Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s the Thursday after the conclave that Vincent Benitez calls Cardinal Thomas Lawrence into his bedroom for an unofficial 4pm meeting. Thomas is early, of course, by 7 minutes. He’s wearing his black plainclothes and his oldest pair of jeans; he’s lost so much weight that he needs a replacement belt. The waistband is worn and loose around his thin hips. His glasses are pushed onto the bridge of his nose and his hands are clenching and unclenching into fists as though he’s forgotten to be carrying a large catalog of paperwork between rooms. The work of onboarding a new pope has begun, and nobody is more eager to get things running smoothly and efficiently than Thomas. Vincent had joked that he only started early so he could go on a holiday once it was all sorted. Thomas had stared at him with those morose eyes, silently, until Vincent had changed the subject.

“Is everything alright?” Thomas asks as soon as Benitez opens the door.

“Yes.”

“How can I be of service, Holy Father?”

“Please, come in,” Benitez beckons to the chairs as he closes the door behind them both. Thomas sits on the edge of his bed instead, placing his hands flat on his thighs. “And Thomas, it’s Vincent.”

“Right,” Thomas exhales. “It’s just. Different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Vincent smiles, sits next to his friend on the bed. “I’m still me.” Their knees brush together. “Thomas, I need your advice.”

“Of course, anything.”

“I want to meet with Cardinal Tedesco. You’ve known him for many years. How do you recommend I go about it? Given our interactions during the conclave, I sense that there may be some strain in our relationship, at least on his end. I don’t want him to reject my offer for a meeting.”

“B- I- Why would you want an audience with him?” Thomas’ voice rings out in the room. “Haven’t you seen and heard enough of that… His ideologies?”

“I think it’s best to make peace with him. I want him to feel at ease with me, going forward.”

“Well, you’re the Pope now. The Holy Father. As much as Tedesco is inflammatory, he is respectful of tradition to a fault. If you call him into a meeting, I’ve no doubt he’ll meet with you.”

Vincent nods, a dark curl of hair flopping over his forehead. Thomas almost reaches up to brush it out of his eyes. “Then I’ll send for him straight away.”

“Don’t let him eat you, dear Vincent,” Thomas smirks. “He’s like a snake - can unhinge his jaw completely and-”

“Now, Thomas,” Vincent smiles. 

“You’re right, I beg your forgiveness, I shouldn’t speak ill of another.”

Vincent shrugs. “For me, at least, Cardinal Tedesco seems not like a snake poised to swallow someone whole, but as one who constricts tightly around the middle.”

Thomas’ eyes widen as he understands Vincent’s matching his energy; they both allow themselves a chuckle.

“Well then, all the best with your audience.”

“I’ll tell you all about it,” Vincent smiles, his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. 

“Please do.”

“Is there much left on your agenda today?”

“Oh you know how it is: only everything I can get done.”

“Come and find me later?” Vincent suggests, the boyish smile on his face kind.

“Yes,” Thomas nods. “If you can’t find me, I’ll be lying on my bed, praying to God for sleep.”

“If I can’t find you, I’ll let you sleep.”

Thomas nods, bites his lip. He makes eye contact with Vincent for a moment, allows himself a gentle exhale, and then leaves the Holy Father alone in his chamber. 

Vincent stands at the doorway until he leaves, then closes the door with a soft click. He moves to his bed, makes it carefully. Tedesco surely is quite neat. He doesn’t know him as well as he’d like to, but he imagines that he’s very particular about cleanliness, order. He wonders whether Tedesco hung his scarlet cloak up on a hanger in the wardrobe, or left it folded at the end of the bed. 

He lifts the phone, dials the number for Sister Agnes’ office. Requests an audience with Goffredo Tedesco.

*

He’s late. Vincent doesn’t think he’ll be coming, although the Sister who had answered the phone advised he was not yet checked out of the Casa Santa Marta. Perhaps he was packing, wrestling with his suitcase. Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to come and sought to drag out the  Pope’s patience as payback for losing to him in the election.

Vincent is sitting on the edge of his bed when five knocks punctuate the silence.

"Cardinal Tedesco," Vincent springs up, opens his door. "Thank you for coming."

The taller man strolls in easily, his scarlet cloak flowing behind him; ah, he must’ve been on his way out, Vincent decides. Tedesco looks around the room, with a harsh gaze - almost as though he’s trying to find cobwebs, a speck of dust, a hidden sin. It's the same room as his, of course - the same as all their rooms, but each man has decorated the space with his own fancies; incense, Bibles, crucifixes, reading material. The last Holy Father had his chess set, which now resides in Aldo Bellini’s room, the pieces perfectly frozen in the place where they had been when he’d passed. Tedesco has his copy of the Volgate, a soft case for his glasses, a packet of cigarettes and a hairbrush. Vincent Benitez' space is more modest, he notes. Less filled with clutter - only the essentials. Tedesco ponders what’s in his luggage - if he even packed more than a bag for his journey from Kabul. The bed is neatly made, the sole pillow resting against the headboard. 

"You haven’t moved into the office yet, hm? Why not?  Pensi di non essere degno? Ha." Tedesco raises his eyebrows, pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose as he picks Vincent’s rosary up off his bedside table, thumbs the beads and inspects their colour. 

Vincent closes the door. He stays near the doorway for a moment, watches in silence as Tedesco fingers his possessions, rifles through his bible, checks which version he reads from and scoffs. He crosses the floor and sits at the end of the bed, waits for the cardinal to bring his attention back to him. Tedesco, however, ignores him, paces up and down a few times, looking out the window at the courtyard below, the way the cobblestones are shadowed in the afternoon sun. He bends down to check if Pope Innocent XIV has a pair of slippers under the bed.

"Cardinal-"

Tedesco eventually snaps back to Vincent, his eyes darting around the room for a place he can sit. He moves to an armchair opposite the bed, flicks his cape out with such a flare that it makes a fwooop as he sits, a gravelly humph escaping his mouth as he leans forward.

"What is it you want, Your Holiness?” Tedesco’s eyes stay locked to the floor. 

“Please, you can call me Vincent.” 

“No, Father, I will not.”

“May I call you Gof-”

“No you may not.” 

“I apologise that I cannot converse with you in your preferred Italian,”  Vincent murmurs. “Or even the Latin you advocate for.”

“Hm.”

“But perhaps if I attempted to speak in Español, you would not understand me, either. So I will make do with our shared English.”

Vincent exhales, comes to stand to the side of him, just close enough that he blocks the light that's streaming in through the open window. Tedesco's eyes stay locked to the floor.

“I know this outcome is not what you would’ve chosen for us,” he speaks softly. “That perhaps, for you, our roles should be reversed. But I want to assure you that I didn’t intend to hurt you, or cause you to feel shame, if that is how you feel about my ascension, or the way I spoke to you after the explosion. I asked for our meeting because I wanted you to know that I would like us to be on comfortable terms, that we can have a productive and kind working relationship going forward as colleagues.”

“That is a naïve viewpoint,” Tedesco mutters under his breath, but his eyes remain down. 

"Is it?" Vincent blinks. "Is it not a viewpoint that honours Christ?"

Tedesco shrugs. 

“Do you feel that I have stolen something from you?”

“No,” Tedesco huffs. “It would be heresy to besmirch the will of God. It’s you for reasons known to Him. But I still have my own questions about why.”

“Are they questions I can help you answer?” Vincent steps closer.

Tedesco meets his eyes, but drags his gaze away. What can he even say? Nothing now. God has decided. For better or for worse.

“Why me, as opposed to why you? Is that it?” The Pope raises an eyebrow, smiles. “My brother, you know that you lack humility.”

“I know my vices,” Tedesco snaps. “I do not need the new mouthpiece of God to tell them to me.”

“What do you need God to tell you?” Vincent rests his hand on the Cardinal’s shoulder, brushes a piece of dust off the red cape. "What has been the subject of your prayers?"

He almost flinches when the elder grabs his wrist, pulls him closer. The strength of his grip is so fast that Vincent’s arm swells as though he’s been given a burn by schoolyard bullies. But Tedesco’s digits are entwined with his, wrapping around his wrist, and then he’s bringing the Holy Father’s hand up to his face, inspecting his fingers, as though he’s trying to see if there’s any dirt encrusted under his neatly-filed nails. Vincent lets Tedesco handle him, stands still as the Patriarch flops his hands over and traces the lines of his palm, noting his veins, a barely visible blue under the wrist, fingering the spherical joints at their base. 

"I..." Tedesco's mouth hangs open, gapes like a fish as he realises what he’s done. He closes it promptly. He pulls his hands away like he's been seared by fire, wipes them on his robes.  Vincent blinks, reaches out and takes his hands again, holding them tightly. It is an invitation, a challenge.

He reaches upwards, touches the side of Tedesco's face, rubs one finger against his cheek. It's a careful graze, like reaching an exposed and open hand to the jaw of a trembling dog. His stomach flutters as he considers Tedesco might bite him. He doesn't expect the Patriarch to lean into his touch, grab his hand and hold it against his face. Then, Tedesco's mouth opens and he passes  the Pope's fingers over his lips; a chaste brush, a poor substitute for a kiss. His breath is hot and hoarse, and Vincent's arm is tingling with the stretch as Tedesco pulls on his hand and presses it all over his face, like he's trying to dab away sweat. Perhaps he's attempting to experience the touch of a lover, but his movement is too fast to really indulge in what it could mean.

“Forgive me, Father,” he hisses then, releasing Vincent from his grasp. He clutches his hands between his thighs, knits the fingers together. 

“I will permit your touch,” Vincent blinks. “For reasons that are known only to you and God, perhaps it will help you, help something within you. There is something here that you are seeking.” 

Tedesco's hands reach forward, find Innocent's thighs. The air feels thick between the two of them as neither dares speak. Vincent’s heart pounds under Tedesco’s laying-on of hands; he can feel his pulse pumping through the Italian’s palms. The beat is heavy, like all his blood has coagulated inside his body; he’s just all thump, all gasp.

Tedesco exhales, begins to grasp at the Pope then, falling to his knees off the chair as he tugs on the robes, pulls and pulls, as though he's a mother begging an emperor to spare the life of his child. His grasp is so firm that Vincent hears the rip of his clothes, feels a weight lift off his torso as the fabric comes to shreds in the Italian's hands. It doesn't deter Tedesco - he launches himself against Vincent’s legs, pries his trousers away from his body. He stands only to push the Holy Father hard against the wall of his bedroom, attacks his shirt; he undoes every button, his fingers fast but clumsy. The ones he can't undo, he pulls on, and - much to Vincent's chagrin - the shirt tears apart at the bottom, exposing his chest. Tedesco's undoing his own shirt then, pulling the fabric off his body in a hurry. My God, what is happening to me, Vincent thinks as his throat tightens. 

Tedesco’s shirtless and in front of him, and Vincent notices intimately their size difference, even more so than in any of their prior interactions. The Italian is stocky, broad-shouldered. His chest commands respect, although the way he’s puffed it into Vincent’s personal space reeks of insecurity. Curls of chest hair decorate the tanned skin, drag downwards to a soft stomach. Vincent, in contrast, is skinny, his clavicles poking out against taut skin. His body is marked with dark scars, slices, white slithers that serve as mementos of his life in war zones. Where Tedesco has moles, he has healed gashes, a chunk of flesh missing on his hip where a ladder of stitches got infected and had to be cut out, a jagged mark under his right nipple where shrapnel got lodged. Tedesco looks at him then; finally looks. His dark eyes cloud as his gaze drags downwards over this unfamiliar body and he drinks in the evidence of a different life. His fingers linger on the cotton waistband of Vincent’s boxers.

“Please,” Vincent chokes. What he’s asking for, he doesn’t know.

Tedesco pulls on the underwear, letting it fall down slim thighs. The man in front of him closes his eyes. He’s not been naked in front of anyone since he was a small child, save for the times he’s had surgery, or showered. Now, in his own bedroom, he’s completely exposed, his back pressed against the wall. He wonders if Tedesco can hear his heart pounding. Then, he’s being manhandled, spun around.

There’s hot breath on his neck, wet and heavy with pants as the patriarch’s fingers rest hard on the soft brown of his thigh. Vincent leans backwards into the touch, his shoulder blade bumping curtly against Tedesco's clavicle, and the Italian grunts, his arms snaking up to wrap around the Pope's chest, hold him locked in place. They're strong arms, Vincent thinks, better suited to manual labour; the hands are huge, ungraceful things, with callouses enough to scrape. Their bodies press together briefly; Vincent can feel the hoarse brush of Tedesco's chest hair against his back, then a dull pain as jagged teeth dig into the flesh of his shoulders. The hands move to grasp around his stomach and he’s flung forward onto the bed, pressed to his hands and knees. The cardinal’s hands wander, stroking over his scars.

Then he's flipped again, this time onto his back; he lets out a muffled “oof” as Tedesco's hand finds his throat, inspects the protruding Adams' apple, presses bony fingers into his shoulder to pin him down on the mattress. Tedesco's pawing at him, kneading his body underhand like he's made of Play-Doh, like he could push harder and mold him into a new, more desirable shape. Tanned fingers poke at his breast, tug at his nipple, dip into his belly button with a curt prod. Vincent gasps as the Italian shoves his legs open, then grabs his thigh hard and squeezes, leaving a red handprint. Then again, another squeeze, another mark that will stain his body. He grabs lower, clamping his hand even tighter this time. Vincent almost whimpers. Instead, he studies the expression of the older man, sees the deep creases in his face, the way his lips turn down, almost in distaste. His eyes are a rich brown, framed by long lashes, but they never meet his own. 

“Why is your touch so rough, my brother?” he whispers. “What are you looking for in my body?”

Tedesco doesn't look at him; instead he rocks forward in a swift motion, presses his mouth against Vincent's stomach. His beard itches, Vincent thinks, irritates the skin as he drags his mouth downwards. His breath is hot, damp, his tongue rough and hungry as he flicks it back up to circle around the soft smattering of dark hairs that curl around  the navel. Vincent wonders if he should put his hands in the Italian’s hair, stroke his scalp, perform some gesture of intimacy between them. He quickly decides against it as Tedesco's mouth opens and his teeth attack the curve of belly, the stretchmarked hips, biting, beginning to mercilessly suck dark stains into the skin. The barrage of hands and mouth is unlike anything Vincent has ever experienced before; far too aggressive to be truly erotic, but so desperate that he can't help but feel a flutter at the way he's being manhandled. Why am I allowing this , he swallows down. 

Vincent gets a brief glimpse of Tedesco's crotch as he adjusts his hips. He feels embarrassed to see a distinct bulge there, a blush bursting on his cheeks as he takes another look, then drags his gaze away. Whether Tedesco’s arousal is as a result of him or the situation, he's unsure. But either way, he knows what is about to happen. Or at least, he tells himself he knows, perhaps in an attempt to psych himself up for the inevitable follow. Asks himself whether he'll stop it from happening to him. To him? No. His door is unlocked, and he's Pope Innocent XIV. He can choose to leave at any time. He can push Tedesco off him, or ruin him later with one directive. But he doesn't - won't . He is, even against his better judgement, a participant in this spectacle. It's not anything that's being done to him by Goffredo Tedesco. Rather, the two of them are sharing something; a confession, perhaps. Unevenly weighted. 

The other man seems to sense his thoughts, because his hands immediately move to his belt buckle, undo it. The sound echoes in the silence of the room; the heavy clink, punctuated only by their breathing. Tedesco unzips his pants, slides them off his thighs. Vincent steals another brief look at the crotch; but this time, it’s noticed. The cardinal slides his hand down his underwear, eyes rolling back as his fingers brush against swelling skin. 

Vincent closes his eyes as he feels heat tumble through his stomach, spread downwards to his own parted legs. 

Tedesco shoves his underwear down his thighs and frees his cock. 

“No comparison,” he scoffs. 

He's right: there is an extreme difference in their size and girth. Benitez wonders whether his penis might've been bigger in different circumstances. Tedesco's dick is a spectacle; even Vincent can admit that. It's flushing a pretty pink at the top, his foreskin slowly retracting as it grows, a vein twisting temptingly across the shaft. It's mesmerising, watching the way it twitches and curves upwards, Vincent swallows. Then he curses himself for thinking such a thing, for objectifying another Christian. How can he be so irreverent with his thoughts? He wonders what the other man is thinking about his penis; if Tedesco is pleased or indifferent or disgusted by him, intrigued by their differences. Is that a normal thought? Do all people worry in this way before their first time? But then again, next to Tedesco's offering, any man would feel self conscious. 

It's not a sin to be curious, he tells himself. I am just seeing something new, witnessing an act that the Lord designed. It's a fool's equivocation, he thinks, but it must save him. 

Tedesco moves closer in a jolt, kneels above the Holy Father and presses his erection hard against Vincent's penis without any warning. The skin-on-skin contact makes them both shudder. Tedesco gives into his impulses - one thrust, two; a desperate frotting. Vincent sucks in a gasp as Tedesco speeds up; his movements are deliberate and forceful. It's a sensation Vincent is not used to; or at least, he's a few decades out of practice when it comes to masturbating; but if he allows himself to admit it, this touch feels like his body is bursting with fireworks. He can feel himself growing against Tedesco's cock, the pressure between his legs almost unbearable with pent up tension as the cardinal's glans presses against his shaft, catching all of the right curves with his rubs. 

Tedesco sits back on his haunches and Vincent almost sighs when the pressure is removed. His cock twitches in protest. The Patriarch wraps his hand around himself and begins touching again slowly, then alternates to hard tugs, sliding his foreskin over his head and then pulling it back down with a restrained grunt. He's blushing a deeper pink, and getting wet from the torture of teasing himself. Vincent tries to look at the soft gray of his pubic hair instead, but his eyes snap back to watch when Tedesco rubs his finger over his slit and swears under his breath. 

“Do you know how to do this?” Tedesco taunts. “Or are you actually Innocente ?”

“I know how,” Vincent replies. “But I haven't… not for a long time.” Understatement of the century.

“Is it a sin, Father?” Tedesco presses his thumb against the underside of Vincent’s glans, rubs a circle into the soft skin, his touch tentative as he brushes his fingers over the jagged scar.

“I won’t answer that.”

“Am I causing you to sin?”

“That’s between you and God,” Vincent smiles. 

“You have no role in this, is that what you’re implying?” Tedesco growls. “You’re hard.”

“It’s because of your touch that my body reacts,” Vincent replies, his voice calm but hesitant. He can't deny it; his body has betrayed him.

Tedesco's fingers slow, becoming gentler as they explore. Vincent feels immediately vulnerable as he looks down and sees the head of his cock between a thumb and forefinger. It's like a contest, he understands. Feel good? Tedesco is asking him, challenging him to respond in a way unbecoming of a holy man. Want more? Vincent bites his lip. He can’t moan, but a soft gasp slips past. 

“Hm?” The patriarch deals a gentle cuff to the pope’s head and Vincent flinches. Tedesco laughs, a throaty rumble, bats his fingers against him again. Then, the Italian straddles him, presses his cock against Vincent’s, wraps his hand around them both and jerks them off together with a firm grasp. A bead of pre-cum glistens on the tip of Tedesco's cock. He could almost reach out and catch it with his fingers, Vincent muses. Even… Eucharist. The droplet pulses and then thins as it drips onto Vincent's thigh. He doesn’t wipe it away. 

Tedesco's hands pry his legs apart, fingers brushing over his hip. The Cardinal shoves him upwards, shifting his weight further up the bed so Tedesco can kneel at the foot of the mattress.  Vincent lets Tedesco adjust him, doesn’t resist when his legs are pulled upwards in a bend. 

Vincent gasps as a finger pokes him ungracefully and then clumsily slides inside him; this is a new sensation, for sure. He exhales. So this is what it will be, then. He tries to relax against the touch but it's so alien that he doesn't know if he'll get used to it. It's not that it's painful, or even uncomfortable, now that it's inserted, just… out of place. Perhaps it's not the act, but the partner. Tedesco's finger is drawing circles inside him but it feels like he's struggling against the tightness of the muscle. Vincent thinks about what might normally happen in this circumstance;  this circumstance , he thinks. So clinical, procedural. Just like the conclave.  Do this. To get this. During sex. What might happen? And he imagines if it might be a woman, if he might be the one doing the opening, or if it was someone truly kind at the foot of his bed instead, who cared about him, like Thomas. What might he say in this situation? Perhaps they would be truly facing each other, bodies open in bloom, watching each other's expressions, noticing a smile or a gasp or a bite of the lip as an impetus for more - or less. Perhaps a joke: he doesn't suppose Thomas has ever done this to someone, or had this done to him. Or done this with someone; been a lover… For a brief moment, Vincent imagines his friend's fingers instead, the soft and gentle push of digits inside him, the way Thomas would take care of him, make it feel nice for him. He lets his mind wander: Thomas' delicate fingers on his cock, rubbing gentle circles over swollen skin, bringing him closer and closer to orgasm. He feels a quiet moan leave his lips too late. Tedesco's fingers are still inside him, and his chest shakes with a laugh. Heresy. He must not think of Lawrence again. 

He curls his fingers into the sheet when Tedesco presses the tip of his cock against him. There’s a flutter of terror as he braces against the intrusion. “Por favor no me hagas daño,” he babbles.

“Hm?” Tedesco grunts.

“Mojarlo,” Vincent exclaims, “uh… bagnare?”

Tedesco nods at Vincent’s hesitation, pauses, before withdrawing himself. He splutters some Italian under his breath: “Poca esperienza, mm.”

Tedesco opens Vincent’s top drawer, rummages around. 

“There’s nothing in there that can help,” Vincent exhales. Tedesco’s eyes snap back to his. They are silent for a few moments. Both can hear their hearts thumping in the silence. Then, Tedesco holds his hand out to the Holy Father, shakes it in front of his face.

“Sputa qui,” Tedesco directs.

“Perdóname?”

“Spit, hm?” Tedesco shakes his hand again.

Vincent does so, wipes his face as a string of saliva gets stuck dribbling down his chin. He grabs Tedesco's hand, spits more into his palm, making sure the man's fingers are coated.

Tedesco pulls his hand away, and Vincent’s eyes flutter shut as Tedesco spreads the saliva over his erection, spitting more into his hand to ensure there’s enough to cover him. He uses the excess spit to push his finger once again inside the pope. 

When Tedesco replaces his finger with his erection, it's careful this time, slow, a relief compared to the earlier aggression in his foreplay. It takes them more than a minute to get the head of the Patriarch’s cock inside Vincent, and then there's a pause while Vincent lets his body stretch, accommodate. He feels as though he barely breathes for the duration of the insertion. Tedesco sighs as he buries himself deeper, each centimetre further bringing him pleasure like he's never known. His chest heaves as he takes deep breaths, pushes in slowly. Vincent is warm around him, taking him so well, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to thrust more than a few times without spilling inside the smaller man. 

Tedesco's hips press into him and Vincent whimpers.  Oh, that feels good, he wants to say when the Italian pulls out and then pushes back in, his body moving in lazy rolls, like a wave chasing contact with the sand. That feels nice, yes, that's good, that's good. Instead he stays silent, tries not to think about the pleasure that's building. His cock twitches and he bites his lip: please no, please don't have an orgasm. Not for this man. Not because of this man. He thinks of the shame that would wash over him if Tedesco was to see him lose himself, cum messy and desperate over his stomach with a gasp or a plea. Still, he's unsure how much longer he can last, especially when Tedesco's hand is curling into his hair and tugging slightly, his other hand clamped on his breast and finger nudging his nipple. 

Vincent wraps his legs around the bigger man then; bucks his hips upwards to accommodate the thrust. He's playing his game: Tedesco doesn't expect the action.

Their eyes meet, hold for a few seconds, brown on brown. It's a moment that makes Tedesco feel raw, like he's been skinned down to every nerve, the red bleeding viscera of his body held in the hands of this Holy Father, who has not pushed him away or cast him aside, but is holding him, pressing inwards. Who doesn't even seem upset or angry or disgusted by what he's having done to him. Why? Why ? 

There's a question that reverberates through both of them: are you going to hurt me? But neither voices it. Tedesco strokes his heavy fingers over Vincent’s jaw, then for a brief minute, relaxes his weight onto the smaller man, pressing his face into warm neck. He almost kisses, Vincent notices, his lips rubbing up and down the jugular, beard scraping from jaw to collarbone. But he doesn't let himself do it; he pushes his face further into neck to muffle the curt grunts that spill from his lips. He won't allow himself to moan; but here, cradled by Vincent as he moves desperately, he almost feels the silence is more intimate. The Pope wraps his arms slowly around the Italian, holds his body close; his fingers stroke over his bicep, then move upward to slide through the grey of his hair. It's Vincent that presses a kiss to his forehead, a slow, lingering kiss, and all Tedesco can think about is that he's in Gethsemane. 

"Turn over," Tedesco grunts, and Vincent attempts to do so as best he can. The sensation makes moving challenging - is he meant to stay connected? Tedesco answers for him when he pulls out, grabs onto the Holy Father’s hips. Vincent shuffles around, moves to a position on his hands and knees. He gasps when he's filled again, presses his face against the mattress and closes his eyes. 

"Touch," Tedesco commands, tapping Vincent's hand; when he doesn't move it, he lifts it and slides it between the Pope’s legs.

Vincent drags his hand away. Tedesco grabs his wrist again and tries to shove his hand back to his crotch but Vincent pulls his fingers out of the hard grip, crossing his arms in front of him so his shoulders block a further attempt to grasp him. Tedesco's hand slips between his thighs instead. He shudders with the touch as the Patriarch finds his cock and takes the whole thing into his open hand, jerks him off with quick pulls. It's an unusual sensation, and Tedesco readjusts his grip twice. Vincent smiles in a strange moment of levity as he notices him softly fumbling. The combined sensation of two pressure points of his body being stroked at once is lighting him up like a Christmas tree. Oh, he can understand the way this makes people want. Tedesco's hand is gentler now, his tugs not as forceful. He switches from long strokes at the base of Vincent's cock to slow, careful rubs, bringing his fingers up to draw circles where he’s most tender.  Oh God, Vincent thinks. Oh, God. God have mercy on me. God give me the strength of self-control.   He can feel the warmth of a blush flooding his cheeks as he repeats lead me not into temptation silently to himself, all the while Tedesco is thrusting so deep inside him that his legs are beginning to shake with pleasure. 

Tedesco grabs onto him then, one hand holding his thigh, the other pressing against the base of his stomach, holding him in place as he fucks into him fast. Both men gasp out as Tedesco bites the flesh of his shoulder. 

“Vincent,” Tedesco moans, his voice a raw whisper. Vincent reaches backwards, tangles his fingers through Tedesco’s hair; the cardinal has pressed his face into his back, his eyes squeezed closed and mouth hanging open. He’s too far gone now to hold back an orgasm. His body moves involuntarily, a few final desperate slams of his hips. 

Tedesco slides out of the smaller man, rocks forward and presses his mouth to the small of Vincent’s back with a kiss, then launches off the bed in a stumble and turns away, falling to his knees against the tiled floor. Vincent shoots up in alarm; Tedesco’s rush is akin to the body language of someone who is about to vomit. But the cardinal is still, crouched on the floor, his legs spread and his hand moving, motioning faster and faster in violent tugs. Vincent watches him, intrigued, but sees only his back: Tedesco has intentionally concealed his face from the Holy Father. Whether out of shame or humility, Vincent is unsure. He feels hot all over his body and fluttery in his stomach as Tedesco lets out a few final jagged vocalisations, broken Italian curses. He allows himself one long groan, his shoulders slumping forward. Vincent can briefly see the splatter of cum on the floor between Tedesco's thighs as he ejaculates hard. The sight of it makes his own cock twitch, but he dare not touch it, not at this moment.

It takes Tedesco a few moments for his thighs to stop shaking, his palms pressed on the floor to steady himself as his breathing returns to normal.

The Pope goes to him then, crouches on the floor next to the hunched Cardinal. There's a damp sheen of sweat that covers the warm skin of his back. In the curve of his lumbar, Vincent can see the Creator's hand: how delicate the small hairs here, how careful the placement of moles. In an act of impulse, he places both of his hands on Tedesco's spine. The bigger man flinches, as though he'd forgotten there was someone still in the room with him, watching him. His hands are clasped together as he begins to shake.

"Come," Vincent whispers, stroking his back. "Come and be with me."

He touches Tedesco's thigh and the cardinal pushes his hand away. 

"I am… ashamed," he chokes, pressing his hands to the floor in an attempt to wipe away the evidence of his orgasm. "I have soiled myself in the bedroom of God."

"Leave it," Vincent murmurs, stroking his fingers over Tedesco's shoulder. "It's not an affront to me. You know I saw almost everything in my ministry; blood, vomit, excrement, pus and wounds from the Congo. Brains and intestine in Afghanistan, in chunks, or cradled in the hands of the people they belonged to. This is a tidy mess, a natural thing. I can clean it up later."

"No," Tedesco shakes his head. "It's my failing."

"I don't see failure here."

Tedesco grabs for Vincent then, grasping at his arms, his bare knees, his neck. 

Vincent lifts him up, guides him to the bed. Tedesco lies on his back, but reaches for the sheet, pulls it over his genitals, wipes any remaining wetness from his crotch.

"The garden of Eden has already been destroyed," Vincent tilts his head, sits. "You need not worry about your body in my presence."

Tedesco bites his lip, stares at the smaller man's face. He's expecting malice, a jeer disguised as a joke. Both are absent. He pulls the sheet off, lets the Holy Father see him in his nakedness. 

"What would you have used this body for if not to honour God?" Vincent smiles as he shuffles closer, his hand on Tedesco's knee. "I could see you being a carpenter, or a scholar. You command the space, hold your own. You are steadfast in your convictions; an admirable trait in most professions. Perhaps you would teach Latin, since you love it so."

"I... I don't know. It doesn't matter. Too late now, hm." Tedesco exhales. His eyes flick up and meet brown as he murmurs: "I suppose I would've liked to use it for pleasure, at times."

"Mmm," Vincent nods. "Mine too."

"That surprises me.” 

"I am just a man, like you," Vincent smiles. "I'm not without desires, questions."

"Would you like a smoke?" Tedesco huffs.

"No thank you."

"Well I would."

"What happened to the vape you've been cradling all Conclave?"

"Bah, I'm sick of the thing," the man sighs. "I'm fed up with substitutes.”

"I see," Vincent smiles. "Perhaps you should quit and save your health."

"Pff, I'm old. I'll die of something anyway." He adjusts his glasses, leans forward, his finger pointed at Vincent. “You’re not going to force me to quit in your first act as Pope.”

“No,” Vincent smiles. “Only God can break the spirit of addiction.”

“Hmph,” Tedesco huffs. “Are you going to-?" He points at the Pope's crotch, but looks away, crosses his arms.

Vincent blinks. Oh . "No," he murmurs. "No, I'm going to just... Leave it."

Tedesco opens his mouth, closes it. He drags his eyes away, turns his neck to look out the window, or focus on something on Vincent's bedside table. He stays in this position for a while, his breathing deep. Vincent places his hands on his bare knees. He isn't sure if he should get up, get dressed, or stay longer on the bed. What do people usually do after a sexual encounter? He realises he has absolutely no idea; it is a world completely foreign to him and all his peers; the knowledge of one-night-stands and quickies are barely a blip on his solar system. Do partners leave straight away? This is his room… Will Tedesco make an excuse to leave? Thomas would know what to do, Vincent exhales.

Then, Vincent is silent as a realisation dawns on him: Goffredo Tedesco is crying? Surely not… But he hears the sharp inhale of breath, sees the older man covering his eyes, hunching forwards. His chest is shaking as soft sobs wrack his body, a crude choking sound being fought back. Saliva pools at the downturned corners of his lips, and he pulls a hand away from his eyes to cover his mouth, stifle the noise.

Vincent reaches forward, without considering any implications - he rests a hand on Tedesco’s shoulder, another snaking around his neck. Their chests press together at the awkward angle of their positioning on the bed. It is the most uncomfortable hug either of them have ever been in, yet Vincent feels as though he needs to hold the position a few moments longer. He flinches as Tedesco’s arms wrap around him, pull him down into a cradle. It’s perhaps divine intervention how well his body fits against Tedesco’s, almost like a tetris piece clicking into the God-shaped gap on top of the cardinal. Tedesco’s grip loosens for a moment, almost as though he’s apologetic, then he squeezes Vincent back down against him, locks him into place with those strong arms. His sobs don’t cease, but now, he doesn’t try to stop the tears. This is the snake, constricting, Vincent muses.

It’s okay, he wants to say, considers voicing, but he holds back - somehow he thinks it will be counterintuitive to just letting his peer cry.

It's a disgusting sob; strangled, like Tedesco is short of breath and fighting trying to hold back the tears, but wet, messy; he's losing his own game. His chest shakes as though it's a death rattle.

Vincent focuses on the way Tedesco is holding him, his strong arms wrapped around him, pressing him close. Vincent bites his tongue; in this circumstance, he's not sure what he can do; surely any attempt to crawl away would upset the Patriarch further. Instead, he turns his attention to the body of the man he's lying on top of, runs his eyes over the features. He supposes this might be the last time he'll see an exposed body up close - what's the harm in savouring the sight? Tedesco's shoulders are tanned, peppered with freckles. Vincent imagines him briefly as a Roman beach-goer with that physique, all sunscreened, dusted in sand and sporting a too-small thong, not that anyone would be repulsed. His Adam's apple bobs as he cries, his lips pulled up in a half-moon gape. His chest is broad and warm, and he doesn't resist when Vincent places his palm flat on diaphragm, buries his lithe fingers into the curls of chest hair, once black, now greying closest to the middle of his chest. The hair swoops around his brown nipples; Vincent, in an act of impulse, moves his hand and brushes his thumb against one of them. He bites his lip as he feels the bud harden under his touch and a calculated rumble burst from the Patriarch's chest. He withdraws his touch immediately, but feels Tedesco squeeze him down tighter. Still, he continues dragging his eyes over the body of his captor; a soft belly from shovelling down his meals every night like a man starved that moves loosely with the twitches of his crying, the fat on his stretchmarked hips, the grey-flecked hair that thickens again at his crotch and twists into wiry curls like the whorls of a fingerprint, his cock now resting soft on hairy pale thigh, where Vincent's knee is keeping a point of contact. 

Perhaps in another life, Goffredo Tedesco would be a handsome lover, Vincent thinks. All this body is hidden away behind red robes - it's almost a disappointment that the call of Christ takes precedence over the exploration of human intimacy.  

He imagines for just a moment that he was able to touch this body again - what would he do? How would he allow himself to be curious? Perhaps he would press his lips against the neck, feel the way Tedesco's beard catches against his jaw; or linger on the pulsing jugular; would he lift tanned arms and inspect the armpit, the dorsal muscle, the way his bicep flexes with the movement? Or maybe he'd touch the nipples again and feel the way they respond to his fingers, or his mouth - Jesus, he thinks. Forgive me for my sin, Lord. But his mouth… His mouth on Tedesco's chest, on the soft stomach before him, now that could be a proper exploration, his lips kissing downwards to make contact with Tedesco's cock. And would he get hard again just from Vincent's mouth? What does he taste like? Vincent blinks. What would it mean to kiss here, to lick, to suck swollen skin? Would he fit inside my mouth? Or would he choke me? Would he be gentle? He feels his stomach flutter and twist as he imagines all of the possibilities: of touching Tedesco the way he has touched, of them bending and rubbing together and letting themselves moan aloud, of the older man kissing him open-mouthed and all-tongue while Vincent is inside him - no… that cannot be possible. This is just a fantasy, just a lapse… Vincent blushes scarlet. He is not ashamed. Tedesco is still crying but his sobs have softened.

Eventually, Tedesco sits up, his grip loosening. He sniffs loudly, clears his throat and wipes his eyes. His gaze is unfocused, staring into the darkness. Vincent shuffles off him, but one of his hands remains on the elder’s bicep for a few more moments.

“I'll go now,” Tedesco slides off the bed, pulls his pants back on and zips them up, all the while his eyes stay glued to the ground. He bends down to retrieve his shirt, does it up hastily, his fingers struggling around the buttons. Vincent smiles as he notices they’re uneven on the left side - in his hurry, the cardinal hasn’t aligned them. He moves quickly to the door.

“Your Eminence,” Vincent purrs.

Tedesco halts in his tracks, presses his face against the door frame.

“Eh?”

“You’ve forgotten your cape,” Vincent lifts the fabric up; it’s heavy in his hands as he moves towards Tedesco. 

“Ah,” Tedesco swallows. He goes to snatch it from the Holy Father, but Vincent drapes it over his shoulders, clasps the button and smoothes the fabric, making sure there are no wrinkles. He slips Tedesco's bottom shirt button through the slim hole in the cotton, but leaves the top one undone. Then Vincent presses his hands to Tedesco's shoulders, squeezes softly. Tedesco's knees wobble as he leans forward momentarily, his eyes fixed on Vincent's neck where his beard has scratched a blotchy rash. He takes Vincent’s hands, holds them tightly as he brings them to his chest. 

“Goffredo. Go and be at peace, my friend,” Vincent smiles. He leans forward, presses a kiss to the Italian’s cheek. Tedesco flings himself out the door without hesitation and makes down the corridor with his usual stride. 

His scarlet cloak billows out behind him, almost knocking over a bewildered Cardinal Lawrence who has stepped out into the corridor from a side office and now flinches against the wall to avoid being battered by a sheet of red.

He watches Tedesco leave, noting the peculiarity of the priest’s rumpled collar and a splotchy blush on his cheeks, his gaze averted. When the Patriarch disappears out the door, Thomas notices Vincent hovering at his bedroom door, his face painted in the same particular coy expression. They meet each other's eyes for a few moments. Then Vincent steps backwards into his room, his fingers lingering too long on the door before he leaves it ajar. Thomas can see the light being switched on from underneath the frame, the Holy Father's bedroom beckoning to him in a glow of warmth.