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They sat quietly together by the fireplace, a small gas fixture Benitez had requested be added to the room. This was how many of their evenings often went. Benitez had chosen to remain at Santa Marta, the Apostolic Palace was too luxurious for a man like him he’d said. His apartment was small and simple, he hadn’t had much in Kabul that needed to be moved to Rome. A picture of his mother and father was kept on his desk.
Lawrence wasn’t sure if Benitez had fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, his chest rose and fell steadily. He checked his watch, ‘9:34’; he should have left half an hour ago.
“Thank you, Thomas, for staying here with me.” Benitez said suddenly. He opened his eyes, “I’d not properly thanked you before, it’d escaped me. I apologize.”
Lawrence paused, unsure to what Benitez was referring. “Holy Father?”
“A month ago you explained to me that you were unfit to be Pope because you’d experienced a question of faith and that you wanted to resign.” He paused, looking into the fire, “God brought me to Rome for a reason, which I understand now. But I believe He had purpose in our meeting as well.” He turned to Lawrence, “If you still wish to resign, I will of course accept, but I wish you would remain here. I’d like for you to be Secretary of State.”
A promotion, the last thing Lawrence needed.
“Holy Father, I–”
Benitez cut him off, “Vincent. Please.”
“Vincent..I don’t..Thank you, but I can’t accept such a position.”
“You believe you are unfit for spiritual work; Secretary of State is largely bureaucratic. It seems a good fit, for the time being. In your homily at the conclave you spoke of uncertainty. I am uncertain. Never did I think that–” he laughed and gestured around the room, “I never thought I’d be here. I question every day why I’m here, just as you do. But I have faith in Him and what He decides.”
Benitez reached to Lawrence and laid a hand upon his knee, “You are here for a reason, Thomas. You said you’d been having difficulties in prayer. Pray tonight, for me.”
He held his gaze to Lawrence, who deferred and gave a small, half-hearted smile. “Thank you, Holy Father.”
“Vincent,” Benitez reminded.
“Vincent, yes. Thank you. Your words mean much to me.” He made a show of checking his watch, “I should leave you now, it’s later than usual.”
Benitez nodded and removed his hand, “Goodnight, Thomas.”
“Goodnight, Vincent.”
—
The Vatican was unnecessarily dark at night, Lawrence had always thought so. Perhaps as Secretary of State he could put in more streetlights. He tore off his zucchetto. He didn’t want to be Secretary of State, he didn’t want to stay in the Vatican. He missed England. He turned and looked back at the Santa Marta. He wasn’t sure he could correctly guess which window was Benitez’s. He continued walking. Lawrence knew Benitez hadn’t wanted to be Pope, he was probably the only one in the conclave who that could be said about and be the truth. He’d accepted the position out of duty, not pride. Lawrence had known seven popes in his life, three personally. Benitez was the only one he felt was something holier than just a man. Benitez seemed to have been born without sin, incapable of it. The notion that the Pope had a “direct line to God” was incorrect, believed by many out of poor communication and theological understanding, but Benitez, Lawrence believed, really had it. Or maybe he was God. “Forgive me,” Lawrence thought to himself on instinct.
As he continued walking his thoughts wandered and he traveled back to Benitez’s window, whichever one it had been. He wondered what Benitez did after he’d left for the night. He likely read for a bit, maybe in bed. Something dangerous turned over in Lawrence’s stomach. He knew Benitez’s politics, he knew he accepted homosexuals in the clergy, but Lawrence had not dared to specify what had brought about his crisis of faith. He guessed it was an open secret to most who knew him–everything in the Vatican was–but he wished to keep it from Benitez. Benitez admired him, anything that could squander that terrified Lawrence. He’d not felt so deeply about a person for a long, long time. He squeezed the zucchetto in his hand.
He wished he could turn and go back to Benitez’s apartment. He’d open the door and go to the bedroom. Vincent would be laying there, on his bed, reading, just as he’d figured. He might be a bit surprised to see Lawrence but wouldn’t say anything. He’d still be in his cassock and fascia. The white looked lovely against his skin, Lawrence had observed when he attended a fitting with the newly inaugurated Innocent XIV. Vincent had seemed peaky seeing himself in the Papal regalia. “You look wonderful,” Lawrence had offered.
Lawrence would kneel beside the bed and kiss Vincent’s hand, then he would move up his arm, until he reached Vincent’s neck. Vincent would sigh, content. Lawrence would kiss his mouth, and Vincent would wrap his arms around him, holding him close. Intimacy of any kind with cassocks on was more difficult than it was worth, Lawrence had learned from experience, so he’d unbutton Vincent’s for him. It would petal against the bed. Lawrence would do the same to his own but allow it to shrug onto the floor. They would then lay together; he in his black and Vincent his white.
He’d pepper Vincent’s face with kisses, wanting each one to show the depth of his love. Vincent would stay still, rubbing Lawrence’s back in calm lines. Lawrence would kiss his mouth a second time, and Vincent would open his. As the kissing became more impassioned, Vincent would open his legs. Lawrence would move between them. He would bring his groin to Vincent’s. They would be separated by the wool of their pants, Lawrence would move slowly against Vincent. Vincent might make a sound, something small. Lawrence suspected he was inexperienced. Acknowledging that felt worse than anything he could imagine. As their arousal became more apparent Vincent would mew again, he would want more. He would want Lawrence.
Lawrence dropped his keys and cursed himself. He opened the door to his apartment. It was dark. Benitez wouldn’t want anything, Lawrence was making him do these things. This fantasy was grotesque, Lawrence shuddered, too bothered with himself to turn on a light, instead going directly to his bedroom. He undid his cassock, leaving it draped across the back of his desk chair. He sat on his bed. His erection had subsided slightly. He laid down, and saw Benitez atop him, nude, head lolled to the side. He shut his eyes tightly, banishing the phantom away. He kept his eyes closed and returned to what he’d thought of on his walk.
“Thomas,” Vincent would plead. Lawrence pushed the heel of his palm against his erection. He would pull away from Vincent and begin taking off his clothes for him, he didn’t want Vincent to do anything. He wanted to give Vincent pleasure, nothing more. Vincent’s body was lean, thin but not emaciated. Lawrence would like to spread his hands across Vincent's chest, rubbing it, squeezing his ribs. Vincent would be watching him, his head laid against the pillow. His hand would be by his head, obscured by dark waves. Lawrence would move lower, kissing Vincent’s navel, and then his waistband. He would unzip his slacks, pull them down and off. Vincent’s briefs would be white, Lawrence would kiss his groin gently, hoisting one of his legs over his shoulder. He wasn’t completely sure what Vincent’s genitals looked like; he said he had female chromosomes, while also explaining that he appeared physically male. None of Lawrence’s previous late night research had made a determined diagnosis. A horrible part of him hoped he had a penis and vagina, which he knew was not physically possible. An angel on Earth. He pressed harder against himself.
He’d open his mouth more, press his tongue against Vincent. Vincent would dig his heel into Lawrence’s back. “Please, Thomas,” Vincent would whine. Lawrence would undo his pants and take himself out. He would move upwards again, suck onto Vincent’s neck. He would remove Vincent’s briefs and finally, finally penetrate him. Lawrence brought his hand into his pants, held his erection through his underwear. Vincent’s body would accept Lawrence, already prepared for him. Lawrence wouldn’t move initially to allow them both to get used to the sensation. Vincent would gasp and arch off the bed, before relaxing against it. Lawrence had not had a sexual encounter of this kind in nearly two decades, he would shudder for a moment, his body nearly overcome. Eventually, Vincent would squeeze his legs against Lawrence, pulling him slightly closer. Lawrence would understand this and begin making love to Vincent, slowly, essentially grinding. Vincent would exhale steadily through his mouth, and move his hips in time with Lawrences. Gradually the pace they both set would quicken. When this happened Lawrence would kiss Vincent; he did not want this to be a sexual encounter, it was a declaration, a show of reverence. He hoped Vincent would understand how much he meant to him. Vincent’s body would then tense, and he’d hold Lawrence close, gasping into his ear. “Thomas, oh, Thomas. Thomas.” he’d pray.
Lawrence's eyes shot open as he ejaculated. It was painful, prolonged, almost unsatisfying. He groaned while pushing himself off the bed. He was not what he used to be, certainly not after his first orgasm in years. The wetness in his pants was unpleasant and he quickly undressed. He hurried to his bathroom to wash his boxers off; God help him if one of the sisters noticed. They wouldn’t do or say anything, but the humiliation would be too much for him to bear. He felt disgusted catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He was a horrible man. Benitez was pure and selfless, a rarity in the Church. Lawrence was the opposite, too weak and profane to resist the most awful of temptations. What sort of man, what sort of priest, masturbates to the idea of sodomizing the Pope? Though it may not have technically been sodomy. “Get a hold of yourself,” Lawrence said to himself.
He returned to his bedroom and stared at the prie-dieu he kept to the side of the room. Benitez had asked him to pray tonight, which was the least Lawrence could do after disgracing him so. He knelt and clasped his hands. “Forgive me,” he asked aloud. He hadn’t prayed in weeks, maybe it’d been months. He rarely thought of anything specific when he prayed, he simply allowed God to go through him. His presence often felt like a river; He would surround and cool Lawrence, comfort him. Lawrence felt less attuned to these sensations now, uncertain if what he felt on this night was anything besides a result of steady breathing. A message retrieved itself from inside of Lawrence’s chest. Remain, it said. It was the answer Lawrence desired but had been too embarrassed to truly believe or acknowledge. The uncertainty remained.