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Chapter Text

Lawrence’s faith was not reshaped the way he was promised it would when God tested him. The challenges and experiences he’d faced with the election of a new pope were eye-opening, but they were not transformative. He lowered himself to his knees the same way every night, at the edge of his bed, and his fingers still shook the same when his mind wandered and his prayer faltered. 

A voice in the back of his mind whispered harsh criticisms and impossible doubts day and night, unrelenting and unforgiving in its cruelty. It promised the downfall of not only the Church, but also the people’s faith. Their belief in him and the cardinals, of Benítez as the pope, and of God Himself. Echoes of hatred and division rang through his head whenever he lay down to sleep. 

Some part of Lawrence begged himself to write the voice off as a challenge from the Devil - a determination of hell-wrought lies that clutched themselves to his sleeves and stank of sin. Surely, someone should smell it - the scent of scandal and shame, and surely they should get it over with already and throw him out to the wolves and denounce him in the name of Jesus Christ. Otherwise he might suffer with anticipation for too long and drop dead from the stress.  

Deep within he felt this truly was God’s will. A test of sorts, for him to suffer long and slow through diplomatic meetings in which members of the Roman Curia made in His image shouted at each other over the allocation of Christmas vigil donations and whomever would benefit best from them. 

“All I’m saying is that, even with the excess of donations compared to our original expectations,” Cardinal Ramirez argued from where he was sitting at the head of the table, “We cannot afford to establish new benefits for all the sisters. There is simply not enough after our primary goals are covered.”  

“Then perhaps we should change our primary goals,” Bellini suggested for the third time. He sat calmly opposite Lawrence, but his voice was tinged with a frustration he often couldn’t hold back when it came to their colleagues. “I personally think we could dedicate less towards mission spending money.”  

“Well, we can’t base our budget around your personal beliefs, Cardinal. Not only do our missions rely on extra funds to help the people, but it also stimulates their local economy. Are you saying we need the money more here than those in third world countries?” 

Bellini’s eye twitched, the first hint of annoyance he had shown all day, “Not ‘we’, but the Sisters of Charity. And do you really think the missions need all that money?” 

A vein popped in Ramirez’s forehead. He leaned forward and spoke with a dangerous rage, “Just what are you implying here?” 

A chair scraped against the marble floor as Benítez stood. When Lawrence looked up at him, a halo of lustrous sunbeams outlined his silhouette. He spoke softly, “Cardinals, let’s not argue over trivial matters. Adoration will begin soon and I’d like to be there on time.” 

Even the Secretariat for the Economy could not argue with the Pope. Ramirez nodded silently in acquiescence, though his brows remained furrowed with anger. Bellini took the hint as well and leaned back in his chair. 

Benítez spoke again, “I’d like to know what you think, Dean.” 

Lawrence glanced up at him again in surprise. His Holiness looked down at him with an expecting grace. Taking a breath, he said, “We have less active missions in the winter. The funds from the latest mass could go towards the sisters’ travels as they are expected to make international appearances in February. Then we can expect to dedicate more towards the missions from the Easter surplus.” 

“Consider it done. I think this meeting is over.” 

Lawrence’s momentary shield against the sun stepped away from the table and pushed his chair in with a hurry. Pope Innocent XIV was out the door before anyone else could speak. 

“Well then,” Bellini was the first to push himself up out of his chair, “That was highly unproductive.” 

He circled the table to help Lawrence out of his own seat, allowing him to grip onto the fresh cloth of his recently laundered robes. Ramirez and the rest of his Council stood up to leave as well, muttering amongst themselves with displeasure. 

“I must say it is nice His Holiness has a soft spot for you,” Bellini said, “You can be frustratingly neutral but at least you’ll vouch for my ideas.” 

Lawrence shook his head, “These meetings can’t be good for my heart. I don’t even want to be here, let alone decide such matters as this. The role of Dean is unfit for these conversations.” 

“I’m glad to have you here. It is nice not having to stand alone against these buffoons anymore.” 

“Even you have the final say above Ramirez,” Lawrence reasoned, “I don’t see why it needs to be so complicated.” 

“After the conclave, everything became a challenge.” Bellini swept all his papers together and ruffled through them distractedly, “His Holiness was kind enough to let me keep my position, but not everyone believes I should still have it. As I lost votes in the election, I also lost the respect of our peers. Some also believe they should retaliate against Benítez’s win, a sort of rebellion for Tedesco. Not to mention the rumors of your interferences.” 

“My what?”

Bellini looked at him over the rims of his glasses, calculating with a hint of surprise, as if he had expected Lawrence to understand his meaning. “My friend, surely even you know what they are saying about the pair of you.” 

A shroud of dread settled over him. It carried the same weight as his mozzetta the day the conclave began, heavy on his shoulders and a dragging reminder of his duty. It pained him to ask, “What are they saying?” 

Bellini sighed. He looked around the room, confirming all the others had left and the two of them were alone. He said, “Your introduction to Benítez was an unwelcome surprise to most of us. By then we were convinced we were already familiar with all the candidates for the papacy. And then, one by one, these candidates were ousted in one way or another. You were somehow involved in all these events. Benítez should have had no chance. And yet, his votes grew. This man who had only lived in war-torn countries knew exactly what to say, what to appeal to, at exactly the right times.” 

“That’s ridiculous!” Lawrence exclaimed, “Do they believe I was somehow responsible for the bombings and mass shootings? In what world would I do all that just for a chance to influence the voting?” 

“Hey, I’m not saying I believe them,” Bellini raised his hands in subtle surrender, “Only what they’re seeing: That you broke the seal, engaged in dramatic expositions, and, of course, your devotion.” 

“Devotion. Of course..?” Lawrence echoed. He found himself nearly speechless with the revelations and couldn’t bring himself to think straight. 

“Well, you spend an exorbitant amount of time together. What little free time he has left over is yours and, still, he brings you to all his meetings despite your position. Like you said, there’s no reason for you to be here. What they’re really thinking is ‘How can two men have such undying trust and loyalty to each other if they’ve only known each other for mere months?’”  

“I…”

“Listen, it’s not a big deal,” Bellini looked at him, the comprehension in his eyes so deep Lawrence pondered what it was that made him seem as if he truly understood, “Don’t worry about it. They will talk regardless.” 

“Thank you, Aldo,” Lawrence started for the door, “I think I’ll go to adoration today, will I see you there?” 

“No, I have to write up this report then head to another meeting,” Bellini followed in close pursuit. As they entered the hall and the door closed behind them he said, “If you’d like, we can have dinner together.” 

Lawrence said, “I planned to eat with Vincent already.” 

“I see,” Bellini gave him a knowing look, “Lunch sometime this week, then.”

Nodding, Lawrence headed down the hall, distracted in his thoughts and unhearing of Bellini’s retreating steps down the other end. 

In his room, he pondered a nap to refresh himself after hours of long meetings. Fearing sleeping through the blessed sacrament, he sat on the edge of his bed and attempted to clear his thoughts before heading out again. Lawrence eventually walked into the Blessed Sacrament Chapel a half hour after the adoration service began. 

At the base of the steps leading up the altar, the thurible hung from its chain and allowed clouds of incense to float into the chapel air where they dissipated into the scenery of the ceiling. The Eucharist sat in its throne upon the Communion Table, basking in the spotlight angled downwards and across the Tabernacle. 

The pews were half-full with a weekday crowd, a diverse crowd of dedicated participants - fellow cardinals, Sisters of Charity, men and women dressed in business attire, ties and jackets loosened after a long day’s work. Small coughs and sniffles occasionally broke the silence in the chapel. 

Benítez sat by himself on the left side of the altar in his freshly pressed white robes.  The seats surrounding him were empty in a sign of security and respect. He was in the position most people found him in, head bowed, thumb and index finger thumbing the worn rosary from his time in the seminary in Manila. Lawrence averted his eyes, embarrassed to linger on such an intimate gesture. 

He sat across the chapel from Benítez, to the right of the altar, and bowed his own head to attempt to pray. Still, the prayers did not come easily. He thought, Lord, I thank you for the opportunity to recognize Your Holy presence on this day. Give me the integrity to strengthen my faith and the ambition to pursue the intentions You have made for me. 

After the plea his mind became empty. No matter how hard he tried, Lawrence couldn’t summon a single prayer, let alone a righteous train of thought. Another one of God’s humorous tests, the voice in his head insisted. How cruel.

Looking around, he felt a deep-seated shame growing through his chest. It was easy enough for him to excuse himself as less efficient than his fellow members of the Curia, a majority of them lived to pray and celebrate God’s name. 

But what of the others? Those whose vocations laid elsewhere. His fellow business people. A man kneeled reverently three rows away from him, in the middle of the chapel, lips moving in silent prayer and eyes focused deeply on the Body of Christ. Even someone like this could be better than himself. 

Disgrace sputtered through him. His mind supplied: Not that we dare to classify or compare ourselves with some of those who are commending themselves. But when they measure themselves by one another and compare themselves with one another, they are without understanding. 2 Corinthians 10:12. 

He thought to ask forgiveness for commending not himself but his status as Cardinal, a member of the Roman Curia, one that may be employed to act in God’s favor, but was no closer to God than any other person. 

Focusing again on the Monstrance, Lawrence attempted to follow the man’s example in hopes of creating his own prayer. He did appreciate the beauty the Vatican was allowed to possess. Less fortunate churches were not gifted the opportunities of art they so often indulged in. Although the Eucharist was holy enough on its own, the spiral of golden rays around it were breathtaking each and every time he set eyes upon it. 

In his peripheral, Benítez was his own work of art in the chapel. The outfit he wore for Eucharistic Adoration did not call for the zucchetto, so his dark hair remained loose and free and fell forward to cover his face.  The lock of hair Lawrence was so fond of had not yet escaped its hold, but he could see it fighting to fall just above Benítez’s eye. His dark hair and the tone of his skin were a divine contrast against the white of his robes. 

The Pope was still entranced in his own prayer. His posture hadn’t changed since Lawrence last looked at him, but his fingers now moved through the third decade of his rosary. Benítez did not mouth his prayers like the businessman but sat perfectly still, eyes closed, as if a statue. 

Lawrence thought that if an artist could perfectly capture the essence of Vincent Benítez in this moment, the Holy Trinity Itself would fall into the sin of idolatry.

The moment broke in an instant. Lawrence suddenly found himself staring into the eyes of Pope Innocent XIV, widened with a sort of curiosity and distracted surprise. Warm brown irises fixated on him and soon an understanding clear as day came over them. Lawrence flushed with the realization that he’d been caught staring, with a gaze so intense it had been felt across the chapel and over the presence of the Lord. 

Hurriedly, he dropped his eyes and begged for an escape. This time the Lord was kind and offered a gift in the form of His teachings. He took the Bible from its housing on the back of the pew in front of him and flipped to a random page in hopes of an eye-opening passage. 

The craving of a sluggard will be the death of him, because his hands refuse to work. All day long he craves for more, but the righteous give without sparing. The sacrifice of the wicked is detestable - how much more so when brought with evil intent! A false witness will perish, but a careful listener will testify successfully. The wicked put up a bold front, but the upright give thought to their ways.

So this was his punishment. For Lawrence to find himself made an example of in Proverbs. He briefly thought to open to the New Testament the next time he was looking for any sort of reprieve. 

Minutes later he offered himself the chance to glance up again. Benítez was still looking at him, a kindness in his eyes, but his fingers had circled back to the beginning of his rosary as if he had not stopped praying at all. This time Lawrence didn’t look away. His lips twitched with a hint of a grin that Benítez returned with a soft smile of his own. 

The tolling of the hourly bells broke their moment. Even Benítez, a typical painting of tranquility and cognizance, jumped at the sounds. Lawrence knew their rings by heart but he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate them as he did with the largest bell at Saint Peter’s Basilica, the one that rang only on certain occasions, like most recently at Christmas or months ago when the conclave had finally ended. 

He watched Benítez finish his prayer with a final sign of the cross before standing to return to the altar. The final choreography of adoration had always been Lawrence’s favorite. Shame kicked in his chest again, that he would prefer the aesthetic wonders of adoration over the marvels of prayer and the goodness of the Lord. To watch the pope wrap the monstrance to avoid tainting it, and to see him return the Eucharist to its home, marked with Jesus praised by the apostles and surrounded by angels, was a blessing in itself.  

The canvas altarpiece behind the Tabernacle portrayed the Holy Trinity looking upon it. As Benítez approached it, he looked so in place he nearly faded into the painting and became their object of affection.

Typically one should leave the chapel after restoring the Eucharist to its home, but Pope Innocent XIV was a man of the people. After the golden doors of the Tabernacle were closed, he stepped off the altar and circled around to chat with those leaving out the main doors. Lawrence stayed where he sat and watched the interactions. 

“Thank you for coming.”

“I hope to see you next time.” 

“I see you’re doing better this week. I had kept you in my prayers.”

It was clear Benítez felt more at peace here with the people than in meetings. Unlike earlier, he talked friendly and casually without hesitation. Most everyone shook his hand with an enlightened glee before they were gone, but he didn’t turn down the occasional hug, either, welcoming them in with a warm embrace.

The businessman was the last to leave. His approach was different from the rest, coming close to grab onto Benítez’s arms and pulling him close. He spoke so softly that Lawrence couldn’t make out the words, but he could tell from tone alone how enthusiastic he seemed. Benítez matched his tone and spoke quietly as well. He chatted excitedly with the businessman and when he heard another piece of news he pulled the man forward into a hug. 

Lawrence sat up with a start. Benítez was far from touch-averse, but it wasn’t often he initiated exaggerated gestures such as this one. He watched them pull apart and his eyes lingered on the way the businessman’s hand gratefully squeezed Benítez’s before finally stepping outside the chapel and leaving. 

As Benítez turned away from the backs of the leaving guests, Lawrence forced himself to look back down at his bible to avoid getting caught staring again. 

If anyone turns a deaf ear to my instruction, even their prayers are detestable.

Lawrence sighed. The devil laughed inside his head, its cruel echo resounding in his ears. The Lord had no retort. 

“May I sit, Your Eminence?” 

“Your Holiness!” Lawrence exclaimed. He gestured at the empty space beside himself, “Please.”  

Benítez had crept up with silent footsteps he was still unused to. He took the spot and turned to peer at him. They sat together for a few uncomfortable moments while he took Lawrence’s situation into account. His eyes roved over the bible in his lap, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the page he was on, and eventually the verse Lawrence found himself struggling with. 

“I’m glad to see you here,” he said, “How did you find the proceedings?”

“Terrific, as usual. Adoration never fails to render me speechless,” Lawrence said. 

The way it also rendered him scatterbrained and empty, he didn’t mention. Benítez had a way of understanding what he meant, anyway. He took Lawrence’s hand in his and held tightly, “Have you still been struggling with prayer?” 

Lawrence couldn’t bring himself to feel annoyed by it. He gave a tight-lipped grin, self-deprecating in its truth, “Is it that obvious?” 

“Only to the trained eye,” Benítez assured him. It would have been obvious in the way he caught Lawrence staring earlier, but at least he was kind about it. “You come off composed in front of big groups, but I find that, in one-on-one situations, it’s quite easy to know what you’re thinking.”

Lawrence avoided looking at him. He turned his eyes back to the bible and studied the creases his fingers had made on the pages. “I’m afraid I’m not quite sure how to fix it,” he admitted. 

“Oh, Thomas,” Benítez shifted and Lawrence saw his knees turn to face him more fully, “I don’t think prayer is something you can fix. Improve, yes, but fix? Perhaps not. Tell me, what about your prayer is broken?”

“I- I’m not sure,” he repeated, “It’s as though my mind goes blank whenever I try. I cannot even think of the words.”

“Do you think of anything at all?”

Not really. Mostly nothing. His own shame, sometimes. Sometimes, thick locks of brown hair and a matching set of eyes. Familiar hands stretching the fabric of a dove-white cassock and perhaps reaching towards the buttons. 

Lawrence shook his head.

“Your homily before the conclave began. You had told me it was unscripted and it was as though the Holy Spirit spoke through you. Was that not prayer?” 

It was. But I was not alone. You were there , Lawrence thought. He could not speak it. Instead, he said, “Often I try to speak with God. I cannot bring myself to do so, for whatever the reason. It feels as though I am in cohorts with the Devil. It has worsened my temper and I have provoked innocent people to make myself feel better.” 

“Do you feel as if these interactions with others are genuine?” Benítez asked. 

“I’m not sure. I have always felt frustration with people, especially my coworkers. What manager hasn’t?” 

“And do you feel frustration, as a human being? With your fellow cardinals? With the bishops?” 

“Of course.” 

“As do I,” Benítez said, “It is only natural. I believe you are influenced by your title. You think you have a role to play, and you must uphold this appearance at all times, do you agree?”

“Yes,” Lawrence nodded, “But it all seems artificial. An act. I have these thoughts - terrible thoughts - and I cannot stop myself from thinking them. Sometimes I fear it is not the Devil, but my own soul that creates them.” 

“And if I were to say they were indeed your soul?” 

Lawrence blinked. He hadn’t expected the words. “Then I would implore you to reconsider my position again. The Dean of Cardinals and a Bishop of the Vatican should not devise these thoughts.” 

“Your Eminence, might I hear these thoughts?” 

Images ran through Lawrence’s head, impure pictures held back in an album in his mind, that he vowed to never pursue in the House of the Lord, let alone Saint Peter’s Basilica in conversation with the Pope. He shook his head, “What sorts of prayer do you have? I am always inspired by your dedication to it.”

Benítez placed his fingers underneath Lawrence’s chin and gently tilted his head up so they could look into each other’s eyes. He said, “I know you know better than this, Thomas. To me, prayer is the closest form of communication with God; it is completely personal and to attempt to imitate someone else’s is to put up a wall.” 

His eyes were deeply imploring and dug perfectly into Lawrence’s soul. Not reprimanding, but begging him to understand. Frustration poured through Lawrence, but Benítez’s touch disallowed him from clenching his hands into fists. He snapped, “Then what can I do?” 

“Thomas,” Benítez squeezed his hand in warning disapproval. His eyes sharpened with admonishment that made Lawrence feel the need to apologize immediately. He said, “Would you like to hear a verse I’ve been appreciative of recently?” 

Lawrence nodded wordlessly. He felt the tips of Benítez’s fingers move with the bobs of his head.

Letting go of his hand and withdrawing the support under Lawrence’s jaw, he reached for the Bible resting in his lap. His agile fingers flipped deftly through the pages with a practiced ease and paused only when they reached the Gospel of Luke. Benítez glanced up at him, “Can you see from there?”

Without waiting for a response, he scooted closer. The cloth of their thighs pressed together and Lawrence felt his body heat through the fabric. He forced himself to stay still enough to gaze down at the verse. 

Even though they were close enough to read the verse to themselves, Benítez read it to Lawrence softly, as though telling him a bedtime story,

 “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’” 

Lawrence looked up at Benítez again. His side profile was softly calm and the lines around his eyes crinkled when he noticed in his peripheral that Lawrence was staring, studying, committing every feature and line to memory. He continued with a small smile,

“ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent. ”

When he finished reading, Benítez closed the book and placed it back on its shelf on the pew. He turned to steadily meet Lawrence’s gaze head-on and grabbed hold of his hand again. He said, “Tell me, how do you feel about the Parable of the Lost Sheep?”

Lawrence stared at their entwined fingers. Linked together, it felt more intimate between the two of them, far different from the usual respectful hold of prayer they adopted. Vaguely, he said, “I am well aware of the meaning of the story. It’s a must-read for every Catholic child.” 

“We know each other well,” Benítez said, “You would understand why I would have a special connection with it. And I would understand if you felt a connection, too.”

“I do. I believe everyone would.”

“I agree. But if everyone was a lost sheep, who would be the ninety-nine righteous persons without sin?”

Lawrence felt as though he was back in Bible study, sitting in the front of class and eagerly raising his hand before the others so the nun in charge would like him best. He said, “Aside from Mary and Jesus, there would be no one.”

“Exactly,” Benítez nodded, and Lawrence felt a surge of pride, not unlike the ones he’d had sixty-five years ago, in the basement of his hometown church and beneath the praising eyes of the nun. “Sin is a part of the human experience. To live and fully appreciate God’s gift to us is to experience sin.”

Lawrence clutched tight at Benítez’s hand. He said, “But I don’t want to live in shame anymore. It’s eating me up inside.”

Benítez paused. He rubbed his thumb along the length of Lawrence’s and gazed down to where they were connected. Eventually, he said, “Although your thoughts are a part of you, they are hardly an accurate reflection of your character. If you were to visualize demonic ideals, as an example, what truly matters is your reaction, your responses to them. Even Jesus Himself considered the Devil’s temptations. Would you hold yourself to a higher standard than Him?”

Lawrence’s eyes widened. He shook his head. Of course the Pope would utilize his own techniques against him, calling upon the actions of Jesus Christ’s humanity in comparison. 

“Good. I would like to assign you an honorary penance. It will be easy. I want you to relearn the basics of the rosary. One decade a day. Can you do that for me?”

“Is that all?” Lawrence asked. It seemed too easy. He practically already prayed the rosary daily anyway. The Pope was kind, but he was never one to underestimate the abilities of another, especially one of his managers.

“One more thing,” Pope Innocent reached into a pocket of his robes and drew out his rosary, “I want you to pray for me.” 

“For you?”

“Yes, it seems as though you have placed me on a pedestal. However, I am human, imperfect, just like you. The sooner you recognize this, the better.” He let go of Lawrence and quickly placed the rosary in his still open hand. “And I want you to use this.” 

“Wait,” Lawrence attempted to give the rosary back, “I know what this rosary means to you, I have my own.”

“No,” Pope Innocent refused to take it, “You will have more use of it then I will at this point.” 

“But-”

“I’m afraid dinner will be later than planned, perhaps 8?” Benítez rose from his seat. He offered his arm to Lawrence, “I am already late for Benediction.” 

Lawrence allowed himself to be helped up. He refused to look at the tension he put on the cassock and forced himself to make eye contact instead, “I’ll see you then.” 

They headed their own ways, but the nearly silent click of Benítez’s shoes against the floor rang in Lawrence’s ears until long after they separated, when he undressed and changed into casual attire in his room and forced himself to stop thinking of the other. 

The rosary claimed a spot on his bedside table, faded brown standing out against the dark grain of the table’s recently polished wood. It looked as if it was right where it belonged, Lawrence thought, and he mourned that he would have to give it back in less than a week. 

He considered doing his penance quickly before it was time to meet Benítez for dinner but decided against it. If he was going to do it right, there was no need to rush. And still, he was unsure of how to pray for him, the holiest man he’d ever known, and a thousand times better than he could even begin to be. Neither the Lord nor the Devil offered any insight.

Chapter Text

The weight on Lawrence’s shoulders did not lift the way it typically did after a confession. Usually after his penance, it felt as though God Himself had helped him up off the ground and brushed his shoulders off before sending him off running again. Why did he awake, then, in a dazed fog with a still-guilty conscience? 

In the morning, he’d been cursed with an immediate headache encouraged only by the beads of Benítez’s rosary that rattled together obnoxiously loud throughout the afternoon. They’d been in his fingers when he woke, entangled and nearly cutting off his circulation, as if God had resorted to His vengeful ways to deal with his insubordination. Muddled thoughts swirled through him and left him in a trance the entire day. He suspected the Devil had concocted a mixture of remorse and incompetence and poured it down his throat while he slept. 

Falling asleep while praying the rosary? He asked you to do one thing. 

The sun had long set and a January chill had settled in the air by the time Lawrence finished all his duties and stepped out for some personal time and a stroll through the Vatican. It was nearly enough for him to retreat back into the Palace of the Holy Office for the night, but the thought of going back to his apartment and attempting the second decade persuaded him to stay out. 

Few others were foolish enough to be outside like him, so he rarely passed another on the paths. When he did, a silent nod sufficed as polite conversation. Anyone out so late was eager to be alone in their thoughts. 

(More likely, their prayers, as they likely assumed for him as well.)

It was this same reasoning that conflicted him when he came upon the late Holy Father’s turtles gathered around the bench occupied by a familiar body. The night was clear but the air was frigid and Benítez wore a jacket over his papal robes. Winter in Italy was far from brutal, but it was no doubt colder than Benítez would have been used to in Manila or Baghdad. Lawrence felt a twinge of sympathy for the man.

Intending to cross behind him silently, he slowly crept forward on his same path. Benítez clearly never cared to see Lawrence’s plans through. As Lawrence passed on his left, he said, “Here to check on Magdalene, Your Eminence?”

Caught, as if a teenager sneaking out of their window late at night, Lawrence said, “Your Holiness?” 

From this angle, Lawrence thought he’d been praying. Benítez had adopted his typical pose, slightly hunched over himself and head bowed deep in concentration. Upon closer inspection, the hands hovering over his lap gently held a turtle, not a rosary. A pass of guilt quivered through Lawrence. If he hadn’t taken the Holy Father’s rosary, he might rather be praying with it right then.

“You noticed one of the turtles was acting strangely,” Benítez finally looked at him and held up the one he was holding, “I took the liberty of giving her a check-up.”

“And naming her?” 

“Well, yes,” Benítez said sheepishly, “The others are harder to tell apart, but Magdalene has this patch of discoloration on her shell, here,” he pointed to a spot by her left leg, “so I thought I would dignifiy her with a name.” 

“That’s very touching,” Lawrence said earnestly. “So, is Magdalene doing well?”

“Oh yes, I believe she was just aching with the first snowfall of the year. She seems to be the oldest of them all.” 

“I’m glad.”

Benítez shifted and leaned over to set Magdalene back down with her brethren. Lawrence quietly mourned the ability to bend over the way he did, his agility gone with his age. As he sat back up, he gestured to the spot next to him on the bench, “Please, sit.” 

Lawrence hesitated for a moment before complying. He slowly lowered himself on the seat and hoped to avoid thought-provoking conversation.

Benítez said, “How has your penance been treating you?” 

It was only natural the Pope would follow up with one of his employees on a topic they’d covered the day before. Lawrence wished he’d taken time off to avoid having to meet the deadline. Giving a half-hearted shrug, he said, “I admit I have failed thus far. I chose a bad time to begin yesterday and fell asleep halfway through. Today’s attempt has not yet been made.” 

Benítez’s eyes did not flash with pity or disgrace. Perhaps Lawrence had spent too much time with his other colleagues. The tacit perception always surprised him. Benítez said, “That’s alright. You still have four days left to try.” 

Lawrence shook his head. The action was painful and there was a force behind it, as if he’d slept wrong and developed a crick in his neck. He opened his mouth and the Devil gave him the strength to speak. “I am still thinking of resigning.” 

Surprise flashed in Benítez’s eyes this time. Lawrence wished he could revel in it, for it was uncommon for the Pope to be caught off guard, but only sadness filled him. As a seventy-five year old cardinal, he never thought he’d experience heartbreak, but the exposed vulnerability Benítez exhibited in the moment would never disappear from his mind. Faintly, he asked, “Why?” 

“I am not fit for this role. I fear my faith has completely disappeared and I have no motivation to live the Word of God. There is nothing for me here.” 

“Nothing?” Benítez repeated, voice hollow.

“I am truly sorry, Your Holiness. It feels as though there is nothing left for me to do.” 

Benítez became silent. He looked away from Lawrence and stared down at the turtles as they made their way back to their pond. In his lap, his fingers twisted together as if unsure how to intertwine together in prayer. 

The cold air grew stilted and tense with anticipation. Lawrence stared at him and waited for a response. 

When it came, he spoke with a calm level, though his voice was hardened and words tough, “Am I nothing to you? Have you lost all regard for me, then? When I asked you to stay and you vowed to serve with undying loyalty, was that all a lie?”

“Your Holiness,” Lawrence reeled back, unexpecting the harsh reaction, “It’s not that-”

“What, then? I know it’s not your faith, you are the most devoted person I know and without you I would be lost. Without you, the Church would be lost. You claim to have lost your beliefs, but I know that cannot be true, otherwise you would not have stayed by my side and fought for me the way you’ve done since the conclave.”

Devoted? The same word Bellini had used to describe Lawrence when it came to Benítez. It shot a cruel pang through him so scathing he reached up to clutch at his heart.

“Tell me why, Thomas.”

“Why what?” He asked, pathetically.  

“Why are you still here?”

“You cannot expect me to leave without your permission,” Lawrence attempted to reason, “It is the same reason I stayed for the late Holy Father. You both asked me to stay.” 

“Don’t,” Benítez looked sharply at him, “Do not lie to me. It’s unlike you. Do you really expect me to believe it’s the exact same? The conclave changed us cardinals, but you certainly changed most of all.” 

“I-” Lawrence cut himself off. 

He thought of the best way to answer. To tell Pope Innocent XIV the reason he had to leave? It seemed almost blasphemous. Yes, I stayed because of you. But not for God. For you. And now, if I continue living like this, my entire existence will be consumed by heresy through devotion for another god.  

“I don’t know,” he said. 

It was silent again and Benítez continued to look at him in expectation. When it became clear Lawrence would not answer truthfully, he sighed in disappointment. Defeated, he said, “Will you do one more thing for me before you go?” 

The acceptance hit Lawrence like a bag of rocks. He felt no relief with the dismissal. Perhaps the Devil had injected his concoction through his veins without his knowledge. He said, “Anything, Your Holiness.” 

“Finish your penance. Once you’ve finished your fifth and final decade, then I will accept your resignation.” 

Lawrence couldn’t disagree. “Okay.”

The frigid cold of the bench soaked through his garments. The icy weather froze him in his seat, and he desperately desired to stay there, close to Benítez. If he closed the gap between them, would the warmth he emanated spread through Lawrence and comfort the ache in his bones? The frosty air between them prevented him from moving at all.  

Benítez held out the first olive branch, “Would you like some assistance with today’s decade?” 

“Please,” Lawrence surprised himself with the easy answer. He was eager to dispel the tension that had grown between them, “If you wouldn’t mind.” 

“I never mind doing anything with you, Thomas. Did you bring my rosary?”

Reaching into his pocket, Lawrence pulled out the rosary. The beads clacked against each other with a familiar sound and weighed heavy in his hand. He held it out, “Here.”

“We’ll share, if that’s okay.” Benítez directed Lawrence’s fingers to grasp the first bead of the second decade. Then, he laid his own hand atop and closed his fingers around Lawrence’s. “Like this.”  

The rumors that had spread so viciously about them would have increased tenfold if anyone saw them now, sharing a seat and a rosary and holding hands like lovers. His brittle fingers immediately thawed with the hold. Lawrence exhaled a shaky breath, “Yes, okay.”

“Good. Would you like to lead, or shall I?”

Throat dry, Lawrence coughed lightly and said, “I’ll follow in your lead, Your Holiness.” 

“Okay,” Benítez nodded. He gestured the sign of the cross between the two of them, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” 

Together, they prayed the Our Father. Benítez began and, when the line came, Lawrence joined in. Then they did the same with the Hail Marys. As they finished one, Benítez would loosen his grip and allow Lawrence to move his fingers to the next bead, then he would follow and hold tight around his hand again. Each time, a suppressed shudder rolled through Lawrence. 

Again the beauty of his Pope captivated Lawrence. His eyes were cast downward in focused prayer but Lawrence had no doubt his own gaze cast an unavoidable weight on his senses. Silently, he praised the man for having the strength not only to pray with such reverence, but also to carry the dead weight of Lawrence with him. As he spoke, his lips moved with a softness that shaped his words to a calm that supported their prayer and soothed the strain of the previous conversation. 

Moonlight illuminated them on the bench, and it shone in Benítez’s hair, reflecting the few grays he’d accumulated in the few weeks of his papacy. Lawrence mourned the day his hair would turn white, though at least it seemed Benítez would keep the fullness far longer than he did. 

All too soon they reached the end and Lawrence wished he’d been assigned the entire rosary each day, just to keep Benítez close a little bit longer. 

Oh my Jesus, forgive us our sins. Save us from the fires of hell. Lead all souls into heaven, especially those in most need of thy mercy. Amen.  

If Benítez noticed Lawrence clutching the rosary harder, he didn’t mention it. It was him that broke the silence again. Still holding Lawrence, he said, “I do hope you change your mind. It would be hard for me to do this without you.” 

Lawrence said, “I hope so, too.” 

He dropped his hand into his lap, taking the rosary with him, and Benítez finally let go. The two of them sat alone in the cold winter air, turtles long gone and any sounds of life in the city had fallen silent some time ago. 

He pushed himself up with difficulty and said, “I’d better turn in. It’s been a long day.” 

Turning away and looking up into the starry night sky, Benítez said, “Get some rest, Your Eminence. I think I’ll stay here a bit longer and meditate.”

“Goodnight, Your Holiness.” 

Lawrence trekked back towards his apartment in conflicting sorrow. Inside, the heat was on. It thrummed throughout the building and disturbed his thoughts. An artificial air couldn’t compare to the warmth lingering on his fingertips. It was a good thing Benítez had helped him that night - there was no doubt he could possibly pray by himself after everything. 

Preparing for bed, he dug out the rosary to put it back on his bedside table. With quick reconsideration he laid down instead, back against the mattress and facing the ceiling, and held it tightly in his hands. Imaginative wonder flowed through him and he pictured Benítez helping him again. This time, he held the rosary in one hand, tangled in his dark fingers, and it pressed against his cheek as he held Lawrence’s face in his hand. 

Lawrence pictured him dragging his hand down to caress his neck intimately, beads pressing kisses against his jugular, and further down his chest to rest upon his heart. After a Hail Mary, Benítez might continue his path down further, to his waistband, and further still and continue praying there. 

He pictured Benítez pressing deeper, the cold metal and polished wood of the rosary digging into him, the smooth heat of careful, calloused hands moving against him and tugging him closer and closer to the pit of Hell while the tune of the Lord played in the background. 

Lawrence snapped his eyes open, unsure of when he’d let them fall closed and allowed them to fantasize freely like never before. He shoved the rosary into a drawer and slammed it shut. Out of habit, he turned off his lamp and fell into his nighttime posture, arms folded crosswise against his chest and deliberately distant from where he’d grown hard in his pants. 

It didn’t take long for Lawrence to fall victim to his exhaustion. His dreams were subject to harsh visions of Revelations, in which he drowned endlessly in a lake of fire and incessantly choked on the smoke entering his nostrils and filling his lungs. 

Hours into his suffering, he noticed Dante beside the lake, standing there and lecturing him as he did Ulysses: Considerate la vostra semenza: fatti non foste viver come bruti, ma per seguir virtute e canoscenza.

Chapter Text

Along with his lies, the devil whispered to Lawrence temptations of lust.  Throughout the night he was further tormented with dreams of Benítez as the Son of God, preaching the gospel throughout the world and saving lives. 

He dreamt of himself as the followers of Christ. First, as John, baptizing a half-clothed Benítez in the Jordan river. As a prostitute, cleaning his feet with perfume valued higher than his persona. As the beloved disciple, held in the Savior’s arms and resting on his chest. As Judas, betraying God with an intimate kiss upon His only son’s cheek. As himself, on his knees and bent over, asking, begging, praying, for completion. 

Visions of bare skin pressed flush against his own flashed behind his eyelids when he woke.

At the very least, he came out appreciating John, for at least the visions that haunted him had transformed into the Book of Revelations. The only thing Lawrence received was another guilt-stricken morning worse than the day before. Then, he hadn’t needed to deal with the betrayal of his own body by means of an icy shower before the sun had even risen. 

The cotton cloth of his everyday attire stuck uncomfortably to his still-wet skin as he dressed in the bathroom, eager to hide his aged and wrinkled skin in the mirror - the same place he avoided looking himself in the eye. Shame to such an overwhelming degree hadn’t resided in his bones for decades, since he’d originally discovered the thrill and allure of feeling a man’s eyes lingering on his and, knowing the implications, held contact just a second too long to be considered friendly. 

Back then, in his teen’s, he’d thrown himself into dignified prayer and intense meditations to win the favor of God back on his side. Benítez had said that he’d changed. It was true to an extent, possibly, but in this way he was the same. Lawrence spent the day in meetings and autopiloting his way to the next distraction in attempts of avoiding the Holy Father. 

Benítez’s rosary sat dense in his pocket, leaden with the implications of the devil’s carnal fantasies. It was when he finished his weekly catch-up with the Secretary of State that it became too heavy for him to bear. 

“Will you be seeing Vincent today?” he asked. 

“We have a one-on-one scheduled before Adoration. In a few minutes, actually,” Bellini said, checking his watch, “Why do you ask?” 

Lawrence drew out the rosary from his pocket, “I accidentally took this from him. Would you give it back when you see him?” 

A classic eyebrow raise, “You accidentally took the Holy Father’s rosary from him.”

Lawrence flushed, “Yes.” 

“And how, exactly, did that happen?”

“Aldo, you’re a good friend to me. If I asked you to do this quietly with no questions asked, would you?” 

“I would,” Bellini folded his arms and leveled him with a serious look, his favorite technique that said, Do not bullshit me , “But I wouldn’t get between whatever’s going on between the two of you. Especially without explanation. As cardinal, a man’s rosary is like a wedding ring. As Pope…” 

Lawrence clutched the rosary tight between his fingers and felt the beads scrape against each other. He pleaded, “Yes, it is indeed personal, however…” 

He paused, unsure of what to reveal to Bellini. “However, I fear what will happen if I keep it.” 

Bellini laughed, “Thomas, you act as though the rapture will commence if you keep a gift from the Pope. You should be thankful! No one else has received such a thing before. Even I only acquired the late Holy Father’s chess set after he passed.” 

Although he couldn’t help it, Lawrence felt a blasphemous surge of pride. He’d only recently been made aware of the relationship he had with Pope Innocent XIV, but was he really the only one close enough like this? Thinking back, he recalled the businessman in adoration a couple days ago. The way he’d casually held Benítez in his arms and how they’d talked as if old friends. And yet, it was nothing compared to what he shared with Lawrence.

“No,” he shook his head and cleared it of the Devil’s enticings. He forced Bellini’s hand up and shoved the rosary onto his palm in an aggressive imitation of what Benítez had done to him. He said, “It can’t be my fault. I can’t take it anymore.” 

Bellini flinched with the sudden force, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. He began to speak but Lawrence had already turned and stomped out of the room. 

Later, he would feel embarrassed at the fit he’d thrown, but in the moment he couldn’t contain his fear. To fully acknowledge and relish in his closeness with the Pope was one thing, to hear out the Devil’s promises and consider accepting them was another. He remembered Benítez’s words, Even Jesus Himself considered the Devil’s temptations. Would you hold yourself to a higher standard than Him?

No, he wasn’t better. He would indeed fall into the Devil’s temptations. He’d follow them right into the depths of Hell. The least he could do was ensure he wouldn’t drag Benítez down with him. 

Reassured that Benítez was preoccupied with his own meetings, Lawrence felt safe enough to stroll around the city. The temperature was more acceptable during the day, within the sights of the sun. He sat on a bench in one of the parks, soaking up the warmth, and decided it best to still continue his penance. 

Returning the rosary to Benítez had been unintentional, a spur of the moment, unplanned action. Lawrence mourned his own rosary, neglected on his desk in his room. He decided to fight through the prayer the old-fashioned way. Ten fingers counted each Hail Mary. With only one decade, he found himself grateful to avoid using his wrinkled knuckles, which had grown frigid despite the lack of clouds in the sky. 

The decade passed quickly. Keeping Benítez in his prayers was easier when he could be reassured he would no longer taint his belongings. The prayer itself felt emptier. Without Benítez there, Lawrence couldn’t focus as well and felt as though it had been done out of pure routine instead of devotion. 

In the kitchens he overhead the rumblings of Benítez again. In silence, the sisters served food to the cardinals stopping by, but they continued talking as soon as they were alone again. Again Lawrence felt like a teenager as he stopped just outside their line of sight and eavesdropped. 

“The Holy Father was absent for Adoration today.”

“Really? I thought he hadn’t missed one since his election.” 

“He hasn’t. But today he asked Father Caruso to do it.” 

“Why?”

“No one knows. Although…I heard he seemed in a bad mood.” 

“A bad mood? I’ve never seen him in that state before.” 

“Who has? I even talked to him and he seemed fine. He said he was looking for the Dean, that’s all.” 

“Cardinal Lawrence? I thought they knew where the other was at all times.” 

They laughed together and it shot a wince through Lawrence. He chided himself for listening. Nothing good ever came from snooping around. He turned to leave and was met with the stormy blue eyes of Sister Agnes. 

“Oh!” His hand flew up to where his heart nearly beat out of his chest, “Sister, please try not to sneak up on me, I can’t handle it at my age.” 

“Your Eminence,” she said, “Cardinal Ramirez was filling me in about the recent budget.”

“Oh, yes,” Lawrence said, “It was mostly Cardinal Bellini’s idea. What are your thoughts on it?”

“I appreciate your looking out for us, of course, but I made a few tweaks. Would you mind reviewing the document?” 

“Did Cardinal Ramirez look over it? He’s really the one in charge of all that,” Lawrence looked around, distracted with the thought of Benítez coming to search for him. 

“Yes, but he said the Holy Father preferred when you made these decisions.” 

“Oh, alright. Let’s go quickly, then.” 

They stepped away and Sister Agnes led him with such a brisk pace he found himself nearly running after her. He attempted to make conversation with her, but she did not respond. The office they’d been in before and where he’d met Benítez came up on the left. He began to turn towards it, but she kept walking past. 

Soon they reached the basilica. The sun was beginning to set, red-orange hues cast over the right side and leaving the east side dark and cold. Lawrence said, “Sister, there were at least three other entrances we could have gone through that would have required less walking.”

“I apologize, Your Eminence,” she said, unapologetically. 

“It is my fault,” Benítez said, “This side was better for me.”  

He stood along the side of the building, half encased in shadow and half alight with the blessing of the sun. His hands were folded in prayer and the rosary dangled from them. Lawrence wasn’t surprised to see him. He said to Sister Agnes, “I did not expect your participation in this, Sister.”

She leveled them both with a cold glare, “And you will never have to again, I hope.” 

Benítez approached them and he bowed his head to her, “Thank you, Sister. I have reviewed the changes and approved them. You may go now.” 

He watched her go until she turned the corner and her blue robes disappeared from sight. Each of her retreating steps sent a chill down Lawrence’s spine.  Benítez’s eyes were a heavy weight on him and he knew their gazes would connect as soon as he turned back. Now that she was gone, he could delay it no longer. 

“How are you doing today?” he asked as soon as they made eye contact. 

“I must admit I’ve been better.” 

“Me too,” Lawrence admitted. 

Benítez fixed his gaze past him, saying no more. His fingers fiddled with the rosary. Lawrence noticed he had not made it past the third Antiphon Bead. 

“Did you need something from me?” Lawrence asked.

When Benítez looked at him again, he clenched his jaw and said, “Do you intend to break my heart before you leave?” 

The words lifted Lawrence up in the air and suspended him there. Confusion gripped him and he gaped at him, mouth flopping open and closed like an idiot, “I- what?”

“Don’t play a fool, Thomas. You know I hate when you do that.” 

“Please elaborate. How have I broken your heart, Your Holiness?” 

“Don’t-” Benítez clenched his fists, jostling his rosary, “Don’t call me that. It’s Vincent.” 

“Vincent. I’m sorry,” Lawrence said. He looked imploringly into his eyes, “I’m confused. Please tell me what you mean.”

Benítez took a deep breath. The clouds in his eyes wavered and he blinked them away before he spoke again, “I didn’t know if I would see you again. When Cardinal Bellini gave me the rosary back, I became paralyzed with fear.” 

“It wasn’t meant to mean anything. I felt guilty withholding your keepsake for so long.” 

“Even when I was struck by the car bomb, I knew what to do. When I came here and was forced into the conclave without any planning, I knew what to do. Today, when I believed you had left without so much as a word, it felt as though God had left me for the first time in years.” 

Lawrence reached up with an aborted move. His hand stopped just before he could hold onto Benítez. He dropped his arm and miserably said, “I’m sorry.” 

Benítez followed his movements. After watching his arm fall, his eyes grew wet again. Hoarsely, he said, “Sorry for what? I wish you would tell me. I want to make things right, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what I did to upset you. I don’t want you to leave.” 

Either God or Satan controlled him, he wasn’t sure which, and he grabbed Benítez by the arm and pulled him forward. Benítez stiffened with the action, but his body slotted perfectly to mold against Lawrence, chin resting just atop his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man and waited for him to return the hug. 

Hesitantly, Benítez’s arms came up to return the gesture. Tightly, they wound around Lawrence’s chest and his fingers dug into his back. 

Lawrence’s mouth was nearly full of hair, but he said, “I’m sorry for giving you excuses. I didn’t take your feelings into consideration and tried to save face.”

“Save face for what?” Benítez asked. His lips brushed lightly against Lawrence’s ear, soft tone breaking with a quake and sending a pang through Lawrence’s heart and a shiver down his spine. “I thought we could tell each other anything.”

Lawrence drew back and lowered his hands to grip Benítez’s arms. He looked down into his brown eyes, watery with unshed tears. Unconsciously, his hand came up to wipe just below the water lines, catching his tears before they could fall. 

When it came to it, Benítez could decide his consequences. Lawrence dropped a hand down to clutch the hand that held the rosary. He led them inside Saint Peter’s Basilica and to the right transept. Together, they stopped below the Saint Joseph Calasanctius statue and before the confessional.

Lawrence said, “Will you hear my confession?” 

Benítez looked at him and Lawrence felt as though, for the first time ever, he had rendered him speechless. A lock of dark hair fell over his eye. Lawrence stepped closer and tucked it behind his ear with his free hand. Then, he stepped back and pulled his hand away, taking the rosary with him. 

He stepped into the confessional, closed the door behind him, and kneeled behind the screen separating the two sides. Seconds later, he heard the door on the other side close. 

It felt as though an hour had passed when Benítez finally spoke. His voice wavered, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” 

“Amen,” Lawrence said, “Forgive me, Holy Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. Here is my sin.

“I have broken my vows. I fell in love, as a priest, as a bishop, as a cardinal, and as Dean of Cardinals. Thanks to my title, I was granted the opportunity to become acquainted with the new Pope. But I have done more than God has asked me to. At some point, I felt as though I stepped into the Devil’s territory, and I became convinced I would take the Pope with me.”

“I do not believe this is a sin,” Benítez said through the screen, “To love one another is the most important commandment. As we discussed before, the Devil is not in play here.” 

“Not there,” Lawrence agreed, “But, I believe he has led me in other ways.”

“And what ways are those?”

It was an offer, Lawrence realized, for him to expand upon their discussion and admit to Benítez his unholy thoughts. Enlightenment shined upon him. He said, “There are things I feel about my Pope. It is love, yes. A human love. Platonic, genuine, and romantic. It is also lust.”

Through the screen, Benítez’s breath hitched, muffled and comprehending. 

Lawrence continued, “I have thoughts no one in my position should have, let alone consider. It has impacted my daily life, my friendships, especially with the Pope.”

“Explain these thoughts to me.”

Lawrence paused. It was a step beyond where he was willing to go, “Must I, Your Holiness?”

“Yes, Thomas, please,” Benítez pleaded. 

Lawrence inhaled deeply and exhaled slow. His hands clasped together and held each other so tightly the beads dug into his palms. He said, “His beauty is so stunning, I cannot speak sometimes. My affection for him runs so deep it consumes my entire being. I want to grab him and never let him leave. I think of holding him tightly. In our closeness, I imagine his smell, and I know it, even with my eyes closed. I would always know if he was there with me. It is a sort of relief. Even God has no way to let me know if He’s there. Then, I imagine his lips pressed against mine and I imagine kissing him back. I imagine pressing my lips against every part of him, and I revel in it, because I am the only one who knows what every part of him looks like. I feel guilty, but I am torn with so much lust and pride that I can’t stop.”

Lawrence paused to think. Benítez’s breaths were so heavy he heard them through the screen. He wondered if the Pope had leaned forward in his seat to be as close to Lawrence as possible. Heat burned through him as he considered their closeness. If the screen disappeared, they might be close enough to do everything he confessed. 

Voice shaking, he said, “I would worship him until my dying days and even from the depths of Hell I would pray up to him for eternity. I would devote myself to him above anything else.”  

Benítez spoke and his voice was as close as Lawrence thought, “How does your body react to your mind’s imaginations?” 

“I become aroused. In the morning, I awoke with a hardness I had not known for years. Whenever I hear his name, I see impure images of him on repeat and cannot banish them from my mind.”

“Have you acted upon these urges in any way?” 

“No. I wouldn’t allow myself.”

“What would you do? If you were allowed. If there was nothing forbidding you from your Pope.” 

“That’s…” A delighted shock ran through Lawrence at the prompt. Pope Innocent pressing his Dean of Cardinals for the filthy details of his unholy desires? If the press got a hold of their conversation, the Church’s image would never recover. Lawrence was certain he wasn’t in the wrong here, but he couldn’t help but feel like he’d failed a test, “I can’t picture anything further.” 

“Would you listen to what I would do? I have my own confession to make,” Benítez proposed. 

Lawrence shook his head. Fear for the other man still trembled inside him. There was no way for Benítez to have seen, but he offered himself up anyway, “I am only human, I have felt the same as you, my dear. Towards my Dean of Cardinals, of all people, I feel an immeasurable respect. He has always treated me as Jesus would, with love and devotion. I have seen the way he looks at me, and I know there is no doubt he loves me the way I love him. But he is held back by a monster that is not the Devil. The monster is himself. 

“I have never considered myself superior to him, but I believe I understand some concepts better than him. For one, I notice how he looks at my hair. Previously, I had thought he was reminiscing about his own, but now I know it is an obsession. If he knew that I understood his intentions, to grip my hair firmly and put my mouth on him, he might collapse. If he knew that I would, without hesitation, go down on him and pleasure him until he could no longer breathe, he might ascend to Heaven from where he sat.” 

Benítez audibly shuddered. His voice shook and Lawrence nearly did die with the confession. Even the Devil was silent in the heat of the moment. If God had spoken to them then and there, Lawrence wouldn’t have cared. After a moment of silence he spoke again, “We discussed Bible verses the other day. Tell me, what does Ecclesiastes 4:9-11 say?” 

Lawrence ransacked his head for the verses. The lust inside him was a clouded haze that wouldn’t clear. Only his years of studying and his desperate crave of approval could save him. He recited from memory, “ Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up. Again if the two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? ”

“Very good, Thomas. To indulge in the body’s desires is not a sin. God designed us in His image, and to ignore its functions would be wrong, would it not?”

Lawrence was silent. Suspended there, he waited for Benítez to pull him to his point. 

Benítez said, “Here is your penance. I want you to indulge in your carnal desires. Your mind is a gift and your fantasies are an integral part of your character. To truly understand your wants and needs is a gift granted to us by God. I want you to accept your thoughts as they are. No longer should you see these thoughts as the Devil’s, because they are not. They are yours. How you act upon them is what truly matters, and that is God’s will.”

“Your Holiness- Vincent, I cannot,” Lawrence protested. His knees began to ache and he shifted to ease the pain. 

“Would you ignore the penance given to you by your Pope?” 

The reprimand ran a jolt of pleasure through Lawrence. He hunched over his hands and barely withheld a gasp. From this angle, he noticed how tented his pants had become since they’d started his confession. His brain begged for relief, thinking how easy it would be to reach down and touch himself in the privacy of the confessional. In the silence, he pictured Vincent doing the same. 

Vincent asked, “Do you accept?” 

Lawrence felt himself leaking, where his body desperately pleaded for reprieve. He breathed, “I do.” 

His Pope commanded him, “Now pray the Act of Contrition.” 

Lawrence prayed it. The heat burning through him erected sweat over his body. The rosary between his palms grew slippery and again he pictured the way it would look in Vincent’s hands, the way it would feel as they pressed against his body. 

As Vincent spoke his absolution, his words flowed over Lawrence and washed him in euphoria. He brought a knuckle up to his mouth to muffle his whimpered groans with his teeth. As they reached the end, he mustered enough resolve to force out an, “Amen.”

“Go in peace,” Vincent said. 

His voice was raspy and shook with arousal, all the same as himself. Now that Lawrence had his rosary again, his hands would have nothing to distract him. He pictured Vincent’s thighs, clenched together to prevent his fingers wandering and reaching down to bring himself off. 

He said, “Thanks be to God.”

Chapter Text

Offensively, Vincent’s second penance was easier than his first. To find pleasure while fantasizing about the man he was closest to? Anyone could do it. To Lawrence, though, it seemed impossible. He felt a sort of kinship with Abraham, bestowed with an impossible task by God that should be rescinded as soon as he began. 

It felt metaphorical, in a sense, like maybe killing his relationship with Vincent was equivalent to the pain Abraham would have felt losing his beloved son. He didn’t have the same resolve as the Hebrew Patriarch and couldn’t bring himself to follow God’s instruction so faithfully. 

He couldn’t find the strength to do either of his penances. The implications of obediently submitting to Vincent’s instructions frightened him in the same way an addict might be afraid of snorting something new. 

His panicked despair grew to such a level he finally sought out Bellini for help. At lunch they sat away from the others that usually dined in the canteen, opting for a more isolated room elsewhere. They sat in a comfortable silence, Bellini pausing between bites to study documents and review forms while Lawrence picked at his own food. 

Eventually he reached up the courage to speak. He said, “Have you ever struggled to complete your penance?” 

“Hmm?” Bellini glanced up at him briefly before looking back towards his papers, “Once or twice, I suppose.” 

“Really?”

“Yes, I’m sure we all have at some point. Haven’t you?”

Lawrence had, of course, but nothing came close to what he was experiencing now. For instance, he’d once been given to an incredibly subjective penance in which he was to offer each morning volunteering until he felt as though the community had been properly served. He’d worked at the same soup kitchen for years, until it shut down from lack of funds. 

He asked, “What was your most difficult penance?” 

“Hmm,” Bellini forked a piece of broccoli into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully on it, “I once confessed to feeling an absurd amount of wrath after losing one too many times to the Holy Father. My only penance was to beat him in a game.” 

“Just that? To win one game?” 

“Just that.” Bellini laughed, a tone of nostalgia creeping in, “It took me half a year, and I’m still not convinced he didn’t just let me win.” 

“He didn’t seem like the type to let you take the easy way out.” 

“No,” Bellini shook his head, “He didn’t.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Eventually Bellini turned back to his papers. Lawrence finished his plate.

“I know you and the late Holy Father were close. You still speak so fondly of him.”

“Naturally. As Secretary of State, I worked with him very often. Not a day went by where we didn’t see each other.” 

“Tell me, did you ever feel anything more than respect for him?” 

“More than respect?” Bellini’s eyes widened, “How do you mean?”

“Ah, nevermind,” Lawrence retreated. Perhaps he was imagining things to comfort himself.

“...I see you have changed. You never noticed before.” 

“What?” 

Bellini fixed his gaze into the distance, as if reminiscing, “Yes, he was very dear to me, I held him tender in my heart. I tried to hide it, but it seems you’ve discovered my secret.” 

“Aldo,” Lawrence was stunned. He flopped his mouth open, trying to speak in his shock, “I never knew. Did he ever find out?”

“Of course he knew,” Bellini laughed, “I suspect he knew before I did. I nearly resigned before he convinced me to stay. No one knows how to make a speech about duty like that man did.” 

“He didn’t reciprocate?”

“Not in the same way. Or, if he did, he didn’t say. And I didn’t want him to. We both understood our positions.”

Lawrence struggled to comprehend it all. Never had he thought someone so close to him would have experienced the same niche problem. Knots twisted in his stomach, but he found the courage to say, “You asked about my recent relationship with the Pope.”

Bellini sat up straighter and whipped his head around to meet his eye. With glee he said, “You’ll tell me?”

“I find your priorities quite interesting.” 

“Oh hush,” Bellini waved his hand, “Nearly everyone in the Vatican is curious to know what’s happening between the two of you. Do you know how many people stop me to ask everyday? They’re so nosy. As if I know!”

“Everyone?” Lawrence asked, horrified. 

He began to feel faint. Had anyone seen them yesterday at the confessional? Lawrence had no doubt looked half-crazed when he left, carrying with him the Pope’s rosary and clearly in a state of arousal. Had Benítez looked the same? Perhaps with messy hair and wrinkled robes where he’d clenched the fabric too hard. Oh, how Lawrence wished he’d stayed to see.

“Of course not everyone. But a few. And, I know Father Caruso had been honored to fill in for the Pope’s duties, but he surely also would’ve wondered.”

He grasped Bellini’s arm and held tightly onto it, “Know that I am telling you this only because I’m desperate. Absolutely nothing can leave this room.” 

“You’re starting to scare me, Thomas,” Bellini stared at the hand gripping him, “Now you’re going to tell me Vincent is secretly the head of a Satanist cult.” 

“Now’s not the time for jokes,” Lawrence snapped, “This is serious.” 

“Okay, okay,” Bellini gripped Lawrence’s hand and removed it from his arm to hold it tightly between his own hands, “Tell me, what’s bothering you so much?” 

“I confessed to Vincent. It was probably quite different from your situation.”

“And?” Bellini prompted. He leaned forward in his seat, far too interested in gossip for someone of his age and profession. “Wait, was this before or after he gave the rosary back to you?”

“You knew he’d give it back?”

“Oh, he made it very clear he was going to get it back to you, no matter how far he would have to go. For your sake, I hope you never make him angry again. He could make the Devil tremble beneath his stare alone.” 

“Angry?” Lawrence said, “No, he was upset, but not angry.” 

“With you, maybe. I told you he has a soft spot for you.” 

Lawrence confirmed, “So he does, he told me himself. Right before he told me all the lustful things he would do to me.” 

“He told you what?!” Bellini nearly leapt out of his seat, “You’re messing with me.” 

Lawrence shakily ran a hand through his thinning hair, “I wish. How was I supposed to react? Now, he’s expecting things of me.” 

“Thomas,” Bellini tightened his grip, “He’s not forcing you to do anything you don’t want, is he? I never thought of Vincent to abuse his power, especially in that way.” 

“Of course not,” Lawrence said. Vincent participating in one of the Church’s worst controversies was laughable. He felt as though he had to defend the Pope’s honor, “I brought it up first. He simply encouraged the idea.” 

Bellini had never looked so pale before. Although he looked uncomfortable with the thought, a look of resolve grew over his face, “Well, he certainly is more liberal than any of us had imagined. Who am I to question the Pope’s ideals?” 

“You are one of his most trusted advisors,” Lawrence reprimanded him, “Of all people, you should question him. I brought this to you because I was unsure how to go forward.” 

“I’m afraid this is entirely your choice, and it is dependent on the two of you alone. Perhaps you should ask God for help before you make any big decisions.” 

How Lawrence wished it was that easy. He thought back to the days where God’s guidance seemed obvious to him. As badly as he wanted to pray for a solution, he doubted it would give him a satisfactory answer. 

“I suppose we should be glad the Popes we’ve elected are so lovable.” 

Bellini fixed him with a look, “Indeed. We’re learning quite a lot about each other today.”

The door slammed open, nearly deafening and with enough force to bounce off the wall. Lawrence and Bellini both jumped at the noise and turned to look at the source. Pope Innocent XIV stood there in all his glory, white robes fluttering with the gust of air from the door. 

“Your Holiness!” Lawrence exclaimed.

“Your Holiness,” Bellini greeted him, “How are you doing this afternoon?” 

“Good,” Vincent smiled kindly at them. He walked over to grasp Lawrence by the wrist and dragged him up out of his seat towards the door, “If you’ll excuse us, I have something I need to discuss with the Dean.” 

“Oh, actually, Your Holiness,” Lawrence protested, “We were just in the middle of-

“He’s all yours,” Bellini snorted, unsubtle in the way he leered at Lawrence, “Just return him in one piece.” 

Lawrence glared at him the best he could as he left, dragged away by the holiest man in the world, eight years younger than him and at least three inches shorter. The last glimpse he caught of Bellini was of his teeth bared and eyes squinted in maniac laughter. 

Lawrence thanked God they were in the Casa Santa Marta. The building had grown on him as of late, and he’d recently memorized its entire layout. The direction Vincent dragged him in was short and sure to pass as few people as possible, as they headed towards the office in which they’d originally met. 

Vincent gracefully held the door open for Lawrence and let him enter first. Inside, he pulled it closed and locked it. The blinds had already been drawn. 

Lawrence nervously said, “Your Holiness?”

“Thomas,” Vincent said, “If I may be frank, how has your penance been?” 

“Um,” Lawrence shifted where he stood, “I haven’t had the opportunity to pray today, yet.” 

They stared at each other. Vincent leaned forward, closer to him, “That’s not the penance I am talking about.” 

“Me neither.” 

Vincent’s eyes widened slightly. He said, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I assigned myself the same penance. I attempted it this morning.” 

Swallowing, Lawrence joked, “I hardly find that fair, Your Holiness. You must pray the rosary at least three times a day.” 

Again, Vincent stared at him. Lawrence was reminded of Bellini’s warning: I hope you never make him angry again. He could make the Devil tremble beneath his stare alone .

Indeed, even the Devil did not speak in his mind. Words were unnecessary, though, when pictures did the trick just fine. Lawrence saw Vincent partaking in the penance, indulging in his carnal desires, and finding completion with the thought of Lawrence. 

Distractedly, he thought of what Vincent had confessed to imagining just last night. Lawrence saw it happening right there in the office, the table digging into his back as Vincent held his hips back with a firm grip, him looking down upon Vincent on his knees and holding his dark hair back with a shaky grip. 

Voice strangled, he asked, “How did it go?” 

Vincent reclined back against the table, like Lawrence had pictured himself, and reached a hand between his legs to rest there. He admitted, “More difficult than I’d imagined. I’d never done it before.” 

Lawrence stared down at Vincent’s hand and couldn’t look away. He swallowed, “Not even once?” 

“I told you I led a sheltered life. After I discovered the truth about my body, I convinced myself it didn’t matter, because I would never make use of my reproductive organs.”

Vincent let one of his legs slide open, widening the gap. He traced wide circles in the air just above his groin. The action was obscene against his papal robes. Lawrence pictured himself fitting into the open space and doing it instead. 

“I thought about your help,” Vincent said, looking deep into Lawrence’s eyes, “Even you would know better. I pictured your fingers wrapped around my rosary and fingering the beads with a crazed frenzy and wished it was me.” 

Lawrence wanted nothing more than to reach down to grab Vincent’s hand and show him how to touch himself. He whispered, “Would you let me?” 

“I didn’t want to, at first. The only intimacy I knew was that of sexual assault victims, when it was forced upon them. I feared sharing their fate. They had never experienced a world that cared for them. After we met, I realized your intentions and that you would never lay a finger on me without my permission. Soon, I began to crave the care of your touch and dreamed of having you for the rest of my life. Yes, I would let you.” 

When Lawrence reached forward, Vincent said, “But, I would require one thing of you, first.” 

Lawrence snapped his hand back. He linked his fingers together and rested them in front of him and said, “Anything.”

“Your penance. I need to know you want this, too.”

“Of course I want you, Vincent,” Lawrence looked imploringly into his eyes, “I would be insane not to.” 

“Do this for me, please. Just once. Come find me immediately after, no matter what.” 

“Okay,” Lawrence nodded, “I will.” 

“Good,” Vincent stood straight up again and reached forward to hold Lawrence’s face with a confident hand. He dragged him forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, “I hope to see you later, my love.” 

Lawrence held onto Vincent’s waist in their proximity. As he pulled away, Lawrence was tempted to tighten his grip and make him stay to watch him participate in his penance. He forced himself to watch his lover unlock the door and leave in a billow of heavenly clouds. 

His scent lingered in the office and enticed Lawrence to hardness and he foolishly pictured himself as a cat following the aroma of a freshly-baked pie. It choked his nostrils and was still there late after the day ended when he settled back into the privacy of his room. 

Lawrence sat on the edge of his bed and removed the rosary from his pocket to hold it tightly in his hand. Yesterday, the fourth decade had seemed an adversarial road to defeat. Looking at Vincent’s rosary in his hand again, it seemed less of a mountain than before. He made the sign of the cross and began. 

Our Father, Who art in Heaven…

It was difficult to place each individual fragrance that made up the amalgamation of Vincent Benítez. Lawrence was determined to place every single one. He burned with the idea of knowing all the small details of Vincent.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

One was obvious and Lawrence knew it well. It was the incense they used in the basilica that burned on his side in adoration. 

That fraction of Vincent held a history with Lawrence. When he was younger, he aggressively volunteered to swing the incense around on its chain at every opportunity. If the scent clung to him more than anyone else, wouldn’t they be impressed with his proximity to the Lord? And wouldn’t the Holy Trinity applaud him for his dedication? 

It was wrong, he knew, to accept a sacred duty for the sole purpose of showing off, but a part of him still praised Vincent for spending so much time in the chapel that the smoky scent stuck to him. For others, they likely held onto the smell until dinner, but Vincent possessed it forever. It must have been a sign of the Lord’s affection, as if to say, This is the chosen one. As I am pleased with him, so shall you be.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

The second was easy, too. It was the smell of freshly laundered robes. Lawrence knew it because the sisters used the same detergent for every member of the Vatican. Briefly, he recalled smelling it on Sister Agnes’s clothes when she’d pressed up close to him beside the printer just months ago. He wondered what Vincent’s clothes had smelled like before the conclave. Even then, he’d quickly swapped into the official garments they’d given him on the first day.

Lawrence mourned the unrealized loss. To think of Vincent, untainted by the Vatican and a picture of true grace in Baghdad; he longed to see it, to smell it, to know and understand it. Iraq was a far different country than Italy and begged to instill in their archdiocese an unshakeable bravery and dedication first-world countries would never know. It was a shame, that any human would have to grow through prejudice and violence, but he thanked the consequences that made Vincent the way he was, otherwise they may have never met and enjoyed each other’s presence the way they did. 

Hail Mary, full of grace…

The third scent was more difficult to place. It was faint, as if meant to remain undetected, but Lawrence couldn’t help but feel as if he knew it. The answer danced on the tip of his tongue. 

The strongest he’d smelled it had been in Vincent’s temporary room during the conclave. Lawrence pictured it easily, the two of them talking freely in the isolation of the room. Even there, he’d wanted Vincent, though he hadn’t quite understood it yet. He’d looked beautiful there, too, in his casual clothes and lecturing Lawrence about what was truly important. 

Soft light had highlighted his features in the best possible way, the way a romantic would enjoy. From the tealight candles, Lawrence realized. Given to him by the Sisters for his prayer and unscented. It was what clung to Vincent, too. A smell that shouldn’t give off anything, but would still at least be detected when blown out and smoke trailed into the air. He must still use them in the privacy of his housing. 

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Lawrence hesitated to name the last and strongest scent. In the back of his mind, he knew what it was, but he knew pushing forward would break the final boundary of his religion. First, he had thought it was a cologne or some sort of aftershave. He’d quickly come to realize nothing about Vincent was fake and soon the source of the subtle ambrosia became evident. It was undoubtedly Vincent’s inherent musk. 

Hail Mary, full of grace…

The idea made Lawrence dizzy with arousal. He thought of Vincent’s body and the natural aroma it produced. Something about the way he smelled. It made everything more real. As if, the scent told him Vincent was there, close to him, present in the world and unwilling to leave. 

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Shakily, he gripped the rosary and pictured the fantasy that he’d forcefully cut off for his sanity. If Vincent were to pray with him again, they might hold the rosary the same as before between their hands. 

Vincent would dutifully lead them in prayer. Their fingers would move together, but he would need to step in now and again and maneuver Lawrence’s fingers for him when he became distracted. 

The guidance given to him was bound to set a bad precedent. As soon as the strong, dedicated fingers were to move him, he’d be tempted to act out and Vincent would have to help him through the entire rosary. 

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Desire burned hot through Lawrence. As he grew harder and his pants became tighter, he imagined Vincent looking down at him with a yearning disappointment. The longing of the Pope was secondary to his holy routines, but surely he could help his Dean of Cardinals relieve himself. 

He’d allow them to lower their rosary-wrapped hands down to his pants and unbuckle them to release his cock from its confines. Then, still worshipping the Holy Virgin with prayer, he’d guide them to hold Lawrence between the warmth of their hands and press the beads into his cock. 

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Lawrence allowed himself to do the same in the safety of his room. Holding onto himself with Vincent’s rosary in hand, he stroked up and down and pretended Vincent was doing it there with him. 

The beads didn’t hurt the way he thought they would. Knowing they were a part of Lawrence’s guiltiest pleasure stoked the heat in his stomach. Sweat dripped down his brow as he grew hotter, moving his hand faster and faster, eager to indulge in the gratification Vincent allowed him to partake in after decades of repression. 

In the fantasy, Vincent wouldn’t acknowledge him, eyes cast down in dedicated prayer instead of looking down at where he stroked Lawrence with a hot passion, or looking up into his eyes, vulnerable and silently begging to cum. 

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Please, Lawrence would beg, and Vincent would silence him with his free hand, covering his mouth because no prayer was escaping it anyway. He would be a thoughtful lover, though, and he would keep jerking Lawrence through it, twisting and rolling his hand, fingernails occasionally scraping against him as he moved through the beads. 

After the ninth Hail Mary he might indulge Lawrence for just a moment, enough to say, One more, can you hold on for me? And moving on without a response, because of course he would hold on. He would do anything Vincent asked, in good faith and without question. 

Hail Mary, full of grace…

Mid-prayer, Lawrence brought the rosary to his nose and inhaled with a true desperation, longing to catch just a hint of Vincent on it. There, but just barely, was something, a whiff of nectar, teasing and promising the fruit of life. It was a flint, catching sparks inside him and building a fire in the pit of his gut. 

He took the rosary into his mouth and licked a line up the beads, wetting it with his saliva. Distantly, he wondered about the true size of Vincent’s genitals. Would oral sex with him be the same as the beads, or would his clitoris be bigger? 

He wrapped a hand around himself again and glided the beads against his cock again, up and down, steadily. If Vincent were to press against him and they were to frot against each other with desperate rolls of their hips, would it feel the same? 

The beads slid gently, wetly, over the veins in Lawrence’s cock. His breath hitched with the movement, leg jerking at the feeling. Vaguely, he could hear himself, breathing heavily, groaning as he twisted his wrist at the head, and he wondered how Vincent would sound in comparison. Would he moan as Lawrence went down on him, or was he a silent receiver? Perhaps his whines would overpower Lawrence’s, as they came together in a lover’s embrace, alerting the Roman See of their intimacies and disgracing centuries of the Church’s reputation in one night.  

A picture of Vincent coming, mouth dropped open beautifully and moaning into a shared kiss rose to the front of Lawrence’s mind. Between them, the rosary dangled from Vincent’s neck and his clitoris jumped as he came against Lawrence’s cock. 

Lawrence moaned and clutched tighter, stroking himself harder and allowing himself to finally cum as he reached the end of the decade. His legs tightened and his body tensed, euphoria washing over him as he spilled over onto his fingers and greased the rosary as he slid his fingers over his cock through the aftershocks. 

He laid back and rested his head against the bedspread. His legs dangled over the edge, where he hadn’t moved from in his desperation to finally find release and finish his penance. 

Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.  

Lawrence released his cock with a twitch. The rosary was dirtied with the milky white evidence of his release. Could confession forgive him for a sin as dire as this one? To ask Vincent would surely be a conflict of interest, but even Bellini might not take this one. Sluggishly, he fingered the last bead.

O my Jesus, forgive us our sins, save us from the fires of hell; lead all souls to Heaven, especially those who have most need of your mercy. Amen.

Silence rang through Lawrence’s room. Nearly horrific anxiety bounced around his chest, that he’d been heard down the hall and throughout the building. Orgasmic satiation kept his mind still, and the picture of Vincent remained in his mind, comforting him through his panic and urging him to immediately seek out his love. 

Divine judgment would have to wait. The Lord had already seen it all and Lawrence had his mind set on one person. Quickly, he stood and cleaned himself up, with an urgency that embedded a youthfulness inside him he hadn’t felt for a decade. 

Outside, on the way to the papal apartments, the Devil offered him the opportunity to reflect on the situation. Lawrence denied the bait. As he finally knocked on the Pope’s door, his mind was made up with his own decisions. About Vincent, he thought, Ma già volgeva il mio disio e ’l velle sì come rota ch’igualmente è mossa, l’amor che move il sole e l’altre stelle.

Chapter Text

The wait outside the Papal apartment passed like the forty days and nights Jesus had spent in the desert, even though Lawrence’s watch told him Vincent opened the door for him in less than a minute. Inside, the hallway was warm with tealights strewn over every flat surface and a hint of smoke escaped out into the air. 

“Thomas,” Vincent smiled at him. He held up his temporary rosary, a plastic concoction of artificial meaning, and showed Lawrence his place on it - just at the beginning of the fifth decade, “I had a feeling you’d be here soon.” 

“I told you I would be.”

Vincent held the door open further for him, “I never doubted.”

Lawrence stepped past the threshold and caught a whiff of incense and fresh laundry as he walked by. In his old age it wasn’t enough to fully arouse him again, but his celibacy made it easier for the slightest bit of Vincent to interest him.

Vincent shut the door behind him. He grabbed Lawrence by the hand and pulled him along inside the dimly lit apartment, “We can talk in my room. Most of the others are asleep by now.” 

The apartment housed a few other papal advisors, where they shared a living room, kitchen, dining room, and a medical studio. Vincent’s room was separate from the others, down the hall beside the dining room and offered them the opportunity to talk in private.   

As they stepped into the room, Vincent closed the door behind them and asked, “How was your penance?”

Lawrence couldn’t help but blush. “Transformative. I feel like a new person.” 

Vincent settled on the bed and patted the space beside him, “In a good way, I assume?”

“Yes,” Lawrence made his way over and, after hesitation, sat on the edge of the other side of Vincent. 

The room was sparsely decorated and the furniture was plain. When Vincent moved in, he’d agreed on moving into the renovated apartment, so long as his room was similar to his housing in Baghdad and others shared the space. Candles flicked atop the desk and the bedside tables pressed against the walls. Lawrence tried not to focus on them too hard, aside from the glow they cast on Vincent’s face. 

Vincent gestured to the clock beside the candles, “It’s past midnight. Would you like to complete your final decade before we discuss everything?” 

Surprising himself, Lawrence easily agreed, “Good idea. I can lead.” 

He double checked the rosary was still in his pocket. It felt lighter than air and made no noise when he drew it out. Looking between the two of them, his fantasy rose to the front of his mind. Pavlov was surely laughing at his hesitation to continue. If they were to share the rosary again, he would no doubt become aroused. At least he’d had the clarity to wipe it down before he’d headed out. 

Vincent scooted closer, to sit cross-legged in the middle of the bed and pulled Lawrence’s arm lightly to get him to join him there. He sat with his back against the headboard and faced Vincent, reaching his hand and the rosary out. 

Vincent smiled at him and joined their hands together, snaring the rosary between them. Nodding, he permitted Lawrence to start the prayer. The process was easy this time around; the words flowed through him and if he were to falter, Vincent would squeeze his fingers over the beads and reassure him to continue. 

To say Lawrence was glad when they finished would have been twisting his words. It was simply that, through the Hail Holy Queen, his mind and body were focused on other opportunities. When they finished their final sign of the cross he looked up and made immediate eye contact with Vincent. He was relieved not to be the one caught staring this time. 

Vincent uncrossed his legs and leaned forward to kiss him. 

Eager to reciprocate, Lawrence kissed him back. Vincent pushed forward and pressed him back further with a hand on his chest and fit between his newly spread legs. Taking the rosary from Lawrence’s hand, he found somewhere behind him to safely leave it. He broke their kiss and said, “How do you feel about Monsignor Raymond taking your position?” 

Lawrence blinked, caught off guard. He pictured Ray where he was now, held by Vincent and kissing him deeply and said, “What?”

“Sorry,” Vincent laughed. He cupped Lawrence’s face in his hand. “Not like this. Promoted to the Dean of Cardinals. I think he would be a good fit.” 

“You’re firing me?”

Vincent gazed at him and slid his hand down to rest on his chest, “I think I made it clear I need you here with me. Stay as a bishop at the Vatican, but relinquish your other duties.”

Lawrence’s lips tingled with the afterthought Vincent’s kiss. He grabbed him by the waist and drew him closer to kiss him again, addicted to the feeling. Against his lips, he whispered, “That would be perfect. Thank you.” 

Vincent took his gratitude by the lips, finally deepening his movements and kissing him harder with intention. Their inexperience was obvious, but as Vincent licked his bottom lip with a sloppy tongue, Lawrence couldn’t find it in himself to complain. He opened his mouth and let their tongues meet in the middle. They shuddered into each other with matching breaths. 

Vincent was the first to pull back. Lawrence stared down at his saliva-slicked lips and couldn’t look away. They shaped the words, “I must admit, I’m nervous for you to see my body.”

“Don’t be,” Lawrence looked into his eyes and attempted to come off as genuine to reassure him, “I’ll adore you no matter what.”

“I know. You’ve been nothing but loving to me. It’s just something I can’t let go of.”

Lawrence’s fingers came up to the buttons of his own shirt. “Would you like to see me first?” 

Gratitude was apparent in Vincent’s eyes. Retreating his hands to the hem of his nightshirt, he proposed, “At the same time?” 

Briefly, Lawrence sat up so he could rid himself of his shirt. He quickly pulled it up and over his head so he wouldn’t miss Vincent ridding himself of his. The other man did it slowly and with more grace. He sheepishly looked back at Lawrence and presented himself. His chest was flat, the lack of breasts evident not in his skinny stature, but with a typical male body. 

Slowly, to give Vincent the time to say no, Lawrence reached up to thumb at his nipple. He said, “I wasn’t sure what to expect.” 

Vincent pushed forward into his touch. “I never had any breasts. I’m sure if I did, I would have been aware of my situation much quicker.”

“Probably,” Lawrence agreed, “Do you want to keep going?”

Vincent nodded. He reached forward and undid Lawrence’s pants this time, sliding it slowly down and off his hips. Then, he leaned back and took off his own, as if to do it before he psyched himself out. 

Before, their nakedness would have stunned Lawrence with embarrassment. His strengthened relationship with Vincent gave him the confidence to sit there comfortably, dick half hard and growing with the promise of the situation. 

Vincent kneeled before him on the bed, between his spread legs, and covered his crotch with his hands. He said, “You’ll have to understand my body, first. What do you remember about my diagnosis?” 

A certain shame arose in Lawrence, not the type the Devil had been encouraging in him as of late, but an embarrassing recollection of how often he’d tried to picture a naked Vincent according to what surgeries he was once scheduled to receive. The books in the Vatican’s library were extensive, but he was upset to discover their lack of biological information. Even he could not ask Ray to research it for him. He recalled, “A fusion of the majora and minora labia and an enlarged clitoris.” 

“Yes, and a drooping clitoris, at that. When you see, you’ll understand how I went so long without knowing the true nature of my body.” 

Vincent hesitated to move his hands. They shook with a nervous anticipation, his fingers quivering against his thighs. 

Lawrence leaned forward and encased his hands around Vincent’s. “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to. I would never force you to do anything like this for me.” 

Vincent smiled at him. “I know.”

Inhaling deeply, he turned his hands to entwine their fingers together and he moved them aside so Lawrence could see. His pubic hair was thick and trimmed to a neatness that encapsulated his character perfectly. Nestled within it was his clitoris, and Lawrence did a double-take at the anatomy. 

It would have been small, but there was no doubt as to why he’d believed what he did. Merely inches long, it escaped the hood and dangled above where his lips were sealed shut. Lawrence longed to touch it. 

“You said you attempted to touch yourself,” he prompted Vincent, “Did you find completion?” 

Vincent said, “No. It didn’t feel right and I couldn’t relax.” 

“Can you…” Lawrence couldn’t bring himself to say it so shamelessly, “Did you have any lubrication? Can you get wet? I assume there’s at least an opening for you to urinate.” 

Even Vincent looked uneasy at the question. He rubbed his thumb against Lawrence’s hand, soothing them both. He said, “It’s small, but yes there’s an opening just above my urethra that allows me to. Nothing else gets through. If I could menstruate, it would have made things more complicated.” 

Lawrence offered, “I could wet it for you. To make it easier.” 

Vincent’s breaths quickened. Shyly, he tucked his hair behind his ear and said, “I suggested it first. To go down on you. Let me do that much.” 

All thoughts escaped Lawrence’s head. The fire in his gut returned at full force and he felt himself twitch, remembering his nudity. Dumbly, he said, “Okay.” 

Vincent lowered himself further, onto his stomach, so he could face Lawrence’s cock. Tentatively, he took him in his hand and stroked with unsure movements. Still, it was better than anything Lawrence had ever felt. He raised a hand and ran it through Vincent’s soft hair. 

Eyes closing, Vincent leaned into the touch. He pushed against the fingers skimming over his scalp. Cute, Lawrence thought, reminded of the stray cat he’d fed as a child. They were similar, in a way. Calm and quiet, but playful, and even vigilant when it came to it. One day, the cat had come to him, limping and its ear torn after defending its kittens against a raccoon. He recalled Vincent looking the same outside the basilica, when he’d yelled at Lawrence for trying to leave. 

Blinking his eyes open again, a determined expression took over Vincent’s face. He leaned down and with the next upward stroke of Lawrence’s cock, he followed it with his tongue, flushed warm against him to shoot sensitive flares through his body. 

A moan broke from Lawrence’s mouth, a surprised sound, and his hips jerked up and pushed himself through Vincent’s fingers again. He covered his mouth with a shaky hand, “S-sorry. I didn’t mean to.” 

Vincent fisted his cock, one, two, three times in quick succession and grinned at the way Lawrence’s head fell back with the sensation. Digging his thumb into the base, just above his balls, he said, “Never apologize for something like that. I don’t want you to hold back.” 

Lawrence whimpered. 

Then, Vincent swallowed him into the heat of his mouth and bobbed his head down, to the furthest his throat could take. Apologetically, he stroked the base and rubbed his thumb over where it had just dug into Lawrence. Vincent was a fast learner, and he soon understood the way suction affected Lawrence, apparent with clenched toes and tightened fingers. His cheeks hollowed effortlessly, the drag of his breaths made easier with it. 

With his free hand, Vincent gathered his hair together and stared daggers into Lawrence’s eyes until he took it all into his own grasp. The scene below him ought to be carved into stone. To capture messy locks of dark hair spilling from Lawrence’s fist so he, a mere bishop, could stuff the Pope’s mouth full of his cock, would rival Saint Teresa of Ávila’s ecstasy.

Next, Vincent wiggled his fingers under Lawrence’s hips and pushed with the tips of his fingers as if to say, move. Taking the hint, Lawrence laid his feet flat against the bedspread and rolled his hips up into the open and willing mouth Vincent provided. His tongue lay flat at the bottom of his mouth and dragged against the underside of his cock with each roll. As they got more comfortable with the action, Lawrence began to thrust harder and faster and Vincent began to take more and more into his throat, curling his tongue with each pass. 

Rumbled moans escaped each of their mouths, Lawrence’s exposed and Vincent’s shrouded by the cock in his throat. Dirty sounds echoed in the room as Lawrence grew wetter with spit and precum, vulgar and filthy and crude and someone paces away in the apartment would know what they were doing without a second guess.

Lawrence gripped Vincent’s luscious hair harder and forced his head down and up again to meet his desperate thrusts. It was exactly what Vincent had painted for him in the confessional, only better. Perfect. 

A tear spilled down Vincent’s cheek and dropped onto Lawrence’s thigh. The boiling lust in his gut began to tip over, like the first drops of water against the stove burner below it. Quickly, Lawrence dug his fingers deeper into the roots of his hair and pulled him off with a strangled gasp. 

“Thomas?” Vincent’s surprise was raspy, “Don’t stop. I’m okay.” 

Lawrence panted, “I’m not.” 

“Oh, were you close? I would’ve swallowed your release.” 

“Unh-” Lawrence nearly came. He reached down to grip himself around Vincent’s hand at the base of his cock. “Not yet. I’ll be useless the rest of the night.” 

“I see,” Vincent’s eyes glittered around the redness. He pushed himself up onto his knees and leaned forward so they were chest to chest again. “You wanted to taste me, too.” 

“Will you let me?” 

Vincent thumbed at his bottom lip, rubbing soft lines back and forth against the sensitive nerves there. He pondered, “Should I? Open wide and let me see your tongue.” 

Hesitantly, Lawrence let his tongue escape past his teeth and let it loll there. Vincent came closer to examine it, eyes scrutinizing and brows furrowed with concentration. He raised two fingers, all the same as he did on the altar, and pushed down on Lawrence’s tongue. When no resistance arose, he pushed harder to circle and slide back and forth, wetting them with saliva and pushing further and further into Lawrence’s mouth.

Forcefully, Vincent drove his fingers down into his throat and expelled a gag from Lawrence, the sound choked by fingers and his own saliva dripping down into his esophagus. Narrowed eyes squinted down at him and the fingers drew back.

A whine nearly escaped Lawrence. He leaned forward and folded his tongue around Vincent’s fingers to convince him to stay. His lips closed around the index and middle fingers and sucked hard around them. 

Subtle surprise sparked in Vincent’s eyes. At once, they became approving. He harshly thrusted his fingers in and out of Lawrence’s mouth again and said, “Very good, Thomas.” 

Lawrence’s hips twitched forward and a blush enveloped his body at his own reaction. A part of him begged to pull back and hide his face. But he couldn’t look away.

Vincent slowed his fingers and said, “You’re talented with your mouth. Even your throat is accepting of me. Perhaps you would be better suited for a man? A penis might take more advantage of you.” 

Lawrence shook his head as best he could while keeping the fingers atop his tongue. Never in his life had he ever wanted anyone more. 

“You wouldn’t have anyone over me?”

Again, he shook his head. His eyes pleaded with Vincent’s, begging him to understand his devotion. 

“Not even your savior, Jesus Christ, the only son of the Lord, our God?”

Lawrence went still. The question posed a cruel test. His elected pontificate, the love of his life, over the Lord? How was he to choose? He would only have someone who would have him in return and Vincent had never abandoned him. Lawrence knew he never would. Slowly, he shook his head. 

Vincent withdrew his fingers. He showed them to Lawrence; they were wet and dripping with his spit. After spending so long soaking in his mouth, they had begun to wrinkle. Slowly, he leaned back and sat on his heels, knees turned out on the bed. The position scandalously opened his body to Lawrence. He reached down and pinched his clitoris between his two fingers and his thumb, rolling lightly and easily with the lubricant. 

Vincent said, “I would. To see our savior, our God, chasing a pleasure he’d never known, and knowing it was all because of me. Oh, I could never turn that down.” 

He reached up with a free hand and gripped at his flat chest. His nipples were hard, pointed with arousal and twitching with his own touch. Faster, rougher, he touched himself, alternating between rolling his clitoris and jerking it as if it were a cock. 

Lawrence swallowed, hard. He stayed in his position, too frail to move, too afraid to look away, and pathetically watched Vincent touch himself as if praying the Hail Mary, fingering his clitoris like he did the rosary beads. 

Vincent’s movements grew frantic and unsteady. He breathed heavily, chest heaving with exertion, and his thighs hitched with each touch over the tip of his clitoris. His head fell back and high moans escaped his mouth. 

Lawrence stared at him, unblinking in his desperation to see the man cum for the first time in his life. Still erect, his cock twitched and dripped down onto his lower stomach. He longed to touch himself and reach orgasm at the same time. 

But as Vincent’s moans crescendoed, he ripped his fingers away and they cut off with a harsh cry. He pulled his other hand away from his chest to support himself on the bedspread. His hair fell forward and covered his face with the denial. 

Unable to help himself, Lawrence finally reached forward. He ran a hand through Vincent’s hair and slid it behind his ear again. Then he held his cheek and tilted his face up. Their eyes met in a fiery passion; Vincent’s pupils were so dilated they nearly eclipsed his irises. He breathed, “But I would still have you over Him. I will always choose you over Him, Thomas.” 

Lawrence forced himself to finally sit up and closer. He slid his hand back again and pulled Vincent into a desperate kiss. Somehow, he maneuvered them to lay Vincent back against the sheets and fit himself between his legs in a reversal of what they’d done before. 

Softly, he pressed kisses against Vincent’s neck, working his way around to where he could nose behind the other’s ear. Unabashedly, he breathed in the scent lingering there - isolated from the incense and laundry and tealights - one hundred percent Vincent. He kissed the bone there, gently and over and over again. 

A vibration of a laugh rumbled through Vincent and Lawrence felt it on his lips. He giggled, “Thomas, that tickles.”

“Sorry,” Lawrence pulled back just an inch, “You smell so good.”

Vincent leaned back to look at him better, “I do?”

“Yes. Is it weird to say so?”

Vincent’s hips jerked up, small and uncontrolled. He cupped a hand around the back of Lawrence’s neck and dragged him into another short kiss. Softly, he said, “No. It’s extremely attractive. Please, keep going.” 

Lawrence hid a smile on his neck, kissing down with a clear intent and leaving a wet trail of saliva where he went. When he reached Vincent’s chest he licked a sharp line against his nipple before drawing it into his mouth and sucking hard on it. 

“Oh,” Vincent moaned. His hand slid up and gripped the back of Lawrence’s head to pull him in closer. 

Lawrence acquiesced and dove in. He pressed his tongue hotly against his nipple and gently nipped at it with his teeth. Raising his hand to Vincent’s other nipple, he traced light, feathery circles around it. 

“C’mon,” Vincent lightly tugged at his hair and pushed his head downwards, “I want your mouth on me. Please.”

Obedience had always been Lawrence’s strong suit. He let himself be pushed down until he was face to face with Vincent’s clitoris. More beautiful up close, it was nestled within the trimmed pubic hair and Lawrence felt a respectful rapport with Eve. They’d both been tempted with the finest fruit of life dangling right before their eyes. How could God expect them to turn all that down? 

The junction where Vincent’s body met his thigh was no different than a bush in the Garden of Eden. Unable to resist, Lawrence nosed into the hair there and inhaled deeply, taking in the deepest part of Vincent’s scent to hold it in his lungs and pump it through his veins. 

“My God, Thomas,” Vincent whimpered. He pushed himself onto his elbows to look at him, “You’re so depraved.”

Lawrence sought no retort. He bit into the spot and sucked the skin into his mouth, fully intending to leave a mark no one else would see. Vincent’s hips jumped and his voice hitched a high squeak. His legs squeezed together and squished Lawrence inside them.

Throwing a hand over his mouth, Vincent gasped, “Please.”

Naked and begging for Lawrence to go down on him was never a way he pictured seeing the Pope, but life kept finding ways to surprise him. If this truly was God’s will, he couldn’t protest. Lawrence pushed at Vincent’s chest so he could lay fully back against the bed and lifted his legs to rest over his shoulders. 

Arms circling around his legs, Lawrence held on either side of his hips, where he could feel the dips of Vincent’s pelvic bone, and dragged him close. Unsure how to start, he pressed a kiss to the tip of his clitoris before sucking it into his mouth. He bobbed his head and moved up and down to imitate how Vincent had just blown him minutes before. 

“Mmm,” Vincent hummed above him. His hand rested atop Lawrence’s head and stroked his hair. He said, “Keep going.”

Reassured, Lawrence laid his tongue against Vincent still in his mouth and dragged it in circles as he moved his head. He set an easy rhythm, swirling his tongue as he moved, sucking hard with hollowed cheeks as he swallowed him down, alternating a flat press against the underside of his clitoris with a sharp vibration he attempted to create with shakes of his tongue against the base. 

It was the swirls that got Vincent the hottest, he could tell, because each cycle around the entirety of him sent a jolt through his leg and forced his heel to dig harder where it rested on Lawrence’s back. The underside of the tip was the most sensitive, and this he relayed to Lawrence with a stuttered whimper each time he tongued there. 

He glanced up, still working at Vincent’s clitoris, and was surprised to make eye contact. Dark brown eyes stared down at him from where Vincent lay, hair billowing onto the pillowcase below his head. One of his hands paused in its massage, hovering instead above his nipple now. Although difficult to see through candlelight and dark skin, Vincent undoubtedly blushed under Lawrence’s gaze. He said, “You look good like this.”

Lawrence shyly ducked his head. He licked another line up Vincent and muttered, “No, that’s you. You’re beautiful.”

“You know how to flatter a man,” Vincent said. He continued toying with his chest, pinching and rolling his nipples, and pulled Lawrence’s head closer again, “Please. I’m close.”

Blunt fingernails scraped against Lawrence’s scalp and he shuddered, unable to help himself. He dropped his head lower this time and licked a line up the seam where Vincent’s lips were fused together, wondering if it might still feel good. 

“Unnhh-“ Vincent jerked and his hips trembled before he rolled them to press harder against Lawrence’s mouth, “Fuck, do that again.” 

Lawrence pressed his tongue flat against the seam again and slowly dragged it up, curling it at the top to hug Vincent’s clitoris all the way up. When he reached the tip he sucked it into his mouth and swirled his tongue around in circles.

He brought a hand back down to trace up and down underneath, against the seam, enough for Vincent to feel and grind against and chase with a roll of his hips. 

“Yes,” Vincent gasped. His fingers tightened around Lawrence’s head and his hips bridged, leaving only his upper back to support himself. 

Lawrence felt up and down with a determined  touch, meaning to make Vincent feel him everywhere. He reached the spot right beneath his clitoris, at the top of the seam where his lips weren’t completely connected and prodded at where his urethra was.

Mouth enveloping Vincent whole, Lawrence sucked hard and let his bottom lip drop open for saliva to drop down onto where his fingers were caressing.

A shot of silence and both hands coming down to hold onto the sides of Lawrence’s head were the only signal he got. When Vincent came it was with a high moan that crescendoed with an, “Oh, Thomas.” 

His thighs clenched tight around Lawrence’s ears, hands forcing his head to stay close and shins interlocking behind to keep him in through the shakes of his orgasm. His hips stuttered against their previously delicate rolls against Lawrence’s mouth, but it didn’t stop him from grinding down to chase the high. Every pass of tongue against his clitoris sent a visible jolt through his body. 

Lawrence followed the unspoken pleas of his lover and continued to shape circles around him, meaning to coax out every last sound. His own desire grew more persistent where it pressed against the bed below him. After years of denial, he found himself glad to have something else to avoid it for. 

Eventually Vincent loosened his legs and his grip around Lawrence’s head and gently pushed him away. His head was still thrown back against the bedspread when Lawrence looked up at him. The curve of his soft jaw was taut with pleasure and his chest rose and fell with the rhythm of deep breaths working themselves back to normal. 

Needing to see Vincent’s face, Lawrence pushed himself up to align the two of them once again. He fit just between the fallen V of his legs and held himself up with one hand, hips hovering just above. As they became face-to-face again, he reached out to hold Vincent’s face in one hand and stroked his cheek with his thumb. 

Finally Vincent opened his eyes and looked at him. Bliss radiated from him and he made no attempt to hide it. A satisfied smile played on his lips as they looked at each other. He let out a soft laugh, “Thomas, my dear. Mahal. Thank you.” 

Although his mind was clouded, Lawrence couldn’t help but feel self-conscious, “Was I…okay? I mean, was it good for you?” 

“Good?” Vincent’s lips split into a full-blown grin, the one that made Lawrence feel the way the Apostles surely did when the Holy Spirit descended upon them, and said, “I haven’t felt this happy since my confirmation ceremony, and the pleasure you’ve given me was unlike anything I’ve experienced before. You’ve restored a part of me I’d unconsciously repressed since I discovered the truth about myself. I believe that’s better than ‘good’.”

A flood of relief poured down Lawrence. He smiled back at Vincent, “I’m glad.”

Vincent mirrored Lawrence and reached up to hold his face, though he gripped him tighter and pulled him down to intimately press their lips together. He kissed slow and patient and with a peaceful gratitude that tempted Lawrence with a depraved need. 

At this angle he could feel Vincent just below him. If he had a penis, Lawrence might be able to rut against him from there, but his enlarged clitoris remained just a teasing breadth of hair away. It would only take one one shift of weight to press down against him. 

He groaned into their kiss. An overload of senses poured over him. His decades of restrained urges, the heat of Vincent there with him, the soft slide of his tongue against Lawrence’s lower lip, the grip of Vincent’s hand against his hip, urging him down in permission to rut them together. 

“Please, Thomas,” Vincent separated their lips and looked up at him with pleading eyes, “I want to help you the way you did for me. How do you want this?” 

Lawrence was an imperfect man and his virginity was a shining force in the moment. He knew nothing of how to ask Vincent to please him. He said, “Like this. I want to feel you like this. But…” 

Vincent understood. Whether he could read Lawrence’s mind or if he was making a perfect guess, Lawrence didn’t know. But he deftly held onto Lawrence and turned them so he rested back on the bed and Vincent sat above him, straddling him. 

It was moments like these that Lawrence remembered his age. He recalled how swiftly Vincent had put on his shoes when they first met, “Do you do yoga?” 

“What?” 

Lawrence flushed, “You’re so agile for your age. I can’t help but wonder.” 

An amused smile grew on Vincent’s face. He leaned down, supporting himself with one hand like Lawrence had just done moments before, until they were face to face again and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to his lips, “I stretch daily, if that’s what you mean. I used to get so tense, sitting and praying for hours everyday.” 

“I could probably benefit from doing the same,” Lawrence admitted, “I feel so old sometimes.” 

“I can help you, if you want,” Vincent offered. Then he ground down against him, hips rolling with the sensuality of a twenty-year-old.

“Ah-” Lawrence’s hands reached up to Vincent’s hips to steady himself against the feeling. 

He rolled his own up as best he could with his limited stamina. His head begged to fall backwards and succumb to the pleasure but he forced himself to keep it up, unwilling to look away from the work of art above him. 

With his orgasm, Vincent had grown loose and his hair became messy. A lock of it dangled down between them and tickled Lawrence’s cheek. Their breaths intermingled in time with each other with their closeness, but Lawrence could still see between them where they moved against each other. His legs tightened around Lawrence to give his movements more control and his hips rolled fluidly, easily, and his clitoris had quickly grown swollen again despite everything. 

Sharp heat bloomed in Lawrence’s gut. Looking down at where they rutted against each other, he truly grasped what the two of them were doing, making love like partners on their wedding night. The weight of their taboo raced through his veins and he grew hotter with the thought of how many vows they were breaking. 

Vincent moved forward to kiss him again. Their lips clumsily bumped together before they could find the rhythm they’d had before. He pushed relentlessly against Lawrence, nipping, biting, tugging on his lips and taking complete control of him. 

Lawrence could do nothing but accept it. His mouth fell open and he panted with the toll of everything and took in Vincent’s hot breaths in return. If every source of oxygen on Earth disappeared, he felt as though they could sustain each other like this forever. 

He wouldn’t last much longer, but Lawrence couldn’t bring himself to be embarrassed. Lust burned hot in his gut and gave him the resolve to thrust up enthusiastically. Vincent gasped against his lips, “Thomas, oh - yes.”

Rutting down harder against him, Vincent dropped noises from his mouth that stoked the fire in Lawrence’s chest. His free hand reached down and brushed Lawrence’s where it held him at the hip and interlocked their fingers together. Oh, Christ.

Lawrence came with a strangled gasp. His vision went white; everything in the world was still except for the two of them and the bed, creaking with each move they made, and the tealight candles, flames flickering with the force of their motions. Unconsciously, he pulled Vincent down harder on him and held him there as he shot against their stomachs. They humped against each other in jerky movements until the end of his orgasm, when he regretfully pushed Vincent away to avoid overstimulation. 

“I’m sorry, Thomas, but I must-” Vincent cut himself off and reached between the two of them to rub at his clitoris furiously. 

Without his hand to hold him up, he pressed forward further and their hearts collided. From here, Lawrence could only see the jerks of his arm and the gape of his mouth as blissed whines fell from it. He watched in the haze of his post-satisfaction exhaustion, and the sight was so miraculously beautiful he knew without a doubt it would be imprinted on the backs of his eyelids forever.

Then Vincent’s head fell forward and his chin locked around Lawrence’s shoulder and he moaned his second orgasm into Lawrence’s ear. Lawrence freed his hands and slid them up to wrap one around Vincent’s waist to hold him steady and the other to rub reassuring circles on his back. 

When Vincent was done jerking himself through his orgasm he fell quiet. His body slumped completely, save for the occasional post-orgasm quiver, against Lawrence and he nudged his arms beneath him to return the embrace. 

“You’re going to cut off your circulation,” Lawrence chastised him. 

Vincent gripped him tighter and mumbled, “I don’t care. Want to be close to you.”

This time Lawrence momentarily fell silent. The words shot pure giddiness through him and again warmth pumped through his veins. He said, “You surprise me sometimes.”

“I do?” Vincent turned his head to look at him, nudging his cheek against Lawrence’s shoulder, “In what ways?” 

“You have such a strong character. You’re much wiser than me despite being younger. But I still see your youth emerge when I least expect it.” 

“If I said the same about you, you’d disagree. You’re fueled by this determination inside you that inspires me like nothing else.”

Lawrence pressed his lips together firmly. He refused to indulge in the Devil and insist upon his true character to Vincent. If the Lord had any advice he wouldn’t have known, either. He leaned forward to press a soft kiss on Vincent’s forehead. Pulling back, he said, “Thank you.” 

Vincent’s eyes twinkled and he smiled fondly up at Lawrence. Not only was it fondness, but also an emotion that was totally and inexplicably love. Devoted love.

Chapter Text

Lawrence pondered how often he could be forgiven for a sin he would repeat without remorse for the rest of his life. He knew overindulgence was unholy in its essence and the Lord would frown down upon him with each repeat offense, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. 

Mornings found him in the Pope’s chambers, not with papal matters but with tired kisses and morning breath Lawrence couldn’t bring himself to dislike. He did feel a bit of shame, not in the dirty whispers from the Devil, but in the domesticity the two of them had promised to surrender when they were ordained. 

He thought guilt might make them rethink their choices, but even Vincent felt no remorse, as was obvious in the way he acted. He spoke freely to Lawrence and held back none of his thoughts, but it was his actions that truly spoke for him. In the mornings, he was always the one to stay in bed just a minute too long. When Lawrence stepped out of the connected bathroom, he always found Vincent laying on Lawrence’s side and soaking up his leftover heat. He grew used to nudging the younger man awake and dragging him around to get dressed in time for morning mass. 

It was in these moments that Lawrence mixed up the intentions of God and the Devil. When he felt love and utter devotion for Vincent, and the back of his mind whispered to cherish him and never let him go, no matter the consequence, he had no idea who would have said it. 

Surely the Devil would send him temptations of lust so strong he would fall victim to the addiction of euphoria by the hand of another man, but would he send him someone who genuinely cared for the well-being of others, so much so that he would advocate for each of God’s creations to his dying breath, from the sex workers born of dust to the inculpable stray cats they found roaming the streets of the vatican? 

And surely the Lord would tell him to follow in the steps of His Representative on Earth, but would He endorse Lawrence when he sank down on his knees, in imitation of holy prayer, to hold one of Vincent’s legs over his shoulder and press his mouth against him in reverent consecration, and pleasure him until he couldn’t stand anymore?

Lawrence knew he fell into these thoughts too hard. Vincent knew too. He was truly a gift from God because he also knew how to help him through it. “Thomas,” he said one morning, “You’re up already? It’s not even four yet.” 

Lawrence jumped at the voice beside him. He looked down at where Vincent lay, on his side and blinking up at him, sleep still in his eyes. “Your Holiness?” he said, out of pure habit, because he was entirely aware of their current situation. 

Comprehension dawned in Vincent’s eyes as he registered the title. He reached out and lightly pulled on Lawrence’s arm, “Lay back down with me.” The hesitation in Lawrence’s eyes must have been strong, “Come on, it’s still early. I’m cold and you’re letting out all the heat.” 

It was playing dirty, almost a low blow, but Lawrence couldn’t say no. He sighed and shimmied down under the covers and turned sideways to look at Vincent again. “Almost,” Vincent gave him a small smile. He pushed Lawrence to lay on his back and came closer to lay his head atop his chest and wrap an arm around his waist, “There.” 

Vincent claimed to be cold, but Lawrence was unsure how he could feel anything but warmth - it was the only thing he ever felt when they were together. Turmoil grew inside him. The serenity that had recently grown over him felt impossible. He said, “Is this wrong?”

Vincent was quiet. His finger drew ticklish shapes along Lawrence’s side. The world was still in his lack of response. Then, when Lawrence thought his heart might stop, he asked, “Is what wrong?” 

“I have never known you to play coy with me, Vincent. You know what I mean. This. What we’re doing. The vows we break daily.”

Vincent sighed. Then he spoke with a sort of resigned sureness, “I don’t know. I have spent hours in prayer, annoying God with the same question and have yielded no correct answer. What we’re doing is completely new, at least to us. If former popes have been in the same situation, we will likely never know.”  

He huffed a small laugh and continued, “What I know is this: All my life I had been living a lie, and no one felt more betrayal than myself when I found out. And yet, God reassured me with His love and I felt no more disgrace about it. Then, He led me here and I found you. You guided me through it all and you accepted me as I am. When I first felt love for you, more than platonic, more than our obligations, I thought to myself, How can this be wrong? And I decided I would live this truth, so long as you’ll have me. And it’s you that would have me. Not the Devil, nor the Lord. You, as your own person and your own soul.” 

Lawrence was silent this time as he processed the answer. A part of him still felt strongly about it all, and yet, the uncertainty of it all was what reassured him. The trap Vincent set became obvious and he’d fallen back to sleep already, steady breaths even against Lawrence’s chest. 

Next to them, their rosary lay on the bedside table. He leaned over as little as possible to avoid jostling Vincent awake again and picked it up. Gently, he pulled his lover’s hand higher and linked their fingers together to hold the beads between them again. His sign of the cross was natural and the prayer came easy. 

I believe in God, the Father almighty…