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Vincent will always remember it was just an ordinary Friday.
Well, perhaps not entirely ordinary- one that came after an especially long and productive work week. He, Aldo and his many other advisors had finished the first draft of several public statements about oncoming progressive reforms to doctrine.
“It’s not bulletproof yet,” Aldo had said on Thursday evening while they were finishing their work, marking every file with correcting and questioning notes. “But it’s shaping up. I think we could be done with the written arguments and bureaucracy in about half a year, maybe less. And after that, we can implement them one by one.”
The need to do it gradually disgruntled Vincent, but the hopeful smile on the face of his Secretary of State gave him all the reassurance he needed. If the neurotic man was that ecstatic and determined to put the reforms to action, then they would be executed fully, efficiently, and as quickly as possible.
He told as much to Thomas that Friday afternoon as they had tea in his quarters. He could not restrain his smile- finally, months upon months of work were going to pan out and make so many archaic and repressive laws obsolete. Perhaps one day (eventually, in the future, when the dust settles but they were not yet amongst it) they would even be able to show their love openly.
But while he nodded his head at the appropriate times, it seemed as though Thomas's mind was elsewhere. His face was held in a forced expression, his mild smile shut tight and his eyes poorly hiding an emotion he could not decipher. It made him pause mid sentence, startling the other man.
“Thomas,” he inquired in concern as his companion lowered his gaze, his expression faltering. “Is something bothering you?”
“No, no,” he shook his head, “it's- there's nothing wrong, I'm just- just a bit under the weather.”
Vincent didn't buy it. He reached a hand to stroke the other's knee, letting it warm the skin underneath.
“You can tell me anything, my dear,” he reassured, offering him a warm smile. “I promise. I do not want you hiding things from me.”
Thus, the mask slipped off, leaving his love’s face dark, grave and disturbed.
It was not uncommon for his dear Tomás to take a moment to arrange his thoughts before letting out the bulk of his words, to close his eyes and focus on the encouraging presence of God before starting to speak. Today, however, the silence lasted unusually long, a heavy pregnant thing that made the hair on his neck stand on end.
"Thomas?"
"I've gone over your paperwork," he says, vague and strange. "Your goals for the next few months."
"As per your work. Ever more diligent," Vincent says, expecting the familiar huff of polite dismissal at the compliment. No such thing came, and instead followed a second bout of eerie quiet.
"It is... quite the list of goals, Your Holiness."
The title makes his eyebrows shoot up, then furrow. Their long time working and being together made Thomas forgo out of the strict use of honorifics- it had not been used between them outside of formal settings in a very long time.
This was deliberate, then.
"I believe that my pontificacy should bring forth quick and efficient progress, regardless of the stir it might cause. As you know." A point they have been through again and again through the years, one that seemed to fill Thomas with both worry and determination.
Or perhaps not?
"Do you have..." Surely not him, not Thomas, "Do you have any objections?"
"...The ordination of women is an ambitious goal, Your Holiness," the sentence is rigid, static and stone cold. "It takes a lot of conviction to even bring it to the table."
Ah. A stream of icy cold dread and bitter disappointment passed through his gut.
Him too, then. All talk and no action.
“Yes,” pulled back his hand and sat down his mug, laying his palms crossed on his knee, lest he'd let them curl into fists. “It does. Just as all manner of current happenings might need conviction to deal with; sexual assault and bribery within the church, releasing anti-war statements with actual weight and intent to them, improving inter-faith relationships, protecting the queer individuals in our community, and of course,” he emphasized, starring daggers at him, “including our sisters in faith in the ranks of the church.”
There is another pause. He could see the gears in Thomas’s head turning, probably calculating how to phrase some apologetic moderate statement.
“As deacons?” He asked cautiously, forehead crinkling in thought.
“Yes.” What is he going at?
“Priests?”
“Yes,” said Vincent, becoming irritated. “In every-”
“Bishops?”
“Yes, Thomas, I-”
“Cardinals?”
“YES, Thomas, and for heaven’s sake will you listen to-”
“So you would have a woman in my stead?”
WHAT?
“What?” he called incredulous, mouth agape as he shifts in his seat trying to grasp at his words, “Thomas, what kind of question-”
“Answer me.” Not a yell, but something just as loud, sudden and severe, “Would you, His Holiness Innocentius XIV, have a woman be your Dean of the College of Cardinals?”
Baffled, shocked, angry, “Yes! Yes, Dean Lawrance, I would.” He pushed himself up in a huff in fury, feeling his eyes gloss over with indignant tears. “Any role your imaginary woman may be fit to serve, if- ONCE the reform is passed, she will be welcomed and invited to fill.”
Thomas got up as well, his hands clenched and trembling, his voice confused and fearful. “And as your companion, Vincent? would you-”
Oh, NOW we’re using Vincent? “Yes, Dean,” he answered spitefully, “With the way you are behaving right now, lying to me for so long only to reveal your morals now? Yes. I would.”
The charged tension in the air could be cut with a knife and made Vincent’s skin crawl as he wiped the shameful tears off of his face, rubbing his eyes. How could he have been so foolish, to trust this man with his role, with his plans, with his heart-
“I’m sorry,” A voice barely above a whisper asked from beyond his covered eyes. “Please. Forgive me.”
“No.”
“Please forgive me.”
“No, Thomas, I’d like you to just leave-”
“Forgive me,” and Vincent’s eyes shot open at a feeling of weight on his feet as right in front of his eyes, his Dean fell to his knees and began to beg.
“Forgive me, please, I- please forgive me, I have not- I meant to- Oh, God, forgive me, please, PLEASE-” his voice came out panicked, wet and choked and for a moment Vincent forgot all that had just ensued and got down on the ground to hold the crumbling sobbing man by the sides of his face.
“Tomás? Thomas, what is-” Thomas only shrunk further at the sound of his voice, pressing his forehead to the rug, hiding himself in a folded cocoon as frantic muttering and quick shallow breaths bursted out of him in between wails.
“No, no no no I was- hah- what I meant is- only meant- oh, God I- can’t tell- I, oh, please- lied, lied and I keep- I- hah- oh, God, please, PLEASE, forgive me, forgive-” there was no understanding him at this state, nor could Vincent unfold his now incoherent form from its curled position.
He could only wait besides him for long minutes as the twitches and whines stilled, as his rigid body laxed, as the quick shallow breaths turned deep and measured but not any less damp. With some combined effort, they managed to get the collapsed Dean back on the couch.
“...Thomas.”
He flinched.
“What… what was that about?”
There was a stifling pause as the still shivering Thomas gazed blankly into the depths of the rug. How much time must he wait between question and answer? He watched as Thomas’s face contorted between thoughts, his wide eyes confused and fearful staring a thousand yards into the floor. His lips formed the start of countless syllables only for his voice to abort them just as they started.
“I…” he managed eventually, swallowing, “I used to be in a choir.”
Huh?
“Started at- at the church choir, you know. Good Catholic boy taking on an extracurricular duty.” He huffed something that might have been a sorry excuse for laughter. “I was… just as diligent, as you say, back then.” He sniffed, worrying the skin at the edge of his thumb. “I was very good, because of that. Very obedient. Had a nice steady voice.” He bowed his head. “I… I even liked it.”
And oh, how full of meaning it was to hear him speak with any fondness towards himself. Vincent could imagine it- the tiny blond and ethereal child Lawrance, usually timid and reserved but letting his voice rise high for the Lord.
“I did it for years. Got me a lot of compliments, made me grow closer to God.” He clenched his jaw. “And then my voice started cracking.”
“Changing” Vincent supplied. Despite being somewhat reedy these days, he could still hear the lovely baritone rumble in his words.
But what did that have to do with anything?
“Our conductor was very pleased. Said I was growing away from boyhood, that I would be able to get into the more mature choir in no time.”
There was no spark in Thomas’s voice.
“It disturbed me.”
Vincent raised an eyebrow. “How so? it’s only natural.”
Thomas made a sour face, once again grasping for words.
“It felt very strange, this aspect of… living on. Of growing.” He rubbed his palm on his throat, thumb dragging nervously between his jaw and jugular. “I was very much ready for adulthood- it’s no coincidence I left for seminary very young.”
But?
“I had… the oddest thought then, when he said it. That it was alright, being a boy. But growing into a man felt… odd. Daunting. Wrong in some way I couldn’t put a pin in.” He looked up into Vincent’s eyes, only to lower them once again.
“I discarded the thought, of course. It was a ridiculous thing, probably a… a brain blab. Something formed on accident that left just as quickly.” He wringed his hands together. “I forgot about this for many years after. I think I made myself forget. I stood with the rest and sang, kept at my studies, and left to start my way into the clergy.”
Vincent was perplexed. This still had nothing to do with his outburst, nor did it sound particularly severe. But some sense, some feeling in the depths of his stomach told him to keep listening.
“I got into Seminary young, so I was still growing. I've- I've always been quite thin.” That he knew. He had seen his old photos, seen Thomas's collections of old cassocks. Seen other habits of his too.
“That last bout of puberty has… made me quite a bit bigger, for a while.”
“As it does.”
“I hated it.” And again, such an extraordinary display of clear emotions from him. Hated, not disliked, not felt uncomfortable. Hated. “I despised my silhouette. The- the width, the proportions, the mass, the way the cassock draped from my shoulders.” He twisted in place, uncomfortable. “There was also the… the softness. My face was becoming rounder. I had some… some thickness to my hips and thighs. Some sort of…” he trailed. “Some feeling. I couldn't handle it either.”
“And so…?”
“I avoided mirrors. Learned how to button my cassock and shave without looking. I went on nightly walks and runs until my legs would cramp and then some more. I wouldn't eat.” He rubbed his boney arm. “I still don't. I couldn't stand one form, and couldn't… couldn't face the other. So I nullified both.”
“I didn't know that.” he replied. He did wonder where it all came from. Thomas chuckled mirthlessly.
“You wouldn't. I didn't let anyone take my photos, and hid or destroyed whichever ones I was given. I had only just met Aldo, too.” His expression contorted. “Although, I think he knows. I think he knows everything. He's far too close to me not to, even if he never said anything. I'm sure he sees right through me but- but he couldn't have helped either way. Even if he did say something, I would have shut my ears and pushed him away.”
What?
“I tried to fix something. But there was nothing to fix. There was only my nature I was hopelessly trying to contort. All I did in attempting this became so burdening to me, to the point of becoming a punishment for any flaw, anything that was wrong with me.” He hugged himself, tugging at Vincent's heartstrings. I should not reach forward, he thought, restraining himself. I didn’t get an explanation yet.
“I finished Seminary eventually, despite it all. Became a Father, then a Bishop, then Cardinal. I was told I belonged, that it was my rightful and well earned place. I tried to believe it. For years I tried to. And then came the cancer.”
He had only barely told Vincent about his time being ill. It seemed like it had truly left a mark on his soul. Perhaps more than Vincent could ever guess.
“It felt like punishment. Like divine judgement, like the illness pointed and laughed at my sorry excuse of existence. It withered me bare, decimated my organs. Hollowed me of what made me a man and yet left me in the shell to rot.” He shivered, his grasp on himself tightening. “Even after I recovered, I couldn't shake off the feeling. He abandoned me, and I knew why, I knew, and it felt just. I tried to quit, to resign, but I couldn't bring myself to explain- to give all the details. Clement refused. So I remained.”
He looked at Vincent.
“And then you showed up. And you do this.” There was an accusation in his statement, frustration, anger, a juvenile voice blaming Vincent for something he could not decipher.
“Thomas, this is all well and good. And I'm happy you're telling me this- I would not like a brother in faith to be alone with this baggage.” Vincent steeled his face. “But you haven't explained anything. Why would you turn on my- on OUR morals so suddenly at the prospect of real change.”
His honesty got the better of him.
“I'm disappointed in you, Cardinal.”
The quiet returned. The air was heavy and grim, filled with sorrow and pain and no answers.
Why would you leave me in my battle? Why do your words falter?
“I found my purpose at the church.” Thomas's voice cracked like ice on a lake, wispy and bare. “It was my calling, Vincent, I swear that it was, it still is. I- I love my God. I love my church. I love my role in serving Him. I had to keep it, keep at it, even though I knew I'm not- not worthy, that I do not fit in and never will, that I'm a wrong cog in the machine that somehow still keeps the engine running.” His eyes filled with tears. It felt like a precipice.
Will he jump?
“And for you…” his voice became tiny, not but a whisper beyond his quivering lips. “For you to just declare… just declare that I could- I can be… that I can stay, as I- as I am- as who I want- who I'm supposed to be…”
He looked straight into his eyes, drowning in an ocean of grief, begging for Vincent to see, to connect the dots, to understand something just out of his reach.
As he-
Vincent's eyes widened.
“As who I'm supposed to be.”
Oh.
OH.
“As who you- oh-” he gasped, “OH, mi querida-”
She bursted into tears, burying her face in her palms, folding in half.
“I'm sorry, I'm so- so sorry,” she wept, her words coming out in muffled sobs. “I knew, I knew all this time, I knew and I lied, I lied to everyone for years, for DECADES, and for you- for you to just- if you, the Holy Father, you would let- put into practice, infallible, than it means that I could always- I should have been able to- I could have-”
“Lived” he completed, engulfing her in a cradling embrace. She buried her face into his chest, eons worth of tears streaming and soaking through his shirt. “Could have lived as you are, oh, my love, my beauty-” he kissed her brow, the lovely skin holding a beloved soul.
“Mi Cielo, I am so sorry for accusing you of such malice.” She shook her head, gasping.
“I was a fool to bring it up the way I did. I should have just been honest. I should always have been.”
“Maybe. You did what you could.” You did it, he thought, kissing the crown of her head. You won't need to hide again. Never. I will not let you, my dear-
Oh, his dear.
"What should I call you?" He held her face, trying to get her to look at him, to see he comes in peace, in adoration, to see that he will not leave.
She inhaled heavily, sniffling through the tears. "I don't know yet. I haven't thought- I haven't let myself entertain the thought of changing- of giving myself one. Not when not distracted. Not without penance."
She raised a pair of wet red-rimmed aquamarines to him, her chin held by the tightness of her shivering lips, trying to hold in her cries and gasps for a moment.
“I would like... I would like to look for one. A biblical name, I think. Or maybe- maybe one of the saints." She looked at him, hopeful and frightened in equal measure.
"...Oh, my dear, mi querida, mi vida," Vincent smiled wide at the unasked question, losing the hopeless fight against his own tears. "Would you like me to help you look for it?"
A shaking sob pushed past her lips, a true cry, a release of the spirit, the most beautiful and free sound he has ever heard.
"Yes," she said, adoring eyes shining with light. "I would like that very much, my dear Vincent."
She hugged his shoulders and he kissed her forehead once again, letting his lips linger on the skin that has finally been freed from its cocoon.
Still his Dean.
Still his love.
Still so beautiful. Always so beautiful. Always has been.