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Chapter Text

I

Of all the creatures that populate the eternal city, Cardinal Lawrence likes cats the best. They are part of the it like the facades of the churches, the red and white gingham tablecloths of the trattorias, and the pine trees of the seven hills of Rome.

There is a cat that comes to Casa Santa Marta every day. She and Lawrence have developed a sort of routine: the old Cardinal comes out to the patio where the turtles live and she is waiting for him there, tail up, soft meows, gentle purrs. He feeds her a can of tuna that Sister Agnes has already opened and poured in a little ceramic dish, and he watches her gobble it up and then clean her paws. She lets him scratch her behind her ears and under her chin, and then she sunbathes for a while with the turtles. And leaves.

It’s the best ten minutes of Lawrence’s day, before all the chaos of the Curia drains him. Watching the cat laying on the pavement, with her eyes closed and her belly full, is the closest Thomas has felt to peace since the Holy Father died. Heavens, way before that.

He only realized the cat was pregnant a few days ago.

He wasn’t sequestered then, and the Pope was still alive. The world was holding their breath and everyone entering and leaving Casa Santa Marta was being followed, questioned and even, good God, photographed; so Thomas saw no harm in dressing as a civilian to go outside and get the Holy Father some pastries. Doctors had advised against it, but they also said he wouldn’t live much longer. The Pope had a weakness for Sicilian sweets, so Thomas put on a pair of dark trousers and a shirt, and left Santa Marta to get a white box of sfogliatelle and cannoli.

The cat was just outside the pastry shop, seducing a father and her three year old daughter. Lawrence watched the sweet scene from a distance: the child approached the cat knowingly, like all Italians seemed to do. Lawrence had always thought that they were born knowing how to treat cats. The kid crouched and offered her hand, and the cat sniffed it and after ascertaining that the little girl posed no threat, she lay on the street and offered her belly for pets. The kid was all “aaaahh”, “ooooohhh”, “guardaaa papà, che cariiinaaaa”, and her dad smiled patiently. He was carrying the groceries in a plastic bag, and Thomas knew that if he had bought any type of cold meats, it was only a matter of time before the girl would beg him for a little piece to offer the cat.

The scene was all of what Tedesco wanted to change. 

It was an innocent scene. Nothing wrong with it.

But Thomas knew better.

First of all, children had to be seen, not heard, and the girl was loud and bossy, like generations of Italian women before her, very unlikely to sit still in mass like the perfect angel she was supposed to be until she grew up to become a straight, married catholic woman. God help her if she strayed from that path. Also, she was an only child. The birth rate was declining in Italy, the heart of Catholicism, and the dad was too old to have several more children, which was Tedesco’s wild fantasy. He and his wife, -where was she? Why was this man caring for her child, tending to her wishes, forcing other pedestrians to walk around them while she pet a stray cat?- would never have a row of six or more children, their heights evenly distributed like steps on a staircase, at Sunday mass.

”Guarda, Giulia, è incinta!”

The dad pointed at the cat’s belly, and that’s when Lawrence noticed the unborn kittens freakishly moving inside her. He was taken aback, and watched silently as the girl begged his father for some mortadella, papà, per gli bimbi, vai, papàaaaa, and the single mother to be got her reward for being cute and playing her cards right.

Father, daughter -and cat- left. Lawrence stood there, the white box with the last sweet thing the Holy Father would taste, in his hands.

It was in that moment when he knew.

He knew that after the Holy Father went to meet his creator, it was his job to stop Tedesco from becoming Pope. 

Even if it was the last thing he did on this Earth.

*

It isn’t long before she gives birth, and Thomas is sure he will miss it. He is confined to the grounds of Casa Santa Marta, forced to manage the ambitions, eccentricities and resentments of a bunch of old men who want to be powerful. Amongst them, Thomas must find the one person who does not want the job, but who will accept the burden. But more importantly, he must manage the entire Curia. He must steer them in the right direction. 

The cat rubs herself against his legs, her belly impossibly big.

How will I do it? How will I know what to do? Where will I find the strength?

He feeds her the tuna that Sister Agnes has prepared. She purrs even when she eats.

Why does God never answer my questions?

He considers letting the cat in his room and preparing her a bed. It’s cold in Rome, and she could have her babies in a warm, safe place. She is docile and sweet, and the Sisters won’t mind.

Maybe He doesn’t answer because lately, I haven’t been asking Him.

”You’re in trouble, mummy”. He speaks to the cat in a soft voice as he strokes her head. Then, he takes a couple of steps back and lets her eat in peace. “What am I going to do with you?”

He can’t talk to Him. The more he tries, the less he can. At church, he is distracted by the colors of the glass on the windows, by the hats people wear, by the overweight American tourists and the flashes of their phones. At night, he weeps for the Holy Father and only manages half a Hail Mary before his mind starts to wander.

“You come here every day.”

A soft voice startles him. 

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

He already knows who it is before he turns around.

Vincent Benítez kneels next to him and the cat instantly goes to greet him like he had been the one feeding her for months. Maybe the Mexicans are like the Italians; maybe it’s a Latin thing, being good and gentle with cats.

”Every morning and every evening.” Thomas answers. “It helps me clear my mind. But at night she isn’t here, I must make do with just the turtles.”

”She must have already made a refuge for her babies. Mama cats are smart. In the spring, Puebla was full of them.”

Thomas is tempted to ask him about his life. He needs to know more about the man who, apparently, wants him to be Pope enough to vote for him and openly say it. But the sunny patio is so peaceful and they are both so relaxed that he decides against it, and instead, they sit on the ground as the cat retreats to clean her paws after her breakfast. 

”No family planning for her.” Says Lawrence. “She must be a Tedesco girl.” The joke gets Lawrence what he didn’t know he wanted: Vincent’s laugh echoes through the patio almost too loud and too soon after the Holy Father’s death. ”He will be a bad Pope. Tedesco, I mean. You know it, Cardinal Benítez, as well as I do. That is why I’m asking you to use your vote wisely and to vote for a good man, a just man, a man who—“

Vincent looks him in the eyes, at last. His gaze shuts him up. He is lost for words.

Then, the man who has come from Kabul to the heart of Christianity closes his eyes, raises his head up to the skies, and smiles.

“God is in the sun.”

They stay like that for a little while longer; the two cardinals on the floor, marveling at the beauty of God’s creation, taking in all of His glory. Thomas concentrates on the songs of the birds, the warmth of the morning sun on his skin and the feeling of the man next to him.

But when he opens his eyes, Benítez is gone. And the cat too.

II

At dinner the next day, after a long session of fruitless voting, all Thomas wants is to sit next to Vincent. 

The cat is missing.

She hasn’t come in the morning for her breakfast, and he can’t think of anybody else who would care about her other than Cardinal Benítez.

 He is debating whether to indulge -I haven’t sat at his table yet, it won’t be too obvious- when Cardinal Tedesco whisks him away by the arm and kidnaps him to the Italian table.

He only catches a glimpse of Vincent’s smile before Tedesco grabs him and seats him down. 

”It was nice of him to thank the nuns the other day.” He starts rolling spaghetti in his fork and gobbling them down. He clearly expects Thomas to react with more than raised brows, but he doesn’t have any idea what he’s talking about.

”Excuse me?”

”The other night, when he blessed the table. The Mexican, Tommaso, the Me-xi-can!” The word Mexican echoes through the dinner table, all the way to the table of the Latin Americans. Vincent smiles at him and Thomas feels his ears go red. “Nice touch. Fare la bella figura… Women are better, come si dice, nurturers, you know. God made them want to cook for us, take care of us, feed us. But still, it is very nice of… what’s-his-name, Álvarez? Jiménez?”

“Cardinal Benítez.”

“Sure. It was nice of Benítez to give them a shout-out. Shout-out to the nuns!” He laughs at his hip joke. “It is a good psychology trick. Those Jews know how to feed on the insecurities of this atheist society, I must say.”

Thomas takes a deep breath.

”What do the Jews have to do with—? Nevermind.”

But Tedesco finishes his mouthful of pasta and decides to tell him exactly what Jews have to do with therapy.

”Everybody knows that therapy is a scam of the Jews, Lawrence. It’s a good start for some people, I guess, but it doesn’t address the soul.”

His matter-of-fact tone makes his blood boil, but he controls himself. Tedesco wants to bait him so he loses his temper, and has already found his weakness: Vincent. So Thomas decides to do what he does best and what the late Holy Father thought was his greatest talent: management.

”Maybe so, my dear friend. Well, today’s meal looks as delicious as always, so I better get to it. If you excuse me…”

Tedesco doesn’t seem to excuse him yet, though. 

”A good leader always pays attention to those beneath them.” He bombs his plate with big amounts of Parmesan ammunition and pretends that Thomas doesn’t want to leave his side and that he is happily engaged in conversation. “What’s with the face, Tommaso? Why are you angry with me? I’m just saying, your Mexican is good.”

“He is not my–” deep breaths, Thomas, deep breaths. “It is not very kind to say that the nuns are beneath us, Cardinal Tedesco.”

The whole table of italians falls silent and quietly eats while watching them like they would a tennis match.

”Women? Beneath the Princes of the Church? Of course not!” He laughs again. It is clear then that he masters the English language better than he lets on. “Don’t look so offended, dear Tommaso. Madonn’, in this day and age you can’t say anything! I love women, you know that. I have sisters and I had a mother, God rest her soul. And of course, when I was younger, there were temptations.” He seems to reminisce on a particularly difficult temptation to avoid, because he smiles fondly before continuing. “Of course, everyone knows you don’t empathize because you have never been tempted by them, but…”

Thomas hasn’t realised until then that the tables around them are listening intently to the conversation between Cardinals Lawrence and Tedesco. He takes another deep breath, and before failing the late Pope and doing something he would disapprove of, he gets up.

”Right. I think this is my cue. Gentlemen…”

”Aaaah, come on! My dear friend, you know that is not what I meant! I only meant that you were so focused on your work that you didn’t have room for anything else! Sto scherzando, Tommaso, vieni quà, vai vai!”

He knows he shouldn’t go to Vincent right now. He knows that is precisely what Tedesco wants: for everyone to know the Dean has favorites. Because if he is not impartial, how can they trust him? How can the old Papacy continue if its heirs are corrupt and weak? Isn’t it better to choose a fresh start? Isn’t it better if, say, Tedesco becomes Pope?

And yet, he can’t help it. His steps resonate on the old floor as he leaves Tedesco and goes to Vincent. By the time he reaches him, the room is full of small talk again and everyone pretends that Tedesco hasn’t insulted the Dean of the Curia. Thomas has to fight back the urge to leave the room in a rage.

“Truth and justice will prevail, Thomas.” Vincent’s soft voice seems to wash away his anger almost instantly. “The Romans crucified Jesus, and where are they now?”

Tedesco is laughing again, probably at one of his own jokes. They exchange one last glance, and Lawrence feels his cheeks burning with embarrassment. You’re looking at them, Vincent, he thinks. But he manages to keep the mean comment to himself.

“Never mind him. How have you been today, Cardinal Benítez?”

But by Vincent’s look, his anger is still visible to everyone. He’s not the young, alert man he once was. Twenty years ago, he would have seen Tedesco’s little theatrics from a mile away and he wouldn’t have accepted a seat next to him. 

He is distracted. 

Dangerously so.

“You are preoccupied, Thomas.”

“Aren’t we all?”

He is glad Vincent doesn’t mention Tedesco’s insult. He is too humiliated to even think about it.

“Would you like me to help you pray?”

Thomas gets closer to Vincent to confide in him.

“I can’t. I told you.” He whispers. “I haven’t been able to pray for a while now.”

“Let’s not force the issue, then.” He smiles again. A sweet, soft, beautiful smile. All that is good in this world. “Have you named that cat of yours yet?”

Thomas is not surprised that Vincent has figured out how much she means to him, that she was not just any cat that comes and goes. For the first time since His Holiness died, he feels again like a parisher at a small church, being counseled by his priest. The feeling of letting go and submitting to another man is nice. It’s good.

“I’m a little worried, actually. She missed her breakfast today.”

”Maybe she had her babies already.”

”I thought of naming her after Sister Agnes.” He points at the Sister who, according to Tedesco, was born to nurture. She gives him a stern look that forces him to lower his gaze like a scolded choir boy. “But I’m afraid that if she finds out, and she will, she won’t take it as the compliment it is meant to be.”

“I like it when people give their cats human names. Then people say things like “Concetta vomited all over the couch”, “Alberto scratched the sofa again”, “We need to take Mónica to the vet.”

Thomas smiles. Of course Vincent likes people’s quirks.

”What else do you like about the human race, Cardinal Benítez?”

Vincent takes a moment to choose his answer.

“We are always amazed at sunsets, no matter how many we’ve seen.”

“A man told me once that God is in the sun.”

“He sounds like a smart man.”

They smile at each other. 

“Concetta is nice. Maybe I should name her that. She may have another family, right? She always looks fat and happy. I bet I’m sitting here, worried sick, and she’s had her babies in someone’s basement.” He feels his ears redden again. “You must think me foolish, Vincent. Listen to me, going on about a stray cat when there is so much at stake tomorrow.”

But Vincent shakes his head. He remains silent for a moment, like it’s hard for him to find his voice again.

“You feed her every day. She occupies your thoughts. You know what food she likes best, her favourite spot to sunbathe, how she likes to be pet. You smile when she comes, and worry when she doesn’t.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.”

That seems to satisfy him, for some reason.

“You care so much.”

“Too much, I think.”

He doesn’t know where these feelings of embarrassment come from, but he doesn’t like them. He feels vulnerable, constantly afraid of saying the wrong thing. All of a sudden, he feels like a babbling old man.

“Thomas?”

”Yes, Vincent?”

It looks like his friend has something very important to say. He looks deadly serious, his black eyes fixed on him.

”Do you want to play “Guess the Pope”?”

It takes him two seconds to understand that Vincent is joking, and then he can’t stop himself: he laughs, and it feels like rays of sunshine have entered a dark room for the first time in months.

That’s when he discovers, horrified, that Tedesco is right: he has a favorite. And maybe, like the Cardinal from Venice, everyone else can tell that he was never tempted by women.

III

It is almost two in the morning when Thomas finally gives up on sleep for the night and decides to skip curfew. When he comes out to the patio, he finds a dark figure kneeling on the floor and his first thought is that it’s a weird place to pray, but he is in no condition to judge anyone in that department. Then, however, he discovers that the other man who has broken the rules is not exactly praying.

“Ven, gatita, ven!” 

Vincent is looking around the bushes, moving the branches delicately so as not to scare the cat in case she is hiding there. “Guarda che cosa hò, guarda.” When Spanish fails him, he tries calling her in Italian. He has saved some of the ragu from dinner in a little tinfoil paper and is waving it around. “Concetta, Thomas will worry if you don’t turn up. Come on, gatita. Pspspsps…” 

Thomas feels tears build up in his eyes, and the back of his throat itches. Vincent knows how much the stupid cat means to him, and is looking for her. He does so not to score points with the Dean, but to help a friend. He has taken time off his day to get food, to plan the excursion outside, to skip curfew and to lose precious hours of sleep. 

For him.

Why are You testing me like this?

He hasn’t felt this unstable in over forty years. He had his first encounters with boys in catholic boarding school, then he slipped a couple of times in his thirties, and that was all. After his last carnal sin, confession and repentance, he had given up that part of his life gladly. It hadn’t been a sacrifice anymore. God’s love had been enough.

Enough until now.

Now, in his darkest hour. 

Now, when he has become a priest who can’t pray. 

Now is the time when God sends him the hardest test he’s ever had to face.

Vincent seems to give up. He sighs and makes a little plate out of the tin foil wrapper to leave the ragu out for the night.

“In case you change your mind” he says to the empty bushes one last time. When he turns around, he is startled to find the dark, long figure of Cardinal Lawrence there, silently watching him, with tears in his eyes.

“Thank you for trying.” Thomas whispers. He has managed a weak streak of voice, clouded with sadness, and Vincent comes closer when he hears him.

“She’ll be alright, you know.”

”Will she?”

Vincent comes even closer. Thomas fights back the urge to sob. 

Maybe they aren’t talking about the cat anymore.

“Whenever I am in crisis, I pray to Jesus, not God. I find the Son easier to understand than His Father.”

Lawrence manages a weak joke, aren’t they the same thing, though?, that borders on blasphemy but gives him enough time to compose himself and wipe his tears.

“Have you had many crises, Vincent?”

“Haven’t we all? My most serious crisis happened many years ago. The Holy Father helped me.” He smiles at the memory of the Pope. “I miss him very much.”

He has the kind of sadness in his eyes only grieving people have. Both men feel the same heartache unite them, like the red thread that binds together the names of all the Cardinals who won’t be the next Pope.

“I miss him too.”

“And now.”

“What?”

Vincent hesitates. Then, he seems to make up his mind and reaches his cheek to wipe away a solitary tear.

“I’m having a crisis right now.”

His touch burns. Thomas feels like he has been struck by lightning.

“You mean, with your vote, or…?”

“No.” Vincent’s hand is still there, softly caressing his face. “Not with my vote.”

Rome is like an orphan without her Father, and they both stay silent for a while, listening to her cries: a motorcycle, the steps of a drunk man, a dog barking. Then, nothing. No sounds. No witnesses. Absolutely nothing but the soft glow of a street lamp and the night breeze on their faces.

“I could hear your confession, Vincent. I can do that for you, if you wish.”

They have been whispering for a while. They are so close that everything they say sounds like a secret, or perhaps the most intimate, terrible confession any priest could ever make.

“Fortunately, there is nothing to confess.” Vincent smiles sadly, and then takes two steps back, which seems to give him some clarity. “I haven’t broken any vows, and I haven’t sinned with my thoughts. But it is getting harder and harder not to.”

“Vincent…”

“Will you try to pray to Jesus, Thomas? Will you do that for me?”

Vincent is ending the conversation, and Thomas can’t think of anything to make him stay so he calmly admits defeat, although he isn’t sure what he would have done with victory. After assuring him that he will try to follow his advice, Vincent seems relieved. They say goodnight and part ways.

*

In the morning, the little tinfoil plate is still there, untouched. It is so full of ants that it has turned black.

Chapter Text

There are no tourists, no art students and no believers in Saint Peter’s Basilica late at night. 

Cardinal Thomas Lawrence thought that prayer there, at the very heart of his faith, would come easy.

He was wrong.

He has tried everything. He has tried kneeling on a bench, lighting a candle to Saint Sebastian -this used to work wonders- and just sitting there, with his eyes closed. He has tried the rosary that his late mother gave him and looking for the words of Jesus in his grandmother’s Bible, but unsurprisingly those haven’t worked either. He has also tried to reduce his praying to the Lord’s Prayer. Nothing. A Hail Mary. Nope.

For months, even years, God has been silent and Thomas can’t take it anymore.

As a last resort, he decides to take Vincent’s advice.

In front of Michaelangelo’s Pietà, he kneels.

He closes his eyes.

Why is he here?

Nothing.

Jesus doesn’t respond, because Thomas already knows the answer: he’s here because he needs to be here. It is his right. It is his duty.

I’m distracting him. He is distracting me.

Silence.

He knows Vincent is not just a mere distraction. It’s not fair to call him that; in fact, it is insulting because I’ve only known him for just two days, Jesus, but I feel like I know his soul and he knows mine.

How can this be?

He has had a very difficult day. He has had to play detective with the Sister that had been in Joshua’s room and then he has had to deal with her confession and with Joshua himself. Now he wonders if it had been a coincidence that Joshua was placed in the room next to his. Probably not.

He has had to tell Joshua that God doesn’t want him as Pope. The fact that it is the truth doesn’t make it less painful, and he is sorry for his brother, no matter his views on the Church, women, marriage and the LGBT community.

All along, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking of Vincent. 

He raises his head to take a good look at the Pietà. 

The Virgin Mary holds her dead son in her arms. She weeps for him, but he can’t feel no pain. His torment is over. He is with His Father.

Sweet merciful Jesus, I have dedicated my life to serving you and done so gladly. You know that in my heart there is only the purest love for you, Jesus, Son of God. I come to you humbly, with tears in my eyes, to ask you to grant me vision and strength. I am weak, Lord. I am weak and I want to sin so badly. Let me walk in your light again, King of Kings.

Vincent’s smile has the power of healing. He is everything that is good in this world. He looks at his fellow brothers with the kindness they don’t give him. The Curia doesn’t deserve him.

Please, answer my prayers. I need you to guide me, I need you to console me. Please, Jesus, please.

“Your Holiness, finally.”

When he snaps out of it, he finds himself on all fours in front of Michaelangelo’s statue. His hands are cold from the marble floor, but he is sweating.

“Sister Agnes”, when he finds his voice again, he accepts her hand and gets up with difficulty. His joints scream in pain, his laboured breathing resonates in the empty house of God. “What is it?”

“Are you alright, Your Grace?”

“I– is there a problem?”

“You must come at once.” She says. “It’s Cardinal Benítez.”

*

Sister Agnes rushes him to Vincent’s bedroom while she tries to tell him what happened in a hushed whisper. “I called you in your room but you weren’t there.” Their steps resonate in the night. “With the Holy Father gone, the doctor doesn’t live here anymore, so I thought of calling an ambulance, but Cardinal Benítez refused.” Thomas presses the elevator button six times and barely contains a curse. “And then I thought that you must have the number of the Holy Father’s doctor, and I...” The elevator isn’t fast enough, he thinks. He grabs Sister Agnes by the arm and they take the stairs. “How many times must I have called her when the Holy Father was ill? And now I can’t find her number, can you believe it? It was in my office, I swear. I have looked everywhere, but…”

As they climb endless floors of stairs, fear takes a physical form at the back of his throat.

“Is he very ill, Sister?”

Please God. Please. I’m sorry. I’ll stay away. I’ll never speak to him again. I’ll be strong. I’ll be good. Please, please, please.

“Not ill, exactly. He is hurt.”

They arrive at the floor where the Cardinals are lodged. They are both out of breath, but Thomas starts walking so fast that Sister Agnes has trouble following him. Even in his state of panic, he is moved by the Sister’s reaction: although she is always composed and strict, she keeps apologizing profusely, like she wasn’t up to her duties, like she failed.

“I think he doesn’t want the other Cardinals to know, but something has happened to him, I can feel it. He keeps praying to Jesus, but he doesn’t make any sense. I don’t think he recognised me at first. I only entered his room because I heard a scream, and I thought…”

Cardinal Lawrence stops before Vincent’s door.

“Sister, you did the right thing. At the first sign of weakness, the other Cardinals will eat him alive, but I’m here now, and I know what to do. You just have to remain calm and do exactly as I say.”

She nods. She impatiently wipes away a stubborn tear; then she exhales and is ready for whatever comes.

“I’m sorry, Your Eminence. I panicked.”

She hands him the master key.

“It’s alright, Sister.” After fussing for a bit, he manages to open the door. “Where is he? Vin– Cardinal Benítez? Are you alright?”

“He’s in the shower, Your Eminence. I think he fell.”

*

The water is still running. He can see him on the floor, behind the translucent plastic curtain. He grabs a towel before even opening the curtain, and the first thing he does is cover him. 

“Vincent?”

He hasn’t heard them come in. The sound of the metal rods of the curtain makes him realise that he is not alone, but he only looks at them for a moment, -Thomas with the towel in his hand, Sister Agnes behind him-, before resuming his prayer. He is soaking wet and clearly in pain somewhere between his ribs and his hip, because he has his hand there, pressing on his side. 

“Sister, not him.” Vincent whispers. “I told you, not him.”

After that, he continues to pray under his breath, with his eyes closed shut. Thomas looks for blood or injury to the head, but he can’t find anything, so he touches his arm gently. Vincent is suffering so much. He must have broken something, Thomas thinks. He must be in a lot of pain.

“Are you hurt badly, Vincent?” But he is too focused on praying to answer, so Thomas turns to Sister Agnes. “On my bedside table, there is a black notebook. Under the letter P, look for Doctor Ornella Pizzo, she lives close by and is very discreet, as you know. She will come in no time.”

Sister Agnes is glad to finally feel useful, because she goes without saying another word and leaves them in that marble bathroom, alone. The silence is only broken by Vincent’s murmurs and whimpers of pain. At his touch, he recoils.

“Please, Thomas. I need you to not come any closer. Please, I am begging you.”

“Did you fall? Where does it hurt? Can you walk?”

“Yes. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

He resumes his praying feverishly.

“Vincent, you are having a panic attack. I need you to breathe.” The prayer under his breath is making it harder for him to take in air and he clearly cannot calm down on his own. If he continues like this, Thomas thinks, he is going to pass out. “Breathe with me, come on. One, two… there you go, see? In… yes– and out. Very good. In… and out… in…”

Vincent obeys. They spend a good five minutes there, Vincent in the shower, only covered by a white towel, and Thomas on his knees next to him, without daring to touch him, guiding his breathing. 

Oxygen seems to be more effective than prayer, because after what feels like an eternity,  Vincent seems calmer, more grounded. He reacts to his voice and understands what he is saying to him. He can even look him in the eye without recoiling.

“I’m going to lift you now, Vincent. I’ll help you get into bed. The Sister has already gone to fetch the doctor, and we’ll wait for her there.”

All the stability that he has gained goes out the window: he starts hyperventilating again.

“Thomas, just– Please. Don’t touch me, please. Thomas, don’t.”

But he can’t leave him there, -in the cold shower, on a hard marble floor, shivering, praying like a madman- so he makes a split-second decision: without asking for permission, he wraps his arms around his waist and lifts him in one swift move. Vincent exhales with surprise, but then hugs him around his shoulders for stability and they stay there for a moment, chest to chest, with only Thomas’ clothes in between them because the towel has fallen on the floor with a soft thump. Thomas doesn’t think about it too much: he crunches to pick it up and without looking, he wraps it around Vincent’s waist, puts an arm around him and starts walking slowly. Vincent is not complaining anymore, letting himself be carried to the bed like a child. Everything is going as planned and Thomas really thinks they will make it, but just as they are reaching the bed, Vincent’s legs give in. They stumble, Thomas caught by surprise with Vincent’s full body weight, and they barely make it to the bed. They fall on it rather ungraciously, first Vincent with a low whimper of pain, then Thomas on him. His plan of placing him delicately on the white sheets so as not to hurt him more goes down the drain, Jesus Christ Almighty, and although he gets up quickly, the image of Vincent under him, so close that he can feel his warm breath on his neck, is imprinted on his brain forever.

“Oh, Jesus”. He ignores Vincent’s apologies and offers his own. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Are you ok?”

They are at least a meter apart, but there is no air between them. Thomas feels like he is going to suffocate, like he is the one who can’t breathe now.

“I didn’t realise you were so strong.” Vincent whispers in amazement. “You’ve basically lifted your own weight.”

He manages a weak smile.

“Don’t be silly, Cardinal Benítez.”

But then he realises that he is right; some days he even has difficulty getting up from a low chair, but he has dragged Vincent across the room like he weighs nothing. The adrenaline gives people a rush of strength, he thinks, like those stories of mums who lifted cars to get to their babies. He suddenly feels very tired, and when he goes to get a chair, he can feel Vincent trying to cover himself better with the towel, the damn towel.

“If they ever sanctify you, this can count as your miracle.”

Thomas reaches for the pajamas that are neatly folded at the foot of the bed and gives them to him.

“I take it you are feeling better if you can joke. I’ll include this in my memoirs.” He waits for Vincent to ask for his help, but he slowly manages to put on the shirt and then sits there, on the bed, out of breath but finally covered with the top part of the pajamas and the towel around his waist. “Where does it hurt?”

Thomas helps him get under the sheets, and then sits by his side on the chair.

“My ribs. I banged them up pretty good.” He gestures to the pillows on his back and Thomas helps him sit in a more comfortable position. They are close again. So close. “I fell in the shower like someone’s grandmother. It is so strange. In my mind, I’m still thirty years old.”

“You are a young man still, and you know it. You had a panic attack and fell. How are your iron levels, do you know?” Maybe all of this has something to do with the health issue that Ray told him about, that mysterious trip to Geneva that was cancelled, Thomas thinks, although knows very well what the cause of the panic attack is. 

He is the cause of Vincent’s suffering. 

He represents his doubts, his crisis of faith, his troubles. 

“You need to get yourself a young assistant boy, like Tedesco.” He jokes, and then Vincent laughs and he closes his eyes in pain, gesturing to his ribs, “If they were broken, you wouldn’t be able to talk. I think you’ll get away with a bruise, but we’ll see what the doctor says.”

They stay silent for a while. Vincent lifts his shirt to look underneath, where a red mass will turn blue in a few days, then yellow, then fade. He is smooth all over, with very little hair, and his skin looks like it has been kissed by the sun everywhere, evenly.

Thomas. When Vincent says his name he does so in a sweet whisper, barely without a voice. They won’t be long now, I don’t think, he answers, desperately trying to make conversation, trying to talk about anything else than what he is feeling. Thomas, I need to tell you something. His hand on his arm. He has the hands of a young man, without wrinkles; soft, slightly feminine, with small wrists.

Oh, Jesus.

“Doctor Pizzo is very good.” Thomas manages to say, perhaps too loud, definitely too casually. “She was the late Holy Father’s doctor and she is very discreet. Nobody will know that she was here, and you’ll be up and about in no time.”

The hand is still there. There is a slight tug at his clothes. Vincent irradiates warmth and softness. Thomas feels unstable.

“Thomas, please listen to me.”

He has ignored his wishes before, in the shower. It was the right decision, -You are a manager. Manage-, but he can’t do that anymore, no matter how difficult it is for him. 

“Yes. I’m sorry. Please go on.”

“You have trouble with prayer. Ever since I came here, I have been having trouble with something else.”

“Oh?”

He doesn’t know why he is pretending like he doesn’t know what he is talking about. Maybe he thinks that if they don’t talk about it, it will go away. The new Pope will be elected soon, and then Vincent will go back to Kabul and they can avoid each other forever, if they want to.

Or maybe he wants to hear him say it. Maybe he wants Vincent to put into words what he has been feeling in his heart. Maybe he wants it more than anything in this world.

“I’ve given up a lot, but I did it gladly. Happily. I know not every priest is celibate and I don’t judge them, but I haven’t strayed from the path of priesthood in over 40 years. I never saw it as a sacrifice, and so I was never resentful and I never tried to compensate with other earthly temptations, like many Church men do. You know the type, Thomas. They give up marriage and children, and so much more; and they don’t want to, and they become angry and resentful and turn to smoking, eating and drinking too much, and worse, they try to police the lives of the people who chose to marry and have children, and not be celibate priests. That wasn’t me. But if I sin now... If I sin now, and I get a taste of what I will miss for the rest of my life, I will become resentful.”

Thomas smiles. 

“You feel this too, then, as strongly as I do.”

At first, it is a relief to know that he isn’t alone in his suffering and that his feelings are reciprocated. It doesn’t matter if they met two days ago and they won’t see each other ever again after the Conclave; what they have is real and beautiful, and this knowledge brings him peace. But then, Thomas shakes his head at his own selfish feelings and wishes he could take Vincent’s pain away, that he could bear their guilt, and shame, and want, for the both of them.

“Thomas,” Vincent smiles at him, “being with you is the only sin I want to commit.”

Oh, God. His words sink in his chest, deep, and dark, and urgent. It is love, he realises, amazed. I’m in love with this man, he thinks, terrified.

“I don’t understand it. Three days ago, I didn’t know you existed.”

“You have to be stronger than me, Thomas. I don’t trust myself around you.”

The phantom of last night’s -Vincent's hand on his cheek- burns like hellfire in his mind.

“I don’t think I can, Vincent. This is eating me alive. I can’t bear it.”

“We have to be strong. We can’t fail Him.” 

Is Vincent talking about the late Holy Father, the future Pope, or God? He is no longer his calm, composed self. Please, go, he whispers, and yet, he doesn’t push him away; he places his hands on his chest and grabs at his clothes. Leave, Thomas, I beg you, he says in his ear, sending chills down his spine. Oh God, have mercy on us. He is still begging him to leave as he grabs him and pulls him closer.

It is Cardinal Lawrence who leans over, ends the distance that has been separating them since they met, and kisses Cardinal Benítez. 

He can’t help it anymore.

He doesn’t want to stop himself.  

Their first kiss is soft and sweet, just a brush of their lips. The two men close their eyes and feel each other’s breath, each other’s trembling skin, and each other’s want. Vincent sighs and holds onto Thomas’ clothes as if he is drowning, and Thomas deepens the kiss and sinks into love, guilt, desire, shame, all at the same time. It is a carnal sin. It is a mortal sin. It is the sweetest of sins. A sin that shuts down everything in the world world except them, -Thomas’ hands on Vincent’s face, Vincent’s lashes brushing against his cheeks, their bodies pressed against one another, heat emanating from their embrace-, and that makes Vincent sigh, a tender exhale of breath with the slightest sound of his voice that sends Thomas over the edge. The kiss is no longer sweet when he deepens it; it becomes hungry, wild, almost painful. Tongues, hands, teeth. Somebody moans, it doesn’t matter who. The other whimpers, mirroring his lover’s desire; for that is what they are now. Lovers. Their vows are broken, and they will never be to say they didn’t want to break them. At that moment, alone in that room in Casa Santa Marta, they care more about each other than they do about their vows, about their ideals, about their life’s work. About God.

And if Sister Agnes and Doctor Pizzo hadn’t timidly knocked on the door, interrupting them, they would have done more than kissing. If Thomas hadn’t said a rushed goodbye and left Vincent with them, Vincent would have pulled him under the sheets, perhaps, and he would have undressed him. The towel and their clothes would have been forgotten on the floor, and it all would have been too much for Thomas: the sight of Vincent so close to him, the warmth of the bed, his sweet words of desire melting in his ear like honey. He would have had to kiss him on the neck, then, to alleviate some of the pain and the desire; soft kisses that would have driven both to madness and that would have remained there as a trail of saliva that went from neck to clavicle to chest. Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop, Thomas would have said, already touching him urgently under the towel. I want more, Vincent would have said, already painfully hard, I want all of it, I want all of you. And then– oh, then. 

If God hadn’t made them stop.

What would have happened then.

Chapter Text

They are in the same room again, although now it is dimly lit and eerily quiet. Perhaps it is early morning or late evening, they don’t know. Vincent has opened the door and after looking around to make sure nobody is watching, he has pulled him by his cassock quickly inside. The door is sealed shut and the outside sounds die, along with their hesitations. The blinds on the window that the workers surgically installed prevent any eyes and ears from the outside from looking and hearing them, and keep their secret safe and sound from anyone but God.

They don’t say anything. They don’t need to.

Thomas doesn’t know what time it is, whose room they are in, who is the new Pope. He doesn’t care. It is not important.

This time, it is Vincent who kisses him: softly, gently. Those soft hands, which do the sign of the cross in such a beautiful way, are on his shoulders, on his neck, on his face. Thomas feels like a young man when he pulls him closer by the waist and deepens the kiss, a kiss that is indescribable, except that it’s like coming home after a long day. He wants to take control and to let it go, he wants praise for his skill and punishment for his actions. He wants to be with him more than anything in this world.

They undress urgently, and suddenly, they are both on the bed, under the sheets, with no clothes on.

Thomas doesn’t question anything. 

It is a dream, after all.

In the realm of sleep, he is the master of his actions; and in the bed that his subconscious has conjured, there is no morality, no sin, no consequences, no religion. Only lust. Only happiness. Only love.

He can do anything he wants to Vincent as long as he doesn’t wake up.

In his dream, he can reach under the sheets to touch him and drink his soft whimper with a kiss. He can hold him in his hand, stroking him softly, lubricating him with his own wetness. He can close his eyes and moan when he feels a timid hand on him; he doesn’t have to be embarrassed that he is hard as a teenager, even though he is well past his sixtieth birthday. 

He is sleeping. None of this is real.

Vincent is not by his side, head on the pillow, one arm around his shoulders and the other under the sheets. He is not moaning, begging him to go slower, telling him that he will come on his hand if he keeps doing what he is doing. Vincent is not trembling in anticipation when Thomas pulls down the sheets and kisses his chest, his stomach, his hips. 

And Thomas is not in that room, under the sheets, between his legs, licking the precum with his tongue and then taking all of him, all at once, like he did once with another seminarist thirty years ago and has never done since.

Vincent doesn’t grab him to hold him still when he comes, and Thomas doesn’t come by his own hand merely two seconds later, with his mouth still full of Vincent. 

They never kiss afterwards, a messy, passionate kiss that tastes like men taste and feels like nothing short of love. 

They never fall asleep in each other’s arms, smelling of sweat and cum. The morning doesn’t come, and they are never stuck in a never ending limbo of night where they are always together. 

It is just a dream, after all.

It will never come true.

*

At breakfast, Vincent seems his usual composed self again. He certainly doesn’t mention what happened -he doesn’t even sit next to him-, but he still smiles shyly, blissfully unaware that he was doing some pretty nasty things in Thomas’ subconscious less than an hour ago.

Thomas finishes his coffee and toast -after 20 years in the Vatican, he still refuses to start his day with a plate full of pastries, like all italians seem to do- and before he leaves for Conclave, he decides to stop at Sister Agnes’ office. 

“Do you have a moment, Sister?”

They make small talk and discuss the logistics of the day for a while, dancing around what Thomas really wants to ask, before he decides that he has been subtle enough.

“Is he better?”

They both know who he means. Thomas knows that it’s all in his head, that Sister Agnes can’t possibly suspect what happened. Still, he feels uneasy; his hands are sweating, his clothes bother him and make him too hot, he wants to run away.

“I’d say so, Your Eminence.” Sister Agnes offers him a seat like she would a troubled sinner, which he refuses, hopefully in a polite manner. “By the time the doctor came, he was much more calm and didn’t require an ambulance. I checked with him today and he said he had a small bruise, that is all.”

But Thomas can tell that she is worried about Vincent. Ever since he thanked the nuns for the meal on the eve of Conclave, all of them have made a fuss about him. One only needed to pay a little bit of attention to easily guess that he was their favourite.

He nods. There is a silence that has started as a comfortable one, but quickly moves to being really awkward. Sister Agnes waits for him to say something else, but he has nothing else to add, so he makes his way to the door.

Then, something occurs to him.

“I need another favor, Sister. Well, it’s not really a favor. It’s more like…” He remembers then that when she came looking for him the other night, he was in front of Michaelangelo’s Pietà. He was panting, on all fours, suffering, immersed in his failed prayer. And she saw him. She saw that. He takes a deep breath and decides to make a fool of himself anyway. “Remember the cat that used to come here? She was white with orange and black spots. You helped me prepare her food, and…”

“Cardinal Benítez came asking for her the other day,” Sister Agnes says, “what a funny coincidence.”

Thomas can see him, shyly knocking on the nun’s office door, shaking his head when they asked if he needed anything in his room. Something to drink, perhaps, or eat. No, Sisters, everything is wonderful. I saw a cat outside the other day, and I wonder, since you all seem to know Casa Santa Marta better than anyone, if you know where she might be. She is small, with orange and black spots… well, thank you anyway. And thank you again for everything you do, Sisters… The older nuns smiling matronly, the younger ones blushing like teenagers, and Vincent trying to help Thomas yet again. Just one of his acts of kindness, motivated by love and nothing else. Just pure love and sweetness.

“Right. Well, he knew I was a bit worried about her, so...”

“He is very kind, isn’t he?”

Thomas smiles. 

How lucky he is to have known him.

How much he will miss him.

If he continues to think about him, he won’t be able to stop the urge to cry.

“Forget about the cat, Sister Agnes. It’s silly.”

The whole thing is silly. The feeling of butterflies in his stomach when he conjures him in his mind, the sudden burst of hotness in his cheeks when he remembers what he was doing to him in his dreams. 

The woman places her small hand on his arm, just for a moment.

“The younger nuns know your cat. They usually give her treats. I’ll ask around.”

“Thank you.” He smiles, and she smiles back. Whatever happens after the Conclave, Thomas realises that he is not alone and that he had a friend in her all along, and it is a comforting feeling, to be seen and to be known like that. “I need another favour, Sister.”

She looks at him, ready to be of service once again. There are a million questions in her eyes: help with the Cardinals? With Benítez? With the Conclave? Yes, yes, yes, he wants to answer. 

“If you can, Sister,” he pulls a folder from his robes and hands her the next Vatican scandal, “I need 108 photocopies of these documents.”

*

When the photocopies came out, the whole thing seemed a good idea. When he and Sister Agnes neatly placed them in their dossiers, it still felt like the right thing to do. But by the time Vincent sits next to him at dinner and he has had time to really process what he’s done, he is a pile of nerves. What right does he have to denounce their colleagues’ sins like that? After what had happened yesterday, he is in no position to judge.

The Cardinals come in and a slow murmur of voices begins to build in the room. Thomas is so focused on what is about to happen that he doesn’t see Vincent until he sits next to him and offers him a plate with bread and fruit.

“Have you eaten today, Thomas?”

Oh, God. He loves the way he pronounces his name. It has that latin cadence, that soft yet masculine tone. Whatever happens in the Conclave and after, the sudden feeling of love for him will never subside, Thomas knows that much. 

Thomas points at the folder.

“After this, you need to vote for Aldo, Vincent.”

Vincent doesn’t seem particularly interested in the next Vatican exposée, but is rather concerned about Thomas’ dinner, which he finds quite funny.

“I’ll take a look if you eat some bread, at least.”

They duel silently for a few seconds, and then they both cave. The bread feels like stones in his mouth and in his stomach, and it is hard to eat and hold his breath while he waits for Vincent’s opinion. The Cardinal of Kabul reads the whole thing, but unlike the other men who are arriving and immediately start pointing fingers and acting scandalized, -even the guilty cardinals whose names Thomas had graciously blacked out-, Vincent only frowns. Then, he looks resigned. 

“This is certainly unfortunate, although not surprising.” He closes the folder; he has already seen everything he needs to see. He looks at Thomas, who swallows his dinner. “But it doesn’t change my vote, Thomas. Nothing will.”

“You can’t possibly still vote for me, Vincent.” He leans slightly towards him. “Not after what happened.”

They look at each other. Vincent doesn’t seem the least bit guilty, embarrassed or remorseful, unlike him. 

“You asked me to vote for a good man. A just man. There is nobody better than you. You have my vote.”

The fact that he still has Vincent’s vote, which means that Vincent still considers him a– what? A good man? A just man? unnerves him.

“You know I don’t want it.”

Vincent looks at him like a doctor who has to give him bad news and Thomas tries to get over the feeling of doom that he suddenly has.

“I don’t want to vote for you either. I want to be selfish. Being elected Pope is a tragedy; it ends your personal life. You can no longer go for a walk around the city, visit your family… Nobody in their right mind would want it. I don’t wish it for you. You have to understand, it breaks my heart every time I write your name in that piece of paper, Thomas. It is the last thing I want, and I suspect it would make you very unhappy. Voting for you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but at the same time, my conscience is clear. I will deal with the feelings of regret later, and I will hate myself every day if you become Pope, but I will sleep soundly knowing I did what God asked me to do. Whoever becomes Pope can’t want it. Plotting, strategizing, manipulating…” He points at the folder in front of him. “This is not the way. It is not God’s way.”

Thomas’ heart sinks.

“So you don’t approve of what I have done.”

“My dear Thomas. May I call you that?” yes, yes, yes, yes, “I’m referring to what’s in the folder, not to the fact that there is a folder on my dinner table. I support what you’ve done, but my support, or Aldo’s, or anyone’s… it shouldn’t sway you. I trust you did what was in your heart, and what was right. This is God’s way, and this is how I will always cast my vote.”

“When you said you wanted to be selfish…”

“I think you will be elected, Thomas. It’s going to be you. I believe it is God’s will. today is our last night of freedom.”

They look at each other. Across the room, Tedesco is going on about the corruption of the Curia, Adayemi is rallying the African Cardinals, Tremblay is sweating so much that he will melt into a puddle at any moment. His time is up. He has to face the consequences of what he did: he broke the seal of the Holy Father’s apartments and violated his sacred privacy. He interfered. He meddled.

He has so much to answer for.

“Vincent, I need to apologize.” He says quickly. The Cardinals are starting to figure out that the only man brave enough -or foolish enough, or both- to get in the late Pope’s room to investigate can be no other than Cardinal Lawrence, Dean of the Curia. “You asked me to go, you begged me to step away, and I didn’t. It was my fault, I’m sorry.”

“Are you? Because I’m not.” Vincent looks calm and at peace, his mere presence soothing him. “I don’t feel any guilt, any shame. Isn’t it strange?”

They smile at each other one last time before the first thunder resonates in the room. The guilty Cardinals are trying to make themselves small, Tedesco seems bigger and bigger by the minute, and the storm is going to get all of them, whether they want it or not.

“Thomas?”

“Yes, Vincent?”

They look at each other. There is so much noise in the room, -chairs against the tile floor, raised voices, glassware clinking- but Thomas can hear Vincent so clearly, like he is speaking directly into his heart.

“Do you want to come to my room tonight?”

He gets up, ready to face the storm head on, before answering.

“I do.” He whispers. Then all hell breaks loose.

*

Thomas is perfectly aware that there is a lot of sex in the Vatican. He has worked there for 20 years and has seen it all, and heard countless confessions of younger priests who repent -genuinely or not- and yet, next month, they are back in the confessionary. He knows all the rumors, sometimes from the primary source, sometimes from whispered conversations in the corridors that he can’t help but overhear. He knows which priests like women, and which don’t. He knows which nuns act on their impulses, and where, and with whom. It is somewhat inevitable, and he hasn’t judged them harshly. Of all the sins that the members of the Roman Catholic Church commit, consenting relations between adults are the least of it, and as long as they don’t interfere with the functioning of the Vatican -and sometimes they have, because jilted lovers can be very vindictive, even if they are 40 year old “celibates”- he doesn’t meddle and he helps everyone in his limited capacity.

There is something about being cooped up in a place with people with similar interests and goals, -end of year high school trips, medical conferences, salesmen conventions, and in the Vatican’s case, a giant building housing hundreds of unmarried adults-, that makes humans fall in each other’s arms. The Conclave is no different, Thomas thinks. When an event has a clear beginning and end, -and most importantly, when everybody goes back to their regular lives after-, the human brain tricks you into thinking there are no consequences, and that the secrets of those days won’t weigh in your mind forever. Sins are free. What happens in Vegas…  

Thomas knows now how these people in conventions, trips and conferences must feel. 

A young doctor who has a perfectly fine fiancée at home but wants her last night of freedom before walking down the aisle in a white dress. I’ll sleep with the same person for the rest of my Iife. I’ll never get a new first kiss. What if I never get another chance?

A married salesman whose wife is too busy with the house and the children to notice that he, despite balding and fattening up, is still attractive. Time is running out, I’m still young (ish), I’m away from home and this woman is smiling at me, what if nobody looks at me like this ever again?

A sixty year old Cardinal who might become Pope. Aldo says it can happen, Vincent has always been sure of it. Thomas is not so sure, but what if? What if I’m stuck here, in this golden cage, until I die? What if I can never go outside without security tailing me, cameras pointing their flashes at me, people asking me to bless them? Even if he doesn’t become Pope, Vincent will return to Kabul. What if he never comes back. What if something happens. What if our goodbye tomorrow is the last time we speak.

On the walk from his room to Vincent’s, Thomas has shed all the doubts that had been troubling his mind, and when he knocks on his door, he is resolute. More than that, he feels at peace. He feels happy.

If has regrets, will repent later. If he sins, he will atone. And if he dies without having confessed, he will be damned.

*

The last men to have to leave do so, and the Cardinals are alone with God in the room where one of them will emerge as Pope. They must vote with their conscience, with their heart, with their faith.

Thomas has never felt so lost in his life.

“The girls didn’t find me very attractive, and obviously I wasn’t interested in them. And being a homosexual in those days… and in that environment… well, you know how it was. Plus, I was never much to look at.”

The night before they had sat on Vincent’s bed, feeling both awkward and eager at the same time. Turns out Vincent believed that he was not the most attractive man on earth, which was baffling to Thomas, to say the least. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous.”

The electricity between them was almost palpable; physical, like the smoke from Tedesco’s vape, enveloping them like a dense cloud. 

“Vincent, there are no words to describe how much I want to kiss you right now. ”

Like in his dream, it had been Vincent who kissed him this time. The urgency of the kiss had caught him a little by surprise, but he had melted into it immediately. Vincent kissed like he talked: firmly and knowingly, but with a feminine gentleness that felt almost supernatural. He placed his beautiful hands on his chest, and the bed seemed to protest when Thomas pushed him softly on the bed; and then they both felt like they were drunk on love, and desire, and want, and nothing else had mattered. 

They hadn’t undressed; everything had happened over their clothes. It had been a true first time, timid and clumsy, as if they were teens and not old men. Like this? Are you alright if I–? It had been urgent, too. Fingers fussing over buttons, opening each other’s cassocks just enough to slip a hand in. Muffled breaths, oh, yes, just like this, the metal sound of their crucifixes, yes, Thomas, like this, like this, just like this, their hips searching for friction, their mouths against each other’s when they came quicker than they both had wanted, first Vincent with a long, hot moan that pushed Thomas to say his name over and over again; Vincent, Vincent, Vincent , then Thomas in Vincent’s arms, just on the edge of glory, coming in slow bursts that felt heavenly painful.

“Oh, Vincent, what are we going to do” Thomas had said afterwards, rearranging his clothes, feeling a burst of shame washing over him.

In Conclave, he looks at him over his shoulder for a second; his reassuring deep, dark eyes, and that smile, like he knows a private joke that only God has shared with him. And with his heart thumping in his chest, he writes his own name on the ballot, gets up, and faces his destiny.

“Leave it in God’s hands” , Vincent had answered next to him in bed, buttoning up his clothes when his trembling hands couldn’t, caressing his cheek sweetly, trying to ease some of his shame.

Thomas Lawrence votes for himself, knowing very well that he is sinning.

And then, just when he thinks that he has gotten away with it, -that he has tricked Him, that he has escape His gaze-, he comes face to face with the wrath of God.

Chapter Text

*

The breeze enters through the same window that was destroyed just an hour ago.

The gash on Thomas’ forehead is pulsing rhythmically. He feels it burn.

He also feels bruises forming all over his body from the fall.

Seated back in the Sistine Chapel, Thomas finds it logical that all the security measures in the world hadn’t stopped God’s will. Obviously. It was the election of His representative on Earth, after all.

Aldo had been the first to come to his aid; he had kneeled in front of him and tried to get him to stand up, but even with the help of a young priest -was it Tedesco’s boy? Thomas thought so- and a Swiss Guard, Thomas only managed to stand up when he saw Vincent going in the opposite direction of the other Cardinals: going to him, instead of escaping. “You’re alright”, he stated, relieved. “You’re alright too”, Thomas had answered. They, along with Aldo and the young men, had left hurriedly with the rest of the Cardinals.

Now, merely an hour after the suicide bombing outside the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel is full of debris and dust, and yet they can’t postpone the vote. The momentum from Tedesco and Vincent’s speeches has them all high on adrenaline, and the two factions want to go on.

With his ballot in his hand, Thomas smiles and looks at the busted high window, where rays of sunshine make their way to touch the work of the great Michelangelo. We can’t prevent God from entering our hearts . He understands now that the window was always meant to be open.

And then, he knows. A mystic calm washes over his troubled soul.

Vincent was right: he will regret it later, but it is the only answer.

God guides his hand, his mind, his heart. And when he swears, in front of his brothers and in front of God, that he is voting for the man who he believes should be Pope, he truly means it. 

Thomas looks at the window one last time, before voting for the only man who has always known that God is in the sun.

*

In the room of tears, when Vincent takes his hands in his and confirms what O’Malley has told him, Thomas can’t believe it at first, and then the reality of what had just happened hits him. He submits to God’s will, because he has felt it clearly. The Holy Spirit was present in that room when they casted the vote; that knowledge will be the last true thing that Thomas feels on this earth. The late Holy Father knew about Vincent, and most importantly, God knew too.

He surrenders. He doesn’t have to manage anymore.

All said and done, he feels very tired. He feels like he has won the war, but as he offers his resignation to His Holiness Pope Innocencius, he knows that he lost the most important battle.

It is no surprise to him that Vincent resists, at first but trying to convince him feels like a bigger task than he can take on at the moment, so he just sighs.

“Please, Your Holiness. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

Vincent offers convincing arguments, “I won’t survive the Curia without you”, but Thomas refuses them with more than reasonable answers, “You will have Aldo, you will have O’Malley and you are a young man, ready for whatever comes; it will be fine.”

He pushes the thought of Vincent trapped in the Vatican for the rest of his life; he is indeed a young man and his papacy could stretch for more than 30 years. He pictures him in the gardens, with the only company of two Swiss Guards, thinking about the last time he left home; the last time he saw his friends; the last time he could go to the movies without security.

“You are the future of our Church. It is God’s will.”

He firmly believes that. He has to.

Vincent looks him in the eyes.

“I don’t want to be without you.”

Thomas offers him a sad smile.

“Vincent, my darling, you can’t possibly think that this could work. That the Pope could have…” What are they? Lovers? Partners? Oh God . “You will make a great Pope. You will be fantastic. You are the future of our Church… but you have to send me away.”

Of all the answers Vincent could have given, he didn’t expect what he says to him.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“What?”

“After you’ve seen it and heard what I have to say, you can go if you want. I will not force you to sin again, although I don’t see what we did as a sin anymore.”

“It is a sin, Vincent. We broke our vows, we–”

Vincent shrugs. There is a new peace to him, a low frequency happiness that he didn’t have before.

“Come, Dean.”

“You can’t leave the Room of Tears, Vin– Your Holiness. The world is waiting for you. The white smoke is about to be seen by millions of people. There are almost half a million pilgrims in Saint Peter’s Square.”

Vincent laces his Converse firmly and takes his hand.

“They will have to wait a bit longer.” He smiles and helps him get up. “This is very important.”

*

Vincent has found her. She is under a table, in an office close to the yard where God used to bless her with sunshine.

She greets the Dean of the College of Cardinals and His Holiness Pope Innocentius with a soft meow of hello, like she had been patiently expecting them.

Thomas feels his throat close and tears build up behind his tired eyes.

“Hi, mummy.”

Her bed is an old fleece, the kind the nuns wear during the winters of Rome. She has a little plate with fresh water and another one with cat food. On her belly, three little white balls rest, nurse and grow, protected by their mother.

“Well done, mummy. Good job.”

A nativity scene in the Vatican is always a beautiful thing to witness.

“She looks happy to see you, Decano Lawrence.”

Concetta purrs like an italian sports car and kneads her blanket. When Thomas offers his hand, she doesn’t hesitate: she bumps her little head against him and offers her chin for rubs, just like she did five days ago when the Conclave hadn’t even started and Thomas’ world hadn’t been turned upside down.

“How did you find her?”

“The Swiss Guards and the gardeners had her shielded here.” Thomas smiles; he hadn’t thought of them, but Vincent had found time to talk to them, learn their names and ask for their help. He really, truly, would be a great Pope. “I couldn’t find her alone, so I asked for help. And people gladly helped me.”

Years in one of the most important positions in the Curia have given Thomas the sixth sense that all good diplomats have, that instinct that tells them when someone is about to say something important; so he tries to change the subject, because he suspects what is coming.

“So she did have another family.”

The next Pope, a true prince of the Church, smiles and sits next to Thomas and his cat, on the floor, his legs crossed and his hands sweetly folded on his lap.

“Yes, and no. She belongs to no one, and yet there were countless people who cared for her. One might interpret that yes, she does have a family. Others might think that she doesn’t, and that’s okay. Both things are true and false at once.”

When Thomas doesn’t say anything, he continues.

“Think about our dear Holy Father’s turtles: they live in land and water. They are two things, and one, at the same time. I told you that I am what God made me, but so are you. We exist between two realities. We sin, we repent, we are happy and sad, we are lonely and together. We aren’t meant to love each other, Thomas, but we do. No matter our contradictions, we are whole. That’s what makes us human.”

Thomas reaches to hold his hand. He knows what he is going to say, and it is his job once again to manage their future, for both their sakes.

“Your Holiness, your life changed today. I imagine it must be very hard. The room where you are supposed to wear white for the first time is not called the Room of Tears for nothing.” He leans closer to Vincent. “What you and I want is impossible. If we’re found out, it could very well mean the end of the Roman Catholic Church.”

“I don’t think it would quite come to that, Decano, you give us too much credit. Perhaps one or two schisms… besides, it’s not like I would be assaulting you all the time.”

Innocentius expects him to laugh at his joke, but all he can offer is a weak smile.

“Oh, my dear Vincent. This simply can’t be.”

But the Archbishop of Kabul has never given up a battle for what he thinks is right, and he doesn’t plan on starting now.

“When you asked me if I wanted to become Pope and I accepted, I made a pact with the Virgin Mary, Thomas.”

Thomas thinks about the fact that he’d had to ask him twice if he accepted the burden.

“Was that when you hesitated?”

Vincent nods. 

“Yes. I thought I couldn’t do it, but I gave my soul to Her. I told Her that I would take the burden, but I would step aside when my condition was to be revealed, because it will. It’s just a matter of time before one of the Cardinals blackmails me. This is how it is going to happen.”

“How do you know?”

“Because only someone inside the Vatican will ever find out about this. Even if the clinic in Geneva has some record of the appointment I made, it would be illegal to reveal that information. Treason will come from within in a few years and in the form of blackmail.”

Thomas thinks of Tedesco first, but somehow, he immediately rejects the idea. Tedesco schemed and plotted to become Pope, but he had lost and now he would obey Pope Innocentius, no matter how much he had hated Cardinal Benítez.

Then he thinks of Tremblay, and he feels his blood go cold inside his body.

“Yes, I think you might be right.”

“I told Mary, Mother of God, that I will work tirelessly for Her and Her Son and I won’t rest until I take Their Church into the light; but I won’t be thought of only as the intersex Pope. It is not a secret exactly, but it is between me and God and I intend to keep it that way.” Then, he leans towards him conspiratiorally. “I told her about you too.”

Thomas smiles. In spite of everything, he can’t help it.

“Oh, did you? What did she think about us?”

“You are my other secret. You are part of me, and I need you. I can’t do this alone. I am asking for your help.”

“Am I part of the pact as well?”

“My identity and the man I love” Thomas swallows nervously, Vincent continues as if he hasn’t noticed, “are not information for my enemies or the tabloids to know. And I need you by my side to help me conceal my secrets for as long as possible. I need you to shield me so I can do my work. I need you to manage the Vatican, so I can manage the Faith. And when it is all over; when I have done so much that those who hate me feel that they are forced to act; when one of those men digs up my past and thinks I will betray my beliefs for my reputation; then, Thomas, we will go.”

“Go where?”

“Does it matter?”

No, it doesn’t , he thinks. I can’t stop smiling, he thinks next.

“I will stay,” he concedes, “I will help you,” he assures him, “I will manage the Vatican for you” he promises.

They smile at each other. 

“Now Dean, I think you were right. The people have been waiting long enough.” Vincent gets up, pets Concetta one last time and offers Thomas a hand to help him. “Let’s go, it’s time.”

Thomas hesitates, though. 

“I’ll join you in a minute.” He softly refuses his hand, and Vincent seems hurt for a moment, until he clarifies. “I think I want to pray.”

Vincent’s smile is bright like the morning sun. 

Thomas thinks he hears him say something along the lines of “I will leave you to it”, but he can’t be sure because God has entered the room. He feels his presence so clearly that he can almost touch him, see him.

So when the new Pope leaves to face the millions of Catholics who are waiting for him, the Dean of the Curia is not by his side; he is seating on the floor of a small office of the Vatican, his clothes full of cat hair, soaking the sun that enters through the window; eyes closed, a small smile, and a faithful prayer for Innocentius and, for once in his life, for himself and his own happiness.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…