Chapter Text
October 2017
Of course there's movement in the hallway as soon as Vincent lowers himself out the window. He freezes, hands gripping the sill, feet braced against the stone wall, his entire body suspended in the fall air. Perhaps, if he doesn't move, the passerby won't see him.
But Sister Agnes notices everything. Her eyes widen. They meet his. Long seconds pass. She appears, for the first time he can recall, speechless. At least when she discovered him curled against Thomas on his couch, she had something to say. Now, she stands frozen in the hallway beyond the window, arms half-raised, as if she intends to do something about the Pope hanging out of the second floor of the Casa Santa Marta.
“Hello,” Vincent finally says, because they can't stare at each other forever, and his biceps are starting to burn.
She blinks. “Holy Father. Are you alright?”
“Perfectly fine, Sister—though I will be even better if you don't mention this to anyone.”
He watches propriety and curiosity fight a war across her features.
“Respectfully, Your Holiness, you are dangling out of a window,” she finally says.
“It's not a far drop,” Vincent counters, sounding like a small child to his own ears. “I just need some air.”
“You can't get air in the Vatican gardens?”
Vincent swallows. “It's Roman air I'd prefer.”
“Ah. Well, you ought to take a guard with you.”
He shakes his head. “I'd really rather not. I've about had it with the constant supervision.”
Dios, his arms are starting to shake. He's not as spry as he used to be—he ought to take up yoga again, or at least work out more. Thomas mentioned he exercises in the Casa Santa Marta gym four days a week. Vincent could join him. Or perhaps he shouldn't, given the direction his thoughts have taken lately.
Sister Agnes frowns. “Please at least tell me where you're going.”
Vincent contemplates lying, or concealing the truth. But Sister Agnes could have exposed him multiple times by now and hasn't. And she's right—someone should know where he is.
“Dean Lawrence has a cold,” he quietly admits. “I've been worried about him.”
“Oh.” She seems surprised. “So you're sneaking into Trastevere?”
He nods.
She purses her lips. “Alright,” she finally says. “Then don't be stupid about it.”
His arms are screaming. “I won't. I promise. Thank you, Sister Agnes.”
Her face softens. “Come back safely, Your Holiness.”
“Call me Vincent,” he tells her, then, finally allows himself to drop onto the jutting roof two meters beneath him. He selected this window for a reason—easy to escape out of, and easy to climb back into…relatively.
Sister Agnes’ head appears above. Her concern dissipates when she spots him alive and well.
“Call me Agnes,” she counters. “How many times must I ask?”
Vincent grins. “As many times as I ask you to call me Vincent.”
She sighs. “Very well. Goodnight, Vincent.”
“Goodnight, Agnes.”
Vincent gives one last wave. Then, he checks the laces of his Converse and hops off the roof.
To Thomas.
—
Several weeks earlier…
They try to talk about it, but God has other plans. The morning after their escape to Rome, Thomas brings Vincent his usual latte, rosy-cheeked, beautiful, and seemingly lost for words.
“Good morning, Vincent,” he gently says, briefly meeting his gaze. He sets the go-cup on Vincent's ostentatious desk.
“Thomas,” Vincent replies, head buzzing with the memory of last night's parting kiss. Te amo, Thomas had whispered, and Vincent had forgotten himself.
He longs to again—but not without Thomas’ permission. And he has no idea where Thomas stands on his vows of celibacy.
Vincent takes the coffee cup and sips. “Ah, it makes me think of yesterday's café. Thank you again.”
Thomas' face softens. Vincent swears he sees his own longing reflected in those blue irises.
“It was the greatest pleasure I've ever had,” says Thomas.
“Oh.” Vincent's face heats. “My darling Thomas…”
Thomas swallows. “We should talk about it.”
“Yes—now?”
“Is your schedule clear?”
“For the next hour, yes.” Vincent rises, gesturing to the armchairs on the far side of his office. “Come, I—”
“Motherfucker!”
Aldo's voice echoes down the hall so loudly that both Vincent and Thomas freeze. Their eyes lock.
“Teapot,” they say to each other simultaneously.
Fleetingly, Thomas smirks, but as Aldo's ballistic yelling continues, his expression turns grim. “If he's swearing, it's a bad one.”
And it is. The archbishop of New York—an ordained cardinal—has been caught embezzling his diocese's funds for cocaine, of all things, and The New York Times has written a 5,000 word exposé breaking the news. It has pictures. Incriminating ones.
It upsets their predictable workday, sending half the Curia into a damage-control frenzy. By the evening, multiple members of the Holy See Press Office look like they've witnessed a murder. Vincent has never particularly liked the Press Office Director, Archbishop Ashburn, but finds himself sympathetic to the man when he goes running by around five o’clock with frazzled hair and a thousand-yard stare typically only seen on soldiers. Thomas and Aldo are as blindsided as Vincent—the New York cardinal was part of the liberal contingent. Now, they have photos of said cardinal doing lines off the naked posterior of a…woman of negotiable virtue. Aldo is still in teapot mode.
Unfortunately, it’s Wednesday, meaning the news cycle is in full swing. The story picks up steam into Thursday, and Friday. Vincent, being Pope, is sheltered from the worst of it. Thomas, as Dean of the College of Cardinals, is smack-dab in the middle. As the days pass, the circles under his eyes darken until they look like bruises. Vincent only sees him fleetingly. He still faithfully sends Thomas a good night text every evening, only to wake in the morning and find his precious dean is replying at ungodly hours—1 AM, 3, later.
Let’s talk tomorrow morning, if you have time, Thomas texts Friday evening…or, Saturday morning, given how late the message comes. Vincent breathes a sigh of relief.
Wonderful, he replies. Come by when you’re up.
I will. I have a gift for you, says Thomas.
A gift? Vincent has never cared much for gifts, but the message makes his heart swell. Unfortunately, he doesn’t find out what it is, because Thomas accidentally sleeps past noon, his body rebelliously reclaiming what he denied it all week. He calls Vincent in a frenzy when he wakes. Vincent insists there’s no need to apologize. Unfortunately, he’s already halfway to a diplomatic meeting and won’t have enough time between that and Vespers to see Thomas. He is, admittedly, disappointed when he goes to bed that night having not even glimpsed him.
Sunday is, naturally, the busiest day of the week. There is no time for clandestine conversations. He spots Thomas across rooms, across Saint Peter’s Square. There's an unguarded longing in his expression when Vincent gives him communion that makes something hot tingle at the base of his spine. He bulldozes the feeling, only to have it haunt him when he goes to bed that night.
Monday, unfortunately, is the day Vincent leaves for his twelve-day tour of southeast Asia. Thomas was supposed to come, but the Cocaine Cardinal Scandal—the Internet's moniker, not the Vatican's, though it is admittedly catchy—has survived into this week's news cycle. And so Vincent is forced to depart without his treasured dean, without even a farewell hug.
Vincent hasn't kissed him since the day they escaped, and he can't stop thinking about it.
He thinks about kissing him on the flight, after night has fallen and the hours have blended together. The plane hangs in the dark, liminal space between time zones, its occupants asleep. Except for Vincent. His memories of the park play behind his eyelids like a movie. He sees Thomas, rosy-cheeked and glassy-eyed, leaning close. He feels his muscles tense beneath his palm; feels them relax as their lips slot together.
In Mumbai, he thinks of how Thomas sighed when their mouths met. Recalls the stunted noise that escaped him when Vincent crowded him against the door of his apartment. In Bangalore, he tries to recall his taste. In Jakarta, he longs for the sensation of Thomas halfway in his lap, pulling his hair.
In Manila, he thinks of the shape of arousal he glimpsed in Thomas’ trousers beneath dappled Roman sunshine, and spends the rest of the night fighting off his own. He prays his rosary until he passes out.
He mentions none of this to Thomas, even though they text most days. Because Vincent recognizes this feeling, even if he's never experienced it before. His desire is not pure, it is hot and pulsing and caged. It was easy to ignore when he thought Thomas didn't reciprocate his feelings. But now, after he passed an afternoon sighing into his dean's mouth with his hands fisted in his shirt? It's all he can think about. He craves more. He should have blown Thomas against his apartment door before he left Tuesday night and—
No, he should not have. They haven't talked. And until they do, Vincent can't fantasize. Thomas may wish for them to uphold their vows. It's definitely the right thing for them to do, even if Vincent always found chastity more of a hindrance than something holy. How is a priest supposed to guide his parishioners experiencing marital or family problems, if he never has a spouse or family of his own?
So Vincent tries not to think about it. The trip makes it easier. He focuses on the people he sees, the places he travels to. He focuses on doing good for as many as possible. And if he wakes up hard with hot, sticky arousal churning in his gut every morning, that hardly matters—or it won't, until he returns to Thomas, and they talk.
For now, it can be ignored.
It must be ignored.
—
Thomas never wished to be an expert on cocaine, but God had other plans. He’s not sure what’s going to die sooner: this scandal, or him.
“C’mon, Innocent,” Aldo whines, tapping the small television on his desk like one might tap a fish tank, “perform a miracle, or something. Break us into the next news cycle.”
Thomas can’t stand this Asia tour—not just because it’s taken Vincent from him, but because nearly every screen in the Vatican is occupied relaying coverage of it. Vincent, meeting with diplomats and heads of state. Vincent, smiling amongst the poor. Vincent, greeting vast crowds. People reach for him from all sides. He takes so many hands.
And none of them are Thomas’.
He’s never experienced this level of jealousy. He’s ashamed. And yet every time he sees someone holding Vincent with just a little too much love in their eyes, something unpleasant bumps against his diaphragm. Even now in this Manila footage, Vincent is holding the hands of an older woman as she speaks to him. It makes a slimy voice in Thomas’ mind hiss, mine.
He has to ignore it. He must ignore it.
“Surely the Press Director has thought of something,” he comments. “What's his name again, Ashburn?”
He's seated in front of Aldo’s desk with a cup of coffee and a list of names. They have a four o’clock with the Prefect of the Congregation of the Clergy to discuss possible replacements for their problematic Cocaine Cardinal. Thomas came in here intending to prepare, but the second he sat down, he felt the fight go out of him.
It’s been a long two weeks. He has never wrestled with desire like this. He tells himself it’s because he and Vincent haven’t talked properly, because they couldn’t say goodbye before he left. But he’s not sure how that translates to being plagued by memories of their kisses and fantasies of how they could do it again. Thomas goes to sleep each night longing for Vincent’s body pressed to his. He’s been aroused more in the past few days than he has in the past few years. He fantasizes about the kissing—and other things. It’s vague, but it’s more than he’s ever allowed himself. He imagines them naked in the dark, Vincent on top of him, their bodies twined together. Friction. Heat.
And he can’t seem to stop.
“Yes, Archbishop Ashburn. No, he hasn't thought of anything. And you should be careful what you wish for,” grumbles Aldo. “Have you seen Gente?”
Thomas frowns. “The gossip magazine?”
Tedesco, sprawled across the armchair by Aldo’s window, guffaws. “He hasn’t. I can’t believe it.”
Thomas redirects his frown towards the Patriarch of Venice. Tedesco shouldn’t even be in Aldo’s office, but their fight during the conclave resulted in some revelation between them that has translated to Tedesco staying with Aldo every time he visits Rome—which is frequently. According to Aldo, they nearly broke up…or, well. Thomas isn't sure that's the right phrase. Aldo insisted they weren't a couple for the first decade they were sleeping together. Now, that seems to have changed. Thomas remains unclear on the sequence of events that resulted in this. But if Aldo is happy, so is he.
“Thomas, do you live under a rock?” asks Aldo, rummaging through a remarkably orderly stack of papers on one side of his desk. “Look. Page thirty-seven.”
He produces this week’s copy of Gente. The cover is a pap shot of a beautiful woman—either drunk or high—in the passenger seat of a Lamborghini. Party in Mykonos! it reads in Italian. Pop Star Darling’s Wild Night!
Rolling his eyes, Thomas turns to page thirty-seven.
It’s not even a full article, but it makes his stomach drop, because he’d recognize the grainy photo heading it anywhere. It’s of him and Vincent at the pizzeria near the Colosseum. Pizza Pope Sneaks Out for a Pie? suggests the headline.
There’s nothing incriminating about the photo, technically. They’re eating pizza. Vincent isn’t even recognizable in the bucket hat and sunglasses. Thomas, with his baseball cap low over his eyes, can’t be reliably identified either. It’s taken from so far away that the two subjects could be anyone, really—but they do happen to bear a resemblance to the Pope and “his favorite cardinal, Thomas Lawrence, Dean of the College of Cardinals.” The magazine’s words, not Thomas’, but they hit too close to home. Thomas is certain Vincent isn’t making out with any other members of the Curia. And, speaking of that, it’s a miracle nobody spotted them with locked mouths in the park. How could they have been so stupid? Panic rises in his chest. He could have ended Vincent’s papacy before it truly began, all because of his lack of self-control.
“Oh, God,” Thomas chokes, suddenly nauseous.
“Exactly,” says Aldo. “We can’t have the public knowing Vincent snuck out of the Vatican. It’s a miracle this is the only photo that surfaced from your little escapade.”
“Perché no?” asks Tedesco. “It’s harmless. Tommaso, did you take any pictures together while you were out? If we leak them, perhaps the press will move on from the cocaine.”
Aldo whirls on him. “Is your brain fried? Absolutely not!”
“It’s your brain that’s fried, Aldino,” Tedesco takes a drag from his vape. “Innocente sneaking out for pizza is far better than Snow White and the 117 Cardinali!”
Thomas’ phone rings—jarring, loud, buzzing atop Aldo’s desk.
Aldo clutches his head. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, Thomas, pick a different ringtone!”
Thomas isn’t paying attention.
“It's Vincent,” he breathes.
“Vincente,” scoffs Tedesco. “You’re too familiar.”
“I have to take this,” Thomas says. He stands, heart in his throat, and heads for the door. “A moment, gentlemen.”
“Bah,” says Tedesco.
“That is the problem, you overgrown chimney,” Aldo bites, “they're basically married. Do you want the press speculating about that?”
“We are not married!” Thomas instinctively denies. Or—well. They're not. But things have certainly gotten a lot more complicated.
“Oh you call them married,” grumbles Tedesco, followed by a string of Italian curses and a low sentence that translates roughly to: “What are we, then? Divorced?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!”
Thomas slips into the hall and answers his phone.
“Vincent?” he questions, ignoring the bickering now leaking from Aldo’s office. Luckily, there’s no one in the hall to overhear.
“Thomas! Mi amor. I was worried you wouldn’t pick up; I thought you might be in a meeting.”
Thomas sighs in relief, leaning against the wall. He tips his head upwards until his skull meets marble and his gaze meets the opulent ceiling. He hasn’t heard Vincent’s voice for weeks, save for what’s been broadcast on television. It’s different when he speaks just for him. It’s different when he says his name. The panic surging through his system eases, if only a little.
“No,” he says, glancing at his watch. “That’s at the top of the hour. What time is it in Manila?”
“Just after nine o’clock. Dios, I’m so glad you picked up. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to call. How are you?”
“I’m alright,” Thomas replies, unwilling to lie.
“Just alright?”
“Yes, I…” He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There’s a photo of us at that pizzeria in a gossip rag. Aldo just showed me; it took me by surprise.”
“Oh,” says Vincent. “Just the pizzeria?”
“Yes.” Thomas’ stomach churns. “And it’s too grainy to be credible, but…”
“Ah.” Vincent inhales, then exhales. “Well. That’s lucky.”
Thomas swallows. Aldo and Tedesco are still bickering. He hardly hears them.
He thinks of the park, of himself in Vincent’s lap. Of what more they might have done, were they in private. He took a vow of celibacy and upheld it his entire life, but he admits now that he wishes to break it. How does it feel to receive pleasure? Or to give? He remembers Vincent’s glassy-eyed expression. He wants to see him like that again, to touch him in ways that make his voice go soft and high. Thomas would do anything for him. They are two halves of the same coin. As far as he’s concerned, he belongs to Vincent, and that thought alone makes his abdomen stir with heat.
But this magazine article…
He clears his throat. “Vincent, I know we haven’t talked yet, but…we need to be careful. Very careful. We shouldn’t be doing this at all, but—”
“Stop,” says Vincent. His voice dips low, desperate. “Let me have this. Have you.”
Thomas’ breath stutters. The desire in Vincent’s tone mimics his own. “God, no. That’s not what I meant. I…couldn’t. Do you understand what I’m saying? Now that we’ve spoken about it, I—”
“There’s no unspeaking it,” Vincent finishes for him.
“Yes. Exactly. But I can’t tank your papacy before it’s even properly started. The repercussions, if people knew…this whole Cocaine Cardinal business would be a cakewalk in comparison.”
“I don’t even know what a cakewalk is,” Vincent admits. “But I can infer your meaning.”
“You walk in a circle to win a cake,” explains Thomas. “It doesn’t matter, it’s—it’s not even British, it’s American. And irrelevant. What matters is that our relationship endangers you.”
Vincent sighs. Thomas, lost for words, closes his eyes. Aldo and Tedesco’s argument—now exclusively in Italian—washes over him.
“I am not sacrificing Thomas’ good reputation to sweep this cocaine business under the rug, Fredo!” Aldo barks.
“Good reputation? What are you insinuating?”
“Tomás,” Vincent breathes over the line, jerking Thomas back into their conversation. “I wouldn’t change anything. I’m still so happy. And I miss you terribly.”
“Me too,” Thomas answers. “God, Vincent, me too. I’m counting down the days.”
“I just want to be with you. You know how I get when we’re separated. I’m so cranky. If I could just kiss you again…”
Thomas’ face heats. He stares at his shoes. “I know. I—when you get back. We’ll find some time for ourselves. But we shouldn’t…do more.”
He hates saying it. It’s the last thing he wants. But they took vows, and the man occupying the highest office of the Catholic Church can’t be discovered breaking them—with another man, no less. He will not ruin Vincent, not when Innocent XIV is so good for the world. And so he cannot be selfish. The photo from Gente is seared into the folds of his brain.
“Mmm,” Vincent hums. “You’re saying we should be chaste.”
“Yes.” Thomas tries not to make his disappointment audible.
“I see.” It sounds like Vincent is struggling to do the same.
“It’s for the best, my dear,” insists Thomas, ignoring the bitter taste on his tongue. “I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re right.” Vincent’s voice is flat. “And it’s okay. Just being with you has been enough. It can stay that way.”
Thomas drops his head against the wall again. “Yes. We’ll be fine. We can’t miss something we’ve never had.”
Vincent chuckles. “I suppose not.”
Thomas smiles—albeit weakly. “Tell me how you’re doing otherwise. How was today?”
So Vincent tells him. More of the tension in Thomas’ chest uncoils as he talks. Not all of it, and it doesn’t do anything for the dismay festering in his gut, but enough that by the time they hang up, he feels better than he did before the call.
Aldo eyes him suspiciously when Thomas re-enters his office, but says nothing. Tedesco appears oblivious, puffing on his vape with an expression of vague annoyance. Thomas doesn’t know how their argument turned out. He doesn’t care to.
The only thing that matters is Vincent. Sure, Thomas has just committed to a relationship that will never go past kissing, but it is what it is. He gave his life to the Church the day he was ordained. His own desires are irrelevant.
That’s what he tells himself, anyway.
—
The rest of the week passes slowly. Thomas and Vincent continue to text, and even find time for another call, but the news cycle is merciless. It seems Vincent’s tour of Asia has only inflamed the attention on the cocaine scandal. Thomas isn’t a member of the Holy See Press Office, but he feels the heat anyway. He’s still working at ten o’clock on Friday night, staring at a press release with eyes so dry that he’s seeing double. It takes him longer than usual to finish. When he does, he drops his forehead into his hand, closes his eyes, and breathes.
Tomorrow. Vincent’s flight got in an hour ago, and Thomas will see him tomorrow. They planned for it. Breakfast, and then a visit to the turtles. Thomas the Turtle, his namesake, is healing well. The vet put him back with the others last week. Vincent will be delighted to see.
But before that, he needs to sleep. He’s 62 and it shows; he’d rather not darken Vincent’s door looking like a wrung-out dish rag. And that's not accounting for his faint headache and tender throat. He's probably fighting off something. If he doesn't want to get sick, he needs rest.
He rises from his desk with a groan, moving stiffly. Exhaustion weighs his limbs. He searches for his zucchetto blearily, then pockets it without putting it on. He stashes his papers, packs his briefcase, and turns off his desk lamp, throwing his office into semi-darkness. The only sources of light come from Rome through the windows and the glow from the hall. Thomas glances to the open door, and—
Someone is there. He's not in his ordinary cassock, but Thomas would recognize him anywhere.
“Vincent,” he breathes.
Wordlessly, Vincent shuts the door. He crosses the room in long strides, barreling into Thomas with such force that they knock into the desk. Thomas drops his briefcase—it hits the ground with a pathetic thud. He steadies them with a hand on the wood, but his other arm instinctively finds Vincent's waist.
“Thomas,” Vincent shudders against his neck. He smells of lemon, herbs, and airplane. “Mi amor. I missed you.”
“What are you doing here?” Thomas fumbles the lamp back on, casting Vincent in a golden glow with heavy shadows. He looks travel-weary, but beautiful. His dark hair spills across his forehead. His clothes—black Converse, dark jeans, and a black hoodie—are rumpled. But his tired eyes brighten as they observe Thomas.
“I just got in,” he says. “Normally I wouldn't approve of you here being this late, but…oh, Thomas. I wanted to see you. I had to see you. I'm so glad you're here.”
Thomas pulls him to his chest. “Vincent,” he sighs into the space beneath his ear. “Me, too. I missed you.”
Vincent makes a soft noise. He nuzzles into Thomas’ hair. His hands wander—to his face, his shoulders, his chest, his waist, back to his head—all while keeping their bodies pressed tightly together. His touch feels so hot. Thomas groans, leaning against the desk so he can savor every caress.
“Dios,” Vincent shudders. “Tomás.” He drags his lips across Thomas’ throat. “You smell so good, I—” He kisses his jaw. The sensation is electric—Thomas’ hand, buried in Vincent’s soft hair, clenches and tugs. And Vincent—
With dark eyes, he grabs Thomas by the chin and crashes their mouths together. They both moan.
“Oh, God,” Thomas whispers around the kiss. “More—”
He doesn’t know what’s happening. They’re writhing against each other, him halfway on the desk with Vincent’s knee slotted between his. There’s teeth and tongue and his pathetic little whimpers, his senses dominated by Vincent. Two weeks. He was so thirsty. He drinks his fill now, clutching Vincent like a life raft, dizzy with his own lust.
He throws a hand behind himself to support their weight. It lands on a stack of papers, which gives under the pressure, which sends him sprawling backwards. His head hits wood with a loud thunk. Vincent falls on top of him. Several objects clatter to the floor.
“Ow!” he hisses. His headache flares back to life.
“Thomas!” Vincent pushes himself upwards. They stare at each other, their chests heaving with desperate breaths.
Abruptly, Thomas realizes he's sprawled across his desk, pinned by Vincent like a much younger man in an…adult film. He should be ashamed. Instead, his half-hard cock twitches. He reprimands himself. He said chaste. Now, if someone walks into his office, there will be no question of what he was doing with the Pope. To the Pope.
Vincent seems to realize at the same moment. He scrambles off of the desk. Immediately, Thomas misses his warmth.
“Oh, no. I'm so sorry, Thomas,” says Vincent, tripping over his own feet. He stumbles into the built-in bookshelf behind Thomas’ desk with a rattle. Thomas’ copy of The Chronicles of Narnia, perched on the highest shelf, shifts dangerously close to the edge.
Thomas pushes himself onto his elbows. “It's alright. Are you okay?”
“Are you? You hit your head.” Vincent looks as flushed as Thomas feels. It’s validating.
“I'm fine,” says Thomas. More than fine, really, despite the headache. He longs to tell Vincent to come back, to tell him to pin him to his desk again and…have his way with him. Take off his pants, or something. He won't allow himself to dream up specifics. It's never happening, anyway.
“I got carried away,” Vincent quietly admits, looking stricken. “Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm awful, I—”
“Vincent, no,” Thomas urges, cutting him off before he spirals further. “We got carried away. I missed you, too. But we can't be foolish.”
Vincent looks devastated. Thomas can't stand it. They need a distraction, they need—
Oh, right.
He sits up. “Come here. I still have that gift for you.”
Vincent blinks. “You do?”
“Of course.” Thomas retrieves his briefcase from the floor, reaches into the side pocket, and withdraws his keys. The PAPA PIZZA ITALIA keychain is still there, bearing Vincent's smiling visage. Thomas doubts he'll ever take it off. He has looked at it more times than he'd like to admit over the last two weeks.
“Here.” He finds the extra key and slides it from the ring. He offers it to Vincent, still standing some distance away. “This is for you, dearest Vincent. I have the key to your apartment. After our day in Rome, it seemed only fair that you had the key to mine.”
For a long moment, Vincent stares at the brass key clutched in Thomas’ fingers. Then, his expression softens.
“Really? For me?”
Thomas nods. “Yes, take it. I want you to have it.”
Vincent advances and plucks it from his hand, then lingers to twine their fingers. He holds the key in his other palm, gazing at it tenderly.
“I'm touched,” he says.
“I'm so glad,” Thomas murmurs. “I know you won't be able to use it, technically…but that's not the point. I want you to have the key to my home because in a different life, I'd want you there all the time. I'd be delighted if you turned up unannounced. I'd seat you on my couch and I…well. The British are terrible cooks. But I'd make you a lovely cup of tea. And we would enjoy each other's company.”
He's rambling. He takes a breath. “Does that make sense?”
Vincent stares at him with glistening eyes. “I'd cook,” he whispers. “My mother always said I was a good cook.”
Thomas swears his heart fractures. “I'm sure it would be delicious, my dear.”
Vincent gives him a watery smile, closing his fist around the key. “This is a wonderful gift. Thank you, Thomas.”
They're still holding hands. Thomas tugs Vincent close, then kisses his cheek.
“I missed you,” he whispers. “Te amo.”
Vincent sags against him. “Te amo también, Tomás.”
They stay wrapped together, faces pressed to each other’s shoulders, for a long time.
—
“Thomas,” says Aldo the following afternoon, frowning at him over his espresso, “are you alright?”
They're seated on the patio of their favorite café just outside of the Vatican, shaded from the weakening autumn sun by a dark green umbrella. Lost-looking tourists meander past, dressed for a climate that's far milder than it was when Thomas and Vincent escaped the Vatican just a few weeks ago.
“Hmm?” Thomas blinks. His head is pounding. His throat is sore. And his body aches. That hardly matters, though, because he saw Vincent this morning. And sure, they could hardly touch, given they were never truly alone, but it's the most they've seen each other in weeks. At least they touched last night…even if it escalated far too quickly.
“I said, are you alright?”
“Oh,” says Thomas. “I think I'm coming down with something.”
Aldo frowns. “I suppose you do look a little pale. But I meant mentally. You've been acting strange.”
“Strange?” Thomas doesn't like that accusation. “Since when?”
“Hmm.” Aldo swirls the dregs of his espresso, contemplating. “Since you decided not to resign, I suppose. What did His Holiness say to you to make you stay? We've all been begging you to reconsider for months—me, Ray, Giulio, even Goffredo.”
Thomas sips his latte, grasping for an answer, because ‘Well, I'm not in love with any of you,’ is not appropriate.
“I told you,” he finally says. “Vincent asked.”
“His word is worth that much more?” Aldo pries.
Thomas knows Aldo better than his family. Frankly, Aldo is family. And he's always been forward. But this is a new level of bluntness.
“He's the Pope, Aldo,” Thomas declares, trying to keep the defensiveness out of his tone. “Where is this coming from?”
Aldo grumbles under his breath, eyes on his lap. He drains his cup, then squares his shoulders and meets Thomas’ gaze.
“I just…look. This time last year, you were depressed, underweight, and enduring a crisis of faith. The conclave—and Innocent—changed that. And I know I poke fun with my marriage joke, but the two of you are close. Remarkably close. And now, he has convinced you to stay.”
“I'm not sure what you're getting at,” says Thomas. A lie—he's fairly certain what Aldo is implying. And Aldo can't know. He hates lying, but this is necessary. He thinks of the article in Gente and feels cold fear in his gut. This can’t get out—to anyone.
“I'm asking about the nature of your relationship with him,” says Aldo.
Thomas flags down the waiter. “Could you get my friend a tiramisu? Grazie.”
“Oh, no you don't,” grumbles Aldo. “You aren't distracting me with my favorite dessert, Dean Lawrence.”
Oh, dear. That didn't work.
“Who said I was distracting you?” Thomas asks.
“Answer the question, Thomas.”
Thomas drinks again, buying himself a moment to think.
“Of course my relationship with Vincent is special. He's my best friend.”
Aldo looks insulted. Too late, Thomas realizes his mistake.
“What am I, chopped liver? Not that we ever had matching best friend necklaces, but—”
“That's different,” Thomas fumbles. “You're my best friend too, Aldo.”
The waiter sets a heaping slice of tiramisu in front of Aldo. He stares at it, then groans as if it's offended him.
“You can't have two best friends, Thomas. That's the point of a best friend,” he mutters, stabbing into the tiramisu. But as he chews his first bite, his shoulders untense just slightly.
“This isn't grammar school,” Thomas gently tries. “I swear I haven't replaced you. My relationship with Vincent fulfills something different.”
Aldo raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to elaborate on that?”
No, he would really rather not. Thomas shrugs. “It's difficult to describe. We've known each other since seminary. Vincent and I just…understand each other.”
“Understand each other,” Aldo repeats, staring glumly at his dessert. “Alright.”
Despair festers in Thomas' stomach. This conversation is not going well, and it's his fault. Aldo has been by his side since the beginning, and now Thomas is insulting him by taking that for granted.
“Aldo—” he starts.
“No. I brought this upon myself,” Aldo softly says, eyes still downcast. “I was a horrible friend to you at the conclave. You confided in me, and I took your insecurities and threw them right back in your face. No wonder you don't tell me things anymore. I'm so sorry, Thomas.”
Thomas is speechless. He stares at Aldo, thinking. Has he really confided less in his friend over the past year? He tries to think of something intimate that he's shared with him, or a personal problem that they've talked through, but he can't think of anything.
No. He told those things to Vincent.
“Oh, dear,” says Thomas, horrified. “We're drifting apart.”
Aldo appears anguished. He carves out another bite of tiramisu, but leaves the loaded spoon resting in the dish.
“I didn't mean to,” Thomas tries. “I swear it. We've always been together. I can't imagine my life without you, Aldo.”
“It's okay,” Aldo says. “You were within your rights to distance yourself.”
“Well, that doesn't mean I wanted to!”
Thomas is surprised by the intensity of his own response. He didn't intend to raise his voice, but now several café patrons are looking at them. He drops his head, face heating. His head throbs.
“Sorry,” he whispers, rubbing his temples. “Aldo, I don't want distance between us. It was an accident. I will try to be a better friend.”
“It's me that should be the better friend,” murmurs Aldo.
“We can both try.”
Aldo sighs. “Very well. I'll start. Let me take you home—you're pale as a sheet. I think you need to rest.”
“No, I need to work,” Thomas counters, alarmed by the sudden change in subject. “That scandal is still active, and Vincent—”
He bursts into a coughing fit.
Aldo raises an eyebrow. “I'm not letting you back into the Vatican.”
“But—”
If he's not in the Vatican, he can't see Vincent. And he's barely seen Vincent for weeks. It's not like Vincent can visit if he's laid up in his apartment with a cold.
“You say you want to be better friends again,” says Aldo. “Then let me care for you, Thomas. Please. You've run yourself ragged with this scandal like you did with last year's conclave, and the cold you got then nearly turned to something far more serious. Let's not repeat that.”
Thomas sighs, resigned.
Aldo triumphantly digs back into his tiramisu. “Thank you. I'm taking you home…as soon as I finish this dessert.”
“Take your time,” says Thomas. He needs a moment to process this conversation, anyway.
He hurt Aldo. He needs to do better.
He texts Vincent as they're leaving. ‘Have a bit of a cold. Going home to rest, will be back tomorrow.’
But his headache is getting worse by the minute.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. All I need is a bit more rest.
Of course, God laughs in his face.