a shade darker, but Thomas was too busy controlling his breathing to notice. The former continued his speech, voice reduced to a whisper but never unwavering.

“A few months ago, when that poor boy was beaten by his father in Chieti, you told me you’d prayed for him. I, too, believe strongly in the power of prayer,” Vincent paused, glancing at their joined hands. “But I also know it cannot be enough. Not in our material world. Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth. ^5-7That is what the Gospel tells us. And if we happen upon two boys kissing on the street, who are we to tell them that their love is not worthy to be celebrated?”

Vincent raised his eyes, looking at Thomas expectantly. The turtle had waddled away by now, leaving his hand empty. Thomas placed it on top of Vincent’s own, caressing his knuckles with his fingers.

“I agree with you. Wholeheartedly,” he told him, offering Vincent a timid smile.

He smiled back, leaning close so that their shoulders pressed together. The warmth of his body seeped into Thomas’s skin despite the layers of clothes separating them. It was a soothing balm compared to the freezing air, a steady presence humming to the rhythm of Vincent’s heartbeat.

“Come with me to Venice,” he said. “Let me show you the progress we’re making.”

Thomas tightened the grip on his hand. “I will,” he replied.

Vincent sighed, and his head sunk onto the other man’s shoulder, hair tingling his jaw.

They remained silent for a while, listening to the sounds of nature. An owl flew by above their heads. Lizards hid inside bushes and made the leaves rustle. Turtles paddled in the water and slept under lily pads. The heat radiating off their joined bodies shieleded both men from the rising cold.

After a few blissful minutes, Vincent spoke.

“I don’t regret coming to Rome,” he mumbled against Thomas’s neck, hot breath ghosting over the skin.

Thomas, after a moment of stillness, felt his brain shut down. Throwing caution to the wind, he pressed closer to Vincent, inhaling soap and the smell of grass after rain.

“I don’t regret staying,” he said, and those four words felt more like a confession that anything else.

Slowly, so to give Vincent the chance to pull away, he let his cheek come to rest on the other’s head, knocking his zucchetto askew. Vincent didn’t seem to mind.

They formed a white and black coccon of warmth, water sloshing all around them. The night sky opened up above their heads, Venus appearing to take her place among the stars.

Thomas closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of Vincent’s hot breath puffing againts his neck.

This, he thought, must be what Heaven feels like.

Later, much later, when they managed to separate from each other and return to the Santa Marta, Thomas sat next to Aldo, who had already finished his pasta and was moving to the second plate.^5-8

“What took you so long?” He asked, eyeing his rumpled cassock.

Thomas shrugged, smoothing the fabric with distracted hand. He peered at Vincent, sitting a few seats on his right, zucchetto still misaligned. Thomas found the school-boy look kind of suited him.

“The turtles were hungry,” the Dean said off-handedly, not dropping his gaze. Aldo followed his line of sight, cocking an unimpressed eyebrow once he realized who his dear friend was so focused on.

“Hu-uh. I see.” Aldo shook his head. Why did he even bother?

“Pass me the salt, will you Thomas?”

~ ❦ ~

Venice, the sinking city, was an agglomeration of old buildings and canals standing on the tip of an abyss. The city obeyed to the lagoon, to its waves and tides, water corroding the foundations year after year with the kind of silent destruction only nature could bring.

Thomas understood the charm. It was a thrilling experience, to walk on the bridges of a city that one day would become part of the seabed. A perfect attraction for tourists.

Their plane arrived in Venice in the wee hours of the morning, when a layer of white fog still shrouded the roofs from sight. The sunrise bled gold on the Mediterranean, a slab of infinite blue on the horizon.

“Look at this.” Aldo nudged him on the shoulder while the plane descended. Thomas leaned in, eyes falling on the newspaper the Secretary had been reading during the flight. His thumb was pointing to an article in the middle of the page.

Morti sul lavoro: cifre mai viste prima. Più di 1000 lavoratori solo questo mese^5-9

“They’re not doing the required maintenance on construction sites,” Aldo muttered, flipping the page to read more.

Thomas said nothing. He bowed his head and whispered a prayer, one hand brushing his pectoral cross for comfort.

Innocent was supposed to be meeting with Cardinal Tedesco near the Palazzo Patriarcale. Since there were no cars in Venice, the Pope and his entourage had to hop on a motorized boat to get there, kindly provided by the Cardinal himself.

“The climate was more welcoming when I came here in the summer,” Aldo grumbled as he got on the boat with unsteady steps, cassock lifted to his knees to avoid tripping and falling into the frigid water.

Thomas rolled his eyes and waited for the Swiss Guards to help Vincent on board before following suit. The ferryman started the engine and they were off, on their way to the Catholic heart of the city.

The Dean sat near the edge of the boat, wrapped in a heavy coat to protect his old limbs from the cold. He watched the bubbling water as the boat glided through the canals, algae and mullets swimming under the dark surface.

Opposite from him, Vincent was admiring the scenery, soaking up the venetian atmosphere with wide eyes and an even wider smile. He rounded the boat three times, a giddy child on his first field trip, a sunray on water.

More than once, as he pointed to a particular building or bridge, did the Holy Father extended his body dangerously close to the edge. Each time he was pulled back by either Mael or Leonardo, strong arms gently but firmly guiding his upper back back inside the boat.

Many recommendations were voiced - with various degrees of exasperation.

All were gleefully ignored.

‘May I suggest to keep your hands to your sides, Holy Father? It’s easy to lose balance on a moving boat.’

‘Your Holiness, could you walk instead of sprinting? It’s slippery here. You wouldn’t want to break another arm.’

‘Holy Father. The water is cold and you don’t know how to swim. Could you please sit down?”

Thomas could tell by the guards’ resigned faces that they thought the situation quite ridiculous.

Aldo, physically about to burst, eventually convinced Vincent to take his seat when the ferryman announced they’d be arriving at the Palace shortly. But instead of sitting still, the Pope began poking fun at Aldo, trying to have him admit to the ownership of the Santa Marta’s cat.

The Secretary replied to his questions in dry tones, frown deepening by the second.

“If it comes to your office for food, then it’s yours.”

“I merely feed it to keep it silent, Your Holiness.”

“At least tell me its name!”

“You should ask the nuns for that. I have no reason to address it in a specific way.”

Thomas hid his grin by burying his nose in his coat collar.

The boat dropped the Pope and his following near Saint Mark’s, where a grinning Cardinal Tedesco was already waiting, red cape flapping dramatically behind him and a cloud of strawberries cloaking his figure. Standing not so far away, journalists posed with cameras and microphones in waiting hands, a storm ready to be unleashed.

Vincent stepped off the boat and offered a wave. Cameras clicked and flashed, dozens of bees buzzing around a single flower.

When Thomas approached Tedesco to exchange a greeting, he couldn’t help but feel like he was sticking his head in the open jaws of a lion, one wrong movement the only thing separating him from death. When their hands met in a shake, four pictures were taken in the span of two seconds.

Tedesco seemed to revel in the attention, eyes shining with electric energy. Thomas, on the other hand, wanted to go back to Rome.

He watched closely as Aldo went to greet Tedesco, the journalists and photographers nearly salivating at the prospect of uncovering a scandal or the umpteenth feud. The two Cardinals, however, offered them nothing.

Their handshake was more a hard grasp of fingers, lasting barely two seconds. Aldo’s back was straight, robes pristine, gaze sharp. Tedesco’s pose oozed confidence, like always. He nodded at Aldo’s muttered ‘Eminenza’ and proceeded to take a long drag from his vape, showering the bystanders in strawberry-scented smoke.

Thomas wondered how long their ruse had been going on for. Had there ever been enmity at all between those two? The Dean, once again, found himself doubting.

They reached the Palazzo Patriarcale on foot, Vincent satiating his curiosity on Venice’s history by bombarding the Patriarch with questions. Tedesco preened like a glorified peacock under the Pope’s attention and interest for his city and answered eloquently, booming voice echoing around the narrow passageways.

The Patriarch led them inside the Palazzo’s receiving hall, where a small table had been set, refreshments waiting under silk napkins and glass cases.

Nuns and assistants filed in, uncovering prosciutto slices and cheese, home-made pies still hot to the touch and cornetti overflowing with honey and jams.

The Patriarch extended his hands in silent invitation, pointing to the table.

“Dopo di lei, Santità.”^5-10

“I thank you for the breakfast, Eminence,” Vincent replied in kind. “But first, let’s bless our meal.”

Thomas joined his hands in prayer, bowing his head. He murmured alongside Vincent as he thanked the Lord for the food, the Pope adding his congratulations to the sisters who’d so patiently prepared it.

As a collective ‘Amen’ floated in the air, the table got quickly surrounded, cassocks rustling and conversations sprouting inside the hall. Thomas slipped off to the side, fingers absentmindendly caressing the gems on his pectoral cross. He’d lost sight of Aldo after the blessing.

A polite cough reached his ears, causing him to tune back in on reality.

Vincent was in front of him, two porcelain plates in hand. He directed Thomas a pointed raise of eyebrows and handed him one, a hearty slice of apricot tart lying on top. The determined look in the Pope’s eyes admitted no possibility of refusal.

Thomas sighed. “Thank you, Your Holiness.” He accepted the plate and picked up the tiny metal fork resting beside the tart, cutting out a small piece.

Instead of leaving, Vincent remained rooted on the spot, making casual comments on the Palace’s architecture as Thomas nibbled on his breakfast. The air around them was calm, but filled with something that had only manifested recently. To Thomas, it felt a bit like…anticipation. The knowledge walls had caved, views had shifted. Molten lava bubbling under the surface.

Refreshments decimated and stomachs satisfied, Tedesco approached the Pope, still holding a napkin smeared with honey, and went to offer him a tour of the Palazzo, complete with his personal fun-facts on the building’s history.

A technician, upon overhearing him, awkwardly shuffled closer and muttered, “Eminenza…la riunione del Santo Padre - ”^5-11

“Ma sì! Abbiamo tempo,” ^5-12Tedesco interrupted, throwing a hand above his head. He turned to smile at Vincent, glasses sliding down his nose a bit. “The Holy Father has never been to Venice before. We wouldn’t want to deny his curiosity to uncover more on this…wonderful city.”

“That is very kind of you, Cardinal,” Vincent smiled. “I’ll gladly accept your offering, if it is no bother for the rest of your staff.”

Tedesco dismissed his worries with a practiced wave, retrieving his vape from a hidden pocket in his cassock. “No bother at all. They knew the Pope would be visiting, dopotutto.”^5-13

They began their visit on the first floor. Vincent moved to the front of their improvised tour group, walking beside Tedesco as he used his scarlet pen as a pointing stick for their improvised guide. Thomas followed with Aldo from a short distance. The rest of the entourage trailed behind the Holy Father, a flock of ducklings keeping close to their mother (which, given the constant swishing of fabric, was a pretty realistic metaphor). The Swiss guards closed the line, sharp gazes analyzing every corner and ornate column.

They climbed the marble staircase to the second floor and arrived in a vast sitting room, curtains draped over the windows in waterfalls of red and gold. The chimney - a 300 year-old piece donated by a rich Catholic family, Tedesco oh so proudly boasted - was so big Thomas could stand upright inside it.

The room itself smelled of closed space and humidity despite the open windows, a characteristic shared by many old buildings in Italy. The air fresheners installed on the walls seemed to be doing quite a poor job.

A balcony opened on the city, canal water sloshing below. The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, gold bleeding on the Venetian roofs.

“What an amazing view,” Vincent mused, crossing the room to step outside.

“The Patriarchal Palace has one of the best views of Venice,” Tedesco said, adjusting his cape. “The balcony itself is on-going some preservation works, so the scaffolding takes some of the beauty away – but the city is still prefectly visible.”

“I can certainly see that,” Vincent chuckled, resting a hand on the one piece of railing that wasn’t surrounded by metal rods. “It’s truly stunning. Cardinal Lawrence, come look!” He called.

Thomas, albeit reluctantly, wrapped his coat tighter around himself and stepped outside. He locked his gaze on the horizon, sky painted with a palette of blues and yellows.

“You’re right, Holy Father. It’s quite nice,” he commented.

Footsteps approached from behind. The scaffolding creaked, and the Secretary of State came to stand next to the Dean, hands grasping his elbows. The water kept flowing calmly below them.

Aldo shook his head, switching his weight from one foot to the other. “All this talk about the view, but no one speaks of the temperature,” he huffed playfully.

Vincent hummed, fumbling with his cassock. “We’ll head inside in a minute, brother Cardinal. Let me just snap a picture – I want to remember this.”

The Pope fished his beat-up cellphone from his pocket and positioned himself to take a photo, a slice of Venetian sunset appearing on the cracked screen.

Thomas heard another suspicious creak, this time seemingly louder. He looked down and moved his foot slightly, revealing a long cleft in the stone. A black scar on holy ground.

His gut twisted.

The Dean patted Aldo on the arm to get his attention while he turned towards Vincent. “Your Holiness, perhaps we should - ”

Too late.

There was another creack. Then another. Then another, then another then another -

The balcony shook and tipped sideways with a loud CLANG!

Metal snapped and stone crumbled. Thomas grunted, colliding forcefully with Aldo. His elbow bloomed with pain and his eyes watered. Vincent tripped and hit the railing with a yelp, phone falling to the ground and sliding away, lost amidst the rubble.

Someone shouted behind them – the Swiss guards.

The balcony gave away again. Thomas watched the birth of a thousand cracks, short then long, eating the marble, spreading like a disease, dark and deep and terrifying. Dust surrounded them, particles attacking his eyes, sneaking inside his throat and making him cough.

The world was tipping forward, and Thomas was sliding. Low and low and lower, cassock swallowed by the cracks and heels screeching on metal.

He grabbed Aldo’s arm for balance, screaming. To not avail.

The scaffolding gave out. Aldo was dragged down and Thomas lost his grip. He fell on his back, watching in pure horror as his friend fell down, followed by Vincent, zucchetto flying and white cassock lifting around his body, the gold on his fascia matching the colour of the sky.

There were two splashes.

Thomas, for a second, was floating in the air. It hurt, wind slapping his face and legs dangling into nothing, arms spread around him like baby birds attempting to leave the nest. Under him was blue, getting closer and closer and -

The impact with the water knocked the breath out of his lungs. He sunk, drinking water without meaning to, coat and robes wetting and making him sink more.

Thomas was freezing. The water made him burn from the inside. He didn’t find the strenght to move. It was too cold, too much at once. His limbs were lead. His skin was fusing with the water.

A singular thought, louder than an explosion, clearer than that day’s sky, rose in his mind: This is it, then.

Thomas tried to keep his eyes open. If the Lord wished to meet him, he would go. But Thomas wanted to watch His Creation until the end.

From the canal, as he sunk lower and lower, Thomas could only see the first morning’s sunbeams streaming in the water, white and clear against the darkness.

And God said, ‘Let there be light.’^5-14

He thought it fitting, to see the first thing God had created in the last moments of his life.

Thomas thought about how the light pooled from the glass windows in St Peter’s, cascading over Vincent, turning his hair into a halo of the divine. He thought about how it glimmered in his brown eyes and about how it lit up a room when Vincent walked in.

Please God, save him. Take me, if you must, but do not pry him away from the world. Not yet.

The sunrays were covered by something, a black creature diving in the water, bubbles all around it. Thomas began to see black everywhere, tiny dots appearing in his field of vision. His chest was aflame. He could taste death in his mouth.

Thomas was grabbed by the shoulders, hard. His entire body was pulled upwards, his arms guided around another body.

His face broke free of its liquid prison, meeting the fresh air once again. Now there was light all around him, but Thomas needed to breathe, breathe, breathe.

He coughed and spit out water, chest heaving and blood rushing in his ears.

“Ho il Decano!” A male voice yelled beside him. “Ho preso il Decano! Respira!”^5-15

The man – his rescuer – swam and dragged him towards the platform, where a cluster of doctors and staff members was waiting, all while Thomas’s lungs remembered how to function properly. The Dean was hoisted up and surrounded by medics, who quickly threw away his outer layers and wrapped him in blankets.

They made him sit on a stretcher next to Aldo while they checked his vital signs. Only when a doctor wrapped another heavy blanket around him did Thomas notice how much he was trembling.

Aldo was looking no better. He was shaking violently, a red cape wrapped around his shoulders on top of his blanket. Thomas could hear his teeth chattering.

“D-D-Don’t look…” Aldo stammered, speaking with him but with his eyes set on something else entirely.

Thomas followed his line of sight, settling on the commotion a few feet from them. His heart plummeted all the way down inside his shoes. He forgot how to breathe again.

Vincent was lying on the ground, arms abandoned at his sides. Eyes closed. Chest unmoving.

His cassock had been ripped apart, exposing his bare torso, and a medic was performing cardiac reanimation on him, hands balled into fists aligned with his sternum.

Tedesco was yelling in rapid Italian somewhere behind Thomas. Nurses and medical staff fussed around the two Cardinals, muttering about blood pressure and hypothermia, but he didn’t register any of their voices.

He kept looking at the medic taking care of Vincent, trying to will his heart into beating again, shoulders rising and falling with each unsuccessful push. Each compression was a stab to the gut.

Thomas didn’t put in the effort to pray. He begged. Openly, soul naked in front of God.

Oh God, please. Please please, I’m begging you. Oh – oh why oh Lord…

Vincent coughed. He spluttered and turned on his side, throwing up water, shredded cassock hanging loosely around his shaking legs. Medics surrounded him, asking questions, giving commands, handing him blankets.

“Che sia lodato Dio,” ^5-16Aldo whispered, crossing himself.

If Thomas stayed a second more away from Vincent, he would faint. Despite the doctors’ protests, he slid down the stretcher, wobbling on unsteady legs towards Vincent, blanket half dusting the ground as it slipped from his shoulder.

Thomas squeezed inside the cluster of medics surrounding the Pope and collapsed at his side.

“Vincent,” he choked out, raw and vulnerable.

Vincent turned towards him, fingers digging into his armpits, eyes blown wide.

“It’s okay. I-I’m okay,” he tried reassuring him, even if his body shook while he spoke, even if the doctors kept adding blankets on top of his shoulders.

Thomas whimpered, and Vincent reached out to grab his trembling hands. He squeezed them weakly, but Thomas felt the touch reach his very bones.

“Tomás…Hey, listen to me.” Thomas forced himself to look him in the eyes. They were so sincere and pure, even faced with death. “Everything is going to be fine,” Vincent said, warmth starting to creep in between their joined palms, just like that even near the turtle pond.

Thomas swallowed past the lump in his throat and nodded.

As staff rushed around them, he watched as a droplet of water escaped Vincent’s damp hair and slid down his forehead, then past his nose, and came to rest on his eyelashes. Dozens of water droplets were there, tiny diamons around Vincent’s brown eyes, the same eyes Thomas had been close to never seeing again.

Vincent and him were sitting so close Thomas could count every single drop.

As the image of Vincent, damp hair and shaking limbs, was presented to him, the realization hit the Dean like a bolt of lighting. A shock of thunder in a storm. The sound of a world falling apart.

I love him.

Thomas blinked, hoping it to be just a lapse in judgement. Maybe it was all a bad dream. Maybe he was still in his bedroom in Rome, and his alarm would wake him up soon, reminding him he had a flight to take.

But no, the thought remained in his head, shaping itself into clarity. Words burned in his mind like hot iron on skin, accompanied by the Holy Father offering him a reassuring smile in that very moment.

I’m in love with Vincent Benítez.

~ ❦ ~

Thomas couldn’t sleep. He turned and flopped in bed, staring at the pitch black ceiling of his hotel room, lying on a mattress that was too soft for his tastes. Every once in a while, his body still shivered, despite the heavy duvet covering it.

The Dean’s digital clock read twenty minutes after midnight, red lights blinking in the dead of night. Venice was asleep outside the window, the screech of seagulls sometimes echoing through the empty streets.

Those three words kept replaying in the Thomas’s head, a sick mantra that tasted foreign on the tongue.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

How had he gotten there? A Cardinal, in love. Not only that, in love with the Pope.

Thomas shuddered again, shame flooding his chest.

He’d never fallen in love before. He’d never struggled with his vows, even during the seminary. Throughout the years, Thomas had always considered it a sign of closeness with the Lord. Bodies had been flesh with no temptation. His love had had only one direction: God.

Now, he found his world upturned. He was a ship with no captain. A planet without a star, falling in the universe.

Thomas thought about how many of his brothers in Christ broke their vows daily. Had he broken them, too, by imagining himself with Vincent, with the Holy Father?

Thomas abruptly sat up in bed. He had too many questions and too few answers.

Tedesco’s words after their fall surfaced to mind, threats of suing the building company to death. And, linked straight to the Patriarch, there was Aldo.

Thomas reached for his phone, placed on the nightstand. He unlocked it, getting temporarily blinded by the artificial light, then dialed Aldo’s number.

His thumb hovered on the green ‘Call’ button. After a brief moment of hesitation, Thomas shook his head and turned off his phone. The conversation he had in mind wasn’t one to be held over a phonecall, and also not after midnight.

The Dean lay back in his bed and prayed the rosary until the first pale sunrays filtered through the blue curtains of his room. He got dressed in a haste and took the lift to the breakfast room downstairs.

It was very early, and few guests were sitting at the tables. Thomas waited for Aldo in a corner. He ordered an espresso, but didn’t eat anything.

When the Secretary finally stepped throught the double glass doors, Thomas waved him over. Aldo directed him a nod of greeting and sat down at his table, asking a cappuccino to the waiter in smooth Italian.

“I need to talk to you.” Thomas got straight to the point once the waiter disappeared.

Aldo raised a perfectly-manicured eyebrow at him. His gaze sweeped over his hunched shoulders and dark eyeshadows before settling into his eyes. He seemed to understand something serious was going on.

His friend sighed. “Very well.”

The waiter delivered his cappuccino. Aldo picked the cup up, along with two servings of sugar, and the two men filed out of the room.