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Chapter Text

Katherine is the one who brings it up first. She’s always been more observant than Lawrence. (She’s also smarter than him, and cooler than him, if “cool” is even a metric Lawrence is capable of measuring.) 

He invited Katherine and her children to come visit the Vatican around the first anniversary of Vincent’s election, and the twentieth anniversary of their father’s death. She came with little Ilsa and Dominic in tow, and the three of them got the full tour of the Vatican, even areas where tourists aren’t normally allowed to go. (There are perks to being Dean of the College of Cardinals.) The whole family even got the opportunity to meet the Holy Father, though Lawrence didn’t plan it that way. Always brilliant with children, Vincent had greeted Lawrence’s niblings with hugs and questions, and had embraced Katherine warmly. 

“Your brother is a wonderful man,” he said, making Lawrence turn as red as his zucchetto. “I voted for him, you know, during the conclave.”

“No doubt he was under some sort of delusion at the time,” Lawrence had muttered, but Katherine beamed anyway. 

“It’s good to see someone recognize Thomas for who he is,” she said. 

Lawrence cringed at that. Surely there were better things to discuss with the Holy Father than Thomas Lawrence’s character!

Vincent moved some appointments out of the way to have lunch with Katherine and her children, much to Lawrence’s embarrassment. The five of them sat outside in the sunshine, sipping iced tea and eating chicken with salad and fruit, while Katherine regaled Vincent with stories from Lawrence’s youth, including (to his mortification) the time in secondary school when Lawrence refused to come out of the ocean on a school trip because he had lost his swim trunks in the tide. 

Vincent hid his smile behind his napkin, but Lawrence could see his eyes twinkling; the image made him feel as though he was filled with champagne bubbles.

Lawrence’s apartment isn’t nearly big enough to host an entire family’s worth of people for dinner, but Katherine makes do, settling her children around the small dining room table and ladling steaming pastina and broth into bowls. 

“I liked him,” Katherine says. “He’s so much more… human than when I see him on television.” 

Lawrence dips some of his bread into his soup. “He’s very multifaceted. Sometimes it feels like he’s above all of us, that he has some sort of insider knowledge - and then he trips over his cassock and he’s an equal again.” 

Katherine grins. “He likes you, too.”

“I know. I’m extremely grateful for it. I feel like I’m a completely new person around him. The work feels good again.” 

“No, I mean, he really likes you.” 

Lawrence takes a sip of his wine. “Hm?”

“I just… you get that, right?” 

Lawrence brings his spoon to his lips and swallows, letting the soup warm him. “No, I don’t get what you mean.”

“I just mean that I’ve never heard anyone talk that way about you.” 

“I’m not that bad, Katherine.”

“That’s not what I mean! I mean that… if I didn’t know better…” Katherine leans over and wipes some soup off of her son’s cheek. 

It takes Lawrence a full fifteen seconds to realize what she’s saying. When he finally gets there, the absurdity of it shocks him. “Katherine!”

Katherine rolls her eyes. “Oh, like it’s so ridiculous -”

“Katherine, he’s the Pope . Or did you think he was wearing the white cassock for fun?”

Katherine raises an eyebrow. “There are gay priests,” she points out. “Your friend Aldo -”

“Aldo has nothing to do with this. And you don’t -” Lawrence shakes his head. “You don’t even know he’s gay!” 

“Everyone with eyes knows he’s gay, Thomas.” Katherine gathers up pasta on her spoon and drains it by tilting her spoon against the side of the bowl. Then she eats. 

“What’s gay?” Ilsa pipes up from where she’s delicately perched on a stool. 

“You know what gay is, honey, it’s like Freddy and Alice’s mums,” Katherine says. 

Lawrence is still trying to get over the giant blockage in his brain saying Vincent is gay and could have feelings for you. “Katherine, Vincent holds the keys of St. Peter. He doesn’t have feelings for anyone.” 

“Last time I checked, he was still a person. People have feelings for people. Take it from me.” 

Lawrence blushes. Katherine’s occupation as a therapist has always lent her a certain amount of insight that even the sacrament of confession has not given to him. 

“I know that, but… it’s preposterous. Even if he did have… romantic inclinations, they wouldn’t be towards me. ” 

“Why not?” Katherine asks.

Lawrence takes a deep breath. “Kat, do you think that the Church is secretly a safe haven for repressed homosexuals? Is that what you think the Church is?” 

Katherine scratches her nose. “It would be really neat if it were.” 

Lawrence rolls his eyes. “We’re ending the conversation here.”

“Listen, I’m on a first-name basis with two priests. One of them is Aldo, and the other one is my brother, who, unless something has really changed since I caught him in a compromising position with his year eight lab partner -”

“Katherine!”  

“All I’m saying is, the way he looked at you today…”

“Okay, okay!” Lawrence holds up his hands in surrender. “Let’s change the subject.”

He’s eager to move on. But, much to his chagrin, the thought of Vincent having romantic feelings for him doesn’t leave his mind, not even as he falls asleep that night.

It doesn’t go away the next day, either. Or the day after that. 

—

After three weeks of gathering data, Lawrence is forced to admit it: Katherine… might be onto something.

It’s impossible to look at things objectively, of course. Lawrence is extremely fond of Vincent, and thinks of him as the answer to his prayers during the conclave. Everything Vincent does is a result of hard work and a return from the dark moments when Lawrence could not reach the voice of God. It’s natural for him to see a… strengthening of their relationship where only a strong friendship exists.

There is also the considerable closeness of their friendship. Lawrence can acknowledge that Vincent is far closer to him than the previous Holy Father was. They meet often to pray together, to discuss business, or to edit each other’s homilies. They sometimes take walks through the gardens, and eat lunch together. Were they in another position, Lawrence suspects they still would be friends. (He tries to imagine the two of them together in seminary; they likely would have gotten into far less trouble than he and Aldo did, but he figures they would have been close.) They care for each other, and take note when the other person is in a bad mood or is tired from the effort of carrying the Curia. 

Lawrence admires the Holy Father, of course. He’s admired him since the night he said grace in beautiful, elegant Spanish before the conclave began. That sense of admiration only grew upon his election, and still motivates Lawrence to do his best work. Vincent isn’t just his friend; he’s his teacher, his leader, and his guide. Of course Lawrence is going to appreciate that Vincent spares him a certain amount of attention; it’s nice to think that the Pope would notice him out of the dozens of people he interacts with every day. The Catholic Church is a giant, heaving crowd that lurches in one direction or the other - it would be deeply flattering to anyone to be noticed by its head of state. 

But that doesn’t mean Lawrence wants that attention to become anything more than a simple blessing. And that certainly doesn’t mean Vincent’s actions imply anything… inappropriate.

Still, the thought lingers. Vincent touches Lawrence more than anyone else on his staff. A hand on his shoulder, his elbow, sometimes the small of his back. Lawrence could measure his days by how many touches Vincent gives him, just like he can measure Ray’s mood by how many chocolates he takes from the bowl on Lawrence’s desk. 

Vincent smiles at him. Brilliant, beaming smiles that sometimes make Lawrence feel like he’s looking directly at the sun. But that means very little. Vincent has a special smile for everyone, including turtles, tiramisu, and small children. Lawrence can’t count that as anything more than a display of Vincent’s natural kindness.

His words are another matter. Tesoro is a word that Vincent has used in place of his name once or twice. Lawrence had to look it up to find the meaning; he blushed when he found it. Treasure . Not something one usually calls a colleague. Perhaps in Veracruz it has a more casual meaning.

Sometimes Vincent’s eyes drift over Lawrence’s chest or shoulders. Lawrence would pass this off as a simple manifestation of Vincent’s tendency towards distraction, but given that he has occasionally seen a few young Sisters look at him with the same motions but more blatant appreciation, he’s forced to file the action in the “suspicious” column in his mind. 

All of these things can be passed off as expressions of friendship or camaraderie. But there’s something - something - in the way Vincent interacts with him that makes Lawrence feel as though he should be keeping Katherine’s words in mind. 

Yes, the idea is preposterous. A Pope with a crush. It’s nonsense. But the illogic of it comes from Vincent’s position, not his character. Were he a layman that Lawrence had met some other way - a theologian at a college or an actor in a theatre troupe - Lawrence would probably think it probable, even likely that Vincent would have feelings for somebody . Vincent is a romantic through and through; he charms and is charmed by nearly everyone around him. The most sour of men have melted like butter around Vincent’s calm and easy charisma, and Vincent has never been left unaffected by someone in his presence. Cardinal Tedesco could not bring himself to truly hate the man once they spoke in private; Vincent had walked away proclaiming the Venetian was “terribly unhappy, but very intelligent.” He had even planned to dine with him in the upcoming months.

None of this is to say that Lawrence is hoping for any romantic feelings to arise. Far from it; the idea of Vincent having romantic feelings for anyone at all fills Lawrence with a strong sense of dread and anxiety. The Holy Father, like all priests, made a vow upon becoming a member of the clergy to resist temptation in all of its forms. That includes lust and the desire for a “normal” life, one with a wife and children. Christ was celibate; so too are his avatars. Vincent is married to the Church, the same way Lawrence is, the same way Aldo is, and so on and so forth. 

Such a policy isn’t set in stone, though. Even Lawrence has to acknowledge that priestly celibacy is a matter of discipline, not of faith. Were the Curia to get together and decide that priests could marry, the entire tradition of celibacy could be dismissed with a flick of a pen. (That’s unlikely to happen. Lawrence can barely get the Curia to agree on what to have for supper during their gatherings; he doubts celibacy will ever be on the chopping block.)

There are, of course, priests and nuns who simply ignore the expectation of celibacy. Lawrence is aware of those people, too. They sneak around in chapels and cathedrals all across the country and the world and they have affairs, both torrid and relatively chaste. Lawrence finds fault in those people, but cannot bring himself to shame them when asked about it. He tries, he pretends to act as though he’s above it all, but in the end he feels the same way Katherine does - that members of the clergy are human beings, and have hopes and desires the same way everyone else does. The result is a sort of ambivalence in Lawrence’s actions; He does not condemn those who have romances within the Church, nor does he encourage them. 

Vincent is another matter. Vincent is not a priest in a tiny chapel in the countryside. Vincent’s actions are inscribed into a ledger that goes back millenia. It would be unbelievably risky for him to even have such feelings, much less act on them. 

Even if he did have those feelings… could they be for a man? 

Lawrence genuinely has no idea. He’s never discussed Vincent’s sexuality before. He’s discussed sexuality with Vincent , but that had been in the context of theology, and how the Church should treat homosexuals and other members of the “queer” community. (Lawrence still isn’t used to using such a word - it was such a terrible slur when he was young.) Vincent had professed a desire for the Church to be open and welcoming towards homosexuals, even considering a movement towards an expansion of the definition of marriage, but that hardly meant he had any homosexual inclinations. Lawrence is a big fan of earl grey tea; that doesn’t make him the Earl Grey himself.

Lawrence has no evidence in that area to sway him one way or another. In fact it makes him a little uncomfortable to think about it. He doesn’t like thinking of gender in such a strict way. Men who like women go here. Men who like men go there. Yes, he’s a man, but he’s never felt like he fits into the category the way others do. He also can’t say he’s a man who likes only men or only women. He has desired, and been desired by both. Perhaps it is this discomfort that made him especially sympathetic to Vincent upon learning of his condition. 

There is one final element that makes the entire idea completely absurd. Even if, by some wild combination of the odds, it turned out that Vincent did have romantic feelings, and had romantic feelings for a man, there is simply no way on Earth that Vincent would have feelings for Thomas Lawrence.

Lawrence feels no need to go into the details of why. It is self explanatory.

Still, the thought cannot leave him. By the end of the first month since Katherine visited Lawrence has not been able to go a day without thinking about Vincent’s hypothetical feelings for him at least once. 

It becomes a little maddening. Especially when Vincent smiles at him. Which is often. 

For Lawrence’s birthday, Vincent gives him some extremely generous words about Lawrence’s kindness and capacity for love in a handwritten letter, and includes a receipt for a donation towards a hospital being built in Sierra Leone. It seems that Vincent’s first book - chronicling the work he did in Kabul and the Congo - had gained a moderate amount of success. The proceeds, apparently, are going towards the building of a cancer ward in this hospital. Somewhere in Sierra Leone, Vincent writes, there is to be a plaque with Thomas Lawrence’s name on it, in front of a space dedicated towards treating the same disease that took the life of Lawrence’s father. 

Lawrence can’t ignore it, after that. Despite the risk of ruining their friendship, despite the risk that he will be dismissed from his post, despite the risk that Vincent will simply think he has taken leave of his senses, he has to ask. 

They pray together in the evenings. Afterwards, they have tea. Vincent notes with excitement that when the weather gets warmer after Easter, they can have tea over ice. (Evidently ice was a luxury in Kabul; Vincent gets unusually excited about having it in a drink.) 

Lawrence watches Vincent pad around the small kitchen adjacent to his living room. Vincent had initially refused to live in the luxury and comfort of the papal apartments, but had been convinced upon learning how much easier of a job the Swiss guards would have keeping him safe if he lived within the already secure walls of the apostolic palace. In the end it seems to have worked out; Vincent enjoys having the ability to cook his own meals and live in relative solitude after years of making do in close quarters. 

“My… my sister brought something up to me, when she visited,” Lawrence begins clumsily. 

Vincent stirs a frankly obnoxious amount of sugar into his tea. “Hm?” He replies. 

“It’s just - I can’t stop thinking about it. She - you’ll have to forgive her, she’s not very… devout, and she lives in California, these days, so sometimes she gets these ideas, and -” 

“I’d say most people are less devout than we are,” Vincent cuts in. “I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.” 

Lawrence smiles weakly. “I suppose that’s true. Um, anyway, it’s funny, she was - when she visited, she sort of looked between the two of us, and how you treated me, and…” 

Vincent waits patiently, his eyebrows raised in interest. 

Lawrence swallows. “You know, never mind, it’s fine.” 

“No,” Vincent insists, “tell me. I promise I won’t be upset.” 

There’s no way for Vincent to guarantee that, but Lawrence clings onto the promise anyway. “It’s just…” He forces a half laugh. “She said that, the way we interacted, it looked like you had a crush on me.” 

Vincent is silent. 

Lawrence thinks he might be going insane. “Isn’t that - isn’t that ridiculous? I think so - that’s - that’s - that’s what I told her.” 

Vincent is still quiet. He remains silent for another agonizing moment. 

Lawrence is considering the benefits of leaving the room to go throw up somewhere when Vincent finally speaks. 

“I wouldn’t call it a crush,” he says, his voice even and calm, brown eyes sparkling.

Lawrence nods, slightly hysterical. “You wouldn’t?” He asks hopefully. Good, okay. Vincent agrees. All that’s here is friendship. Simple, easy, proper. Appropriate. Friendship. 

“No.” Vincent shakes his head and sets his teacup down. “I would say that I am in love with you.” 

Lawrence’s heart actually skips a beat. Not in a metaphorical sense, not like he’s imagined it when he’s read it in books or poems. For a second, he feels like he’s a little bit not alive. Like something has yanked him out of his body, and has forced him to watch this entire ordeal from the perspective of the ceiling. 

Then he’s shoved back into his corporeal form, roughly, with all of his limbs in the approximately correct place but without his wits about him. 

“ What? ” He says loudly. 

Vincent’s calm expression doesn’t change. “I’m in love with you. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” He offers a small smile and rubs the back of his neck. “This is a bit awkward, isn’t it?”

Lawrence feels like he’s been dunked underwater. “I don’t - what ?” 

“I really didn’t mean for you to find out this way,” Vincent says apologetically. “Actually, I didn’t mean for you to find out at all. But I’d rather be honest with you than pretend. You’ve clearly…” Vincent swallows. “Picked up on things.”

Lawrence sits there with his mouth open. “... No ,” he says. 

Vincent winces. “I imagine this causes a certain amount of distress for you.” 

It’s on the words for you that Lawrence’s ability to manage kicks in. God bless him or condemn him, he’s unable to simply absorb this information passively. “Vincent,” he says seriously, “you’re the Pope .”

“I am aware of that.” 

“You can’t have feelings for me.” 

Vincent takes a deep breath. “And yet, I do. Very strong feelings, in fact. But we don’t need to discuss that at this moment.” 

Lawrence’s whole body feels like it’s been set alight. “ Why ?”

“Why am I in love with you?” Vincent tilts his head. “Why does anybody fall in love?”

If Vincent says the word love one more time, Lawrence is going to lose it. “I don’t understand. You’ve made a vow of chastity.” 

Vincent’s face sags a little. Evidently he’s expected most of the questions Lawrence is asking. “I know. And my vows are very important to me. But… not as important as what God has been telling me.” 

This entire conversation is becoming transcendental. “You think God is telling you to fall in love with me?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Vincent chuckles. “You make me sound crazy. I merely think that… perhaps the structures of my life, of my function as a priest, should not get in the way of my ability to feel things freely. To express parts of my identity.” 

It’s lovely language. It’s too bad Lawrence can only hear half of it over the roaring in his ears. “Vincent, are you telling me you’re a homosexual?”

Vincent shakes his head. “No. I don’t think of it like that.”

“How do you think of it?”

“I like people.” Vincent’s voice turns shy. “I like you.” 

They’re dancing around the topic but Lawrence really needs to acknowledge the core problem here. “Why me? ” 

Vincent looks bewildered at the question. “Do we need to go into specifics? I don’t want to cause you any more distress. I know how embarrassed you get when you are… showered with…” 

Lawrence blinks uncomprehendingly. “Vincent, we can’t be in a relationship.” 

Vincent swallows. “I - I know. I just…” 

“I’m flattered, but…” Lawrence has to stretch back far in his memory to remember how to do this. He hasn’t turned someone down since university, and even then it was sufficient to tell the woman he was thinking of becoming a priest. “I don’t feel the same way about you.” 

It’s true. Vincent is wonderful, is a brilliant friend and teacher, but Lawrence cannot see himself in a romantic relationship with him. Kissing, touching - sneaking around the halls of the Vatican, looking for stolen moments - no. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. Lawrence doesn’t want it to happen. 

Vincent just blinks at him. “I know.” 

“I’m flattered, but, I - I can’t encourage this. I can’t be involved.” Lawrence worries his language is becoming too harsh. He really is flattered, but only so far as he can comprehend what’s happening. Vincent is a skyscraper of a man; there’s just no reason he would experience desire towards him.  

Vincent inclines his head solemnly. “I know. The last thing I want is for you to feel any discomfort.” He leans in, the table a wide expanse between them. “I will endeavor to make sure our friendship remains as it has been, as long as you feel safe with that.”

“So you will cease your infatuation with me?” Lawrence is growing increasingly desperate for this entire ordeal to conclude.  

Vincent chuckles nervously. “I don’t think I’ve treated you any differently, Tomás. Have I made you uncomfortable?” 

“No - you haven’t.” Lawrence has to admit that. Vincent has never once made him uncomfortable. He’s never seemed forward, or done anything that has explicitly revealed his desires. To anyone who doesn’t have as paranoid of a mind as Lawrence evidently has, Vincent is simply a good friend. “It’s just - I can’t - the pope can’t be in love with anyone, especially not a man.” Especially not with me.

Vincent considers this for a moment. He frowns. “I am sorry, my friend. I have no desire to hurt you. I promise to make no advance towards you - but I cannot simply turn my feelings off like a switch.” 

Lawrence swallows. “You must. It’s part of your duty to the church.” 

“Are you speaking to me as my friend or as my advisor?” 

“Vincent -“ 

A spark of defiance has entered Vincent’s eye. “I highly doubt God would want me to deny my own feelings. Especially my feelings for you, as they are more true to me than -“ 

“Vincent!” 

Vincent sighs. “Tomás, I will endeavor to mind your comfort around me. I will follow your lead whenever possible. I will treat you as a friend, as a colleague - whatever you prefer. But no one can ask me to deny my feelings - not even you. I would like to be with you, but I do not need the feeling to be mutual. We can simply continue as though nothing has changed. Nothing has changed, really.” 

Vincent’s calm, even tone is doing little to assuage Lawrence’s worries. “So I am to just - pretend like nothing’s taken place?” 

Vincent looks sympathetic. “I imagine it will be a bit difficult at first. But we will learn together, won’t we?” 

Lawrence isn’t sure he can do that.

—

Lawrence manages two weeks without incident. Every moment he’s in a room with Vincent the same refrain rolls through his mind: he wants me. He wants me. He wants me.

The problem of before has ballooned into something maddening. Every touch, every look, every kind word from his friend is colored in vibrant hues, creating a picture Lawrence could not ignore even if he tried. 

He has to admit that objectively, nothing has changed. Vincent does not flirt with him. Vincent does not touch him more than usual. Vincent has not even brought up their conversation once. But Lawrence has changed. Lawrence is hyper aware now, and it’s driving him crazy. 

For a week he tries to keep his distance from Vincent. But that proves difficult as well. Vincent is his boss, technically, so there is the matter of his profession tying himself to him, but more important than that is the matter of their friendship. Vincent is still Vincent. Vincent is still kind and clever and funny and Lawrence enjoys spending time with him. He enjoys spending time with other people, too - he shares wine with Aldo, and cups of coffee with Ray, and occasionally walks alongside Sister Agnes as she goes about her daily tasks - but Vincent makes him feel warm and safe in a way that is entirely unique amongst all of Lawrence’s interactions. Lawrence can’t give that up, even now that he knows Vincent’s affections towards him are not entirely platonic. They’re still friends. They’re still colleagues. They still care deeply for each other. 

So they slip back into their old routine. Sharing meals together, praying together, working together. If anyone on the outside noticed a brief break in their closeness, they likely would pass it off as a blip. No one would suspect that anything of note had happened. 

Lawrence’s knowledge traps him in a small spiral of curiosity. He wants me. He wants me. He wants me. And Lawrence, in turn, wants to know more.

He can’t help it. He brings it up again over breakfast, while Vincent is sleepily sipping his tea. 

“Are you still in love with me?” 

Vincent smiles sadly. “I’m afraid so. Have I made you uncomfortable?” 

“No.” I just can’t stop thinking about it. “I just don’t understand it.” 

“You don’t understand how someone could be in love with you?” 

Yes. “No. I just - I assumed maybe your feelings would have changed since our talk.” 

“You mean since you rejected me.” Vincent bites his lip and sets his teacup down. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry. You simply haven’t done anything to change my point of view.” 

Lawrence raises his eyebrows. “Perhaps I should start acting badly, then.” 

That earns him a laugh. “Please, feel free to make yourself less desirable.” Vincent holds out his hands. “I will tell you you’ll get nowhere by being yourself.” 

Lawrence feels dizzy. He changes the subject. 

—

“You’re supposed to like it,” Aldo says. “It shows you everything you like and nothing you don’t.” 

Lawrence raises his hand and tilts it back and forth in the air. “I suppose it does, I just don’t think…”

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Vincent says, stepping into the room. Lawrence briefly sees Ray behind him, before Ray closes the door with a short nod. “My other meeting ran long.”

His other meeting was with the president of Ukraine, Lawrence recalls. Probably a good thing it ran a bit long.

“What was it that Thomas is supposed to like?” Vincent asks.

“Oh, you don’t want to know,” Aldo dismisses. “We’re just talking about nothing.”

“Please, tell me. I have had far too many serious discussions for one morning.”

Aldo grins and looks over at Lawrence. “Thomas has recently acquired a Netflix subscription,” he explains.

“At your insistence,” Lawrence says. 

“I want you to be cultured. You can’t talk about the future of the Church if the only books you read are detective novels from thirty years ago.”

“I read contemporary authors.” 

“Nothing in English,” Aldo points out. 

Vincent’s eyes glitter in amusement. Lawrence rolls his eyes. 

“The point is, I don’t like that the - the - whatever it is that decides what to show me.” 

“The algorithm.” Aldo meets Vincent’s eyes and stifles a grin. “You don’t like it?”

“It assumes I only like one thing. I watch a television show that’s about a - a legal drama, and then it thinks all I want are legal dramas. I have other interests. I watched a documentary on our Holy Father, here, and -”

“You watched a documentary on the Holy Father?” Aldo teases. “What could it possibly have taught you that you don’t already know?” 

Lawrence looks away, willing his cheeks to remain their usual color. “I was only watching it to see what the press is saying about him.” He looks at Vincent for help, only to find more mirth in his eyes. “But now all I get are television shows and films about the Vatican! Which I have… more than enough of in my daily life.” 

“They make a show about the Vatican, you know,” Aldo muses. “They have the Pope doing all sorts of things on that show. Complete blasphemy.”

But not as far-fetched as I once thought. Apparently our Pope is full of surprises. “So you’re a fan?” Lawrence jokes. 

“Ah, if I only had the time to watch television,” Aldo replies. 

Vincent leans back in his chair. “I find it interesting that this… algorithm claims to know your interests, yet you’re so unsatisfied with it.”

“I just think if they’re going to be surveilling me all the time, they should know I like more than one genre of film.” 

“You don’t have a problem with the fact that they’re surveilling you all the time?” Aldo asks.

Lawrence shifts in his seat. “Of course not, I’m Catholic. I’m very used to being watched all the time.”

That earns him a big grin from Vincent and a sensible chuckle from Aldo.

“Perhaps there is a kind of beauty in it, no?” Vincent asks. “That a computer can only see one side of you at a time. You’re too multifaceted for it.” 

Lawrence averts his gaze shyly. “I suppose we’re all quite multifaceted.” 

“But you especially.” 

Lawrence looks up and catches a brief flash of fear on Vincent’s face.

Oh, no. Lawrence doesn’t want it to be like that.

“Thank you,” he says, trying to convey as much sincerity in his tone as possible. You haven’t overstepped. It’s nice to know you see so much of me.  

“You’re like an origami ball,” Aldo quips. 

Both men stare at him.

“Many sides?” Aldo says, as though it should be obvious. 

“Perhaps we shall turn to the matters of the day,” Vincent offers. 

The meeting continues, but the warmth from the compliment stays somewhere safe in Lawrence’s chest for the rest of the day.

—

Vincent takes Lawrence’s confession in the second booth towards the back of the chapel in the casa Santa Marta, while a moth flutters around near an air vent. 

“I get - angry at my friends sometimes, when they disagree with me.” Lawrence rubs a hand over his face. It’s been ages since his last confession; he had ignored the sacrament until he felt he could hear God’s voice again. “I ignored my own ambition during the conclave, and it nearly caused a rift between Aldo and myself. I tend to get stubborn about politics, though I hide it. I pretend I like people when I really don’t.” 

Vincent nods, listening. “Anything else?” 

Lawrence swallows. He doesn’t really want to talk about it, but the anniversary of his father’s death has made him re-examine his relationship with his parents. “I was cold to my mother for many years, before she died. I don’t think I honored her. I think I dismissed her.” 

Vincent makes a sympathetic noise. “Was it hard, when she passed?” 

“No - that’s what bothers me now. I don’t think I ever really grieved her.” 

Vincent’s expression is sad, but understanding. Lawrence wonders if he’s ever been cold to anybody. He can’t really envision it. “Maybe you can do a little of that now. You can pray for her, when you say the rosary.” 

Lawrence feels his cheeks get warm. Vincent is a disturbingly easy person to confess to. 

“Still in love with me?” He asks. He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe he’s just being cruel. It’s become a sort of game in his head. If there’s no real reason why Vincent is in love with me, there’s no real reason why he can’t fall out of love with me.

Vincent sits up in his chair. “In this room I am your priest, Cardinal. Unless - you wish that I weren’t?” 

Lawrence shakes his head, regretting his words. “No, I’m - I’m sorry.” Vincent would never take the bait like that - and Lawrence shouldn’t have taunted him with it. His feelings, as much as Lawrence is confused and discomfited by them, are his own.

Vincent leans over and squeezes Lawrence’s hand lightly. “It’s okay,” he says. “For the record, my feelings for you would not change upon the knowledge that you are a human being with flaws and insecurities. We are all sinners, my friend.” 

Lawrence wonders how Vincent always seems to know what to say. 

A part of him wishes Vincent held his hand longer.

Chapter Text

Though some time has passed, Vincent has apparently not forgotten his promise to dine with Cardinal Tedesco, and while going over his itinerary for the day he instructs Ray to invite the Venetian along with several other conservative Cardinals from around Europe to eat with him and discuss the future of the Church.

“You should join us,” Vincent says to Lawrence, interrupting his small prayer of thanks to God for not having to do such a thing. “There will be brilliant conversation, I am sure.”

Lawrence schools his features as best he can. “Of course, Holy Father.”

Ray snickers, tapping something on his iPad. 

“Since you find it so amusing,” Vincent says, “you shall join us as well, Monsignor.” 

That is how an extremely chastened Ray ends up sitting next to Lawrence at one end of the large table seating a dozen Cardinals in Tedesco’s entourage, including Cardinal Csonka, Cardinal Augustyn, and Cardinal Rivera, who still refuses to get his hearing aid fixed and has been shouting in Lawrence’s ear for half of the evening. Improbably, Cardinal Sabbadin arrives at the dinner, phone glued to his ear. Evidently there had been a “mix-up” with the scheduling; Lawrence suspects that Monsignor O’Malley just wanted a friend with whom he could commiserate. 

The evening is going well, or as well as it can go when one is listening to Cardinal Tedesco interrogate each person at the table on their loyalty to a myriad of the Church’s traditions. Lawrence dutifully gives a recitation of his positions, but isn’t at all surprised when they immediately get talked down as evidence of the Church’s growing moral relativism. He still doesn’t understand what “woke” really means, or why any of these Cardinals believe the ideas related to it are such a threat to the traditions of the Church. Shouldn’t it all be more about what those traditions represent? And if ‘woke’ simply means progressive, couldn’t one argue that Jesus was ‘woke’? It all makes Lawrence’s head spin.

Vincent doesn’t say much of anything during any of this debate. He merely observes, making the occasional comment. He’s hardly a passive audience, though. Lawrence can tell just by looking at his eyes that his mind is hard at work, turning over possibilities, composing arguments and counterarguments, finding ways to persuade, to soothe, to agitate. 

Eight moves ahead. Lawrence wonders if all popes have to have that sort of mindset to be elected in the first place.

Tedesco has begun another one of his rants, about what Lawrence can’t exactly be sure. He talks in rapid Italian, his accent thick enough that Vincent occasionally leans over and asks Ray for clarification on some of the language. Ray does his best to translate, an admirable effort considering his Italian is “very clumsy.” (Lawrence has heard him say so several times and yet every day it becomes less and less believable.) 

“- and all of our youth would do well to stop getting distracted by what their peers are doing, and look inward, for that is where the real ‘peer pressure’ lies. That is where the temptation towards sin lives. And it can fester.” Tedesco waves his hands for emphasis.

“The children within our flock should be taught to stay away from their cell phones and computers,” Cardinal Rivera says in English. 

To everyone’s surprise, Tedesco shakes his head. “I disagree. I think that the Church should incorporate more technology in her teachings, not less.” 

Vincent, who had been resting his chin on his hand, sits up in interest. “I would like to hear more about this, brother Cardinal. I would have thought you would fear that modern technology would lead us further into…” Vincent struggles for the Italian word and opts for Spanish instead. “ Relativismo moral .” 

“I think that is a risk,” Tedesco admits, “but I have found that the use of web sites and, er, social media has helped some souls who have been lost find their way into the arms of Christ. Young people are no longer being taught the word of God in schools! They must find it on their own, and for that the Internet has been like the tongues of fire reaching the Apostles, helping people learn within their own language.” 

Vincent takes this in, looking thoughtful. Lawrence ponders the words himself. They sound nice enough; but he imagines the people Cardinal Tedesco is trying to convert to the faith may have motives beyond an interest in Christ’s teachings of love and forgiveness. 

“I have heard that many bishops and priests have reached far beyond their congregations through the use of social media,” Ray says. 

“Holy Father, you actually have social media accounts yourself,” Lawrence notes. “The American woman in our press office, she runs them, remember?” 

Vincent thinks for a moment. Then his eyes grow wide. “Judith!” He exclaims. “Oh, I will have to speak with her. Perhaps I can do more with my accounts, experiment a little bit.”

“I would go easy with it,” Sabbadin says, taking a sip of wine. “You don’t want to appear as though you are an influencer.”

Vincent blinks at him. “At all times I am trying to influence people, Cardinal,” he says seriously. “It is in the nature of my vocation.”

Sabbadin opens his mouth, possibly to clarify himself, but Ray interrupts him. “You could go live on Instagram,” he suggests. “My niece does it all the time. She takes questions from people, holds little interviews with her friends.” 

“‘Go live on Instagram?’” Vincent asks, uncomprehending. Lawrence is abruptly reminded that despite Vincent being much younger than he is, he is hardly a tech-savvy youth. (This is something of a relief; Lawrence would prefer not to be alone in his technological illiteracy.)

“I think it means you broadcast yourself,” Lawrence explains. “To all of your followers. I would watch, personally.”

At the other end of the table, Tedesco scoffs. “We already know you would watch, Tommaso. You are always the Holy Father’s first follower.” He turns to the Cardinal sitting next to him. “ Come un cane addestrato,” he mutters.

Lawrence tilts his head town to look firmly at his half-eaten plate of food. Comments like this are part and parcel of being Vincent’s advisor and friend. Sure, they are unusually close, but people said that about Archbishop Wozniak and the previous Holy Father, too. Lawrence has nothing to be ashamed of. Really, he doesn’t.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Vincent stiffen in his seat.

“Cardinal Tedesco,” Vincent calls across the table.

Tedesco freezes, his vape halfway to his mouth. The entire table looks towards the Holy Father as if he is about to serve in a tennis match. 

“Brother Cardinal,” Vincent says, “I appreciate that you have offered us all the spirit of lively debate this evening, but I must ask that you refrain from name-calling. Especially when the target is an advisor of mine whose loyalty is something to be admired, not mocked.”

The entire table is silent at this. Ray looks across at Sabbadin and raises his eyebrows dramatically. Lawrence can feel the blush rise on the back of his neck. He resists the urge to sink into his seat.

Tedesco looks suitably humbled, the image of Vincent in brilliant white reflecting in his glasses. “My apologies, Holy Father,” he says quietly. “But you must know, I was only teasing.” He glances over at Lawrence, who reluctantly meets his eye. 

“I do know that,” Vincent says, not unsympathetically. “But scripture says that a careless word wounds like a sword. Let us all take note of that as we continue talking.”

Tedesco nods, subdued. 

Vincent turns and meets Lawrence’s gaze for half a second. His eyes are bright and focused, as if he can see right into Lawrence’s mind. 

Lawrence swallows. Far from being the knight in a castle, he suddenly feels as though he’s a helpless damsel, a princess who’s just been rescued, the sound of swordplay ringing in his ears. 

He can’t stand it. He has to say something, or else he’ll think about the fact that Vincent wants him, wants him, wants him - 

“It’s perfectly fine, your Holiness,” Lawrence says, forcing humor into his voice. “I’m happy to be looked upon as a trained dog for you. It means people know I’ve still got some bite left in me.” 

The table lets out more of a sigh than a laugh at the remark, but it’s enough to break the tension. 

The conversation continues into the evening. Lawrence can feel Vincent’s eyes on him the entire time.

—

Occasionally, Lawrence has moments in his day-to-day life when sparks of energy rush through him. They don’t come often, and there’s no way to predict them, but he always welcomes them when they arrive. It seems that the bohemian spirit of his youth spent in New York has never truly left him, so sometimes when the weather is right and he’s gotten enough sleep (a rare event), he finds himself tossing and turning in bed, not out of stress, but because he truly isn’t tired. 

In those moments he has to admit to himself that his ability to schedule his entire day right down to the minute comes at a cost. Faced with an unexpected amount of free time, he has no idea what to do.

Tonight is one of those nights. Lawrence has finished his work for the Curia, has gone through his email, and has tidied up his apartment. He’s set out his clothes for the next day (not difficult, it’s not as if he has to choose what to wear) and has rewound his watch. He’s even watered the little cactus Ray gave him for Christmas.

He glances at his alarm clock. It’s still early in the evening. If he were in seminary, he would have proclaimed the night to be quite young. 

Lawrence looks outside his bedroom window onto the street below. It’s cool outside, but the sky is clear. 

There’s that one bar Aldo takes me to sometimes. Maybe I could go there, have a cocktail. Pretend I’m John Paul the Second. People-watch for a bit. 

Lawrence doesn’t pretend to be a spontaneous person. But for tonight he will make an exception.

As he’s walking out of the subway exit onto the sidewalk, he sees underneath a yellow street lamp the silhouette of a tall man in a black cassock talking to a homeless person warming themselves under a blanket. 

A fellow priest, out late at night. Maybe it’s something in the air. Lawrence smiles and takes a moment to observe the interaction. So many people simply walk by those living on the sidewalk, it’s nice to see they’re getting some attention - 

Wait.

Oh. Oh no.

“Holy Father?” Lawrence calls, his voice clear and strong through the cool air.

Vincent turns and faces him with wide eyes. The man he was talking to looks up at him, confused. 

“I’m sorry,” Vincent calls back in rudimentary Italian. “You must have me confused with someone else!”

Lawrence makes his way over to him, feeling anxiety bubble up inside himself. When he reaches Vincent, the Holy Father’s expression has turned sheepish.

“Hello,” Lawrence says flatly.

“Hello,” Vincent replies. “Lovely evening, isn’t it, sir?”

The man sitting between them moves as if to stand. “This guy bothering you, Riccardo?” 

Vincent holds his hand out, gesturing for the man to relax. “No, no, he is -”

“- A friend,” Lawrence explains. “I just need to talk to - Riccardo - in private. Is that alright?”

The man - dark-skinned with intelligent eyes that betray exhaustion - looks skeptical but nods. “He does look a little like the Holy Father,” he admits. 

Vincent laughs, too loud. “I get that a lot!” He says, before clearing his throat awkwardly.

Lawrence tugs him off, but not before Vincent places a large wad of bills into the cup next to the man’s blanket and bids him goodnight. 

“What on Earth are you doing here?” Lawrence hisses once they’re out of earshot. “Alone? At this hour?”

“Nothing bad!” Vincent insists. “Just - talking to people. Looking around. Giving a little money to the poor. Why are you so upset?”

“Vincent,” Lawrence presses, “Vincent. You can’t just sneak out at night. How did you get out of the Vatican, anyway?”

Vincent pouts. “It’s not a prison . There are ways to escape.”

“Vincent, if someone caught you out here alone -”

“No one has!” Vincent stops walking and crosses his arms. “No one except you. And what are you doing out here alone, anyway? What if something happened to you ?” 

Lawrence gives Vincent a deadpan look. “I’m not the Pope .”

“You are still important. I care for your safety.”

“A billion people care for yours.” 

Vincent goes quiet at that. He sighs. “I have not been outside of the Swiss Guards’ gaze in over a month. I wanted to be by myself for a little while, be a normal person. Is that so wrong?”

Lawrence feels a pang of sympathy. He watches Vincent’s breath fog up in the night air. “No,” he agrees. “It’s not. But you can’t do it again.”

Vincent frowns, his eyes big and brown and filled with pleading. “You would deny me a taste of a normal life?”

Lawrence bites back a groan. No wonder people are unable to say no to this man. “Vincent, I don’t think I could deny you much of anything. But - you need to be careful.”

Vincent relaxes slightly. “I am, I promise.” The corners of his lips turn up. “What are you doing out here, really? I am curious.” 

Lawrence’s motivations suddenly seem silly or selfish compared to Vincent’s altruism. “I was just… I just thought about getting a drink, or something. People-watching.” 

Vincent smiles, a real, genuine smile. “I love people-watching. Can I join you?” 

“Of course.” 

The bar they go to is cozy, with low lighting and quiet conversation. From the quieter end of the long bar, Lawrence orders an old-fashioned (much like himself, har har har), and Vincent orders a club soda. 

The two of them talk about nothing for a little bit, settling into the routine of comfortable conversation that so often fills their days. Current events in the news, the latest harmless gossip from Ray, the activities of Sister Agnes and her cohort, the nonsense that Cardinal Tedesco posts on social media, the coming changes of the seasons. It is a relief for Lawrence to know that no matter the context, no matter the place or time, he will always have these moments with Vincent. 

Vincent turns his head to gaze down towards the other end of the bar. Lawrence follows, and sees a young woman looking at them, smiling.

“Do you think she recognizes you?” Lawrence asks. 

“I… don’t think it’s me she’s looking at,” Vincent replies with a grin. 

Lawrence blinks, uncomprehending. Then he looks over again at the woman, taking note of her blonde hair, her bright eyes. She smiles at him. He swallows and looks away.

“She must be very drunk, or half blind,” Lawrence whispers, taking a long sip of his drink. 

“Why?” Vincent asks. His voice is perfect for the atmosphere - low, breathy, curious. Sometimes Lawrence has to remind himself to focus on the words his friend is saying rather than the gentle pitch in which he says them. 

“I’m a priest. ” 

“You’re not wearing your collar,” Vincent points out. “You could be anyone.” 

“I’m nearly twice her age!”

Vincent giggles. “You could be her father.” 

“Exactly.”

“Some people are into that sort of thing.” Vincent finishes his drink, searching for the last few drops of liquid with his straw. His tongue peeks out for a moment to wet his lips, then disappears. 

“I can’t imagine why.” 

“The wisdom, the experience. The greying hair. Haven’t you ever had a crush on a teacher?” Vincent asks.

Lawrence opens his mouth to reply, but his voice gets caught in his throat.

Vincent’s had a crush on a teacher before? The idea is fascinating.

Lawrence feels his face get warm. Of course Vincent has had crushes before. He never claimed to be asexual. And there’s the small fact that Vincent has confessed, multiple times at this point, to having feelings for Lawrence himself…

But Vincent didn’t say he had a crush on Lawrence. He said he was in love with him. There’s a difference in that. One implies lightness, evanescence. The other is intertwined with one’s identity. That’s how Lawrence sees it. Otherwise people wouldn’t be utterly destroyed when they get rejected.

You rejected Vincent. He isn’t utterly destroyed, is he? 

An image appears in Lawrence’s mind, ripped from the pages of Dante’s autobiography, a short little narrative he read in university. A powerful, muscular figure eating Vincent’s heart, leaving him agonized and whimpering. 

Did he do that to Vincent? Was Lawrence’s rejection one that affected him at his core?

Lawrence swallows. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore. 

Vincent seems to have noticed the thought process behind Lawrence’s expression. His smile fades slightly. “I only meant - she is not a fool for thinking you are beautiful.”

Lawrence’s cheeks warm automatically. “Thank you,” he says. Trust Vincent to make a normally embarrassing compliment feel pleasant.

As they step outside into the night, a thin rain begins to shower down upon them. Lawrence covers his face with his hand and pulls his coat tighter around him, but Vincent simply walks as if nothing is happening.

There’s something stuck in Lawrence’s mind that he can’t shake away. “It wouldn’t work out,” he says, over the steadily growing roar of the rain. 

“What wouldn’t work out?” Vincent asks. 

“Between me and the girl.” Lawrence cringes. “The woman, at the bar. I’m older than her - I’d - I’d be gone nearly twenty years before her!”

“Yes,” Vincent agrees. A car splashes by; he waits for it to pass before he speaks. “It’s sad, when one spouse leaves long before the other.” 

“Why would anyone want to put themselves through that?” Lawrence asks.

Vincent stops and turns to face him. His eyelashes have become stuck together in little triangles from the moisture. “It would be worth it, for me.”

Lawrence realizes that they’re talking about each other now. “How could it possibly be worth it?” Fear rises up in him unannounced. Vincent is so full of youth and color; how could he ever want to be with someone old , someone who can barely keep up, someone who is already so stuck in his ways? “Vincent, you say you are -”

“I want to point out that you are the one bringing up my feelings, here,” Vincent says. Lawrence ignores him.

“You say you are in love with me. But I’m over a decade older than you! If I got sick - if the cancer came back -”

“I would take care of you,” Vincent says immediately. “In fact, I will take care of you, regardless of if or when that happens or what you feel towards me, because you are my friend and my brother in Christ. Not everything is a negotiation, I don’t need to argue with you to -”

“And then when you can’t take care of me anymore?” Lawrence is thoroughly soaked to the bone, now. The rain is coming down harder, nearly in sheets. Vincent’s hair has turned to a black curtain around his face. “When my time comes?” 

He thinks of his father, straining to say a few words to Katherine as Lawrence held his hand. The look on his eyes when his spirit left his body.

Vincent swallows. “I’ll mourn you,” he says. “And I will await the time we are reunited.” 

Lawrence wipes the water out of his face. He doesn’t know how Vincent can talk so cavalierly about this. 

“It happens to people every day,” Vincent says. “It hurts because it is real.”

It will hurt a thousand times more for Vincent because he is in love. Lawrence’s death, even if it occurs at an old age, will feel to Vincent like yet another tragedy in a long line of horrors he’s had to witness. Lawrence feels his heart beat double time in panic at the thought. 

“I don’t want to cause you pain,” he says. 

Vincent shivers. “It would be worth it,” he insists. “Christ was only on Earth for a short time; look at how much He accomplished. We have known each other for less than two years - you have made me a Pope, a new man. Isn’t that proof that it’s not about the length of time you’re with someone? Isn’t it worth it just to have that time at all?” 

Vincent breaks his gaze away from Lawrence and tilts his face up to the sky. Lawrence watches the water run down his cheeks, his jawline, his neck. His cassock drips water at the sleeves. 

“You - you’ll…” Lawrence struggles to find his voice. “You’ll catch a cold like this, Holy Father. We need to get you inside.” 

Vincent nods, keeping his eyes closed. Then he returns his eyes to Lawrence and reaches over, taking his hand.

“Shall we run?” He says.

Lawrence nods. They run off towards the subway station, sloshing water in their shoes. When they get there, the man whom Vincent was talking to earlier is resting underneath the bus shelter, laughing at them. 

—

Lawrence dreams. 

In his dream, he’s outside the Sistine, looking up at the massive columns that stretch up towards the dome. It’s nighttime; despite the light pollution in Rome, Lawrence can see little pinpricks of light in the sky, small tears in midnight blue like the poked holes in the habitat Katherine made for her pet ladybug, the summer a heat wave swept through Norfolk and Lawrence grew four inches and outgrew all of his t-shirts.

He walks forward and opens the door to the entrance easily, slipping inside. It’s dark in the vestibule, but there’s a glow along the walls, like light filtering through an aquarium. Sound is muted here, too, like he’s deep underground. Lawrence steps in and hears his footsteps echo across the tile, the only noise within the chapel. He walks forward.

Lawrence moves past the arch, into the main hallway. As he steps in, he nearly trips over white fabric pooled on the floor. Light dances and moves across the fabric, making waves and bends in Lawrence’s vision. Is it satin, silk? Lawrence bends down without pain and rubs the cloth between his fingers. He can’t identify the texture but it’s pleasant to the touch. 

Ahead of him is the papal throne, elevated, impossibly tall. Lawrence thinks of visiting the Empire State building in the first few weeks after he moved to New York. He had felt so high up then. Here he climbs up a few steps and then he is far above the ground, able to brush the Sistine’s ceiling with his fingertips. A bit of dust comes away as he does so, revealing the inky blackness of the night sky. He lowers his arm and glances back behind him. 

The tables from the conclave are in their parallel lines on the floor, each with their own pads of paper and pens, ready for voting to begin. Were Lawrence to take a step off the stairs leading to the papal throne, he’d fall somewhere close to where he was struck by debris when the explosion occurred. 

He turns back. In front of him is a large moon-like ball of light, gently glowing where it rests on its seat. The glow emanating from it shifts from warm to cool, as if it’s alive and its mood is changing rapidly. Still, the light is cheerful, calming in its demeanor. 

Lawrence stares at it for a moment. What is he supposed to do? 

Cautiously, he reaches out and touches the light. It gives way immediately, absorbing his fingertips, like he’s sinking his hand into holy water. The texture is soft and light, almost foamy, like soap bubbles. He pushes in further, and the sensation intensifies. He tastes something sweet in his mouth, something floral or citrusy, maybe nectar. He pushes his hand in further.

The light allows him to sink his whole hand into it, beams of soft cream-colored light lapping at his sleeve. A gentle weight settles around his shoulders, holding him, embracing him. He opens his mouth and sucks in a breath of cool, clean air. 

The light pulses, pushes, grows around his hand and his wrist. Lawrence bites his lip, worried. Maybe he’s done something wrong. No, he almost certainly has. This feeling - this combination of feelings - it doesn’t belong to him. It can’t possibly belong to him. It’s too gentle, too rich, too sweet.

But when he tries to pull away, the light dims, losing shape, melting like a scoop of ice cream. Lawrence misses the comfort of it immediately.

He glances back again. In the time he was interacting with the… orb , it seems the edge of the ledge he was standing on shrunk, so now if he were to step back, he’d fall all the way to the floor. 

This is a dream, he thinks to himself. You won’t be hurt. 

It’s certainly no motivation to leave. Lawrence turns back to the light in front of him and pushes his arm back in, further, reveling in the softness that envelops him. 

The light flows out around his arm, growing, moving up and around his torso, down his legs and around his chest. It’s not painful at all; in fact the sheer strength of it combined with the gentleness of its touch makes Lawrence let out a whine. He struggles to take all of it in - the color, the sound (or lack of it), the fizzy, tingly sensation against his skin - but eventually gives up. It’s good, like this - it feels good , to be swept away, wholly and completely, absorbed into something clean and bright and pure. 

Lawrence opens his mouth, to say something, to moan, to simply breathe in more cool crisp air - and then he’s swallowed up entirely, baptized in the pleasure of it, devoured and savored like bread by a starving man. 

It’s too much - it’s too much - !

Lawrence opens his eyes to the flickering light of the candle on his bedside table dancing across the ceiling. 

He takes a deep breath. It was a dream, that’s all. Just a very intense dream. 

He moves to sit up, and then winces. Peering underneath the covers, he verifies a stickiness in his pajama pants. 

That’s… odd. The dream hadn’t been particularly sexual, and besides, Lawrence hasn’t had a wet dream in decades. 

He decides firmly to think nothing of it. Lingering on the topic of his own sexuality has never done him any good, especially when he moves beyond the psychological and towards the mechanical. Any anomaly involving his genitals could send him into a spiral of worry about his cancer returning, so he has to keep boundaries between himself and that train of thought. 

Lawrence gets out of bed, undresses, and places his pajamas in the hamper. He climbs into the shower and sets the water temperature as hot as it can go. The stinging pain of his flesh is a grounding measure. It jerks him out of the fuzziness of the dream. As he washes himself, he can practically see the pleasure of the dream slide down the drain. 

Chapter Text

According to Vincent, there are some aspects of his occupation he simply does not like. He doesn’t find them offensive (that’s a separate category) or boring (he has blessedly few of those), but they are, in his words, “not favorites.” 

One of these tasks is dealing with the occasional Bishop, Archbishop, or Cardinal who has (again, Vincent’s words), “ido de Guatemala a Guatepeor.” Usually already under a harsh spotlight due to their radical political views (and they always have radical political views, Lawrence has learned, as if drawing attention to themselves is simply in their nature), they have committed some sort of crime, or have made themselves the subject of a scandal, and thus it falls to Vincent to recommend either against or in favor of excommunication. 

Vincent doesn’t have the last word, of course. The process of excommunication is extremely complex and involves giving the accused due process within a system of law. But Vincent can start that process by contacting specific people within the Church’s justice system. 

“It’s a shame,” Vincent sighs. “I like Cardinal Russo.” 

“You can still like him,” Lawrence says. He glances outside the window and down, where a group of protestors are huddled some ways away. It’s unclear what they’re protesting; it could be that the Church is too liberal, or too conservative, or that it exists at all. “You just can’t be seen with him.” 

“Three children.” Vincent rubs a hand over his face. “And they’re finally old enough to speak out about it.” 

“They’re angry. They wish they had a father.” Lawrence shifts in his chair. “You’re allowed to be angry as well. He broke his vows. I completely understand if you want to have him excommunicated.” 

“I’m not angry about his having children,” Vincent says. He places his hands on his desk and glances at the small statue of St. Joseph at its far end, a leftover relic from the former Holy Father’s era. “I’m angry that he was not a true father to his children.” 

“He broke his vow of chastity several times, and that does not bother you?” Lawrence asks. 

“Chastity means more than just abstaining from sex,” Vincent replies. “I think there is an element of honesty to it. If you are dishonest while being chaste, perhaps you’re not carrying out God’s will. And vice versa.” 

Vincent’s understanding of heavenly virtues is certainly unique. Lawrence admires it, but sometimes he struggles to keep up even as he’s fascinated. “Russo provided for his children.” 

“Mm, and where did he get the money from? That is another worry,” Vincent says wryly. 

“That’s true.” Lawrence does not envy his pontiff in this moment. He has had enough dealings with the finances of the Church and the sins that lead to their abuse to last him a lifetime. 

“Providing for your children monetarily is not enough,” Vincent says, raising his hand as if to bat off potential arguments. “You need to be involved in their lives. If a priest conceives a child - he should leave the clergy and be a faithful husband and father.” 

Lawrence frowns. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

“I would rather someone be honest in the eyes of God than be trapped in a pathway they do not feel is right for them.”

“They don’t feel it’s right for them? Or it isn’t right for them?”

“I find that people most know what is right for them when they commune with God and search their hearts for what is true.”

Lawrence can’t deny there’s truth in that. How much did he search his heart during the conclave? He scraped at the space until there was nothing left but Vincent’s name, destined to be written on a scrap of paper. “I see. But…” 

Vincent’s gaze softens. “What is it, Thomas?”

“It’s just…” Why is it that Lawrence feels this urge to bring it up all the time? Were there an elephant in the room he’s not sure he could stop himself from shouting about it until his voice got hoarse. Vincent’s feelings for him are like a mosquito bite, begging to be scratched, over and over without hope of relief. “If - if you took on a lover…”

Vincent raises his eyebrows. “Yes?” 

Lawrence lowers his voice. “If you had a lover, and - and he was a priest, and he said he wanted to leave the priesthood…” 

Vincent takes a deep breath. “I would encourage him to do what is right in his heart. If he no longer feels as though his vows are serving him - he could go.” 

Lawrence feels something crack open in his chest, like an egg being poked through by a bird’s beak. “You would let someone leave their faith like that?”

“Leave the faith ? No, never. I could never encourage that.” Vincent shakes his head vehemently, his hair fluffing up a little from the movement. “I would always want someone to remain close to God, in whatever form is best for them.” He pauses, glancing at St. Joseph once again. “Thomas…” 

Lawrence frowns. Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked the question. “Yes?”

“You said once you were considering leaving the Vatican to join an order. You cited your difficulties with prayer. Are you… having doubts again?” 

“What? No!” Lawrence raises his hands, waving the problem away. “No, Vincent, I - I haven’t had difficulties with prayer in quite some time. You’ve - you’ve helped immeasurably with that.” 

A fine blush tinges Vincent’s cheeks. It’s so subtle that Lawrence wonders if he would not have seen it were he not already so familiar with the various hues of Vincent’s skin, the myriad of ways light and temperature can make its color shift and glow. 

“I’m glad to be of service to you,” Vincent says softly. 

Lawrence licks his lips, his mouth having momentarily gone dry. “I only mean - my interest is… you are… you’ve said yourself you don’t want to be tied down by vows that don’t bring you closer to God…”

Vincent raises his eyebrows. “Ah, yes. You mean my desires.” 

He says it so frankly. How can he speak of it like it’s just another aspect of everyday life? 

“If you were to take a lover… would you leave the priesthood?” 

Vincent is quiet for a long moment. Lawrence suddenly feels filled with dread. Yes, Vincent had described a desire for romance with him , but if someone else came along… if that person were to draw Vincent away, encourage him to abdicate his position…

“I would not want to, no.” Vincent tilts his head one way, then the other. “I know that is the advice I would give other priests, but I am not a saint. I would want to both remain in the priesthood and to have my relationship. I guess I am just selfish that way. Maybe that makes me a hypocrite.” 

Lawrence tries to process his pontiff’s words. His mind is suddenly conjuring the image of himself outside of the priesthood, living in a house as a layman, teaching at a college, coming home to - someone - every night. “What if your man wanted you to leave? So you and he could be together?” 

Vincent’s eyes flicker up to meet Lawrence’s dead-on. “You would ask me to leave the priesthood?” 

Lawrence squirms under Vincent’s scrutiny. Vincent notices this and corrects himself, shaking his head lightly as if to clear it.

“You’re saying my beloved would ask me to leave the priesthood?” 

Some distance between them. An acknowledgment that they’re still speaking in hypotheticals. If the conversation gets too close, Lawrence feels a certain pressure wrapping around him. One would think it’d be unpleasant - but it reminds Lawrence of the light from his dream, consuming him, wrapping around him, covering him in purity. Still, he’s wary of it. He doesn’t know what it means and that’s discomfiting to a man his age. 

“You must have considered it,” Lawrence says. 

Vincent stands. He walks over to the table on the side of the room and pours himself a glass of water from a pitcher one of the Sisters keeps filled at all times. (Lawrence vaguely recalls that it was a gift from the Prime Minister of Barbados.)

“I suppose… it would depend on what was being offered to me from the other side.” 

The open feeling in Lawrence’s chest breaks further, as if some part of himself is spilling out onto the carpet. “You would - you would resign from the papacy to have an affair with someone?” With me?!

“I would not be having an affair,” Vincent protests. He takes a long drink of water and sets his glass firmly down on the table. “In this scenario I would be weighing the possibility of a marriage.” 

“A marriage?!” Lawrence must have entered another dimension when he wasn’t looking. “Holy Father, two men cannot...”

“We are speaking in hypotheticals,” Vincent says calmly. “Who knows? Perhaps tomorrow I may fall in love with a woman.” 

Lawrence has to bite back a growl at that. For some reason the thought of Vincent tossing his papacy aside for a pretty woman with long hair and bright eyes makes him ache. “You know what I am talking about.” 

Vincent tilts his chin up, a sure sign that he is ready for combat. “Neither of us here believe that homosexual acts are a sin. Both of us know that two men can love each other the same way a man and a woman can. How can an act of love that does no harm possibly be a sin?” 

Lawrence feels anxiety rise up in his throat. The mere possibility of a life outside of the priesthood is so strange, so foreign and exotic, it’s like a new mineral or element. “Yes, but to be blessed in the eyes of the Church - for it to be a marriage - marriages are public, they’re done with the approval of -” 

“If the sacrament were made in private, would that make it any less real?” Vincent asks. “Would a marriage made under the eyes of a hostile government be any less holy?” 

Thoughts swim about in Lawrence’s head, tangling themselves in each other. He steps back and leans against Vincent’s desk for support. “You… you would leave the papacy… because your beloved asked you to.” 

Lawrence could topple a papacy with a word. He could grant Vincent a whole other life, if he wished. Vincent would no longer be isolated within the walls of the Vatican. He could teach, he could move about a city in daylight, he could travel alone, anonymously, with Lawrence at his side… That world, that mere possibility, is strong enough that Vincent would trade for it the keys of St. Peter.

“I would consider it,” Vincent says. “But… I don’t think it is an issue either of us need to worry about. Were I to take a lover, they would likely be as attached to their vocation as I am. Don’t you agree?”

Lawrence stares up at the ceiling. “I do,” he says. “ I couldn’t leave.” 

He could never leave the priesthood. Not even for Vincent’s comfort. They both belong in the clergy. It is their home. 

“We are just speaking in hypotheticals, of course,” Vincent says. When Lawrence looks back at him, he’s smiling slightly. 

The screen between them is gossamer thin. They hold up this charade, when it itself could not support a house of cards. 

“Of course,” Lawrence breathes.

Vincent’s brow furrows in worry. “I fear I may have upset you,” he says. 

Lawrence shakes his head. “No, Holy Father.” On impulse, he reaches over and takes Vincent’s hand, squeezing it. “I just - I don’t think you should recommend that Cardinal Russo be excommunicated. I think you can dismiss him from his post, but he should be allowed to remain in the Church.” 

Vincent nods. “I will follow your advice, brother Cardinal.” 

—

Summer comes, and Vincent’s feelings don’t change. Neither does his behavior - it remains as respectful and professional as it always does. 

Lawrence doesn’t ask as often anymore. But he doesn’t stop thinking about it. It’s impossible to stop thinking about it. Every time Vincent touches him, smiles at him, says a kind word towards him - Lawrence wonders if this is a sign. 

The move to Castel Gandolfo is never easy, but it is worth it. The process of packing everything the Pope and his staff need for a few months out in a more relaxed atmosphere has always made Lawrence feel a little bit underfoot, but it has given him the opportunity to admire the efficiency of Sister Agnes and her fellow Daughters of Charity. Vincent marvels at the beauty and splendor of the castle by the lake when he arrives, and is sure to thank each and every one of the staff personally for their contribution to what he hopes is a restful, yet productive summer. 

Lawrence is not surprised at all that Vincent immediately takes advantage of the many opportunities for recreational activity that the summer residence affords. 

Vincent sits by the pool, his trousers rolled up to his knees, his sleeves around his elbows. He basks in the sunshine like a lazy cat, his face tilted towards the sky. Lawrence is hesitant to sit down next to him, fearing sunburn on his balding head, but Vincent insists. 

“Vincent, if people see us -“ 

“They will think we are two friends relaxing,” Vincent replies. “Unless - am I - ?” 

This is a common refrain by now. Occasionally Vincent will ask, and Lawrence will give the same honest answer. “No, Holy Father. You’re not making me uncomfortable.” Lawrence doesn’t know why he’s just… okay with Vincent’s feelings towards him, why he doesn’t recoil in fear or disgust when he’s confronted with them, but he has never felt the urge to flee. He’s more bewildered than he is afraid. (Perhaps that’s part of the problem.) 

They sit together, feet in the water, talking about nothing, until Vincent stops and gazes at Lawrence for a long moment. 

“Can I say something, and have it be taken without judgment?” 

Lawrence blinks. “Of course.” 

“You look very handsome in this light.” 

Lawrence swallows. “Thank you,” he says. “But - Vincent - my dear Vincent -“ 

Vincent sighs, evidently bracing himself for the lecture. But Lawrence needs to say this. 

“You do realize that even if I did - feel that way - about you, I would - I couldn’t act on those feelings, right?” 

Vincent bites his lip. “I - I suppose, but -“ 

“Let me explain.”

Lawrence takes Vincent’s hand, turning it so his palm is up towards the sky. He dips his fingertips in the water and carefully draws a circle on Vincent’s skin, along his forearm. “This is you.” 

Vincent inhales slowly. “Okay.” 

Lawrence dips his fingers again in the water, warmer than the ice cold holy water they keep in the dishes at the entrance of the chapel in the Casa Santa Marta. With his index finger he gently draws another larger circle, slightly overlapping the rapidly fading first. “This is the Church.” 

Vincent nods. He leans in so he can watch Lawrence’s movements. His skin is warm and soft underneath Lawrence’s touch.  

“The church takes up most of you. Would you agree with that assessment?” 

“Takes up most of me… how?” Vincent’s voice has lowered significantly. 

“Your thoughts, your focus, your energy, your interests. Now, imagine you took on a - a lover.” 

Lawrence dips his fingertips back in the water a third time. Vincent is perfectly still in his grip as he paints. The droplets of water on Vincent’s skin evaporate almost immediately, but there’s at least a second where they can see the third, smaller circle, overlapping on the other side with Vincent’s circle. 

“That person would have a certain amount of influence over you, wouldn’t you agree?” 

Vincent licks his lips. “Yes,” he breathes. “They would be very powerful.” 

“If I were to -“ Lawrence takes a shaky breath. “If I were to have you… like that, I might have my own ideas about the future of the Church.” 

“Mm-hm.” Vincent’s voice has taken on a distant quality to it. “You would have your own… desires…” 

Lawrence nods. Absent-mindedly, he drags his fingers through the water again. He draws a line through the spaces where he drew the three circles, not knowing if it adds to the symbolism or if he’s simply amusing himself. “What if I wanted to control you, or restrain you?” 

“Restrain me…?” Vincent repeats, his voice moving up at the end of the sentence like a ballet dancer standing on pointe. His eyes are glued to Lawrence’s hands.

“You would be torn between the motives of the Church and the motives of your paramour. You’d be conflicted, because of your feelings for me.” 

Goosebumps are causing the hair on Vincent’s arm to stand on end. Lawrence turns his forearm back gently and touches the soft down, transfixed by it. 

“And then there’s the fact that I could hold our relationship over you,” Lawrence points out. 

“Y-yes,” Vincent whispers. “I’d be entirely at your mercy.” 

Lawrence glances up. A tone has entered Vincent’s voice he doesn’t recognize. 

Wide black pupils greet him, along with flushed cheeks. Vincent’s lips are parted slightly. 

Lawrence suddenly realizes what he’s been doing. With a surprising amount of reluctance, he pulls his hand away. 

Vincent makes a small noise, a little like a whine. “But - but it wouldn’t be like that,” he says quickly. “I’m not so - easily swayed. Have you ever seen me do something I didn’t want to do?” 

Lawrence has to admit he hasn’t. Vincent nods, confirming it himself. He leans in, his body warm from the sun. 

“If it were like that, I would - I would have to be careful, yes, but I could manage it. I manage the desires of the Curia every day. I could handle - I could handle your -“ there’s that tone again, high and breathy, “- power over me, and besides, it wouldn’t be as if I hadn’t consented to it. I would have invited it, offered it to you, and wouldn’t that allow me to be more Christlike? In my - in my submission , wouldn’t I be more holy - in your eyes, in God’s eyes -“ 

Vincent’s expression has fire in it now. His voice is feverish, passionate in a way that’s usually reserved for homilies. Lawrence feels filled with it, overflowing. 

A door opens and shuts behind them. They jerk away from each other, turning to see a sister lay out towels on a nearby table. 

Lawrence looks back at his friend. “We couldn’t,” he insists, stubborn. 

Vincent’s reverie is broken, his song ending without a real resolution after the crescendo. He nods, his eyes falling to the ground between them. 

“I - I see your point.” 

Lawrence feels hot all over. “Thank you.” 

“You may have to remind me again, once or twice.” 

Lawrence nods, dazed. “Of course.” 

Vincent takes a deep breath. Then another. Then another. Then, without any ceremony, he slides into the pool, clothes and all. 

Lawrence watches him sink under the water. When he rises, his shirt clings to him, his shoulder blades visible through the soaked fabric. 

Vincent swims wordlessly, around and around in the pool, until twilight comes.

—

“I just want someone to treat me like they would anyone else,” Vincent says. 

Lawrence dabs at his forehead with a cloth. They’re outside in one of the residence’s many courtyards, standing on a large foam mat that apparently was “borrowed” from the gym the Swiss Guards frequent. “You do see how that’s impossible, right, Holy Father? I mean…” He takes a deep breath. “You are the -”

“I know I am!” Vincent whines. “But because of my position, everyone treats me as though I am made of glass! Look at what we are doing now. I am getting by perfectly fine walking around Rome late at night, and somebody tattles on me -”

“Vincent, it wasn’t me, I swear it -” 

“And suddenly I have to take self-defense classes! As if I cannot already handle myself!” 

Lawrence sighs and puts his handkerchief away, setting himself back up so he’s at one end of the mat while Vincent is at the other. Both of them are in athletic clothing, which for Vincent is a t-shirt and gym shorts, and for Lawrence is sweatpants and a hoodie. He knows he must look ridiculously overdressed for the weather; but skin-to-skin contact with Vincent makes his head spin lately, and he needs to focus. “Your - your man, your shadow -“ 

“Georg.” 

“Georg is just trying to make sure you’re safe. You likely wouldn’t even have to do any of this work if you would just let him come with you.” 

“I cannot be surrounded by guards at all times,” Vincent says. “I begin to feel like a prisoner. Going out at night is to combat that feeling, not add to it.” 

Lawrence shrugs. “Then you must make sacrifices.” 

Vincent sticks his tongue out at him. Lawrence grins.

“Spar with me,” Vincent says. “I’m ready.” 

The next few minutes go by as the last half hour has. Lawrence has, with some effort, tried to grapple Vincent, and Vincent has, with his usual grace and poise, eluded his grasp, often tripping or pushing Lawrence in the process so that he falls with a thud onto the soft foam of the mat. Lawrence doesn’t really mind the exercise; it feels good to know he can keep up with a man a decade younger than he. He still keeps somewhat fit, which is a welcome reminder against his daily worries about his ancient body betraying him. 

Vincent peers down at his opponent with wide, curious eyes. “You are still not putting up much of a fight,” he observes. 

“I’m trying not to kill the pope,” Lawrence replies, sitting up with a groan. “I’m also not very strong.” 

“Liar,” Vincent challenges smoothly. “You could take me if you wanted to.” 

Lawrence chuckles, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll be sure to do that if the mood ever strikes me.” He pauses. “You do realize that if someone is targeting you, they likely will have some sort of weapon with them?” 

“If I am confronted with a knife to my throat I will pray to God the Father for guidance, or to his Son to protect me.” 

“Your Holiness, you are aware that Jesus Christ cannot teach you how to disarm someone, right?” Lawrence asks.

“Maybe,” Vincent says. “But He didn’t volunteer to spar with me. You did. So please, let’s continue.”

The sun starts its path downwards as they work, until finally Vincent calls the activity off as the evening sky deepens to purple. 

“Thank you for this,” he says. His hair is slightly damp with sweat, his skin glowing golden. “I will admit, when you volunteered your time, I was surprised.”

“Because I’m an old man?” Lawrence jokes.

Vincent rolls his eyes. “No. Because you are… because of our relationship.” 

Lawrence’s smile fades. He looks down at his towel. “I don’t mind,” he says truthfully.

Vincent stares at him for a long moment, before nodding and taking a sip of water from a glass left on a bench. Half of it spills over his face and chin, so he lifts his t-shirt and wipes his face off, exposing the ever so slightly curved expanse of his torso. 

Automatically, Lawrence’s eyes snap to the sight. He knows he shouldn’t stare. But the evening is warm and he’s just spent an hour being thrown all over the ground and perhaps his boundaries have been dulled from that.

"The scar," he says, glancing at Vincent's waist. "Is that from your appendectomy?" 

Before Lawrence has time to regret the question, Vincent nods. Lawrence gives him a teeny tiny smile, as if to acknowledge what's shared between them. Their little secret. It’s not a fearful thing, anymore. It’s just a truth that they hold together. 

Lawrence doesn’t know why he looked. But he’s glad he did.

Chapter Text

When Vincent returns from his tour of South America, he steps off the plane and kisses the ground, as John Paul the Second would do. Lawrence watches with a barely hidden smile on his face; he knows that Vincent is both thanking God for the ability to make the trip, and the fact that the plane didn't crash horribly while he was on it. (Vincent hates flying, a fear that amuses Lawrence to no end.)

When he rises, his eyes immediately find Lawrence's. He walks over with sure, steady steps and pulls Lawrence into a tight, full squeeze. 

Oh.

"I missed you," Vincent says, his voice buried in Lawrence's neck. 

Lawrence hesitates for a moment, but then returns the embrace. "I missed you too, Holiness." And it's true. 

Vincent holds onto him for a long, long time, the two of them standing in the sunshine on the tarmac. Eventually Vincent breaks away, but only a little bit; his arms remain looped around Lawrence's neck. 

"You've grown a beard," he says with wonder, eyes roaming around Lawrence's face. 

"Yes," Lawrence admits. "Do you like it? It was mostly borne of laziness." 

Vincent grins. His fingertips brush against the back of Lawrence's neck, where it's plain he is due for a haircut. "I love it," he says, accent lilting as it always does when he's being particularly honest. 

Lawrence feels golden, perfect under the twin suns of the one in the sky and the brightness in Vincent's eyes. For a perfect, singular moment the two of them remain in their own world, Vincent admiring Lawrence's face, and Lawrence admiring Vincent's. 

Then a camera clicks, first once, then several times in rapid succession. 

Lawrence realizes the position they're in - wrapped up in each other, chest to chest, far too close to be appropriate. 

He steps away, trying to be as gentle as possible while putting up a boundary between them. 

"Don't stand so close," he whispers, hoping he's heard over the breeze and the hum of the press.

Vincent's expression turns into a frown of confusion - and hurt.

He's quiet on the car ride back to the Vatican. Lawrence tries to engage him in conversation, but Vincent is uncharacteristically unwilling to talk. He stares at his hands, tightly clenched in his lap. Lawrence wants to lean over and touch him, but there are too many people in the car. 

He was merely being prudent about their appearance in public - is he really that deserving of the cold shoulder? 

Lawrence celebrates Mass that night in the Casa Santa Marta. Despite Vincent's jet lag, he is in the front pew, reading along with the gospel, mouthing the words to himself. He barely looks up from his book. 

Lawrence tries to focus on the ritual. For a moment he's able to do so - he can put his thoughts of Vincent aside and focus on the celebration of God's gift to them all. 

Then Vincent steps forward to receive communion, and the situation reveals itself in perfect clarity. 

"The body of Christ," Lawrence says, holding up the wafer. He finally gets a chance to meet Vincent's eye. 

Vincent looks miserable. All of the joy of the afternoon has disappeared, replaced with a mournful, remorseful look. His neat mouth is caught in a frown, his hands hidden in his sleeves. 

Much to Lawrence's horror, rather than holding his hands out for the communion as he usually does, Vincent sinks to his knees, tilting his face up in supplication. 

"Amen," he says quietly. His mouth parts, revealing a pink tongue.

Lawrence hears forgive me. The look on Vincent's face is one of pure pleading. He's not asking solely for the gift of God's love. He's asking for Lawrence's, too. For reassurance that he hasn't truly offended him. 

Lawrence feels almost sick with guilt. Vincent has misunderstood his words entirely, but Lawrence could have communicated them better. 

The Pope, on his knees in front of him! For God, for Lawrence - for both, most likely. 

Lawrence swallows and places the wafer on Vincent's tongue. As Vincent closes his mouth, his lips brush Lawrence's fingertips.

A touch. That's what he was looking for. A point of contact between them. Lawrence had made himself so distant with a simple phrase that Vincent felt he had to use the premise of a Mass to get them anywhere near each other. 

Lawrence has been misunderstanding the circumstances, too. Vincent clearly sees their situation as far more fragile than it is. And why shouldn't he? Would any other friend act as Lawrence has with Vincent? Would any other friend tolerate their closeness, armed with the knowledge that the other person desires it in such a different way? 

Why does Lawrence tolerate this behavior? Shouldn't it feel bad, or gross, or wrong in some way? Lawrence doesn't mind it. He doesn't mind it at all. He - 

He can't think straight. He will need to examine the particularities of his own likes and dislikes later. For now he needs to find Vincent. 

Vincent is alone outside the vestibule after Mass, watching a starling hop around on the steps. 

"Vincent," Lawrence calls. "Vincent, can I speak to you?" 

Vincent stiffens, his hands behind his back. He doesn't say anything, but Lawrence moves closer anyway.

"Vincent, about earlier -" 

"You know I never want to make you uncomfortable," Vincent says quickly. "I'm sorry - I was just - I was tired, I forgot - but that is no excuse -"

"Vincent, Vincent, calm yourself." Lawrence puts a hand up parallel to Vincent's chest. "I'm not angry with you." 

Vincent swallows. He looks over at his bodyguards, who are sipping cups of coffee some ways away, likely waiting for him to either dismiss them for the evening or return to the apostolic palace for more work. 

"You pushed me away," Vincent murmurs. He stares at his feet. 

"I know," Lawrence says. "But I only did so because there were cameras present. Holy Father -" 

Vincent rolls his eyes, a bit childishly. Lawrence ignores the slight. 

" Holy Father ," he repeats, "if you were to - to have a relationship..." he takes a deep breath, "you would need to be very careful around other people. You are - many wonderful, wonderful things, dearest, but subtle isn't one of them." 

Vincent's lips quirk up despite himself. 

"No matter what I feel towards you, I think we can both agree your papacy is still important, no? Worthy of protection?" 

Vincent nods. Thankfully - Lawrence would probably pass out if it were otherwise - the Holy Father's legacy is still a priority for Vincent. 

"There were cameras, Vincent. That's why I had to push you away. That's all. You were too close to me, in that moment." 

Vincent looks up. He reminds Lawrence a little of Ilsa's stuffed elephant, a threadbare creature with perpetually sorrowful eyes. 

"And in other moments?" 

So this is how it is, then. Lawrence could be poetic and say he is a lighthouse, and Vincent is the waves lapping at the shore, slowly eroding all of his defenses - but that wouldn't be true. Lawrence, while not ready to put a name to what's happening, is still allowing it to occur of his own volition. He's not being manipulated or coerced. There's an interest here for both of them.

"You can be close to me," Lawrence whispers. "You can - I like it when you're close to me."

Vincent shivers. "Thomas," he asks, "is there something you need to tell me?" 

Lawrence is quiet for a moment. Then he shakes his head. "I'm not - I can't. I don't - I don't know."

He's not ready. He's rid himself of disgust, has cleansed himself of fear, but he hasn't put anything else in its place. Not yet, anyway. 

Not yet. It implies something will happen in the future. Lawrence can't even be sure of that. He daren't speak it aloud. 

Vincent makes a soft noise of understanding. "It's okay," he says. "It's okay." 

"Thank you," Lawrence says, because he can't bring himself to say I'm sorry. 

"Can I hug you?" 

Lawrence nods. 

Vincent's arms are around Lawrence's waist this time, his nose brushing against Lawrence's shoulder. Lawrence sighs. How can this man be so good to him? How can he be so patient, when he's not even sure if Lawrence is going anywhere? 

It would be easier if I already knew how I felt, Lawrence thinks. But it's in my nature to doubt.

"How can you be in love with someone so stubborn?" He murmurs. 

Vincent laughs, and leans back to wipe away a bit of moisture from his cheek. "I wouldn't want it any other way," he says.

—

Autumn comes, and with it a slight drop in temperature, along with a return to the hurried business of the Vatican coming off the heels of summertime. Vincent celebrates Mass, meets with world leaders, meets with members of the Curia, writes papers, writes homilies, and gives alms to the poor. He invites a performing troupe of magicians to come to the Vatican, and Lawrence is made to hold a rotund white rabbit produced out of a hat. He speaks out against the U.S. government’s policies on immigration, and maintains a strong connection with the Holy Family parish in Gaza. 

Lawrence witnesses all of these acts with admiration and pride. Every day the portrait of Vincent in his head becomes more vibrant, more rich with color. He can’t help but wonder what a stunning sight it will be to see this man celebrate his tenth anniversary as pope, or even his twentieth. Lawrence will be an old man by then, but he will endeavor to serve beside his friend and teacher for as long as he can stand. 

It is in the middle of this whirlwind of activities that Vincent is finally convinced to see an optometrist. After months of watching him squint at various schedules and itineraries, Ray had finally had enough. One half-hour long appointment later, and Vincent is diagnosed with some myopia, a mild astigmatism, and a general discomfort around medical equipment of any kind. (“I don’t understand, your Holiness, you worked in a hospital for many years.” “I wasn’t the one they were using the machines on!”) He is given a prescription for glasses, which could easily be shipped to his very well-known address, but Vincent has another idea.

“I’ll simply walk to the store and purchase myself a pair,” he says.

Of course it is not that simple. Sneaking out in the middle of the night is one thing, but when Vincent exits the Vatican in the daytime, preparations have to be made. For this trip Lawrence is accompanying the Holy Father, but so is Aldo, as is Cardinal Sabbadin (who reluctantly looks up from his phone every few minutes to ensure he has not gotten himself lost in the crowd.) A small group of bodyguards walk alongside them in black suits, lending an ominous air to their posse. Trailing at the end are a group of Sisters with baskets, armed with bundles of clean clothes and money for the poor. 

Vincent picks out a set of frames from the hundreds in the store, trying them on and looking to Aldo and Lawrence for approval. “What do you think?” He asks.

Lawrence says the same thing he’s said for the last three frames. “You look very handsome, Holy Father. Very distinguished.” 

Vincent sighs. “You are not being honest with me. You’re telling me what I want to hear.” 

“Just because it is not what you want to hear doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” Lawrence replies. He is being honest. Vincent’s beauty is of a kind that can only be enhanced, never dampened. He would fit right in on the cover of a magazine. (Lawrence actually knows this for a fact; the Holy Father is a favorite among the editors of Time , and has appeared on the cover of several issues of the magazine.)

After a few more minutes of this Aldo leans over and picks out a simple set of black frames around squarish lenses. “These,” he says, without any further commentary.

Vincent tries them on. They’re perfect. They bring out a cool intelligence in his eyes, and match well with his jet-black hair.

“That’s the one,” Vincent says, looking in the mirror.

Lawrence tries his hand at a bit of humor. “You’re sure you don’t want to try these?” he asks, gesturing towards a pair of bright purple frames studded with rhinestones. 

Vincent laughs, bright and clear as a bell. He almost puts them on before Lawrence reminds him of the paparazzi parked right outside the store. 

When they exit, it’s clear that news has spread of the Holy Father’s errand. The streets are lined with excited admirers, all clamoring for a glimpse of the pontiff.

Vincent swallows and smiles at Lawrence. “Nice day for a walk, isn’t it?” He asks over the noise of people screaming. 

“Does it ever get easier for you?” Lawrence asks. 

“You know, it does!” Vincent replies. “It’s much easier now than it was a year ago.” 

He walks over to the crowd with Lawrence close by his side, shaking hands and blessing people in his usual fashion. He waves with enthusiasm, very much unlike a practiced politician. Lawrence can see earnestness even in the way he walks; he’s genuinely excited to greet so many people. Vincent may be shy, but he is by no means introverted; he enjoys being held within a community. 

As they make their way back towards the Vatican, the roar of the crowd gets louder, and Lawrence becomes glad for the security guards around them keeping people back. Some shopkeepers notice the crowd moving and set up chairs and fences as barriers, for which Lawrence is grateful. He does not want Vincent to trip and get crushed by accident. What a headline that would make!

To his right, a bodyguard says something to his earpiece. To his left, Vincent squeezes the hand of an impossibly old woman, who beams and holds her hand to her face. Someone thrusts an infant in front of Vincent, begging for a blessing; Vincent grants it while the child looks at him bewilderedly.

Something shiny flickers in and out of the corner of Lawrence’s eye.

“Tell Ray that we’re probably going to be a little late,” Aldo says to a Sister.

The shiny thing flickers again in the afternoon sun, ducking in and out of sight amidst people’s heads. Lawrence tries to pick it out but he can’t track it in the movement of the crowd. 

“God bless you, all of you, and be good for your parents,” Vincent says to a group of clearly American high school students, all girls, all dressed in jeans and t-shirts of eye-watering neon. 

Lawrence feels something switch inside him. For a moment, the roar of the crowd fades away.

There’s a man, taller than most, with his eyes on the Holy Father. He’s white, with immaculately combed brown hair. He’s not smiling.

Lawrence steps forward in front of Vincent. He’s not sure why he does it.

Ten feet away, a bodyguard moves in slow motion.

“Thomas?” Vincent asks. The crowd continues to yell, undeterred.

BANG!

Pain immediately explodes in Lawrence’s chest, directly below his left collarbone. He stumbles, his legs nearly giving out from underneath him. The crowd’s shouts turn from elated to terrified in a second.

Lawrence’s hand immediately goes up to examine the source of the pain. The texture around his chest is strange, damp and uncomfortable. He tries to look down, but agony blooms around his neck, so he just stands there uselessly.

BANG!

Another source of searing, poker-hot pain, this time in his thigh. Lawrence’s legs give out immediately; he falls onto hard cobblestone, crumpling like origami paper. For whatever reason, he remembers to lift his head to prevent injury; Vincent taught him that during one of their sparring sessions. 

The wet, sticky feeling in his chest has grown more intense, while his vision has begun to fade at the edges. He tries to say something, but his voice doesn’t work. 

Pain rushes over every part of him, covering him, wiping away any other sense or feeling. It’s as if his whole body is on fire. 

I’m like St. Lawrence, Lawrence thinks. Turn me over, I’m done on this side!

The world slows down around him. Shapes and colors fly by his vision but it’s unclear what they are. Lawrence distantly recognizes screaming, panicking. He doesn’t hear any more shots, though, which is good. It’s good that there are no more shots. 

Vincent is above him, angelic in white. His hands are on Lawrence’s chest, producing an awful squishing sound that would make Lawrence cringe if he could move his face. 

“Thomas!” Vincent cries, his expression tortured. “Tomás, what have you done ?” 

I didn’t do anything, Lawrence thinks stupidly. But I’m sorry I’ve made you upset. Still in love with me?

He would ask the question, but his mouth feels sealed shut. So instead he is quiet, watching silently as his pontiff fades into a silhouette above him. The world becomes peaceful, muted, like he’s underwater, as it was in his dream. He closes his eyes. 

In the darkness he remembers to pray.

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name…

Chapter Text

There are some secrets that Lawrence is planning to take to his grave. Barring unforeseen circumstances, for example, Lawrence has no need or desire to disclose any information about Vincent’s condition. Were Vincent to command him to do so, of course, Lawrence would tell whomever needed to know. But if his papacy is to go as planned, such information will be left out of the history books. The same is to be said of the Cardinals Vincent has created in pectore. Lawrence is one of a very small group of people who know their names, and he knows that if he were to reveal their identities, they would be in serious danger, the same way Vincent was right before the conclave. Vincent rarely deals in secrets, but when he does, Lawrence has the privilege of being privy to them. The information stays between Pope Innocent and the Dean of the College of Cardinals.

Other information, however, is best kept between himself and God. The name of the boy he kissed after the football game on the last day of year 8. The look in his father’s eyes right before he passed. And the experience of being, for a moment, somewhere between life and death. 

Thomas is flying, high above the hospital, above the clouds, above the surface of the Earth. Time doesn’t exist. He’s without a body.

Then he’s sucked down, down, down, through the hospital, through its hallways, before being neatly placed inside the body of the doctor operating on him. The man is in his forties, with greying hair and a face that someone once compared to a St. Bernard’s. He has steady hands and a Jewish star on a chain around his neck. When he speaks to one of his nurses, it’s in perfect Italian, but with a heavy New York accent.

“Remember when they picked the guy?” the doctor says, dropping a fragment of a bullet into a pan with a clunk . “All over the news it was white smoke. I never really imagined someone managing that whole affair. Gathering up a quorum, holding a vote. I thought they just knew it somehow. Divine intervention.” 

“It’s like an American election,” a younger doctor explains. This one is holding an instrument very still, inside the red mess that is Lawrence’s body. “It’s just behind closed doors.” 

“It’s behind closed doors in America, too,” the first doctor says. Lawrence shifts inside his body. “We just don’t admit it.” 

Then Lawrence is sucked up, up, up again, before landing inside an orderly drinking a glass of water in a waiting room. The man is in his twenties, tall, with green eyes and a dark red birthmark on his face. He’s watching the news replay a grainy clip from someone’s phone - footage of the shooting. Lawrence sees himself stumble backwards before the camera tilts towards the sky as whomever was filming runs away in panic. 

The orderly moves over to stand behind a receptionist at her desk. When Lawrence looks closer, he can see on the woman’s monitor a window showing his sister’s website.

“Did you get it?” The orderly asks. 

“Yeah,” the receptionist replies. “It is not going to be a fun phone call.” 

“Maybe she already saw it on the news,” the orderly says.

“I’m not sure if that makes it better or worse,” the receptionist responds, before picking up the phone. “Shit, what time is it in Los Angeles?”

Once more Lawrence is sucked up into the sky, and then transported back down into someone else’s body. This time it’s one of the Pope’s many bodyguards, who’s talking on the phone in such rapid Italian that Lawrence has trouble understanding him. His hands are clammy around his phone. In his other hand is a rosary that Lawrence recognizes as having come from the Holy Father. Each bead is made of pressed rose petals. 

Swoosh . Now he is in the body of a woman who was forced out of the emergency room. She is waiting on the sidewalk for her husband to come pick her up and take her to another hospital; after the events of the day she obviously won’t be getting seen by a doctor any time soon. 

Swoosh . This time a child, sitting in a hospital bed several floors above where Lawrence is being operated on. He watches the same footage the orderly saw replayed over and over on the television screen in the corner of the room, before his mother - eyes red with tears - grabs the remote and turns it off. 

He’s pulled out, once again, and this time he recognizes the body he’s in. 

Late sixties, bald, sweating through his zucchetto. Aldo’s throat feels uncomfortably tight, like he’s having trouble getting air through. 

Vincent stands in front of him, his eyes wide and frantic. His face has taken on a greyish color. His hair is wild and unkempt; his zucchetto is nowhere to be seen. Brownish red stains cover his cassock, though someone has cleaned his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Aldo says. His voice is almost exasperated. “I’m sorry, Holy Father, until we can get his family over here there’s not much more they’re able to tell us -” 

“ No one will talk to me!” Vincent shouts. Lawrence has never heard his voice sound so desperate before, not even during the conclave. “ No one will tell me what’s happening! ”

Everyone in the room is looking at the Holy Father, but Vincent doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are shaking; in fact all of him is shaking. Aldo tries to put a hand on his shoulder but Vincent pushes his hand away and collapses into a chair, his face in his hands. He mumbles something in Spanish that neither Aldo nor Lawrence understands. The image of Vincent like this is so distressing that Lawrence is grateful to be pulled out of Aldo’s body and taken up high into the sky once again.

He’s placed in more people, in more places, first within the hospital and then outside of it, within Rome, then in other parts of Italy, then in places he’s never been to, never seen, inside people whom he will never have the pleasure or pain of meeting. 

Then for a while he floats, existing in nothingness, watching the rotation of the Earth. From such a distance, the planet looks like the ball of light from his dream. He could reach out and touch it, if he wanted to. If he had hands. If he had a body. 

He wonders what it means, to briefly exist in the minds and hearts of all of the people he’s been in. He wonders if perhaps that is what dying is, a process by which one catches a glimpse of the people around them, the complexities of their lives. If this one moment is his opportunity to observe the many journeys and destinies of which God has granted every human being. 

Is that what dying is? He asks.

Maybe that’s what living is, he thinks. 

He settles back down in his own body with a sure, steady thud.

—

Existing between life and death is very different from existing in and out of consciousness. Lawrence vastly prefers the latter.

After he comes out of surgery, he is left to rest in a hospital room with green walls and a painting of a bowl of lemons by the door. This is all he really notices; he’s too dazed to take in more information. As soon as it’s clear he doesn’t have to move or talk or do anything, he closes the millimeters of space between his eyelids and goes back to sleep. 

He hears voices in the following hours. There’s a woman, whom he presumes to be a nurse, who hums the chorus of These Boots Were Made for Walkin’ under her breath as she works. There’s another woman, whom Lawrence thinks is a doctor, who writes something on a clipboard after looking at a bag of his urine by his bed, her heels clicking on the linoleum as she goes. And there’s a man who stays in Lawrence’s room for several hours, saying nothing, his breathing steady and even. 

Lawrence doesn’t know how much time has passed when Katherine arrives. 

He means to greet her, but his eyes are so heavy and his body is so tired that he can do little more than remain in a mostly asleep state. The doctors talk to Katherine, saying something about his chest, his heart, and his leg, but mostly he focuses on her sniffling, and the fact that her children aren’t with her.

Where are Ilsa and Dominic? He thinks to himself. Did they come with her? The plane ride must have been awful. Dominic doesn’t even like going on the swings, he gets queasy so easily.

Katherine sits by his bedside and touches his face, whispering nonsense about how good of a brother he is and how much she needs him to be okay. He’d comfort her, probably by making a bad joke or doing her least favorite thing - quoting a Bible verse at her - but all he can do is lie there, eyes closed, near sleep or sleeping. 

Pain creeps towards his body, but medication fights it off. He imagines knights guarding a castle, one falling down with ivy covering its walls.

At some point he opens his eyes enough to see a flash of purple. Ray has brought him clean clothes, it seems. His eyes are red and puffy. He speaks to Katherine like he’s on the edge of a breakdown. Lawrence didn’t know he was so cared for. He would pontificate further on the mystery of God’s work, the way his capacity for gratitude has ballooned to gigantic proportions at the precise moment when he cannot express any of it, but he can barely keep his eyes open.

Aldo comes in and sits by his bedside, though he’s on the phone the whole time. He keeps a hand on Lawrence’s forearm, on his right shoulder, even on his foot, remaining tethered to him, letting him know that he’s there. When he goes Lawrence misses the weight of his touch and the sarcasm in his voice as he directs others over the phone. At the very least Lawrence knows the mother Church is safe under Aldo’s watchful gaze. 

Maybe there were more attacks. Maybe the Holy Father was not the only target. Worries like this swim around in Lawrence’s mind without coming to any real conclusion. Faced with a total lack of information, Lawrence decides the best thing he can do right now is sleep. 

When he wakes, Vincent has come to see him. Lawrence almost doesn’t recognize him - his voice is cracked and hoarse, like he’s been yelling for ages. He speaks to Katherine in hushed tones full of agitation. 

Vincent stays for a long time. Mostly he spends his time praying, sitting in a chair by Lawrence’s bed, keeping watch while Katherine sleeps for an hour or two. When she leaves to get something to eat, Lawrence feels a very slight pressure on one side of the bed, as if Vincent’s leaning against it.

“ Por favor,” Vincent says. “ Vuelvas a mi, querido. Por favor. ” 

Lawrence can feel his body tremble. Vincent begins to sob, loudly, without fear of anybody seeing or hearing him. It’s a horrible, heartbreaking noise, and for a moment, Lawrence is glad that darkness is creeping around him, so he doesn’t have to hear it anymore. 

But then he realizes he’s not slipping away into sleep. The monitors around him have started beeping rapidly, signalling that something’s wrong. 

I don’t want to die , Lawrence thinks. Please, God, just give me a little more time. I have so much more to say. 

The last thing Lawrence remembers is Vincent calling for a doctor, first in Spanish, then in Italian. 

—

Lawrence is in Vincent’s body. 

He feels at home here. 

Vincent is panicking. He’s in front of Katherine, who, to Vincent’s eyes, does not appear panicked enough. 

“They just needed to look through the area again to find what they missed,” Katherine says. She’s clutching one of Vincent’s rosaries, an odd sight considering Lawrence hasn’t seen her enter a church in over twenty years. “There was likely a fragment of bone or of shrapnel that got a little too close to Thomas’s heart, and they’re finding it now and making sure there’s nothing that could nick something else and hurt him -”

“So they’re just rummaging around in his body?!” Vincent exclaims. Lawrence feels a wave of anxiety rush through Vincent’s body, tingling like television static. “They’re just opening him up and hoping to find something?” Vincent places his hand protectively over his lower belly, his hand tightening in the fabric.

“I know it seems risky, but -” 

“It seems deadly,” Vincent cuts in. “They are going in blind with knives.” 

“I’m sorry, Holy Father,” Katherine says firmly, “but you do not get to make the decisions here.”

Lawrence thankfully doesn’t stick around for the rest of that conversation. He floats, high above, until the doctors - and the Lord - place him back in his body again, this time permanently. 

—

When Lawrence wakes up properly, Katherine is there to greet him. 

“Hey, Thomas,” she says softly, smiling at him. 

Lawrence tries to think of something clever to say. Insanely, his brain tells him he should be like Ronald Reagan when he got shot. Honey, I forgot to duck. Something like that.

Instead he just says, “ water ,” in an extremely cracked voice. 

After he is given some water and is able to speak freely, a small army of nurses and doctors come in to talk with him, telling him all about the gunshot wounds in his chest and in his thigh. Apparently the shot in his chest missed his heart by a few inches, for which Lawrence is truly grateful. The shot in his thigh, he is told, went through and through without damaging any muscles or bones, though he will need some physical therapy to regain the ability to walk without discomfort. All in all, the doctors say, he’s incredibly lucky to be alive - though they come just short of calling it a “miracle”. 

When a grey-haired doctor with a Jewish star on a chain around his neck says that Lawrence will likely make a full recovery, the bodyguard in the corner of the room sighs audibly and makes the sign of the cross. Lawrence waits until the entourage of doctors have left before he looks towards the man. 

“Georg, isn’t it?” He croaks. He recognizes him as one of the guards that perpetually shadows Vincent. 

The man - really just a boy - nods, his hands behind his back. “Yes, Your Eminence.” 

“You look dead on your feet. Have you been in this room the whole time?” 

Georg shakes his head. “I’m just here whenever the Holy Father isn’t here,” he says. “I was told to watch over you. I’m very glad you’re going to be okay.” He pauses. “My girlfriend and I have been praying for you. She says that getting through the surgery is the hardest part, and you’ll recover in no time.”

Lawrence is strangely comforted by that. He glances at Katherine, who nods at Georg in thanks. 

“Where are the kids?” Lawrence asks Katherine.

She raises an eyebrow. “With their father,” she says carefully.

Lawrence wrinkles his nose. “Their father’s a Scientologist, ” he replies, making no effort to hide the derision in his voice.

“Yes, he is, but his love of Xenu and Tom Cruise hasn’t prevented him from being able to watch the kids for a week or two. Besides, I needed to be here with you.” Her expression turns serious. “You nearly died. That’s pretty fucked up.” 

“You shouldn’t swear so much,” Lawrence complains. “It’ll become a bad influence on the children.” This is an old argument between them, comforting in its familiarity. 

“Oh, and you’re such an expert on parenting? Vow of chastity, Tom. Vow. of. Chastity.”

Lawrence grumbles and sinks further back into the pillows. 

He and Katherine talk about nothing for a little under an hour, until Lawrence notices that Katherine keeps glancing over at her phone every few minutes.

“Am I boring you?” He asks. “I’ve been shot, you know. That should earn me at least a little of your undivided attention.” 

Katherine rolls her eyes. “No,” she says, “I’m just checking, because I know someone wants to see you, but we forced him to actually eat and sleep somewhere so I don’t know if -”

“Thomas!” Vincent exclaims, rushing into the room. He’s breathing heavily, as if he ran up several flights of stairs to get to where he is. “Thomas, you’re awake!”

“I am,” Lawrence says with a faint smile. “It’s good to see you, Holy Father.” 

Vincent’s eyes are misty as he steps forward. His hands come up and delicately cup Lawrence’s face. “Oh, it is so good to see you, Cardinal.” 

Katherine looks between the two of them and gives Lawrence a mysterious, knowing look. “I’m going to go call home,” she says. “Check in on the kids. I’ll give you two some privacy, okay?” She gestures for Georg to follow her.

Lawrence means to call after her, but then he meets Vincent’s eyes again and he can’t think of anything else but how good it is to be in his presence once more. 

“Vincent,” he says, feeling himself get choked up. “Were you hurt?”

Vincent shakes his head, sitting down in the chair next to the bed. “No,” he says. “You - you - the shooter did not hit me.” He swallows. “He injured one of the sisters in the arm, though. Sister Winifred.”

“Oh, God.” No one informed Lawrence that others were hurt. “Will she be alright?”

“She should be fine. The doctors here are excellent.” Vincent offers a watery smile. “They took good care of you, I hear.” 

For a split second Lawrence considers telling Vincent about what he saw when he was in surgery. The feeling of being in other people, and high above the Earth. He decides against it. He’d rather not sound like a crazy person. “And you? How are you doing?” 

Vincent sighs. “You’ve been shot, Thomas. You were in surgery for hours. You don’t need to worry about me.” 

“I will always worry about you,” Lawrence declares. “It’s part of who I am. Talk to me.”

And so Vincent does, telling the entire story from his perspective from beginning to end. From what Vincent saw, Lawrence was standing in front of him one moment, and on the ground the next, bleeding from his chest. He was then whisked away in a nearby car by half of papal security, while the other half secured the assailant. (Vincent has no desire to talk about his would-be assassin.) From there they went to the nearest hospital, where Lawrence was operated on while Vincent prayed. The moment of the attack was caught on camera by an American schoolgirl, and had been playing on CNN almost non-stop until Aldo called a producer friend of his and convinced him the footage was just too gruesome to be repeated ad nauseam. Vincent has received calls from the President of the United States, the Speaker of the American House of Representatives, the British Prime Minister, the King of England, the President of Russia, the Dalai Lama, and various other leaders of foreign nations around the world, many of whom deeply disagree with his politics but recognize the shared enemy of random violence. Millions and millions of people, Lawrence is told, were praying for him as the doctors did their work. 

“Vincent,” Lawrence asks, “was it a terrorist that did this?” He thinks back to the conclave, to the fear surrounding the identity of the bombers that attacked the Sistine’s walls. Vincent spoke for the innocent then; but who would speak for Vincent?

Vincent shakes his head. “The man acted alone,” he says quietly. “That is all I wish to say on the matter for the moment.”

Lawrence understands. He may have been the one injured, but this was an attempt on Vincent’s life, not his. 

“I’m very glad you’re okay,” Lawrence says. 

Vincent holds Lawrence’s hands in his. “You saved my life,” he says. “Do you know that? You did an incredible thing for me.” 

Lawrence doesn’t know about that. “All I did was step in front of you.” 

“In front of a bullet!” Vincent emphasizes. “Two bullets! Oh, mi tesoro …”

Lawrence sighs. He hopes that Vincent’s praise of him is an isolated occurrence. He’d rather not become known as the Man Who Took a Bullet For The Pope. 

“You’re not allowed to scare me like that again,” Vincent says. His head is bowed, his eyes closed as if in prayer.

“I’ll do my best,” Lawrence replies.

“You will do better than that,” Vincent insists. “You will stay close to me from now on, so I can protect you. It’s my job to protect you.” 

“Funny.” Lawrence manages a wry smile. “It’s actually my job to protect you, too.” 

—

The next few days in the hospital go quicker than Lawrence expected. He receives a visit from the Italian Prime Minister, as well as several religious leaders from around Italy and even one or two from the rest of Europe. (One British imam spends an l hour praying with him, which Lawrence finds to be surprisingly fulfilling.) 

Aldo comes in with dark circles under his eyes and soft words of prayer and comfort. He says that he is grateful Lawrence is alive, and that when his time comes (if it comes before Aldo’s), he will cite the entire incident in his nomination for Lawrence’s sainthood. Lawrence finds the whole idea completely absurd and tells Aldo so, which earns him a laugh that is evidently much needed. 

Ray visits, of course, valiantly declaring that he will not cry and then repeatedly proceeding to do so. He brings with him enough clothes and toiletries for a month long stay, though Lawrence assures him he will be coming home soon. Ray also keeps him apprised of the gossip around the Vatican, including which Sisters fainted when they saw the news coverage and which members of the Swiss guard turned the Vatican into a veritable fortress within minutes of hearing about a potential attack on the office of the Holy See. 

Lawrence is also visited by what feels like several dozen members of the Curia, either in person, as Sabbadin does (he teaches Lawrence to make a single Instagram post, a feat likely never to be repeated), or over video conference, as Cardinal Tremblay does. (He is perfectly coiffed, as usual.) Even Cardinal Adeyemi calls him from Nigeria, speaking in a deep, soothing voice that comforts Lawrence immediately. 

The last of the visitors is Cardinal Tedesco, who nervously hovers around the doorway of Lawrence’s room until Lawrence raises his hand and gestures for him to come in. He glances about the room, inspecting it, and evidently declares it to be insufficient by whatever measure is in his mind before sitting down beside Lawrence’s bed.

“The whole of Venice was praying for you, Tommaso,” Tedesco says. 

“Even you?” Lawrence teases. “I know we have had our disagreements.” 

“ Especially me.” Tedesco fusses with his vape pen, unable to use it within the bounds of the hospital. “I would not have the world lose one of its great minds, even if that mind is filled with ridiculous ideas sometimes. The Church needs a strong presence within it at all times. I certainly hope your recovery is a smooth one. Old men like us, we become targets the moment we reveal our frailty.” 

Tedesco has not simply come to bring him well wishes, however. He is the one who finally gives Lawrence some information on the shooter.

“His name is Michael Spencer,” Tedesco explains, leaning in conspiratorially. “He is an American from Memphis, Tennessee. He had been living with a cousin in Trastevere for six months after being discharged from the U.S. Army. They say he fought where his Holiness was stationed - in Afghanistan. He is what the press is calling an ‘incel’ and a ‘trad-cath’. It appears the crime was not pre-planned, but one of opportunity. He saw where you were on social media, and took the chance to attack. He is refusing to cooperate with the police, or speak with American authorities.” Tedesco shakes his head. “A dangerous individual. But not a very clever one. He was caught right away.”

There’s so much information to take in that Lawrence barely knows where to start. “A ‘trad-cath’?” Lawrence asks. 

“It is a nickname for traditional Catholics.” Tedesco swallows. “I… I consider myself un tradizionalista, as you know, but I do not claim this man.” The Cardinal’s eyes fill with a unique sort of disgust Lawrence usually sees him reserve for Muslims or Communists. 

“I don’t understand,” Lawrence says. 

“The man - apparently he had spent several years on the Internet, on the - how do you say it in English - the board-messages, and he had spent time with other men of his type focusing on the wrong parts of Scripture. He believes that women are meant to be subordinate, to be seen and not heard. He was particularly upset with the Holy Father’s words encouraging women to play a bigger role in the Church. That is why he tried to assassinate him. A foolish reason. A wicked temperament!” Tedesco moves to inhale from his vape, but remembers he is not able to do so and lowers his hand once again. 

Lawrence is caught on what is probably not the most important part of Tedesco’s monologue, but is nonetheless interesting to him. “You say you do not claim him… do you not think women should be seen, and not heard?” He asks, careful to be delicate.

Tedesco looks shocked that Lawrence would even ask such a question. “Absolutely not!” He declares. “I could not imagine - my mother, being reduced to a figure, a statue within her own marriage? Completamente ridicolo! The women in my life have been strong mothers, workers, they have provided for their families. The women who choose a chaste life within the Church should also be venerated. I detest anyone who subscribes to such a reductive ideology. Women were at Christ’s feet when he was nailed to the cross. To ignore their role is to ignore the facts of scripture. I do not believe in the modern degradation of the separate spheres between the sexes, but for men to claim that women are no more than playthings, bodies for a husband’s pleasure! It is a grave misunderstanding of the faith. And to proclaim the pope to be the antichrist for his beliefs! May God have mercy on that man’s soul.” 

Lawrence can’t hide his surprise - and pleasure - at this little outburst. Complexities among complexities, he thinks. Tedesco likely would never have been a good pope, but he certainly would have been a clever one. “I will have to tell Vincent that you feel that way,” he says, only half teasing. “I mean - the Holy Father.”

“You will have to talk to the Holy Father as much as possible,” Tedesco advises. “You know they say he was a wreck while you were in surgery? People saw him crying. It was very disturbing. The supreme pontiff needs to remain strong during a time of crisis.” 

Lawrence can’t help himself. “But, you didn’t cry, did you, Goffredo?”

Tedesco scoffs and waves his finger in front of Lawrence’s face. “I think the medications these doctors are giving you have made you un po' birichino ,” he proclaims. 

—

The journey home from the hospital is more prolonged than Lawrence would have preferred. It has become a Herculean effort to simply get out of bed and go about the daily tasks of going to the bathroom, shaving, and bathing. (Shaving is an hours-long affair, for example, one that ends with Katherine helping him as they argue over whether she should stay in Italy for the long term or go home to be with her children. Eventually Lawrence wins the argument and his beard is gone, but Katherine is angry with him and he’s nicked himself on the neck.) There is the dull throbbing ache in his chest, of course, along with a tenderness above his left breast that terrifies him to no end, but there is also a sharp, searing pain in his right thigh whenever he walks, making him gasp and forcing him to lean on whatever (or whomever) is nearby. By the end of his stay, Lawrence has accepted that he must use a wheelchair, with many, many hours of bed rest and physical therapy in his future. 

There is a small press conference, held outside and in public, during which Lawrence does not have a panic attack or a PTSD flashback. He’s very pleased about this, though he imagines the shooting will add on to the regular course of nightmares he has on occasion, mostly about the bombing during the conclave.

Vincent takes the opportunity to lavish praise upon Lawrence, much to his embarrassment, but what turns the entire affair from merely embarrassing to an out of body experience is when Vincent says, “I love this man. He is my media naranja .” Luckily many of the papers at home and abroad miss the idiom, and mostly post confused headlines about the Pope thinking his Dean is an orange. 

Upon returning to the Vatican, Lawrence is dismayed to learn that Vincent, Aldo, and Sister Agnes have been plotting behind his back. Apparently, he is not going to be staying in his suite at the Casa Santa Marta during his recovery. 

“You will be staying in the papal apartments,” Vincent explains as they drink tea in the cafeteria. “You will be much more comfortable there.” 

Lawrence sputters uselessly, looking between the Sister and the Pope. He turns in his wheelchair and looks to Aldo for help, but Aldo only looks at him as if to say, they’re right.  

“Absolutely not,” Lawrence protests. “There’s a reason they’re called the papal apartments, your Holiness. They’re meant for the Pope to stay there. Which, as I am sure I recall, I am not. ” 

“You almost were,” Aldo says beside him. 

Lawrence growls, annoyed. 

“The Casa Santa Marta is a fine place to live,” Vincent admits, “but it has not been renovated in many years. It is not accessible for someone who has trouble walking, or who is trying to preserve their energy.” 

“And the papal apartments are?” Lawrence asks. 

“The bedrooms, the kitchen, and the sitting rooms are on one floor,” Sister Agnes says. “You can walk around comfortably there without having to overexert yourself.”

Lawrence is beginning to feel uncomfortably like an invalid. He was shot, he didn’t have his legs cut off. Is this his future? To be treated like the old man he is? He thought he’d have a few more years of being vertical, at least. “Vincent - I can’t possibly -” 

Vincent tilts his chin up, a sure sign that Lawrence has lost the battle. “You will be much closer to your office this way. The apartments are a very short walk. Unless you would prefer someone assist you in the journey from the Casa Santa Marta to your office every morning? Arrangements can be made.”

Lawrence narrows his eyes. “You’d let me work from home,” he tries. 

Vincent’s expression turns from that of a prince to a king. “You would deny me the pleasure of your company?” He asks. 

Lawrence’s mouth goes dry. The tenderness in his chest floods the rest of his body, turning him pliant. No, he could not deny the Holy Father anything. Whatever strange power Vincent has that makes the most impenetrable forces give way, Lawrence is especially sensitive to it. “Alright,” he says. “But how is this to work? Are we to bunk up like schoolchildren?” 

His mind conjures the image of Vincent in a twin bed next to his, the way Aldo’s was on the other half of his room in seminary. He pictures Vincent waking up before him, peering at him curiously as light shines in through the window. 

“The press would make a scandal out of it,” Lawrence says. “Another man sleeping in the Pope’s apartment?” 

Sister Agnes makes a little sound with her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “The papal apartments have many rooms,” she says. “Did you think we would have you sharing a bed with the Holy Father?” 

Blood rushes to Lawrence’s cheeks immediately. He avoids the Holy Father’s gaze as much as possible. 

“It’s ridiculous,” he says. “I’m not - I don’t deserve this.” 

“You deserve all of this and more,” Vincent says. His voice is calm and soft. 

Next to him, Sister Agnes inclines her head slightly before exchanging a glance with Aldo. 

So. Surrounded on all sides, then. 

Lawrence sighs and gives up the fight. “I’ll have to have my things moved,” he says quietly. He’ll need his alarm clock, and his laptop, and the cactus Ray gave him for Christmas…

“Already done,” Aldo says. “You’ll be able to recover in peace, Thomas.” 

Lawrence scoffs. Recovery? Yes, probably. Peace? Unlikely. 

The conversation moves on to the specifics of Lawrence’s physical therapy, as well as his medication regime, but Lawrence spends the majority of the afternoon watching the Holy Father’s expression, and wondering how he feels about their new arrangement. 

—

“Holy Father.” 

Vincent doesn’t look up from his knitting. He knits in the English style, throwing the yarn over his needle over and over again, as if annoyed with it. The sock he’s knitting started out at a decent size, but as time has gone on and Lawrence’s recovery has slowed its pace, Vincent’s stitches have gotten tighter and tighter, resulting in a sock that looks more like it is made for a doll than a human being.

“Vincent,” Lawrence tries again. He sits up as best he can against the small mountain of pillows Sister Agnes set up behind him. His stitches pull a little against his skin in response, but there’s less of an ache behind them than yesterday. 

“I’m mad at you,” Vincent says, continuing to knit.

“I know that,” Lawrence concedes. “But you can’t be mad at me forever. In fact, the source of your anger… maybe it could be a good motivation for why we should talk about your feelings towards me.”

Vincent whips his head up. He looks affronted. “My feelings towards you?” He asks.

Lawrence winces. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.

“I just think… Perhaps this entire ordeal has shown how your attachment to me has - has -”

“No.” Vincent shakes his head. “No. I will not have this conversation again. Certainly not when you are the one who stepped out of the boundaries of our friendship.”

Lawrence leans forward, wondering if maybe he misheard Vincent’s words. “You think I overstepped? How could you possibly think that?”

Vincent sets his knitting to the side. His normally gentle expression has hardened into a steely gaze, one that’s become all too common lately. Lawrence misses his smile. 

“You took a bullet for me,” Vincent says.

“I did.” 

“Did you once think about how that would make me feel?” 

Lawrence shakes his head at the question. “Well, no, Holy Father, I was a little focused on keeping you alive. ” He doesn’t want to sound rude, but honestly, he’s not going to entertain this line of thinking. 

“And I am grateful for that,” Vincent acknowledges. “Truly, if I had my way, you would be numbered amongst the saints simply for such a powerful act of love. But you were - you weren’t there , Thomas, not in the aftermath.” 

Lawrence refrains from pointing out that he was there, just unconscious and in surgery. He folds his arms in his lap and tries not to look defensive. “Tell me,” he asks. It hurts to move but it doesn’t hurt to listen. 

“I had to see you…” Vincent’s face twists, contorting into an expression of disgust. “ Maimed , like an animal hunted down. You looked so small, and there was - blood everywhere, on your clothes and your hands… It didn’t just fade into the red of your fascia, it was darker, it looked almost black… I have seen that color before…” 

Vincent closes his eyes, no doubt recalling some other episode of horror that dovetails with the more recent one. Lawrence wishes he could embrace him. He wishes the room were smaller. He wishes he could erase the memories from his friend’s mind. 

He’s seen so much pain. 

“And then after, when you were in the hospital, I didn’t…” Now frustration enters Vincent’s voice. “I didn’t know what was happening!”

Lawrence waves for Vincent to come nearer. Vincent doesn’t move. 

“Vincent… things get chaotic, after a trauma. You know that, you’ve been in - God, horrible situations, you know that sometimes -”

“I wasn’t even allowed in the room ,” Vincent says. “I had to learn everything second and third-hand. I couldn’t see you! I was alone. No one would talk to me except your sister, and that was hours later.”

Lawrence hadn’t considered that. He assumed Vincent would have known everything, simply because he is the Pope, and his wishes are almost always respected and carried out in nearly every situation. 

He swallows the growing knot in his throat. You’re not married, he thinks. In the eyes of the law we are strangers. The value of friendship only goes so far. You can pull and pull at it all you’d like but we might as well be nothing to each other to those who don’t know us.

Katherine had seen something between them, months ago. What if Lawrence hadn’t so fervently denied her suspicions? What if he had gone to her, had said this man is important to me. Treat him like he’s my family. He is my family. He’s mine, and I am his. Woman, behold your brother. Could he have spared Vincent all this pain?

Would that have been right, given Vincent’s feelings towards him? Given his own uncertainty regarding his own feelings? Could a person be tied to someone like that and resist falling in love with them?

Would anyone even want to?

“I’m sorry.” Lawrence bites his lip to keep it from trembling. “I’m sorry, dearest, I didn’t know.” 

Vincent rubs his hands over his eyes. “And now I don’t - I don’t know what to do , because you’re here, and I can’t do anything to help -”

“You’ve done plenty, Vincent. I’m in your room, in your bed, I have Sisters waiting on me hand and foot, I hardly think -”

“I can’t touch you!” Vincent exclaims. It comes out almost like a wail. “I can’t - I regret ever telling you my feelings, because all I want is to comfort you, to keep you warm, but I am afraid, that I will step too far - which isn’t fair , you stepped unbelievably far, you saved my life and you expect me to distance myself from you -”

“Vincent, Vincent. Calm yourself.” Lawrence’s head is spinning with the amount of information he’s being given. “Please come here. Come over to me, dearest.” 

Vincent shuffles miserably over to sit on the edge of the bed. He’s shaking with the effort to hold back tears. Lawrence feels horrible for him. 

“You need to know - you must know - that nothing, not even your feelings for me, is a barrier to your ability to care for me. Or for anyone, for that matter. Do you understand?”

Vincent looks away. Lawrence reaches out and gently takes his chin, turning him back to face him.

“I know the desire for a relationship with me is important to you. But it’s not more important than your friendship with me. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Of course,” Vincent responds. 

“Then you shouldn’t let it get in the way of being my friend. That includes talking to me about these things. That includes keeping me -” Lawrence’s voice stutters, “- keeping me warm.”

Vincent shudders. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Lawrence isn’t sure he can handle seeing Vincent cry again. To stop the memory of sobs returning to his mind he pushes the bedspread back and gestures for Vincent to climb in next to him.

“Come lie with me,” he says. “Come close to me.” 

Vincent hesitates, but after seeing the look on Lawrence’s face, he moves. Then they’re both under the covers, bathed in the yellow light of the bedside table lamp, pressed close. Vincent’s still in his trousers and black shirt. Lawrence is in his pajamas. 

“I’m still mad at you,” Vincent mumbles, mostly to Lawrence’s collarbone. 

“I know,” Lawrence replies. “I know.” 

He reaches up and undoes the first few buttons of his shirt. Vincent’s eyes go wide, first in confusion, then in fear. Lawrence ignores this. Vincent would never do anything inappropriate, especially not in this context, not when they’re both so broken down. Rather than making their divide wider, Lawrence intends on healing it.

He moves his shirt a bit so Vincent can see the thin line of stitches over his heart, where the second surgery took place. Vincent stares at it and says nothing. His hand moves up carefully. He touches alongside it, careful not to disturb the doctors’ work. 

“Vincent,” Lawrence murmurs, “I know there’s a - a geometry, with how people relate to each other. I know ours is… unique.” 

Vincent glances up, as if to say you can say that again.  

Lawrence continues. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t have an effect on me. No matter how we see each other - God, Vincent, I’ve known it since we sat in the Room of Tears - you are the most important person in my life. ” 

Vincent makes a noise that might be a sob. He squirms and moves closer, until their legs are tangled up in each other.

“I love you,” Vincent confesses. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Lawrence says. 

Vincent keeps his hand on Lawrence’s chest. He closes his eyes. His breathing grows steady.

Lawrence lets him sleep.

—

The first month or so of recovery is grueling. There is the pain management, yes, but there is also the difficult process of accepting that Lawrence cannot control at all the rate at which his body heals, and that when he needs to rest, he must rest.

Vincent forbids Lawrence from doing any actual work for the first few weeks or so, so the majority of his time is spent either in bed reading various detective novels or relearning how to accomplish basic tasks such as eating by himself, bathing by himself, and walking by himself, the latter of which he is encouraged to practice every day by a handsome young physical therapist named Matteo, a man with dark skin and spiky hair who cheerfully updates him on news from the “outside” world. 

Aldo meets with him every day for a walk, sometimes accompanied by Ray, other times accompanied by various members of the Curia no doubt eager to win favor with the Dean of the College of Cardinals while his defenses are down. 

“I’m sorry,” Lawrence says, feeling the November chill fill his lungs. “I’m sorry, Aldo, can we - can we sit down? It’s the air, I can’t go any further.” 

Aldo nods and places a hand on Lawrence’s elbow to steady him as they sit on a nearby bench. Sabbadin follows, tapping away on his phone, texting God-knows-who. The gardens are darker and greyer this time of year, but Lawrence prefers them to walking around St. Peter’s square. He’d rather not get accosted by reporters. 

“I can’t believe this is taking so long,” Lawrence complains. “It’s just walking. I didn’t even break a bone. I don’t know why I’m struggling so much.”

“Maybe part of it’s psychosomatic,” Aldo speculates.

Lawrence sighs. “First depression from cancer, now this. If I get hurt one more time I’ll think myself into an early grave.” 

“Let’s not think like that,” Aldo says reassuringly. “You’re doing great so far. In a few weeks you won’t even need the cane. Or you can keep the cane, and use it for the rest of your life. You can ask other people for help. There’s no shame in that.” 

“I can’t live in the Holy Father’s library forever,” Lawrence points out. Vincent is an annoyingly perfect suitemate, never making him feel underfoot, always making him feel welcomed. They sometimes commune together when they can’t sleep due to nightmares. It’s becoming a dangerously familiar routine and Lawrence knows he needs to give it up soon. 

“If you have trouble in the papal apartments,” Aldo says, “you can come live with me. I live on the first floor of my building. There are only two steps you need to climb. We can be roommates again, like in seminary.” 

It’s actually a lovely thought. But Lawrence would rather not inconvenience anyone else.

“ Oh my God, they were roommates,” Sabbadin says in a strange monotone.

Both Lawrence and Aldo turn towards him in confusion. Sabbadin looks up from his phone and sighs in exasperation.

“Does anyone in this city-state know how to use the Internet?” He asks.

“I can’t even use my legs,” Lawrence quips. 

Sabbadin holds up his phone way too close to Lawrence’s face. “Look,” he says. “Look how many people donated to your GoFundMe.”

Lawrence bats the device out of his line of sight. “I would prefer they donated that money directly to the Church,” he grumbles. He wishes Katherine had never set the thing up for him. Yes, he took a vow to live simply, but he’s not broke. And he has access to excellent Italian healthcare.

“Hey, if you need to see a specialist in the States, that money might come in handy,” Aldo says.

“Or you could donate it to the Church yourself,” Sabbadin adds. 

“I’ll find something to do with it,” Lawrence sighs. “Come on. Matteo will be displeased if I don’t get my steps in for today.”

“All hail Matteo,” Aldo intones solemnly. Sabbadin makes a mmm noise and pulls up Nancy Sinatra on his phone.

—

Despite Lawrence’s repeated hints that he would understand if Vincent wanted him to leave the papal apartments and return to his residence at the Casa Santa Marta, Vincent appears to be happy to house his Dean in the room next to him for as long as Lawrence wishes. Lawrence knows he should probably take initiative and start moving out as his recovery progresses, but the luxury of getting to see Vincent when he’s not surrounded by the aura of his position is too tempting to resist. Vincent is softer, gentler in the evenings, if that’s even possible for a man already so gentle. He smiles more, jokes more, and generally lets himself be more vulnerable. The conversations they have, not just about what happened to them, but about what their experiences mean for the future of their own lives and the life of the Church are precious to Lawrence, cherished in his heart. Regardless of how he feels he should respond to Vincent’s more amorous inclinations towards him, he knows that his time with Vincent is special and he should treasure it however long it lasts. 

Lawrence’s first day back at work is productive, but not overbearing. Monsignor O’Malley has done an excellent job of keeping the mountain of paperwork that has built up in his absence to a manageable height. Lawrence also makes sure to thank every member of the Holy Father’s staff when he sees them, as he knows they kept him in his prayers when he was injured. He even thanks Judith, who, he’s been told, posted regular updates about his and the Holy Father’s health and safety on the papal Twitter account. 

When he returns home that night, he’s more tired than usual, but thanks God for the ability to return to work, as there is so much of it left to do.

Vincent is in Lawrence’s room when he arrives home, sitting next to his laptop in his usual corner, his legs folded pretzel-style on the couch. Lawrence takes note of his thin brown feet before greeting him. “Good evening, Holy Father.” 

“Please, at least call me Vincent in the evenings,” Vincent asks.

“Alright. Good evening, Vincent.” 

“Good evening.” Vincent smiles. “I drew you a bath, if you’re interested.”

Lawrence stills, halfway through unbuttoning his cassock. “You did?” He hasn’t taken a bath in years, only showers.

“Mm-hm. Come, before the water gets cold.” Vincent stands and takes Lawrence by the hand, pulling him towards the bathroom.

Inside there is indeed a bath drawn for him - with a truly obnoxious amount of bubbles in it. Vincent must have used half a bottle of soap to produce such a large amount of soft foam. 

Lawrence stares at the act of kindness in mild shock. His brain brings up a vague memory of his mother doing something similar for him when he was sick, decades ago.

“Well?” Vincent asks. “Go in.” 

Lawrence raises an eyebrow. “I’m waiting for you to leave,” he deadpans. “Unless you’re planning on undressing me?” 

Before he has time to wonder if the comment is too far, Vincent laughs, loudly. “Ha!” He exclaims. “Absolutely not.” He turns on his heel and walks away, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Lawrence’s Spanish is a little rusty, but he thinks he can recognize the phrase showing a dog a big juicy steak . 

—

“Thomas?” Vincent calls. 

“In here,” Lawrence replies from his bedroom. He adjusts his weight so he’s not leaning on his bad foot. 

“Thomas, I was just in a meeting with the President of Mexico, and I thought -” Vincent stops in the doorway, taking in the scene. “Oh.” 

Lawrence lowers his arms as the tailor at his feet rises and bows to the Holy Father before soundlessly returning to his work. “Sorry about all this, your Holiness,” Lawrence says automatically. “I’m just getting fitted for some new clothes.” 

Vincent’s lips part slightly as his eyes roam over Lawrence’s body, over his half-undone cassock, revealing a white undershirt. “I see,” he says quietly.

“Turns out I’ve gained a little weight,” Lawrence admits, trying not to sound too displeased by the notion. “Because of the lack of activity. I hope this doesn’t make me look vain.” 

“Not at all,” Vincent says. His voice has turned up slightly in pitch. “Perhaps it is a good thing you’ve gained some weight,” he says. “It shows you haven’t lost your appetite, that you’re really eating despite the stress.” 

“I suppose so.” Lawrence feels his face get warm. “I don’t look too bad, do I?” 

Vincent’s eyes move slowly over Lawrence’s frame, this time slower, pausing around his waist. Lawrence tries not to feel self-conscious. He has given Vincent permission to look, to judge and opine on what he likes and dislikes about his Dean's appearance.

“No,” Vincent says. “As usual, you are altogether beautiful; there is no flaw in you.” 

Even the tailor on his knees drops a pin from his mouth at that statement. Lawrence’s face might as well be on fire.

“Anyway,” Vincent says, clearing his throat. “I - I wrote some notes from the meeting. I have a few ideas, maybe for a tour of North America. Come see me when you get a chance.” 

Vincent is gone with a swish of his cassock, the white of it reminding Lawrence of a duck’s tail. 

Lawrence looks down at his tailor, an older man with bright green eyes. 

“He says things like that all the time,” Lawrence explains. “He’s… a biblical scholar. He’s quoting the - the Song of Songs.” 

The tailor stares at him for a moment, then returns to his work.

—

Vincent glares at Lawrence’s phone. “What is that ?” he asks, his voice still groggy from sleep.

Lawrence looks over at him. The Holy Father is the picture of irritation, likely because they’ve been circling the landing strip at the Johannesburg airport for the last hour and a half with no sign of actually landing. “It’s an article about some cult in America. In Pennsylvania.” 

Vincent leans over, way into Lawrence’s personal space, to see the picture. He smells like the soap from the last hotel they were in - peach blossom. “A cult?”

“Well, they call themselves a church.”

“Why are they in wedding dresses with guns?”

“It’s a mass wedding. The rifles are… some misinterpretation of the Bible.” Lawrence presses the button that closes his phone screen. “You really don’t need to worry about it.”

Vincent looks out of the airplane window, a scowl still stuck on his face. The difference in time zones has clearly been weighing on his ability to recover after each overseas trip; Lawrence will need to find new ways of squeezing in time for naps on the schedule. “A wedding with guns,” Vincent scoffs. “That’s the devil’s work.” 

“I thought you didn’t believe in the devil.” 

“I do when it’s convenient for me.”

Lawrence smiles. “Well, I wouldn’t worry. The sanctity of marriage is likely not being threatened by a small group of disturbed people in Pennsylvania.” 

“You don’t think so?”

“I think a wedding is not nearly as important as the…” Lawrence struggles to find the word. “The coupling.” The word sounds distressingly sexual, but Lawrence thinks Vincent knows what he means.

Vincent thinks for a moment. “The sacrament comes later, for you. It’s not just the ceremony.”

“Yes, I think so. The moment in the chapel is just the start of it. It’s important, yes, but… I find that people are more married when they’re, I don’t know, cutting coupons, or installing a shelf, or loving each other when one of them’s being impossible. Sometimes two people are more married when they’re driving each other mad than when they’re standing at the altar.”

Vincent appears amused by Lawrence’s musings. “Shall we rid ourselves of weddings entirely?” He asks. “Declare the sacrament at first argument?” 

“Absolutely not. The ritual is still extremely important. If you can’t do the big cathedral wedding, you should at least find a nearby priest and ask him to say the words.”

Vincent’s gaze drifts across the plane, landing on Aldo, who is complaining to Ray about the fact that they are still in the air. 

“I could find a nearby priest,” he says quietly.

Lawrence peers down at the man who’s now leaning his head on Lawrence’s shoulder. “Are you planning on getting married any time soon, Holy Father?”

Vincent sighs. “I try to be ready for all things at all times. After all,” he points out, “I’m already wearing white.”

—

“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” Vincent recites quietly. 

Lawrence stares at him through the divider. “Vincent,” he says. “You have a confessor-in-chief. Cardinal Nakitanda -”

“I don’t wish to discuss these particular matters with him,” Vincent interrupts. His voice is almost whisper-soft. “I actually don’t wish to discuss these matters with anybody, but given that it is a question of my immortal soul, I figured I could come to you about it.” 

Lawrence takes a deep breath. He’s used to giving the sacrament of reconciliation - every other Tuesday, 1pm, directly after midday Mass, please seek an appointment if another time works better for you - but not to Vincent. 

“Tell me your sins,” he says finally.

Vincent is quiet for a long moment. “I am still filled with anger,” he says. “It boils inside me. I am angry at the man who hurt my friend. I am angry at the world that produced him. I am angry at the people who should have protected him - his parents, his loved ones, his country. I am angry that I am part of a religion that can be so twisted and misunderstood. Sometimes I am even filled with doubt that my beliefs are the correct ones.”

Lawrence opens his mouth to say something, but Vincent continues. 

“But I know that faith walks hand in hand with doubt. I am trying to maintain stability in my faith. Still, I struggle with anger. I struggle to remember why God sent me here, and not somewhere else. Not back to Kabul, where men and women have been shot and killed in front of me and have not as been as lucky as my - my -” 

Lawrence inhales sharply. Vincent cuts himself off. 

“Anyway. That is one sin, I suppose, if you count all of that as one.” 

“I’m not keeping count,” Lawrence says gently. “Neither is God the Father.” 

“Second, I, um…” Vincent rubs his hand over his face. His zucchetto is slipping slightly, making him look more like the schoolboy Lawrence once saw him as. “I snapped at one of my secretaries because she was making too much noise. I was rude to her, and she had to hide her face so I wouldn’t see her cry. I am ashamed of my behavior in that moment. I just didn’t like the sound of the binding machine.” 

Lawrence thinks of the large printer in Vincent’s secretaries’ office. It gives off a loud bang! whenever it presses through several sheets of paper. No wonder he got upset. “You should apologize to her,” Lawrence advises. “But I doubt she took it personally. She knows you are a good man.” 

“I don’t feel like a good man,” Vincent sighs. “Not as much as I used to. And - I suppose that leads me to…” 

Lawrence waits patiently. After decades of performing the sacrament he knows better than to push a penitent person into revealing their sins. Lawrence may only be a conduit for God in this case, but he is still a human being, listening to someone else’s vulnerabilities. 

“I self-abused,” Vincent murmurs. He looks away, his hair falling in a curtain around his face. 

For a second, Lawrence struggles to remember the meaning of the euphemism. When it comes to mind, he has to lean back in his seat lest Vincent see the shock on his face through the holes in the divider. 

“Did you?” Lawrence asks. “When?” 

“A couple of times in the past few months,” Vincent says. 

“What - what has been causing you to do this?” Lawrence’s head is spinning. Vague, graphic ideas are simmering beneath the surface of his mind, threatening to ruin his focus. 

Vincent shifts, causing the wood of his chair to creak. “Thomas,” he urges, “if you do not wish for me to discuss these things with you, I understand. I only came to you because I feel as though no one else would be able to keep these things private -” 

“Vincent, it’s fine.” Lawrence isn’t actually sure if it is, but he knows that he’s in a unique position at the moment. Vincent, as far as he knows, is still in love with him. There could be an element of this particular… offense that involves him. Logically, he should probably recuse himself and tell Vincent that he should confess this to another priest, but at the same time he hasn’t participated in the commission of the sin and Vincent is right to suspect that there are those within the Curia who would happily sell the story of the Pope Who Masturbates to whichever tabloid offers the highest bid. Nothing in Vincent’s life is ever truly private, even under the seal of confession. 

They both sit in the still air of the confessional, listening to each other’s breathing. Lawrence tries to think of what to say

Pretend he is just another member of your parish on the other side of the divider. He is someone’s husband, someone’s father, someone’s son, someone who walked in off the street. He’s just looking for advice on how to avoid the near occasion of sin.

“Are you… self-abusing for the pleasure of it?” Lawrence asks. It’s not a silly question. He’s known men who struggled with masturbation for several reasons; an inability to connect with their wives, a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder, a way to cope with depression, a need to do something meditative before bed. (Lawrence recommends praying in that case.)

“No,” Vincent says. Lawrence can barely hear him. “No, I - I just need to do it to focus.” 

Lawrence frowns. “Are you having trouble focusing at work?” 

Vincent lets out a cheerless laugh. “I am having trouble focusing at work, at home… My distraction is everywhere. I cannot avoid it.” 

He’s talking about me. I’m what’s been distracting him. Lawrence feels lightheaded, first at the knowledge that Vincent is touching himself with thoughts of Lawrence in his head, and second at the fact that he is distracting the bishop of Rome from his sacred duties. “You can take steps to mitigate that distraction,” he points out. Like asking me to move.

“No.” Vincent shakes his head. “I like how my life is right now. I am - I am getting over a dark time. I do not want to risk my own happiness because I cannot control my desires.” 

Lawrence takes a deep breath. “Then you must reflect on the nature of the sin.” He pauses, and recalls what he said to teenagers in New York who confessed this type of sin to him. “A sexual connection should be reserved for someone you love,” he says quietly. “By choosing your own pleasure, you are sacrificing the opportunity to have a special experience between yourself, a partner, and God.” 

Vincent scoffs. Lawrence stares at the divider in disbelief. 

“You don’t believe that,” Vincent mutters. 

“Excuse me?” Lawrence asks. 

Vincent sighs in frustration. “You cannot possibly think that,” he repeats. “Masturbation is not an act that somehow breaks one’s ability to connect with a loving partner. God did not create us with a limited capacity for love or pleasure. We aren’t teapots. You can’t pour out satisfaction until there’s nothing left.” 

Lawrence blinks at such a passionate defense. “I… didn’t know you felt so strongly about it.” 

“I am not trying to debate you. I just don’t believe the act itself is my problem,” Vincent huffs. 

“Then what do you think is the problem?” Lawrence asks. 

“It is…” Vincent’s voice goes quiet again. “That my attachment… my focus on - on the object of my desires…” He groans, pressing his palms to his eyes. 

“Vincent, it’s alright,” Lawrence soothes.

“It’s not!” Vincent cries. “You don’t understand! I feel like - I feel like a wild animal sometimes, I feel as though I am two steps away from doing something rash, something impulsive, something that would ruin a great and delicate friendship, and so I touch myself, because I need to do something , otherwise I will - I will explode, or collapse, or burst into flames, and the worst part is that - that -” 

“What is it, dearest?” Lawrence is torn between a wicked curiosity to know more about Vincent’s feelings of being a wild animal and heartbreak at the distress in his voice. 

“That it doesn’t feel wrong! ” Vincent’s voice rises in pitch and volume. “It does not feel as though I am sinning when I do it. It feels as though I am doing something right, something good, with an amount of certainty I have not felt since I left Veracruz for the first time. When I am thinking about it, about who I could be, who we could be if the circumstances were different, I do not feel any trace of sin. I am safe on the pathway God has made for me. I touch myself, and I can feel Christ’s favor. He tells me to love, to love, to love - and in that moment it is all I know how to do.” 

Lawrence sits there, stunned. He has no good reply to any of this. The sheer totality of Vincent’s confession has knocked him out like a punch to the face. 

He’s talking about me. He’s talking about me. He wants me, he wants me, he wants me…

Lawrence raises his hands and begins to recite the words as he’s done so countless times before. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son -” 

“Wait!” Vincent cuts in. “You forgot to give me my penance.” 

Lawrence doesn’t know what he could possibly give as penance that would be an appropriate response to Vincent’s confession. “Be kind to yourself,” he says. 

Vincent gives no response. Lawrence raises his hands again. 

“God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” 

“Amen.”

Chapter Text

It’s mid-December when the details for the North American tour get finalized. Lawrence is buoyed by the thought of the Holy Father actually getting a chance to meet face to face with some of the American politicians who have so publicly lambasted him from an ocean away. But the trip will not solely comprise meetings with less than friendly world leaders. The trip to Mexico should be a happy one, with stops in all of Vincent’s favorite cities, including his hometown. The public will get to see Veracruz’s most beloved son return to where he was born with many stories to tell. 

“Come with me,” Vincent begs, stumbling down the hallway. He’s wearing his longer cassock because it is warmer, but as a result he’s been tripping over his own feet the entire day, bright red Converse slipping out from under a white hem. “Please, you will enjoy it, I promise.” 

“It’s not a matter of enjoying it,” Lawrence counters, continuing his pace down the hall. He fiddles with his pectoral cross, steadying it as it swings and hits his chest. “I would enjoy any overseas trip with you, you know that.” Careful, don’t make it sound like a vacation. You’ll only egg him on.

“All the more reason you should join me!” Vincent pushes. “You can meet my sisters, and my abuela - she’s a hundred and three, you know, maybe older if you believe the stories - and we can go to the beach, and you can put your feet in the water…” 

“Vincent.” Lawrence stops in his tracks. He adjusts the file he has tucked under his arm. “Vincent, a few weeks ago you were in a great deal of distress just thinking about me.” 

Vincent stands up straight, chastened. Still, he clearly won’t give up without a fight. “You don’t know I was talking about you,” he argues. “Besides, you are under the seal of the confessional. You shouldn’t even be talking to me about this.” 

Lawrence isn’t sure that’s how the seal works, but he digresses. “If my company is causing you to drift from your papal duties, it is best that we get some space from each other.” 

Vincent pouts, looking disturbingly like one of his turtles when it cannot reach a strawberry by stretching its neck. “Do you really want to be away from me?” He asks. 

Lawrence closes his eyes. “No,” he admits. “But we can’t become codependent. We already live together. What will people say if we’re seen as even more entwined?” 

“Nothing they haven’t already said since the conclave,” Vincent replies smoothly. “And I do not think we are codependent. I think I am very independent from you.” 

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want very different things from you.” 

That’s the problem. I’m not sure that’s true anymore. Sometimes you talk about us and the things you say make sense. “You really want me to come to America?” 

“And Mexico. And Canada. I think you would do well in all of those places.” 

Lawrence narrows his eyes. “But the United States specifically.”

Vincent looks down at his feet, then back up, his dark eyes enormous and sad. “Thomas,” he says seriously, “you and I went through a very serious thing. A man pointed a gun at us.” 

“He did a lot more than that,” Lawrence quips. 

“Think of how many Americans have to deal with that horror every day! Imagine their heartbreak, their fear, their worry that their loved ones will be caught and killed by someone whose anger has gotten the better of them. You could show them that they are not alone! That the words of Christ are there to comfort and guide them. And you can be a living portrait of the impact of gun violence worldwide in front of every politician who meets you.” 

Lawrence doesn’t try to hide his skepticism. “You think if I undress and show my wounds to the President, he’ll suddenly see the light and pass legislation to fight gun violence?”

Vincent shrugs. “It worked for your namesake,” he says. 

Lawrence stares at him. “It happened to my namesake,” he corrects. “And I’d rather not have any politician stick his hand in my side, thank you.”

“You should do it anyway.” 

Lawrence leans back, surprised at Vincent’s tone. Vincent is stubborn, yes, but this is a new level. “Even if I’m certain it won’t work?” 

“Yes. You should make the effort anyway.”

Lawrence tilts his head. “I would also like to remind you, Holy Father, that it is likely people in the U.S. don’t even know my name . They know me as the man who stood in front of the Pope. If anyone has a story to tell, it’s you. I don’t need to be there.”

Vincent makes a frustrated noise and is launching into yet another plea for Lawrence to accompany him when Ray comes up to them, his glasses reflecting the cool morning light streaming in through the windows.

“Your Holiness, your Eminence,” he greets with a bow. “I’m glad to see you’re both doing well.” Ray looks at Vincent. “Holy Father, I’m afraid I have bad news.” 

“What is it?” Vincent asks. 

“I’ve just finished speaking with the lawyer for Michael Spencer,” Ray explains. “We spoke for quite a while.” 

“Oh,” Vincent sighs. “Will I not be able to meet with him before the trip overseas?” 

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to meet with him at all,” Ray says delicately. “Mr. Spencer’s attorney says he doesn’t wish to meet with you.”

Lawrence frowns. The unsmiling face of the man in the crowd from October flashes in his mind. Vincent had tried to meet with him right after the shooting, Lawrence was told, but there had been issues with the American embassy and the Italian police’s interrogation. Vincent had not given up trying to reconcile with the man, however, attempting to echo the actions of Pope John Paul II after his attempted assassination. 

“He doesn’t… want to meet with me?” Vincent asks, his voice distant.

Lawrence steps in closer. “The man does know the Holy Father only seeks to forgive him, correct?” If the man expects to be berated or castigated for his crimes, he won’t get that behavior from Vincent. 

“I made that very clear to his attorney,” Ray replies. “I was told that Mr. Spencer doesn’t wish to see anyone from the Vatican, now or in the future.” 

Lawrence hadn’t asked to meet with his attacker, but now he feels a deep emptiness in his abdomen at the news. The man shot hot metal into Lawrence’s body and yet he seeks no absolution. 

“Can he do that?” Lawrence asks. “Can he refuse an audience with the Pope? Just like that?” 

Vincent takes a deep breath. “It is his right,” he says stiffly. “He likely has few others where he is.”

Lawrence looks at Vincent’s face. He can see every line of worry, every spot of exhaustion on his face. The papacy has aged him far more than the twenty five months he’s held the office.

“I’m sorry, Holy Father.” Ray reaches forward and then pulls his hand back in a half-attempt to comfort the man. “I can try again, if you’d like. Perhaps he can be persuaded. He is Catholic.” 

Vincent shakes his head. “No, I… If he is still saying no now he likely won’t change his mind after a third try.” His eyes have turned dark, distant. “Excuse me. I have to - I have to go pray for a bit.” He looks over at Lawrence. “We will talk at home, okay?”

Lawrence doesn’t know when the papal apartments started to be home for the both of them, but he nods. “Take care, Holy Father.” 

Ray and Lawrence watch him walk down the hall, his head down, one hand pulling on his cassock to make sure he doesn’t trip.

When Lawrence returns from his office that evening, he takes note of the faint candlelight emanating from his bedroom. When he enters, Vincent is in his usual corner, curled up on the couch, a rosary in his left hand. He barely acknowledges Lawrence’s presence, his lips moving in prayer. 

He doesn’t say anything when Lawrence grabs a set of pajamas and heads into the bathroom to change. He doesn’t even open his eyes when Lawrence exits the room and returns with two cups of tea, setting them down on the nightstand. 

“Vincent,” Lawrence says simply. 

Vincent opens his eyes. They are filled with darkness. 

The abyss calls out. 

“Come here.” Lawrence waves his hand. He waits for Vincent to shuffle over to him before patting the bed. “Come close to me.” 

Vincent sits down on the bed and follows Lawrence’s example by lying down. The two of them face each other, candlelight flickering on the walls, casting shadows across their faces.

“I’m sorry,” Lawrence whispers.

“I am, too,” Vincent replies. “I suppose I just got too… too big for myself.”

Lawrence frowns. “How do you figure that?” 

“I assumed he would want to meet with me,” Vincent says. “That we would meet, and talk, and…come to an understanding. He’s a Catholic. Surely he knows the gravity of his actions.” 

“Knowing their gravity and recognizing the sin within them are two different things,” Lawrence murmurs. “He probably doesn’t believe he’s done anything wrong.” 

Vincent closes his eyes, pained. “He hurt someone I love,” he says.

“I know.” He’s hurting someone I love right now.

The two of them lie there in silence, listening to each other breathe. Minutes pass. Lawrence glances over at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It’s been almost half an hour. 

Suddenly Vincent sits up. His hair is a mess; he runs a hand through it absentmindedly. “I will write to him,” he declares. “I’ll write to him and tell him everything that I would have told him in person.” 

Lawrence sits up, confused and a little groggy from the rest. “Vincent, he may not even read it.” Or he will, and he’ll reply with something horrible, and it’ll be as though we are never rid of him.

“I have to try,” Vincent says, sitting down at Lawrence’s desk. He grabs a piece of paper and a pencil, one worn down to a stub from editing Vincent’s homilies. “I have to try anyway.” 

Lawrence looks at his friend, his guide, his other half. 

“I’ll come with you,” he says, “on your trip. If you still want me to come.” 

Vincent’s eyes are warm when they meet Lawrence’s. “I do,” he replies.

—

The North American tour begins in Edmonton, where Vincent makes a detailed apology to the indigenous tribes of Canada for the Catholic Church’s role in running residential schools that separated children from their parents. From there they travel by plane to Montreal, where Cardinal Tremblay greets Vincent with a smile and Lawrence with an overly long speech about how much the people of Canada prayed for him during his “time of strife.” Lawrence is pleased to hear Tremblay tell the Holy Father that his archdiocese has been especially charitable this year, raising money for several important humanitarian efforts, but in truth he is glad when they exit the extremely cold city. Cardinal Tremblay may have been forgiven in the Holy Father’s eyes, but Lawrence is no saint. He can hold a grudge, albeit a little one. 

From there Vincent’s entourage moves by train to New York, where Vincent stays at Essex House, a hotel that Lawrence knows of only because Katherine took Ilsa there once for a princess’s tea-type event. There Vincent has but a few minutes to take in the view of Central Park covered in a light dusting of snow before he’s whisked off to the studio where The Late Show With Stephen Colbert is filmed. (Lawrence is oddly disappointed to learn that it is not, in fact, filmed late at night, but instead is recorded at three in the afternoon.)

Throughout their travels, Lawrence has served mostly as a novelty to those around him. People are eager to speak with him upon learning that he is The Man Who Took a Bullet For The Pope, but once they learn that he has little to actually say other than “Yes, I did indeed take a bullet for the Pope, two bullets in fact, it was painful, I’d rather it not happen to anyone, perhaps the American government can make an effort to prevent hot lead from getting shot into people,” they dismiss him. So the majority of his time has been spent serving as Vincent’s companion, a role he is embarrassed to find so much pleasure in. He’s especially pleased to be in New York; he wonders if on their travels tomorrow they’ll pass by his old parish. 

Vincent pulls him along to the show recording, insisting it’ll be fun. Judith, the social media manager who has followed Vincent along every leg of his journey so far, agrees. “I’ll take your picture,” she says to Lawrence. “You’ll get to say you met Stephen Colbert!” 

Lawrence doesn’t tell her that he’s already met the most famous man in the world, so other celebrities don’t do much for him, and also that he doesn’t know who Stephen Colbert is.

It turns out that Mr. Colbert is in fact an excellent interviewer and entertainer, and is actually Catholic, much to Lawrence’s relief. He’s never been one to question Vincent’s choices when communicating with the secular world, but appearing on a late night talk show seemed a bizarre idea to Lawrence’s eyes. However Colbert is thoughtful, kind, and only a little bit provocative. He clearly holds a great admiration for the Holy Father, and does not make fun of him as Lawrence suspected he would. He and Vincent trade jokes about various aspects of the Catholic faith, and there’s even a fun little segment where Colbert pretends as though he’s about to swear in front of the Holy Father, only to back away at the last moment.

Eventually the interview turns serious, though, and Colbert asks Vincent about the assassination attempt. Vincent takes a deep breath and talks about the fear that he had for the people around him, and for his own life. He talks about how the shooting was only one of many acts of violence he has witnessed during his lifetime, all against innocent people just trying to live their lives. He talks about the need for clear, honest news coverage, rather than stories that sensationalize or spread misinformation. 

And he talks about Lawrence.

“It was… a very dark time for me,” Vincent says, “while Cardinal Lawrence was in surgery. I thought I was going to lose a very dear friend of mine.” 

Colbert leans in, his face serious. The studio audience has gone quiet. Backstage, watching on the screen, Lawrence feels a blush form on his cheeks. 

“I speak of him not just because he did a very kind thing for me…” Vincent continues.

“I’d say more than a kind thing,” Colbert says gently. “He saved your life.” 

“Yes, but it is about more than that,” Vincent explains. “In his willingness to sacrifice himself, in his quickness to put his body in front of mine… I see shades of the sacrifice upon which my beliefs are built.” 

Lawrence springs up from his chair fast, like he’s been hit with a bolt of lightning. He winces at the pain in his leg but ignores it. Beside him, Judith looks at him with wide eyes, then turns back to the television screen.

Vincent is still talking. His head is ducked down slightly. Colbert has leaned over to take Vincent’s hand, grounding him. 

“It has filled me with a depth of gratitude… I did not know I was capable of. He has shown me that the real connections between people are not born of privilege, or of happenstance, but by reaching through the struggle. I thought I knew what friendship was, before. What it meant to love my neighbor. I see now it is a more vibrant picture than I could ever have imagined.”

A tear drops from Vincent’s face onto his cassock. The camera barely catches it; a measly few pixels on white fabric. 

Vincent raises his face. He looks angelic under the stage lights, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. One of them falls down his cheek as he speaks. “I think we should all follow his example,” he says. “I think we should be willing to sacrifice our comfort for each other. It does not need to be because of your religion. It can simply be because you care for your fellow man. That is the lesson I hope everyone takes away from this tragedy. It is the lesson I will hold with me until the day I die.” 

The crowd bursts into wild applause. Lawrence barely hears it. There might be water in his ears. He might be about to faint.

The rest of the interview continues and then concludes, but Lawrence watches very little of it. He spends the rest of his time sitting and staring blankly in the green room, trying not to throw up. 

The Holy Father just cried on national television. He cried. Tears were caught on camera. Because he was talking about me. He compared what happened to Christ’s sacrifice. He said he knows what friendship is, because of me.

It’s too much. It’s simply too much. He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t want it. How could Vincent say all those things? How could he show such intense emotion so nakedly in front of all those people? Doesn’t he know what he’s done? What he’s exposed himself to?

Lawrence feels confusion and anger begin to simmer inside him as he rides next to Vincent on the way home. He would say something, but there are far too many people around. Vincent, meanwhile, is acting as though nothing is wrong, looking out the window at the snow lightly falling down around them. He even taps Lawrence on the shoulder, pointing out a large statue of a globe that they pass as they drive through Columbus Circle. Lawrence looks at it blankly and thinks of the ball of light from his dream, so many months ago. The feeling was too much there, too, so much he couldn’t bear it. 

As they are riding in the elevator to the top floor Judith’s phone pings. She looks down at it; her eyes go wide.

“What is it?” Lawrence asks. 

“The President,” Judith responds. “He was watching the show.” 

Lawrence closes his eyes. He can’t begin to imagine what such a man would say about Vincent. After seeing him cry? Oh, Christ have mercy…

Vincent appears to pay it no mind. But when Lawrence looks at his face he can see his mouth is in a hard line. 

The rest of the group parts ways for their respective bedrooms once the elevator doors open. Lawrence doesn’t go to his. He follows Vincent back to his room, his key card burning a hole in the pocket of his cassock.

One room, two key cards. The scandal it would cause if someone found out. What are you doing in the Pope’s room?

As soon as the door clicks shut Vincent whirls around to face him. “You are angry with me,” he says, “though I cannot imagine why.” 

Lawrence resists the urge to shrink back on instinct. He’s rarely been on the receiving end of Vincent’s scrutiny, not when it’s tinged with irritation. “You spoke about me on television,” he accuses. 

Vincent tilts his head slightly, his expression impassive. “I wasn’t aware you were my secret to keep,” he replies.

“You said things about me - you - you cried , you shed tears in front of all those people -”

“Do you want me to be ashamed of it?” Vincent asks, confused, hurt. 

“I want you to acknowledge the danger of it!” Lawrence exclaims. “To be so publicly vulnerable - to open yourself up to criticism -” 

“So what if I am seen as vulnerable, I am human -”

“You will be seen as weak! ” Lawrence’s throat is tight; his voice comes out strained. “You will be seen as a frail leader of a frail Church, one that is incapable of handling acts of terror and tragedy with anything more than tears and platitudes! The President of the United States is -”

“I do not care about him ,” Vincent scoffs.

“I do!” Lawrence feels as if the tenderness in his chest is threatening to open up again. It’s been months since the bullet tore his flesh open but the sense memory never goes away. “Do you know how many people would rather see you dead than in your office? Do you know what happens when a man like that chooses you as his target? His men take initiative, they come out of the woodwork, and they set their sights on you! Look what they did to their own Capitol! And his followers are not limited by politics, or for that matter, the rule of law, man-made or divine.” 

Vincent tilts his chin up defiantly. “I can take care of myself.” 

The words are out of his mouth before Lawrence can stop them. “You nearly couldn’t before.” 

Vincent is silent. The two men stare at each other, deadlocked in each other’s stubbornness. 

Vincent breaks first. “This isn’t about how I cried,” he declares, stepping forward. “This is about how I cried for you .” 

Lawrence can see fire in Vincent’s eyes. He refuses to be swayed by it. “You shouldn’t have said the words,” he scolds, his voice low. “You didn’t need to say all that.” 

Vincent huffs out an exasperated laugh. “Thomas, how can you possibly take issue with what I said? I had nothing but praise for you -” 

“I don’t deserve it!” Lawrence is aware he’s yelling, now. He sincerely hopes the walls of this hotel are thick. “I don’t deserve any of that praise, certainly not for my actions to be compared with that of Christ’s -” 

“Christ is in all of us,” Vincent argues, his voice like steel. “In every sacrifice we make.” 

“I didn’t sacrifice anything!” Lawrence counters. “All I did was step in front of you! What should I have done? Simply let the man shoot you? Let you die?” 

“Yes!” Vincent shouts. “People do it every day, when faced with death, or discomfort, or even inconvenience! They see a man hurt, a child starving, a woman in pain, and they think nothing of it! They keep walking! They refuse to risk anything, they think of themselves first and foremost! But you didn’t! Don’t you think that makes a difference? Don’t you think that matters? ”

Lawrence can’t think of a response. He might be drowning in the light of Vincent’s eyes.

The room is quiet. Lawrence watches Vincent’s chest rise and fall as he regains his breath. 

“Listen to me,” Vincent says. His voice is deadly serious. “You need to learn to accept the love that is given to you. Not because I am the Pope, not because I believe you should reciprocate my feelings, and certainly not because you feel obligated to do so. But because it is being freely given to you, from me, because you are my friend. You are unimaginably kind, and clever, and caring, and I know for a fact that were I your worst enemy you still would have jumped in front of me that day, because that is who you are as a person. I have known that since the day you woke me up in Sister Agnes’s office. That’s why I cried for you, Tomás. And before you ask, yes -” Vincent lets out a groan as if in physical pain, “I am still in love with you. Even though you are being impossible!”

Lawrence stands there, stunned. Vincent waits for a response but gets none, so he throws up his hands in frustration.

“I am going to bed. I do not care if the President calls me a snowflake. We will discuss this more at some other time.” 

Vincent turns away, an obvious signal for Lawrence to leave. As Lawrence walks down the hall to his own suite, it occurs to him that they haven’t slept more than a room away from each other in months.

--

The train ride to Washington D.C. is a rush of green trees and swampland. 

Vincent sits in a corner of the private train car, a notebook in front of him. His pencil goes untouched. Light flickers over his face, reminding Lawrence of a printer making copies. One Vincent, two Vincents, three Vincents…

Lawrence stands up from his seat and goes over to sit next to the Holy Father.

Vincent looks over at him. There are dark circles under his eyes. 

Lawrence covers Vincent’s hand with his. Vincent stiffens, but then relaxes. 

“I’m sorry,” Lawrence says. “I was very rude last night. I should have thanked you for your kind words.”

Vincent’s eyes soften like caramel candies. “What changed your mind?” He asks.

Lawrence tilts his head. “I was going to be very angry with you,” he explains, “but then I remembered. You said you’d never try to make me uncomfortable.” 

Vincent nods slowly, the corners of his lips turning up. He lifts his forearm, turning it so he can lace his fingers with Lawrence’s. He smells like citrus, like nectar from a flower.

They stay like that for the rest of the ride.

—

Vincent’s long tour through North America ends just as Christmas rolls around, and Lawrence is glad to be back on Italian soil for it. The festivities are planned out to the minute, and everything moves at a pace that gives Lawrence little time to focus on the swirling miasma of feelings for Vincent he has in his chest. He knows he should find time to meditate and pray on the matter - their argument in New York was illuminating if only because it revealed a passion for something inside Lawrence of which he was not previously aware - but the responsibilities of his job and the necessary preparations for the celebration of the birth of Christ come first. 

Still, amidst the business of Advent and the celebration of Christmas, Lawrence finds the time to consider how grateful he is to those around him. He doesn’t get gifts for everybody, but he makes sure to thank all of his friends for the support they’ve given him over the last few months. 

Sister Agnes blushes and kisses his ring when he tells her how thankful he is for all the accommodations she made during his recovery, including his move to the papal apartments. (Lawrence has brought up a move back to the Casa Santa Marta several times, but every time he does it the room he and Sister Agnes are in seems to drop a few degrees in temperature from how much both of them dislike the idea, so for now he stays where he is.) She tells him that his gift of a fine silk scarf is of no use to her given her daily uniform, but he can see a little bit of a rose-colored blush on her cheeks anyway.

He thanks Matteo, his physical therapist, for continuing to work with him to make sure he can walk and operate normally, even as the winter months have brought new kinds of stiffness and pain to his now-old wounds. Matteo grins and calls him un combattente. “You were there for the Holy Father when he needed you,” he says. “But you need to be here for yourself, now, too.” 

He makes sure to purchase a couple of extremely fluffy stuffed animals for Ilsa and Dominic, and resists the urge to include a children’s Bible in the package. (Hey, they should start learning sometime, lest their father fill their brains with mush.)

For Ray he gets a collection of specialty tea packets, all of which are decorated with little flowers and smell delicious every time he opens the tin. Ray is delighted at the gift, but admits that it’s not truly what he wants for Christmas.

“What is it that you want?” Lawrence asks.

Ray suddenly looks him dead in the eye, his hands coming up to rest on Lawrence’s shoulders. “Say that you won’t get yourself into any more dangerous situations,” he commands. There isn’t a shred of humor in his voice.

“What?” Lawrence asks.

“First a bombing, then an assassination attempt. It’s not good for my blood pressure, your Eminence. It’s really not.”

Lawrence blinks at him, then frowns. “I really wouldn’t say I got myself into either of those situations. They weren’t my choice -”

“Say it!”

“I will not get myself into any more dangerous situations,” Lawrence recites, satisfying Ray’s request.

For Aldo he purchases two cookbooks, one for appetizers and one for desserts. Aldo thanks him for the gift, and then pulls him into a surprisingly strong hug, whispering that he’s so grateful to have a friend like Lawrence. Lawrence tucks his face into Aldo’s neck and breathes him in, savoring the memory. He’s Lawrence’s best friend, and always will be. In another life, he thinks, he would’ve been happy to stay roommates with Aldo forever.

Lawrence has the most difficulty thinking of a gift for Vincent. What does one give the Pope on Christmas? What does one give Vincent on Christmas? Lawrence spends probably far too much time perseverating on the matter before the idea comes to him right as he’s about to go to sleep, staring up at the bookshelves along the wall separating his room from the Holy Father’s. 

They end up exchanging gifts two days after Christmas, when some of the chaos has died down and Vincent is actually allowed a moment to rest. Vincent gives Lawrence a pair of socks he knitted himself with deep purple yarn. The fabric is soft and light, the stitches even and relatively loose. Lawrence wonders how he will ever be able to wear them; he can’t risk damaging something so precious. But he promises Vincent he will anyway, just to see Vincent’s brilliant, sparkling smile, just for him.

“I, erm, I got something for you as well,” Lawrence says, going over to his desk and retrieving a small envelope. 

“You didn’t have to,” Vincent says, but his gaze betrays curiosity. 

Vincent opens up the envelope to reveal a printed-out receipt for a donation to a hospital in New Orleans. 

“I, erm, I had some funds that Katherine raised for me, after the - after the shooting.” Lawrence takes a deep breath. He’s suddenly nervous that he’s overstepped somehow. “I figured since I wasn’t going to be using it, I’d save some of the money for Ilsa and Dominic’s college funds, and the rest, I’d… give to a good cause.” Lawrence points to some of the language on the receipt. “If you’ll see here, erm, it says that it’s for an emergency department in a hospital in New Orleans, in America.” 

Vincent’s eyes move reverently over the document. “New Orleans?” He asks.

“It has the highest rate of gun violence in the country,” Lawrence explains. “Somewhere in that city, there will be a plaque on the wall with Vincent Benítez’s name on it, in front of a space dedicated to treating victims of the same -” He breathes in, breathes out. “The same act of terror that almost killed us.” 

Vincent stares at the paper, with something like awe in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything before suddenly turning and pulling Lawrence into an embrace, his lips pressed against Lawrence’s cheek. 

Lawrence is surrounded by warm clean comfort, entirely safe in Vincent’s arms.

“Thank you, mi tesoro,” Vincent whispers. “I love you so much.” 

“I love you too,” Lawrence says. “Always.”

—

The afternoon is unusually quiet.

There are no protests outside, nor are there celebrations. There is no rain pattering against the window; the sky is overcast. The white noise machine in the hall is off, as there are no private conversations being held. Vincent has no more meetings scheduled for the day. 

Lawrence is sitting across from him at his desk, answering emails and generally enjoying the silence. But some part of him can’t let it last. 

He glances up. Vincent doesn’t appear to be working on anything at the moment - instead he’s focused his attention on a bumblebee outside his window, pollinating a flower. 

Lawrence watches the insect for about half a minute before he closes his laptop abruptly, snapping Vincent out of his reverie. Vincent blinks at him, and seemingly waits for Lawrence to say something.

So Lawrence speaks. 

“What about sex?” He asks. 

Vincent’s eyebrows rise so high they nearly go into his hair. 

“What?”

“Sex.”

“What about sex?” Vincent asks. 

Lawrence tires of this routine already. “If you were to take on a lover,” he clarifies. “What if the person wanted you to have sex?”

Vincent is quiet for precisely ten seconds. Then he asks, “what brings this up?”

Lawrence resists the urge to glare at him. “Call it an intellectual curiosity,” he replies, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. He appreciates that Vincent keeps up the pretense that Lawrence is asking after someone other than himself, but honestly, if anyone has the right to ask about this aspect of Vincent’s desires, it’s him. 

Vincent bites the inside of his cheek. He lays his hands folded on the table. “If he were to ask me for sex… I would have to think about it.”

“What would you think about?”

“Mostly how we would find certain materials within the walls of the Vatican.” 

Lawrence feels like he’s been hit with a fly swatter and struck to the ground. “Materials?”

“You know. Un poquito de lubricante -”

“I know what you mean.” Lawrence shifts uncomfortably. “You’d be breaking your vows.”

“I would,” Vincent admits. 

“And you’re just okay with that?”

“As I have told you before, I do not consider an act of love that harms no one to be a sin.” Vincent sighs. “We have discussed this. You have made your opinion clear as well.”

It’s an old wound but it opens up again under Vincent’s words. Nearly nine months have passed since Lawrence first rejected Vincent but obviously the pain of it hasn’t gone away. 

Lawrence switches tactics. They’re not going to get anywhere by treading old ground again. “Have you had sex before?”

Vincent narrows his eyes. “Does it matter?”

“Suppose it does.”

“No, I haven’t. I’ve seen pictures, though, if that helps.”

Lawrence frowns. “Pictures?”

“I have older cousins, I had access to the Internet - can we move forward, please?”

There he is, Mr. Grouchy Pope. “So you don’t know if you’d actually enjoy it.”

“No, I don’t.” Vincent’s eyes glitter with mischief. “But I like trying new things.”

Lawrence shivers. He shifts again in his seat. “Fine. But you haven’t thought of everything.”

“I never said I have.” Vincent’s gaze softens. “What is on your mind, Thomas?”

Lawrence licks his lips. “What if you and your… What if we weren’t compatible? In that way?”

Vincent considers this. His eyes flicker over Lawrence’s frame, as if x-raying him. He’s remarkably calm for such a conversation.

“If my beloved didn’t want me to touch below his ears,” he says finally, “I would make sure the top of his head was adored every day. And I would move no further.” 

Lawrence has to sit with that. He wonders what it would be like to be adored, at the top of his head or below, by someone whose job requires the skill of worship. 

“What if your - your beloved asked for it very often?”

Vincent tilts his head. “How often?”

“Every day.” 

The Holy Father’s eyes turn wide. “Do people do it every day?”

“Surely you know that. Haven’t you heard confessions before?”

“Let me tell you, they were not doing it every day in the Congo.”

Lawrence has to grin at that. “Perhaps the ones doing it every day didn’t have the time for confession. Let’s assume this person is asking for it all the time. Let’s assume they’re insatiable.”

Vincent’s jaw drops open. Evidently the conversation has turned from charged to absurd. “They are ?”

Lawrence realizes the implications of what he’s just said. “No, that’s not -”

Vincent’s eyes move once more over Lawrence’s body, this time with much more intent (and even a hint of intimidation). But after this amount of time Lawrence can recognize at least some of the thoughts Vincent has about him.

“Just a hypothetical. What would you do?”

Vincent looks away, thinking. He squirms a little, reminding Lawrence of Aldo when he has to weigh two interests of the Curia that contradict. “I would… apologize to them, first.” 

“Why?”

“Because sometimes I have to leave the country on business, and thus I could not tend to them.”

Lawrence can’t help it. He barks out a laugh.

Vincent frowns in response. “Don’t make fun,” he protests. “A spouse’s marital duty is an important part of the - the - the coupling. What’s wrong with my answer?”

“Vincent, you can’t possibly want to lay yourself out like a dutiful housewife.”

As soon as Lawrence says the words he blushes. He didn’t mean for the sentence to sound so horrifyingly sexual, but to his ears it does. Vincent as the loving spouse, tired but willing, spreading his legs so Lawrence could achieve satisfaction day after day. Bruises on his hips or thighs, evidence of prior passion. Lawrence would notice, of course, and take pity on the man, especially given his position. Caring for the Church is a bit like caring for a very, very large family, after all. He would likely be exhausted some days, even if his libido remained strong. Lawrence would be a gentleman on instinct. Thank you, dearest. Are you sure? We can just cuddle if you’d like. Oh, alright. Roll over, darling. I’ll do all the work. Just relax, I’ve got you…

Lawrence can’t meet Vincent’s eye. He’s sure if he looks at him Vincent will see the thought in his head and will use it as a point of attack.

Yes, he’s had the occasional suggestive dream about Vincent. Yes, he’s thought about the logistics of a sexual encounter. They’re having the conversation for a reason, after all. But he’s never had it rush into his head like that. He’s never felt his imagination work overtime to fill in the gaps.

He’s never fantasized about it before.

Nervously he looks up. Vincent is gazing at him with a curious look on his face.

“I want a marriage,” Vincent says simply. “I want all that it entails. A marriage tends to involve sex, though there’s no problem if it doesn’t. It’s not the act itself that’s important. It’s the intent behind it.” 

Lawrence feels very warm under his collar. “I… I agree.”

Judging by his expression, Vincent wasn’t expecting that answer. “You do?”

“Yes.” Lawrence doesn’t have any more questions on the subject. He thought he’d be examining the idea for hours. But he got his answer in minutes. 

The obstacles to their potential relationship still exist. The towering shadow of Vincent’s papacy, the endless list of Lawrence’s worries, the age difference, the weight of their vows. All of those issues remain. But sex is not one of them. Vincent would take whatever Lawrence had to offer. If that’s nothing, he’d be fine with that. If Lawrence wanted to give more, Vincent would grab at it with both hands. 

Vincent smiles and inclines his head slightly. “Thank you for seeing it my way.” He picks up his pen and writes something down in his notebook that Lawrence can’t see.

Lawrence resists the urge to lean over and look. “For the record,” he says, “I’m not - I’m not insatiable.”

Vincent shrugs. “Maybe,” he replies. “How would you know?”

Chapter Text

Lawrence doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. Honest, he doesn’t. But if Ray and the Holy Father didn’t want to run the risk of Lawrence overhearing him, they shouldn’t have gathered in his office while Lawrence was off gathering copies of a document. (Yes, he’s capable of making copies of documents by himself now.)

Lawrence wouldn’t even have stopped with his hand halfway to the doorknob if he hadn’t heard such a strange tone in Ray’s voice. 

“I’m just asking what you have behind your back,” Ray says. His words are gentle, but his tone betrays a certain amount of suspicion. 

“It’s only a box of chocolates,” Vincent replies, icing-sugar sweet. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

Lawrence blinks at the dialogue. Why is Ray talking to the Holy Father this way?

“Because it’s Valentine’s day,” Vincent continues. “I just thought - a silly gift, you know? Nothing special.” 

Ray is silent. Lawrence wishes he could see his expression.

“Ray,” Vincent says, attempting to soothe. “Surely you don’t take offense at a mild amount of commercialization on a feast day for a saint that likely would get overlooked if not for -”

“I’m not concerned about that,” Ray cuts in. “I’m concerned about your relationship with Cardinal Lawrence.” 

Lawrence has to cover his mouth to keep from his gasp being heard. What on Earth is Ray doing?

“My relationship,” Vincent repeats. His voice suddenly has a note of warning in it.

Lawrence can see the shadow of Ray’s footsteps in the gap between the door and the carpet. Ray steps forward half a foot, like a move in a game of chess.

“I think you know what I mean,” Ray says carefully. “But - I only bring it up to make myself clear to you, Holy Father.” 

Lawrence almost presses his ear against the door, he’s so transfixed by the conversation. 

“Yes?” Vincent asks.

“Cardinal Lawrence is - he’s a sensitive man,” Ray explains. “He’s been hurt before. The conclave was - it was not an easy time for him.” 

“It was not an easy time for any of us,” Vincent points out. 

“No, but…” Ray trails off. “I only point this out so that if you continue your… pursuance of Cardinal Lawrence’s affections, you understand the particularities - and the risks.” 

Pursuance of my affections? What the hell is happening?!

Now Vincent takes a step forward. “And those risks are?” He asks. “Apart from the obvious.” 

Ray lowers his voice; Lawrence has to strain to hear him. “If you hurt him,” he says, “I will make sure the consequences are seen in your legacy as Pope.” 

Lawrence might faint. He might actually faint right onto the carpet. (It looks plushy. He'd probably survive the fall.)

There’s a long, long pause. 

“And how would you do that ?” Vincent asks in a terrifyingly serene tone. 

Lawrence remembers with a rush of dread that Ray is the only other person alive who knows about Vincent’s condition. He wouldn’t use something like that to hurt the Holy Father, would he? Lawrence could never allow it, not even if it was done in some misguided attempt to protect his honor. The level of sin, of betrayal, would be unthinkable.

Most men would fold like paper under a force like that. But Ray stands firm. 

“I wouldn’t need to cause a scandal,” Ray assures him. “That would be ugly, and immoral. You simply wouldn’t get anything done.” 

That’s where Ray truly holds his power, Lawrence thinks. Not in the keeping of secrets or the ability to spread gossip. It’s in his competence. As he goes, so does the Vatican staff. Were he to say the word, Vincent would have an army of bureaucrats and government workers making sure his papacy was as inefficient as possible. 

It’s a horrible idea. But insanely, some part of Lawrence is touched by how far Ray is willing to go to protect Lawrence from harm.

Still, none of this matters. Ray has gotten it all wrong.

“I see,” Vincent says after a moment. “I appreciate your concern for Cardinal Lawrence’s safety and comfort. In that matter we are allies.” 

“Of course, Holy Father,” Ray responds, his voice once again full of its usual respect. “I just had to make myself clear.” 

“And now I think I, too, must clarify something,” Vincent continues. “Monsignor… you appear to have misunderstood the relationship between Cardinal Lawrence and myself.” 

Lawrence risks peering around to look through the crack in the door. From what little he can see, Ray is tilting his head, looking a little like a confused dog. 

“I have?” He asks.

Vincent nods. “I can tell you for certain that Thomas and I… our relationship is purely platonic.”

“Oh,” Ray says.

“At least on his end.”

“ Oh. ” Ray says.

Lawrence has never entertained the idea that other people would think he and Vincent are together. That anyone in the Vatican would observe their behavior and assume - and then tolerate - the relationship, much less warn one partner of the other’s sensitivities, like an older brother who interrogates his sister’s boyfriend about his intentions - it’s unbelievable. 

But here Lawrence is, on the other side of a door while the Holy Father tells Ray that he and Lawrence aren’t having an affair.

“I am sure you understand,” Vincent says, “that I am merely trying to express my affection for Cardinal Lawrence through the outlets that are available to me.”

“Of course, your Holiness,” Ray replies. “I’m terribly sorry, I - I just assumed.” 

“Say nothing of it,” Vincent assures him. “Sometimes I, too, think there is something - but really, we shouldn’t let ourselves become chained to our desires -”

Lawrence bursts into the room, swinging the door wildly, unable to listen to any more. 

“Thomas!” Vincent exclaims, at the same time Ray squeaks, “Eminence!” 

“Hello,” Lawrence says breathlessly. “I was just, erm - I was just making copies.” 

Ray nods, glancing over at Vincent. Both men are trying desperately to act casual, and failing. “Yes, of course. Let me - let me take those.” Ray reaches over and grabs the copies from Lawrence’s hands. “I’ll, uh - I’ll go give some of these to the press office.” 

Ray practically runs out of the room, leaving Lawrence and Vincent to stare at each other blankly. 

“I was just dropping something off,” Vincent explains. “I, I… I have to go now.” 

Lawrence nods, looking at the small box of chocolates Vincent has placed on his desk. “For me?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” Vincent replies. “Just - something for Valentine’s day.” 

A pause. Somewhere outside the office’s walls, a bird chirps. 

“Anyway,” Vincent says, pointedly glancing at the clock on the wall. “I have - I have to meet with some people. Many people. I will - I will see you at home, yes?” 

“Of course,” Lawrence responds. 

As Vincent exits the room, his hand comes up to brush Lawrence’s shoulder. 

—

Vincent’s birthday arrives on the first sunny day in March, prompting Sister Agnes to move the small celebration the Sisters have planned for him from the cafeteria of the Casa Santa Marta to the gardens outside the Apostolic Palace. Vincent is encouraged to make a few remarks where he thanks all of the Sisters for their hard work, and throws in a couple of jokes about his age for the older staff members (including Lawrence) to laugh at. Lawrence himself is content to observe the festivities from the back of the crowd, but Sister Agnes insists he make a brief toast to Vincent’s health.

“He loves you,” she says, indomitable blue eyes fierce like the center of a flame. 

“I know, but -”

“Then there’s nothing more to say about it,” Sister Agnes says. 

So Lawrence holds a toast, and Vincent smiles at him, and the champagne bubbles in Lawrence’s chest are matched by the ones in his glass. 

There are tiny cucumber sandwiches, and slices of tres leches cake (Vincent’s favorite.) Lawrence takes his obligatory slice and finds a seat at a table near the turtle pool. He observes the creatures for a few minutes before a familiar figure in white walks over to him, settling down in the other chair. 

“Observing our friends?” Vincent asks. His jet black hair flows out behind him in the breeze; Lawrence wonders what it must be like to live so unaware of one’s own beauty. 

Lawrence looks over at one of the turtles, teetering on the edge of a rock. “I love them,” he says. “They’re so clever.” 

Vincent grins. “I could say the same of you.” 

“And how is that?” Lawrence asks. 

“Look at everything you’ve done for me,” Vincent says. He gestures around them, at the various priests, cardinals, sisters and staff members all gathered in his honor. 

“I’d say you did that yourself, Holy Father,” Lawrence replies. “You were elected, chosen by divine mandate.”

“Well, you helped. You voted for me. Unless - there’s something you’d like to confess?” Vincent jokes.

Lawrence grins. “I did vote for you, Vincent.” He pauses. “I would do it again, too. I would vote for you three times.” 

“I voted for you five times,” Vincent counters. 

Lawrence rolls his eyes. “Modesty is a virtue, dearest.” 

“Not when it comes to championing you.” Vincent’s gaze drops to the plate in front of Lawrence, where his slice of cake is sagging from the weight of the cream in it. “You don’t like tres leches?” He asks.

“Hm? No, I like it,” Lawrence replies, “I just… wasn’t planning on eating it.”

Vincent gives him a reproachful look, making Lawrence cringe and glance away. He’s lost most of the weight that he gained following the recovery from his injuries, but some of it remains, and his efforts to drop the extra few pounds are not being helped by Vincent’s efforts towards making him eat three square meals a day, with snacks. 

“If you like it,” Vincent says softly, “you should try it.” 

Lawrence is about to open his mouth to reply when a strong breeze rushes through the garden, gently lifting up the tablecloths as well as the priests’ cassocks. The fork sitting on the table between Vincent and Lawrence skitters across the surface, falling onto the grass.

“I’ll get that,” both men say in unison. 

Lawrence raises his eyebrow at Vincent. “And have the Holy Father get grass stains on his cassock? No, thank you.” He moves and ducks under the tablecloth, careful to not put too much weight on his bad leg. 

Lawrence finds the fork next to Vincent’s shoe. Before picking it up, he notices something.

There’s a teeny tiny line of neat stitches along the cuff of Vincent’s trousers, in dark purple thread.

“Did you mend your own trousers?” Lawrence asks. 

“Maybe,” Vincent replies, his voice muffled by the fabric. “I am still allowed to do some things myself.” 

Lawrence holds back a comment about how Vincent has a whole staff of Sisters to mend his clothes for him, and focuses instead on the delicate handiwork of the stitches. He gives a great deal of attention to detail in all things, Lawrence thinks. 

Slowly, he reaches out and brushes his fingers over the line of thread. As he does so, his fingertips brush against Vincent’s ankle, his touch cool against the warmth of Vincent’s skin. 

Has anyone ever touched you here? Lawrence thinks. Or am I the only one to have the privilege?

He stays there for one, two, three glorious seconds, cocooned in the tent of the tablecloth, before he pulls his hand away and clumsily collects himself, sitting back down in his chair.

Vincent’s face is flushed. His eyes are wide when he meets Lawrence’s gaze.

“Everything alright?” Lawrence asks. 

“Everything is fine,” Vincent replies. “That fork will be dirty from the ground. Let me get you another one.” 

Lawrence watches as Vincent abruptly stands and walks over to where the food is. He wonders if he did something wrong. It was only a little touch; perhaps Lawrence startled him? 

Vincent returns with a fork and a small glass of water. He drinks large sips from the glass, downing the last of it like a shot of tequila. He sets the glass down and looks at Lawrence. “Eat,” he commands, “or I’ll have to feed the treat to you.” 

Lawrence certainly doesn’t want that, so he very pointedly scoops a little of the cake on his fork and eats it, feeling the sweetness of the pastry cover his tongue. Vincent smiles at him, eyes sparkling, like he’s something special to behold.

They continue like this in silence, with Vincent watching Lawrence eat, until there’s nothing left on the plate but a few leftover drops of milk and some crumbs. 

“How was it?” Vincent asks.

Lawrence wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Delicious.” 

“Am I a good provider for you?” Vincent asks. His voice is low and secretive.

Lawrence smiles. “Excellent,” he answers. “You always give me the best.” 

Vincent looks at him for a long moment. In the sunshine, he’s practically glowing. 

Then he takes a deep, shaky breath. “Excuse me,” he says quietly. “I’ll - I’ll be back in a little while, okay?”

“Okay,” Lawrence responds. “Come back soon.”

“I will.” 

Lawrence takes the next few minutes to enjoy the view around him. He observes the turtles in their habitat, chewing on half-eaten heads of cabbage, and takes note of the starlings hopping around on the roof of one of the nearby buildings. Flower buds cover the beds lining the courtyard. Spring is here. 

After helping several of the sisters clean up, Lawrence makes his own way to the bathroom inside the Casa Santa Marta, stepping into a stall and doing his business. He zips up and is about to leave when he hears a faint noise from the next stall over. 

Breathing - no. Panting, like someone’s struggling with something. 

Lawrence tries to ignore it on instinct, but he can’t help but glance down and notice that the person in the stall next to him is leaning with their back against the wall, sideways, their shoes pointed at Lawrence. 

Bright red Converse shoes. 

Lawrence bites back the impulse to say something, just in case the Holy Father is having an emergency. But then he hears another sound. This time, a whimper, not pained but pleasurable. It’s so quiet Lawrence almost misses it. But it’s there. 

The truth of what’s happening fills Lawrence’s mind like smoke rising up from a chimney. He doesn’t dare move, lest his presence be revealed. 

Vincent sighs, desperate, the small hint of his voice dripping with tension. Lawrence tilts his body back even more, seeing that Vincent’s trousers are visible, the pant leg with the stitches on the hem exposed to the open air. He’s holding his cassock up, his grip probably tight in the fabric, leaning against the wall so his trousers don’t fall as he -

Christ, Vincent’s less than five feet away from him and he’s got his cock in his hand, doesn’t he?

Lawrence struggles to keep his breathing steady. Vincent feels no obligation to do so. His breathing comes in short staccato exhales, each one shakier than the last. Occasionally he’ll close his mouth, stifling a short, needy whine. 

Lawrence tries to imagine what Vincent is doing. He can’t hear his hand move, can’t tell if Vincent is stroking himself quickly or slowly. Whatever he’s doing, it’s clearly pulling him as taut as a tightrope walker’s line. 

“Oh, Dios…” Vincent whispers. He inhales sharply and Lawrence can hear some movement, can see Vincent’s body shift in his shoes. 

Is he moving his wrist? Lawrence wonders. Or is he thrusting his hips up into his grip? These thoughts enter Lawrence’s mind without permission, but he does nothing to dismiss them. 

Vincent makes a sound akin to a sob. Lawrence recalls the last time they were separated by a divider, when Vincent made his confession. He said that when he touched himself, he felt as though he had Christ’s favor. Lawrence wonders what that feels like. He imagines it must be euphoric. 

Vincent takes a few deep breaths, his body trembling, his feet shifting on the ground. He whines, low in his throat. Lawrence has never wanted to see someone move so badly. 

There’s a sound, a light pounding against the metal of the bathroom stall. Maybe Vincent is leaning his head back, tilting his head up to catch his breath. Maybe his hand is against the wall, steadying himself. Lawrence can’t tell. 

He’s hard, Lawrence thinks. He spoke to me five minutes ago and he’s so hard he’s touching himself in a public bathroom.

Lawrence feels a sharp, intense pang of sympathy resound inside him. Poor Vincent. To be swept up in the emotion of it, to be caught overflowing with desire - it is not a feeling so far away that Lawrence finds it unfamiliar. 

He’s in it right now, in the hazy fog of lust, listening to the Holy Father.

Vincent resumes his movements, the fabric of his cassock shifting against him. His breathing quickens its pace, turning into a quiet rhythm, interspersed with the occasional ah sound or a hiss, like he’s been touched by fire. 

Lawrence closes his eyes. He can’t picture what’s between Vincent’s legs, given that he’s never seen it, but he can fill in bits and pieces of the image of his body. The muscles in Vincent’s stomach, flexing as his cock twitches in his hand. The smooth column of his throat. The way his brow furrows when he’s concentrating. His pink tongue, peeking out to lick the sweat off his skin. 

Michelangelo could not paint a portrait so alluring. But it exists in Lawrence’s mind, crystal clear, aided by the filthy symphony of Vincent’s breathing.

Lawrence strains his ears to catch as much as possible. He thinks he can hear a small sound of skin on skin, perhaps Vincent’s hand, pushing forward and back, pushing him further, until suddenly the motion turns fluid , a fast, dripping movement, and Vincent’s breathing stutters and holds until - until -

”Ohh,” Vincent sighs, his voice high and tight yet drenched in relief. 

Though Lawrence can only see his feet, he can tell that Vincent is trembling against the metal of the stall. 

The two of them stand there, listening to Vincent’s breathing. Lawrence distantly notices that he’s rock hard in his own trousers, the graphic nature of the image mostly hidden by his cassock. 

There’s the sound of toilet paper tearing - Vincent is cleaning himself up. After another minute of catching his breath, Vincent zips up his trousers, lowers his cassock, and flushes the toilet, ridding himself of the evidence of his pleasure. He exits the stall and washes his hands, completely unaware that Lawrence was next to him the whole time. 

Lawrence remains in his stall for a solid five minutes after Vincent leaves, hoping desperately that no one else enters the bathroom. He stays there, still as a statue, partially to give himself time for his erection to fade and partially to process the enormity of what’s just happened.

Not the act itself, though that was a surprise. It’s not every day one witnesses the Holy Father jerking off in a bathroom stall. To orgasm. To such a breathy, brilliant orgasm…

No, what rolls over him in waves, what threatens to swallow him whole is the fact that all Lawrence wanted to do was make the few feet between them disappear, so he could see, smell, and touch Vincent as he came. 

I want him , Lawrence thinks to himself. I want him, I want him, I want him.

He will have to grant himself some time to think about that.

Chapter Text

It’s in the last week of Lent that Lawrence gets the courage to actually do something about his situation. He knows that anyone else in his place likely would have actually taken initiative by now. But then again, no one else is in his position, are they? There’s no manual for What to Do When One Wants the Pope. He could try looking in the Vatican archives, but he doubts he’d find anything useful. (Perhaps he’ll have to write one himself.)

On one hand it feels entirely natural to have feelings for Vincent. Vincent is extremely kind, clever, compassionate - not to mention his beauty is so obvious to anyone with eyes that the amount of merchandise with the Holy Father’s face on it sold in Rome has risen to stratospheric levels. He’s competent, intelligent, powerful - Lawrence blushes just thinking about him as a potential suitor. 

And he’s in love with Lawrence. Or, at least, he was, the last time Lawrence checked. It’s been some months since then. Lawrence allows himself some amount of certainty with respect to Vincent’s feelings, but he’s still nervous about his own. Yes, he wants Vincent - terribly, so much that he aches with it, that he can feel it in his teeth - but there are logistics that must be considered.

Lawrence is a virgin. The last person he ever kissed was in year twelve. He’s not sure how to initiate these sorts of things. Does he just - grab Vincent and pull him into a closet? 

What if they’ve both been deluding themselves? What if Vincent doesn’t actually want to be with a scarred, anxious old man who struggles to raise himself up from his knees after prayer, and has a fair amount of grey hair both on his head and between his legs, and spends most of his free time fussing with Netflix’s algorithm?

But hope walks hand in hand with doubt. Lawrence should not let his own anxieties get the better of him.

Lawrence spends the morning of Good Friday in his bedroom, writing notes for the Holy Father’s meeting with the American Vice President. When Vincent returns, Lawrence lingers by the doorway to the kitchen, and asks if Vincent wouldn’t mind keeping him company for a little bit. 

Vincent sets his coffee cup down on Lawrence’s desk, right next to Lawrence’s own. He looks up at Lawrence, his expression cheerful. Lawrence really hopes he’s not about to ruin his day. 

“I only have about half an hour,” Vincent apologizes. “Is there something you wanted to talk about with me?”

“Yes, erm.” Lawrence takes a deep breath. This is even more difficult than it was the first time around. “I was thinking, maybe we could - we could - talk about our relationship.” 

Vincent blinks at him. “Our relationship?” He repeats, as if Lawrence were addressing the amount of oxygen in the air. 

“Yes. Or, well, not talk, but…” Lawrence is getting distracted by the morning sun against Vincent’s skin. “I was thinking we could - we could try something. Only if - only if -”

Vincent raises his eyebrows, patiently waiting. 

“- Only if you’re still in love with me.” 

Vincent’s face shifts, first into a look of surprise, then of quiet calm. He looks, Lawrence thinks wildly, like he did before he said his papal name. Innocentius. “I am,” he replies. “We can try whatever you want.” 

Whatever I want. Vincent doesn’t know how many possibilities that phrase has just opened up. But Lawrence really needs to focus here or he’ll make a mess of the two of them. 

“Today?” Vincent asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Should I cancel my next appointment?”

Lawrence blinks. “Um. I’m not sure how long it’ll take.”

“Okay.” Vincent’s eyes are wide and - Lawrence hates tripping into the pun - innocent. 

“To do what I’m thinking,” Lawrence says, “it’ll - it’ll probably be best if you, um. Lean on something?” 

You sound like you’re going to attack him. Since when are you incapable of being direct?

But Vincent just nods and looks around the room. “Would it be better if we sat on the couch?” He asks. 

“Vincent, if you don’t know what I’m asking you for -” 

“I have an idea,” Vincent says. “I’m not blind, you know. I - I understand if you are curious.” 

Lawrence almost laughs at that. He is way past curious. He is eons away from curious. He’s inside the Sistine, desperate to look up. “Okay. Then - yes. The couch.” 

The two of them sit down, awkwardly, like they’ve just been introduced to each other. Vincent turns towards him, white fabric against black. 

“Could you…” Lawrence feels his heart pounding in his ears. “Could you lift your legs for me, a little?”

Vincent does so, and Lawrence carefully scoops him up by the ankles so his legs are draped over Lawrence’s lap. Vincent adjusts so he’s not pressing against Lawrence’s thigh. 

They’re very close now. Less than ten inches of space between their faces. Lawrence wonders how he’s able to keep so calm throughout all of this. Maybe it’s because he’s actually been this close to Vincent before, several times, just under different circumstances.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Vincent asks. The question is so sweet on his lips that even if Lawrence wanted to say no before he simply has to say yes now. 

“I do,” Lawrence breathes. “Sort of.” 

Vincent blinks and furrows his brow slightly in confusion, but nods for Lawrence to proceed anyway.

Curiosity. That’s all Vincent thinks this is. Basic curiosity, like Vincent is a flavor of ice cream Lawrence has never tried before. 

You will be the death of me, Lawrence thinks. And I will welcome it, for there would be no better way to go.

He leans in, slow, trying to control his breathing. His lips barely brush the edge of Vincent’s cheek. They’ve exchanged stronger kisses during the sign of peace at Mass.

He originally meant to move over to Vincent’s mouth, but suddenly that idea intimidates him. Vincent’s mouth speaks scripture, poetry, words of reassurance and comfort. Lawrence can’t waste his first real kiss with him on an experiment.

What if you don’t get another chance? Lawrence pushes that thought down and continues his work.

He drifts lower, letting Vincent tilt his head back to accommodate him. He moves along Vincent’s jawline, lips hovering just over his skin, breathing in hints of citrus scented soap and the oil Vincent uses to tame his hair. Vincent is dead quiet, the only sign of his excitement a quiver in his breathing. 

Lawrence places a hand on the small of Vincent’s back to steady him. Gently, he tilts him back so they’re in a more comfortable position.

His lips hover over Vincent’s pulse point. He can feel the heat coming off of his skin, the rush of life within him. 

What a gift. To be let in so close, and to be trusted to act with grace. 

Perhaps this can be a new kind of chastity, Lawrence thinks. Moving with patience and intention. Refusing to tear into things. Taking one’s time, with body and soul.

Lawrence licks his lips and presses them in a soft, sure kiss to Vincent’s neck. 

Vincent inhales sharply, one hand clinging to Lawrence’s bicep. The other travels up Lawrence’s back before fisting in his hair (or what little of it Lawrence has left.) “ Oh… ” Vincent sighs. 

“Is this okay?” Lawrence murmurs.

“ Yes,” Vincent hisses. “Please, go on.” 

Lawrence obeys, pressing another kiss along the column of Vincent’s throat. He moves lower, lower, and then up again, applying pressure and depth where he sees fit. It’s not as difficult as he thought it would be. Vincent is a fine wine, a delicate treat; he deserves to be savored, rather than consumed in one bite. 

Vincent starts to tremble underneath him. Lawrence shifts so his hand is underneath Vincent’s knee, making sure he doesn’t fall off the couch. 

The only sound in the room is Vincent’s panting, and the shifting of their clothes. At some point Vincent mumbles something in Spanish; Lawrence can’t catch it because he’s too busy kissing under Vincent’s Adam’s apple. 

He breaks away and looks up. Vincent’s eyes are closed. His head is thrown back in such a way that it reminds Lawrence just a little bit of St. Teresa of Avila. 

An old thought wrestles its way to the surface of Lawrence’s mind. He presses one more open-mouthed kiss to Vincent’s throat before speaking.

“Why are you letting me do this?” Lawrence asks. “I can’t… I can’t promise you anything.” 

It’s true. Whatever Lawrence is able to give, it won’t be something out of Vincent’s wildest fantasies. As much as he thinks of himself as a knight in a castle, he is far more the helpless princess. He cannot whisk Vincent away from the occasional prison that is the Vatican. He cannot give him a normal life, a house in the countryside, the freedom of anonymity. 

Vincent swallows before he speaks. Lawrence can feel the motion under his fingertips. “I am not a saint,” he whispers. “I want it, I want it, I have prayed for it…” 

Heat pools in Lawrence’s hips at Vincent’s words. He’ll have to ask about those prayers sometime, if Vincent is willing to tell.

He returns to his ministrations. Vincent’s cassock is still buttoned up tight, thirty-three buttons for every year of Christ’s life. Lawrence silently asks God for forgiveness and thanks as he undoes one of them, revealing more glorious skin for him to worship. More kisses, more small swipes of his tongue, and Vincent actually moans, a high, broken sound that’s better than any hymn or psalm. The experiment is going well. 

Lawrence takes a risk and nips at Vincent’s neck gently, worrying the flesh between his teeth without breaking it. Vincent squirms in response, gasping for air. Lawrence reaches up to steady him, tangling his fingers in Vincent’s hair, but Vincent just whimpers and squirms more. He’s breathing harder now, exertion clear on his face. Lawrence licks at the mark, soothing any lingering pain there.

“I - Thomas, I - I -” Vincent starts. He draws in a shaky breath and exhales unsteadily. 

Lawrence sits up slightly, moving so he can look Vincent in the eye. “Are you okay?” He asks. He doesn’t want Vincent to start hyperventilating. 

Vincent takes a few more deep breaths, nodding. Lawrence leans his forehead against Vincent’s, steadying him. 

“It’s alright,” Lawrence whispers. He doesn’t know what’s going on in Vincent’s head but he wants to keep him calm. “It’s alright. God is with us.” 

Vincent squeezes his eyes shut and breathes, in and out, in and out. His hands come up to cup Lawrence’s face. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I just -”

“Too much?” Lawrence asks. 

“No.” Vincent shakes his head. “I can handle it, I can handle it.” He exhales, and then smiles, meeting Lawrence’s eyes. “I just - I got a little excited.” He pants, his lips parted, pink tongue visible for Lawrence to admire. 

Lawrence knows the feeling. He’s sure Vincent can feel that he’s hard against him but he’s not about to bring attention to it. It’s fine for either of them to be overwhelmed; they’ve never done anything like this before.

He gives Vincent a once-over. The Holy Father’s hair is completely messed up, wild curls in a halo around his head. His cheeks are flushed, his pupils dilated. There’s a very faint mark on his neck, likely one that’ll fade within minutes, but it’s there. 

“Hello,” Vincent whispers.

“Hello,” Lawrence whispers back. 

They both lean in -

And then Lawrence’s phone rings from across the room.

The two men jerk apart immediately, Lawrence nearly jumping off the couch, he’s so startled. Vincent groans in frustration and slaps his hand down on his knee. “¡ Hijo de puta!” He exclaims. “What is it now?”

Lawrence ignores the fact that it’s probably the first time he’s ever heard the Holy Father swear and gently pushes Vincent’s legs off him so he can go over and answer the phone. “This is Thomas Lawrence speaking,” he says, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as wrecked as he feels.

“Uh, I don’t know if you have the Holy Father,” Ray says. “But -“ 

“I have him,” Lawrence replies. He can feel Vincent’s eyes burning a hole in the back of his cassock. 

“Oh, good. Could you let him know that we’d like to see him in his office about the arrangements for the Stations of the Cross later tonight? There’s been a mild complication and we’d like to get him up to speed.” 

“Will do,” Lawrence replies, and after a short goodbye hangs up the phone. 

He looks over at Vincent. Somehow the man has managed to fix himself up enough that if you didn’t know, you wouldn’t think he had spent a good part of his morning getting kissed on Cardinal Lawrence’s couch. 

“Duty calls?” Vincent asks. 

“I’m afraid so.” 

Vincent sighs. “I suppose it couldn’t last,” he says. 

Lawrence frowns. It can last, he thinks. This isn’t the only time this will happen. “We can - we can talk about this more,” he says. “I mean - talk about us, more.” 

Vincent looks like he’s afraid of appearing too hopeful. “Really?” 

Lawrence wants to laugh. “Of course,” he says. “I liked - I liked what we did.” I loved it. I just can’t say it right now because I’m British and repressed and you are so beautiful I have trouble finding the words.

Vincent grins. “Okay,” He sighs, relieved. Then he runs his hands through his hair again, messing up some of the perfection in it. (He still looks stunning.)

Vincent gathers his things and goes, his coffee mug now cold on Lawrence’s desk. He’s halfway out of the apartment when he runs back and plants a big kiss on Lawrence’s cheek. 

“We’ll talk later, okay?” Vincent says, pointing at Lawrence as he goes. He nearly trips over his shoes, holding onto the doorway for support. “I promise!” 

Lawrence nods eagerly. “I promise, too.”

—

Despite their apparently mutual desire to discuss the intricacies of their relationship, as always, the responsibilities of the Church come first for both Lawrence and the Holy Father. Vincent is caught in various meetings and activities throughout Good Friday, while Lawrence finds himself pulled in various directions as Ray, Aldo, and Sister Agnes all require his attention for various reasons, several of which involve comments the President and Vice President of the United States have made in advance of the Vice President’s trip to the Vatican on Easter Sunday. (None of them are words of praise, which hardly comes as a surprise.) 

The next day is no better. Though Lawrence’s heart beats double time every time he passes Vincent in the hallway, he can’t do more than exchange a glance with him. By the time evening comes and Lawrence has done enough to justify his heading home to bed, Vincent is still on the phone in his office, no doubt consulting with the Vatican’s many, many lawyers on how to properly give the entire American government a lecture on the need for compassion and empathy in a modern era without actively declaring war on it. 

Lawrence could worry. He could re-examine everything that happened that day, every kiss he pressed to Vincent’s skin, every whisper they exchanged. He could wonder if perhaps he went too far, or maybe didn’t go far enough. But instead he falls into a peaceful dreamless sleep, without an ache in any of his limbs, including his bad leg.

In the morning he wakes up early, before the sun has risen. He dresses. He walks through the garden outside the apostolic palace. He returns to the apartments and showers, wondering when exactly the luxurious residence began to feel like a place where he truly belongs.

Vincent is in the kitchen when Lawrence exits the bedroom, sipping a cup of tea and staring out the window. A notebook sits in front of him. Lawrence follows his gaze and sees a bumblebee pollinate a flower outside.

“Good morning,” Lawrence greets. Then he sees Vincent’s expression. “Vincent, is everything alright?” 

Vincent shakes his head as if removing himself from a trance. “Yes,” he replies. “Everything’s fine.” 

Lawrence sits down beside his friend and waits patiently for the truth.

“His sentencing is today,” Vincent says. “I read it on my phone.” 

It takes Lawrence a second to realize they’re talking about Michael Spencer. Despite seeing the scars in the mirror every morning, the gunman’s name hasn’t entered Lawrence’s mind for months. “How many years did he get?” He asks.

“Life in prison,” Vincent replies. 

“That’s not the death penalty,” Lawrence offers, thinking of the politicians Vincent is set to meet later in the day. 

“It may as well be,” Vincent mutters. He looks down at his hands. “I’m sorry, I’m just. I’m struggling. I don’t know why - I wasn’t the one who was hurt.” 

“You were,” Lawrence says. “Just as much as I was. It just wasn’t as visible.” 

“Do you think he should be in prison forever?” Vincent asks. 

“I don’t know,” Lawrence answers. “I can tell you I feel better while he’s behind bars.” 

“Because he can no longer hurt you?” 

“Because if I ever saw him on the street I’d kill him,” Lawrence replies. 

Vincent is silent at this. He gives one sharp nod and looks out the window again. The bumblebee, finished with its task, flies away into the sunshine. 

Lawrence reaches over and covers Vincent’s hand with his own. 

“Thomas,” Vincent says quietly. “You know that… if we are to… reevaluate what we are to each other, there will be… elements of a relationship that I cannot provide.”

Lawrence blinks. “Like what?” He asks. He can’t think of anything he would want more than to spend his life by Vincent’s side. In what area could Vincent possibly be lacking?

“If we were together,” Vincent explains, “it would always have to be under a veil of secrecy. Our intimacy, any of it - it would have to be very carefully hidden. If anything got out - the danger you would be in…” Vincent swallows. “I cannot give you a normal life.” 

It is the same fear Lawrence felt the first time Vincent brought up his desire for marriage.

“I think…” Lawrence has to choose his words carefully. “There’s a difference between getting everything I want, and getting everything that I need.” 

I need you. I need to be close to you.

Vincent stares at Lawrence, his eyes drifting to where Lawrence’s chest bloomed dark red so many months ago. “Alright,” he says.

Lawrence doesn’t know if he’s satisfied with that answer. He supposes Vincent will just have to live with it.

“Anyways,” Vincent leans back and rubs a hand over his face. “I thought I would sit and work on the homily for today’s Mass, but I got so distracted, I…” He pushes the notebook over slightly. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Lawrence nods. “Would you like me to take a look at it?”

“Do you think you will have time?” Vincent asks.

“I’ll write in the car if I have to,” Lawrence says. 

Vincent smiles. 

Chapter Text

The sight of tens of thousands of faithful Catholics in St. Peter’s Square will never, ever get old. Though the celebration is in its essence no different than what is taking place in chapels and cathedrals around the world, Lawrence still gets a shiver when he’s reminded that he’s really in Vatican City, listening to the gospel being read by the Pope . Even he’s allowed to be a little starstruck.

Normally he’d be sitting by the Holy Father, but Ray informed him on the car ride over that there had been a switch, and he was to be seated next to the American Vice President and his wife. Aldo had muttered something about “babysitting,” but Lawrence didn’t complain. He was too busy putting final edits on Vincent’s homily.

The bishop of Rome looks positively radiant in the morning sunshine, his cassock sparkling white. (The Sisters who care for him always make sure he’s dressed impeccably.) Despite the slight chill Lawrence finds himself in a space of comfort as he listens to the first reading, then the second. In the distance he can see press photographers capturing the moment, posting shots of the sunshine-haloed pontiff as he reads the words of the gospel. This year’s reading is from John, Lawrence’s favorite of the gospels. He can’t help but smile imagining the race between John and Peter to get to the tomb. Did John omit his name on purpose? Was he trying to be humble, despite later becoming known as John the Beloved? Was John’s love for Christ meant to be a private thing?

Vincent glances over at Lawrence’s side of the stage before he looks down at his homily. Lawrence offers a smile, but is unsure if Vincent sees it. He sends a quick prayer to Mary for Vincent’s performance anyway. 

The microphone whines as Vincent steps up to it, but then calms. Vincent reaches into his pocket and pulls out his glasses, placing them on his face. Tens of thousands of people in front of him go silent, waiting for his wisdom. 

“Buenos días,” Vincent says to the crowd. “And buongiorno. Our gospel reading for today talks about the arrival of Christ’s disciples at His tomb, and the revelation that it was empty. It is obvious from John and Peter’s initial disbelief, and then their shock, that something truly miraculous had occurred. Something neither of them, or anyone else, could have expected.” 

Vincent looks up from the podium. He often speaks extraneously in front of crowds, but for major holidays he prefers to have prepared remarks in front of him because, as he’s told Lawrence, it’s better that I sound like I know what I’m talking about.

“But it is important to remember that until that moment, a momentous event had not necessarily occurred. Jesus was a revolutionary figure in his time, but his beliefs were by no means accepted among the majority of people, nor was his divinity widely recognized. When He died at the age of thirty-three, He was not the first or the last man to be nailed to a cross. Make no mistake; Jesus was an innocent man executed by the state for his beliefs. It was an abuse of power by the government, who failed to recognize or respect the dignity of His personhood.”

The Vice President shifts uncomfortably from where he’s sitting to Lawrence’s left. Lawrence hopes desperately that the words are getting through to him. 

“The people in the crowd around Him did not want to hear his words of truth and compassion. The man who betrayed Him did not wish to accept his friendship or guidance. Those who executed him certainly did not recognize His divinity, or His kindness, or His love.” Vincent pauses. “But Christ sacrificed Himself for them anyway.” 

Lawrence closes his eyes, letting himself get lost in the rhythm of Vincent’s words. 

“When Christ gave Himself up for us, He did not do so with the expectation that we would understand his sacrifice. He did not expect everyone to believe in his sacrifice right away. He saw how the people around him reacted to his teachings, how they rejected what he was saying, and he asked the Lord to release them from their sins anyway. Forgive them, Lord, they know not what they do. It is in those moments that Christ sacrificed Himself without expecting anything in return. He gave himself completely, body and soul, so that we could be saved. That is where the miracle lies, as we examine and celebrate his resurrection. The agony He went through, the pain that He suffered… He did so freely, not because He expected some reward, but because He loved us, and He wanted us to live free of sin.”

Vincent turns a page in his notebook, then gazes out at the crowd once more. 

“We live in a world full of monumental conflicts and acts of violence,” he continues. “All around the world, children are starving while those in power manipulate markets to maximize their own profit. In the Holy Land, negotiations between governments stagnate, resulting in the killing of innocent men, women, and children. As we speak, the tragedies of gun violence, intimate partner abuse, and drug addiction send young people to hospital emergency rooms around the world, where they are often left without counsel or comfort due to a lack of attention paid to their mental health. The borders between countries get stronger, while refugees are treated as strangers by those who otherwise claim they would welcome Christ into their home were He to make His return to Earth today. Diseases remain untameable and under-researched, bigotry and racism threatens to weaken the structure of ordered society, and isolation and violence tempts those who feel they have been overlooked by their communities. As all of this happens, the climate is warming, and a desperate world looks for guidance towards leaders who so often pretend as though there is nothing wrong.” 

The Vice President is turning a peculiar shade of red , Lawrence observes. 

“It is easy,” Vincent goes on, “to lose oneself in despair when confronted with all of this. It is very tempting to close the book on one’s conscience, to hide inside one’s shell, to act as though these things will sort themselves out with the simple passage of time and a -“ Vincent carefully enunciates the English phrase, “- grin-and-bear-it attitude. But that is not the example Christ gives us with his sacrifice. My brothers and sisters, it is within Christ’s willingness to give himself over for us that we can find our guidance for the future. We not only have the ability, but the obligation to give ourselves up for our neighbors as we would ask them to do so for us. It is Christ’s highest commandment. I do not mean that one always needs to lay down their life for the person next to them - though, of course, we should all be prepared to do so if the circumstances call for it -”

A murmur runs through the crowd. Lawrence makes sure to keep his face neutral so any photographers seeking to catch a reaction will be disappointed. 

“- but I mean that if you are capable, you should be willing to part with some element of yourself for the purpose of caring for others. That could be your pride, your money, your energy, or your time. It could mean risking your comfort, your convenience, or your perspective on the world. It certainly could mean that you get nothing in return. I say to all of you, it is worth the effort anyway. For when we give, and give, and give without expecting anything in return, we are in a small way repeating the sacrifice that Christ made for us. When Mary Magdalene told Peter and John that the stone in front of Jesus’ tomb had been moved, they raced towards it, not because they were expecting to see that Christ had risen, but because they knew the stone was disturbed, and needed to be put back in its rightful order. They had no expectation of reward. But they raced to the tomb anyway. So, too, should we be as eager to give our energy. When we do so we are honoring God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” 

Vincent leans away from the microphone to clear his throat. Lawrence tenses up; this is the part he worked on in detail. Vincent didn’t have the time to read his edits in advance, so he doesn’t know what’s coming.

“I want to say one more thing, and then we can all take communion in the sunshine,” Vincent says. He looks down at his notebook. “My brothers and sisters, there will be times in our lives when we are the ones who need help. There will be moments when someone is giving their time, or energy, or resources to us, and we will have the instinct to reject them. This can be for a multitude of reasons. We might be too proud to accept their charity, too nervous to appreciate their sacrifice, or too afraid of the consequences that may occur afterwards. But it is - it is in the miracle of Christ’s resurrection that we see a second instruction: we must accept the love that is given to us, even when we think we should not have it.” 

Vincent’s voice wavers. He pauses, and for one singular moment Lawrence worries he’s going to cry. But then he recovers, and moves forward. 

“Christ returned to us after He sacrificed himself because He recognized the love that was present for Him. He revealed himself to his followers, full of patience and joy, because they had accepted the enormity of what had happened to them. What had happened for them, and for all of us. The titanic act of kindness within His death and resurrection. So, my brothers and sisters, my wish this Easter is for all of us to not only give wherever we can, without expectation, but to accept the love we are given, without complaint or obstruction, with warmth and open arms, as in doing so we devote ourselves to Christ, and to each other.”

Lawrence is trembling with excitement. He can’t meet Vincent’s eye from so far away, but he knows Vincent got his message. He’s certain of it.

The Mass continues, with Vincent giving the Eucharistic prayer over the hosts. Lawrence takes his from Aldo, who grins at him, no doubt recognizing his writing. 

“The body of Christ,” Aldo says, managing to fit an entire conversation into four little words. 

“Amen,” Lawrence replies. He can’t even keep the grin off his face.

The car ride back to the apostolic palace is quiet. Vincent doesn’t sit inside, of course - he stands on top of the popemobile, safe behind bulletproof glass. No gunman could keep him away from his flock.

When Lawrence returns to the Holy Father’s apartment, he’s aware that Vincent will likely have less than an hour to rest and recuperate before he has to meet with the U.S. Vice President. So he putters around the kitchen, cleaning up the coffee mugs that were left from that morning’s conversation. He drinks a glass of water. He checks some emails on his phone. Ultimately he’s left waiting, brimming with anticipation, sitting in his desk chair until he hears the apartment door open and close.

He stands, careful not to lean on his bad leg.

Vincent rushes in like a whirlwind, his eyes bright, his breathing heavy. “Thomas,” he says, “I - I read what you said, I - I -” 

“I was waiting for you to come,” Lawrence says, and that’s all he has the chance to say, because Vincent is rushing forward and kissing him. 

It starts out messy - the wrong angle, a little too much pressure - but then Lawrence shifts and suddenly it’s as if he’s been kissing Vincent for years. It turns out that kissing is a lot like learning one’s prayers - once you’ve done it, you never really forget how to do it. Unlike the boy in year 8, though, Vincent shows no sign of nervousness or indecision. He kisses with confidence and quiet power, soft lips gliding against Lawrence’s, his hands moving up Lawrence’s back and into what’s left of his hair.

His zucchetto falls to the ground. Lawrence barely notices it.

God, he smells so good, he feels fantastic - he’s so warm…

Vincent makes a soft noise akin to a whimper and Lawrence forces himself to break away, only a little, a scant few inches separating them. Vincent’s arms are tight around Lawrence’s waist and Lawrence is happy to be encircled.

“Vincent,” he murmurs, reaching up to cup his beloved’s cheek. “We should - we should talk about this.” 

Vincent’s zucchetto has slipped to the side of his head, making his schoolboy aura even more prominent. “What is there to talk about?” He asks. “You are in love with me. Am I incorrect?” 

Lawrence blinks. When it’s put like that, it all sounds so simple. He tries to think of other issues that should be discussed - what the two of them want, what risks a relationship would bring them - but it occurs to him that they already have discussed those issues in great detail over the past year.

They weren’t just dancing around each other. They were talking. They were working through it. 

“It’s not a crush, no,” Lawrence agrees. “Vincent, I am completely and utterly devoted to you, so much so that if you’ll have me I -” 

“I’ll have you,” Vincent cuts in. Then he goes in for more kisses, this time a little deeper, a little more open, his hands moving over Lawrence’s shoulders and neck.

Lawrence lets his hands wander into Vincent’s hair, reveling in the softness there. Kissing Vincent is a full sensory experience. The scent of him, the softness of his skin - it’s almost too much but Lawrence can handle it. He can, after a year of building up to it. Vincent is no longer the mystery he once was. And yet for all Lawrence has learned about his many facets, Vincent is still a wonder to behold, a kaleidoscope of new ideas, loves, hopes and desires that Lawrence now has time to learn.

Vincent’s lips drift across Lawrence’s jawline, moving down to his neck. Lawrence shifts to give him better access, and his leg twinges. He winces in pain, and Vincent catches it.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, eyes searching. 

“It’s fine,” Lawrence reassures him. “I just - maybe we could sit down?” 

Vincent nods and reluctantly untangles himself from Lawrence’s embrace. He sits down on the bed and takes off his zucchetto, setting it on the nightstand. 

Lawrence takes the opportunity to look at his pontiff properly, absorbing the flush in his cheeks, the fire in his eyes. 

Vincent grins. “You’re staring.” 

“I’m just looking at you. You’re very precious to me.” 

Vincent’s eyes darken. “You can do more than look,” he suggests. 

Lawrence is next to him in a second, cradling Vincent’s face in his hands. He hovers over him, their lips nearly touching, before Vincent arches up and takes what’s his, the tip of his tongue brushing against the seam of Lawrence’s lips. Lawrence leans in, and they tumble backwards onto the bed, Lawrence careful to keep weight off of his bad leg. 

More kisses. Short kisses, little ones on cheeks and under ears and on noses. Lawrence moves down, tilting Vincent’s head up, repeating the motions from days before. Vincent squirms and pulls Lawrence back up. He gently pushes him sideways and then Vincent’s on top, his cassock riding up around his hips as he straddles Lawrence’s waist. 

“Tell me what you want,” Vincent whispers. He’s fussing with the top button of Lawrence’s cassock, trying to get better access.

“Everything,” Lawrence responds. He’s staring at Vincent’s pectoral cross, dangling between them. “Everything you could give me.” 

“I know,” Vincent replies. He captures Lawrence’s mouth in another kiss, this one filthy, his tongue sliding against Lawrence’s with purpose. “But I -”

Lawrence’s phone rings. The two of them jump, Vincent more out of frustration than being startled. 

Lawrence groans. “Let me get that,” he says, but Vincent has already reached over and grabbed the device, answering the call. 

“This is Pope Innocent speaking,” he says in a disturbingly good imitation of Lawrence’s telephone voice. “Yes, Ray, I’m at home, I’m with Tomás, and I very much do not want to be disturbed by anyone.” 

Ray’s voice is small and tinny through the phone’s speaker. Lawrence can’t quite hear him, but he can guess what he’s saying. 

“The Vice President,” Lawrence says to Vincent. Vincent rolls his eyes and continues to listen to Ray on the phone. Lawrence takes the opportunity to remove Vincent’s pectoral cross from around his neck, giving it a small kiss and placing it carefully on the nightstand. He then does the same with his own. 

At some point Vincent gets fed up. “Ray,” he says seriously, “tell the Vice President that I am dealing with a - a personal emergency. I’m sure you’ll think of something. Anyways, I am unable to meet with him today or tomorrow, so I wish him well in his travels.” He pauses. “Actually, keep him here for the time being. I’m sure Cardinal Bellini would love to have a friendly exchange of opinions with him over the virtues of compassion and empathy.” 

Lawrence grins. Vincent says a few more words to Ray and then hangs up the phone, setting it firmly on the nightstand. 

“Where were we?” Vincent asks. 

“Right about here,” Lawrence replies, pulling him back in for another series of kisses.

It’s easy to get lost in the fuzzy haze of what they’re doing. Lawrence can’t believe how natural it feels, how easy it is to move his body alongside Vincent’s, shifting so they can be closer, closer, closer, slotted against each other like puzzle pieces. 

Eventually, though, Lawrence remembers that Vincent did ask him a question. He breaks away and pushes Vincent up slightly so he can undo the first button of his cassock. 

“What I want with you, my dear Vincent,” Lawrence murmurs, “is a marriage.” 

Vincent shivers in his arms. He leans down and pecks Lawrence on the lips. “I would like that,” he agrees. “Very much.” 

“We’ll have to keep it quiet,” Lawrence says. “It’ll be yet another - yet another secret between us.” 

“I think there are a few people we can tell,” Vincent argues gently. “Ray already suspected something was happening between us.” 

Lawrence remembers the conversation in his office. “Katherine, too,” he says. “Oh, God, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.” 

“You could invite her back. I should thank her personally.” Vincent moves in for another kiss, this time against the line of Lawrence’s throat. “Her children could come to the wedding.” 

“Oh, is there going to be a wedding?” Lawrence asks. He moves his arms up, his hands running over Vincent’s shoulder blades. Every part of him is a privilege to touch, even through layers of fabric. 

“Of course,” Vincent says. “I could argue we are already married in all the ways that matter, though.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like we have already driven each other crazy.” 

Lawrence huffs out a laugh. “We should probably have a ceremony, though. Let God know we’ve figured it out.” As if He’s not already watching us with pride. 

Vincent nods. “I agree. Though not a traditional one, I’m sure we could find a priest willing to say the words.”

Lawrence blinks, thinking. “Aldo could do it,” he says. He wonders if his friend has noticed any of the growing intimacy between Lawrence and his pontiff. He likes to think he’s been very subtle over the past year, but perhaps not. “He’d be terrified of the risks, but…” 

“But he loves you,” Vincent says. “As do I, for the record.”

“Oh, do you?” Lawrence goes in for another kiss. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of kissing Vincent. “Thank you, by the way, for waiting for me. I imagine it wasn’t easy for you.” 

“You are worth waiting for,” Vincent responds. He settles down and rests his head on Lawrence’s chest, his hand rising up to brush over where Lawrence’s scar is. His touch is featherlight, reading the raised skin like Braille. “My God, Thomas, I waited for you, I prayed for you, I feared for you…”

“I dreamt about you,” Lawrence murmurs, thinking of the big ball of light. 

“You did?” Vincent raises his head. “What did you dream about?” 

“Honestly, if I told you it wouldn’t make any sense.” 

Vincent raises his eyebrows. “I dreamt about you, too.”

“Oh?” 

“Yes. My dreams were far more explicit, though.” 

Lawrence leans in and slides his tongue against Vincent’s, drinking in the graphic nature of it. “You’ll have to tell me about them sometime.” 

More kissing. Lawrence doesn’t know how long they continue like this. It could be minutes, or it could be hours. The alarm clock on his nightstand goes unnoticed. The only sign of the outside world is a bird chirping at the window, glancing at its own reflection, and then flying away, satisfied. 

“Thomas,” Vincent asks, when Lawrence’s hand pushes up along his thigh. “If we are to be married, or if we already are married, at least in the eyes of God…” 

“Yes?” Lawrence has to make himself focus on Vincent’s words and not on the breathy, rich voice with which he’s saying them. 

“Do you want to - do you want to… with me, do you want to try…” Vincent closes his eyes and swallows. “I’m sorry, I’m a little nervous.” 

Lawrence thinks he understands the meaning. “Do I want to try all that a marriage entails?” 

Vincent nods, shy. 

Lawrence expected there to be some apprehension within him. He expected to be nervous, to be afraid, to have all of his worries about a world outside celibacy rise up in his mind. But he doesn’t feel any of those things. It’s Vincent. Vincent who has been by his side since the conclave. Vincent who has already shared with him the most intimate secrets of his body, and strengthened their relationship as a result of trusting Lawrence to keep those secrets. Vincent who has seen his scars, and his age, and his appearance, and hasn’t shied away or recoiled in horror, but has proclaimed him to be beautiful. There’s no reason to be afraid. Vincent is his other half, his media naranja. 

“Yes,” Lawrence breathes. “Yes, I want - I want all of it. I want all of you.” He gets another kiss for his answer, this time soft and sweet. “How would you like me?” 

Vincent glances down between them, looking at their cassocks. “I was thinking we could do what we’re already doing, uh - without as many clothes?” 

Lawrence is very, very grateful that the two of them are tucked away behind the safety of several locked doors and multiple bodyguards, all of whom know and respect Vincent’s need for privacy. As much as they can be, here they are alone together. “Yes, I’d like that.” 

The Holy Father shivers as he lets Lawrence unbutton his cassock. One by one they go, all thirty three buttons, each handled with reverence and care. Lawrence doesn’t take this process lightly. He knows that, to many people, what he’s about to do - make love to a pope - is a grave sin. He can’t see it that way, though. Not after all he’s learned in the past year. Not after he’s seen what sin really is, and what virtues one can hold in one's heart. 

Vincent’s cassock falls away, revealing a simple button down shirt and trousers. He briefly gets up to drape it across the back of Lawrence’s desk chair. Both of them leave their shoes by the door whenever they come home, so Lawrence can now see in detail the little turtles embroidered on Vincent’s socks. 

He lets his gaze travel up, up, up - and then he sees the distinct outline of an erection in Vincent’s trousers. 

He’s hard, because of me. Because of what I do to him. Lawrence thinks he might explode from the sheer wonder of it. 

Vincent follows his gaze down. “Um,” he says elegantly.

“Are you alright?” Lawrence asks. 

“I am,” Vincent replies. “Are you?” 

Lawrence nods, beckoning for Vincent to return to his side. “I am. I’ve just never done this before.” 

“Had sex?” Vincent asks. “You know I haven’t done anything like this before, either. But we don’t - we don’t need to do all of it today, do we?” 

A truly filthy image pops into Lawrence’s head, of Vincent pinned below him, his face pressed into the pillows, his mouth open, overwhelmed at a feeling of fullness. “We certainly don’t need to do all of it right now,” Lawrence reassures him. “All of that can happen at a later time. Besides, we’d need -” He clears his throat. “Materials.” 

Vincent grins. “That will certainly make a fun trip to the pharmacy for you.” 

“For me?!”

“Well I can’t do it!” 

“You can sneak out and do it,” Lawrence declares. He pulls Vincent back into his lap, kissing him firmly. “Help me get my cassock off.” 

Vincent doesn’t waste time. Each of the buttons come undone one by one, like they’re gates for Vincent to crash through. Lawrence thinks of his daydreams, his visions of medieval castles. If this is being a princess, a helpless damsel, then he’ll take it. Especially if Vincent is his knight in shining armor. 

Lawrence’s cassock gets tossed haphazardly, catching the edge of his desk chair and sliding onto the floor. They’ll attend to it later. There are more important activities going on right now. 

Vincent presses kisses along Lawrence’s skin as he unbuttons his shirt, paying particular attention to the raised areas on his chest that mark where he was shot. Lawrence shivers in sensitivity, wondering how such a point of pain could transform into one of pleasure. From great suffering to great joy indeed…

Vincent pushes Lawrence’s shirt off and tosses it aside, running his hand over Lawrence’s chest greedily. “You’re so hairy,” Vincent whispers, a big grin growing on his face. 

Lawrence raises an eyebrow. “It’s all grey,” he points out. 

“And?” Vincent leans down and takes a nipple into his mouth, causing Lawrence to arch up and gasp. “I like it,” he mumbles. Lawrence gives no response, the words stolen from his mouth.

Eventually he’s able to pull Vincent away long enough to tug his shirt over his head and drop it onto the floor. Then Vincent is gloriously bare in front of him, his chest broad and smooth, his skin a brilliant golden brown, except for a small line of paleness where his appendectomy scar lies. 

There’s a very fine trail of hair leading downward, guiding Lawrence’s gaze. Once again he sees the prominent outline of Vincent’s erection. The hard line itself points to Lawrence’s own erection, unsubtly straining against his trousers.

“Let me,” Vincent offers. He leans down for another few kisses, soothing any remnants of apprehension between them. “Let me take care of you.” 

Vincent slides off of Lawrence’s lap and pulls at his waistband, tugging his trousers and briefs off in one motion. Lawrence’s cock bobs up immediately, a frankly obscene object between them, blushing a bright rose and already leaking at the tip. 

Vincent stares with wide eyes. Lawrence swallows and resists the urge to cover himself. If Vincent doesn’t like what he sees, that is, at this point, his problem. 

“You’re big,” Vincent whispers. “Bigger than me, anyway.” 

Lawrence glances once again at the bulge in Vincent’s trousers. He shrugs lightly. 

“You’re beautiful,” Vincent continues. “There’s so much of you.” 

Lawrence’s face and cock blush a rosy pink.

Vincent’s eyes drift over from Lawrence’s cock to the scar on his thigh. “Is this where the pain comes from?” He asks. His hands come up to frame Lawrence’s thigh, his thumbs on either side of the spot the bullet made impact. 

“Sometimes,” Lawrence responds. “It’s manageable.” 

Vincent nods, and then presses down lightly, massaging the area. “Does this help?” He asks. His fingers roll over the muscle, careful but firm. 

Lawrence’s brain immediately turns to mush. His cock twitches, his whole body humming with excitement at the barest hint of Vincent’s fingertips moving towards his groin. It occurs to Lawrence that he’s completely open in front of Vincent, entirely naked, spread out and waiting to be deflowered. 

His leg really does feel better from the massage, too.

“It - It does,” Lawrence gets out, “but I think - I think you’ll have to pause that for the time being unless you want this to end very quickly. Could I take your trousers off?” 

Vincent sighs but nods and removes his hands from Lawrence’s thigh. “I hope I am more pleasant than your physical therapist,” he declares. 

Lawrence huffs out a small laugh, undoing the button on Vincent’s trousers and encouraging him to move and slide them off. “If you did that an hour every week, I’d be the healthiest man in Italy.” 

“I’ll try to pencil it into my schedule,” Vincent replies. He kicks off his trousers and lets them fall to the floor, moving back to slot himself next to Lawrence. 

Finally they’re both naked, and Lawrence can fully take in his beloved. He’s not as thin as when they first met; Lawrence can see the effects of a good diet and a life in a less stressful situation than his time in Kabul. His body is still wiry and thin, but there’s a little roundness around his stomach, and a visible strength in his thighs. Between his legs is a thick set of curls, jet-black just like his hair. Standing tall amidst the little forest of curls is Vincent’s cock, a short, stocky fellow that moves with his heartbeat, drooping over ever so slightly with the weight of itself. Lawrence sees it, and immediately wants it in his mouth, much to his own surprise. 

“I hope I am to your liking,” Vincent whispers. 

Lawrence shudders, a full-bodied thing. “You’re incredible,” he whispers back. His hand goes to Vincent’s hip automatically. 

They spend more time kissing, touching, mostly above the waist. Lawrence can feel his arousal ebb and flow inside him, heat gathering in his hips until he has no choice but to pull Vincent forward, parts of them gently pressing against each other, Vincent’s cock smearing precome against Lawrence’s stomach. Their legs and feet tangle together, toes still covered by cotton socks. 

“Can I touch you?” Lawrence asks.

Vincent nods and rolls on top of him, straddling one thigh. He’s as warm as a furnace; Lawrence burns up with every touch. “Please.” 

Vincent’s cock feels marvelous in his hand. Soft and firm, delicate skin over swollen flesh. It’s heavy and thick, tangible, something Lawrence knows to be real. A small bead of precome leaks over Lawrence’s hand as he strokes, pulling Vincent’s foreskin over the head of his cock and then gently pushing it down. Vincent’s eyes roll back in pleasure. His hips move of their own accord, rocking back and forth, all fluid motion. 

”Ohh, ” He moans, thankfully not too loud. ”Ay, que rico.”

I’ll have to brush up on my Spanish, Lawrence thinks. There is so much I want to say to you in the language you call home.

Lawrence raises his head to get a better view of the man above him, watching the light from the afternoon sun filter through the window and turn his beloved into a vibrant, colorful picture of euphoria. 

“Does that feel good?” Lawrence asks. He keeps his grip steady, not too strong, not too loose. His thumb comes up after each stroke to swipe over the head of Vincent’s cock, gathering the precome there. 

Vincent’s voice is thick and shaky when he sobs out, “yes.” His gaze turns up, past the ceiling, looking at something Lawrence cannot see. 

He rocks forward, thrusting into Lawrence’s fist, gasping when Lawrence tilts him back slightly so he can squeeze his balls gently. Lawrence pauses, and then raises his other hand to rest it on top of Vincent’s lower belly. 

The secrets we share will stay between us and God, he promises. These are intimacies that belong to us alone. 

Vincent manages to hold himself in such a delicate position of ecstasy before he wobbles and falls forward, stopping himself with a hand next to Lawrence’s head. He takes the opportunity and steals a kiss, humming against Lawrence’s lips in pleasure. 

“Can I touch you, too?” Vincent asks. “You are so - oh, it feels so good -” 

“Yes, yes,” Lawrence urges. “Please. Whatever you want, whatever you want. I’m yours.” 

Vincent’s touch is electric on Lawrence’s skin. His graceful, delicate fingers wrapped around Lawrence’s erection look near divine to Lawrence’s eyes. Passion and heat within a sure and steady hand. Vincent’s grip is tentative at first, but gains confidence as he goes. He strokes slowly, carefully, taking every inch of movement he’s able to get but being careful not to pull too hard or too far. 

“ Wow,” Vincent says breathlessly. “Look at that, look at that…” 

Lawrence can only stare for so long, overwhelmed by the obscenity of the image they’re making. Precome drips over Vincent’s fingers, a small flood of Lawrence’s desire. He gathers some up on his fingertips and then, to Lawrence’s utter astonishment, raises his fingers to his lips, his pink tongue darting out to taste. 

“Oh my God ,” Lawrence says stupidly. 

“What?” Vincent asks, eyes wide and somehow innocent. “I was just curious. Do you want to try?” 

Lawrence nods dumbly, parting his lips so Vincent can push them inside. Saltiness spreads over his tongue, making him lightheaded. He can’t believe what he’s doing. He can’t believe he’s doing it with Vincent. For all of the pornography contained within each motion of their wrists and tongues and thighs, the undercurrent of love is vibrant and bright between them. 

God works in such wonderful, brilliant, mysterious ways. 

Lawrence fumbles his hand between them and resumes stroking Vincent’s cock, feeling it thicken and pulse in his hand. Vincent whines, high and tight, and slots his thigh between Lawrence’s, pushing himself up to lean on his elbow. Lawrence presses a kiss to Vincent’s shoulder and grinds up on his thigh. He smells so good, like sweat and sex and life. 

Vincent’s hands wander, over Lawrence’s hips, over his thighs, over the scar on his chest. They even stop at the softness around his middle. Lawrence would cringe at all the attention being paid to the area, but Vincent’s eyes are so full of adoration he can’t make himself feel bad. 

Pleasure pools in Lawrence’s hips, in his thighs, emanating out from his cock. It’s almost too much to bear, but Lawrence keeps a handle on it, if only because he wants to watch Vincent come before he does, wants to have the memory in his mind without the fog of lust making it hazy. 

Vincent is actively fucking up into his grip now, the bed rocking a little with his movements. ”tan bueno, tan bueno, ” he whispers, over and over, like a prayer. 

“Is this what you thought about?” Lawrence murmurs. Vincent tears his gaze away from the mess between them, the tangled geometry of their hands on each other’s cocks. “Is this what you wanted, before?” 

“Oh, terribly,” Vincent whines. He shifts forward, pressing kisses on Lawrence’s cheek, on his nose, on his eyelids before capturing his mouth in a wet kiss. “I’ve wanted you since the Room of Tears, since before that, I waited - Oh, Thomas, I waited so long…” 

“I’m sorry,” Lawrence gasps, pressing their foreheads together. A hot, aching resistance is weakening inside him, a castle crumbling to reveal brilliant daylight. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“It’s alright.” Vincent’s shaking like a leaf now, his cock making a slick sound every time he thrusts up into Lawrence’s hand. He’s drenched in precome; both his thighs and his wrist are covered in it. Lawrence has never seen anything so obscene and so holy at the same time. “I don’t - I don’t want to seem ungrateful -” 

“You don’t,” Lawrence reassures him. “You have me. You have me, now, all of me, for as long as we live, okay? God, Vincent, you are so special to me, you are like a shining star -” 

Vincent sobs, and rocks forward into Lawrence’s grip, and lets out a noise that Lawrence has to kiss him to cover up because it’s less of a moan and more like a scream. 

Lawrence feels Vincent shake against him, stiffening, his cock pulsing in Lawrence’s hand. He breaks away and glances down, watching Vincent’s cock paint streaks of white sticky fluid over Lawrence’s hips, thighs, and belly, some of it covering the curls between his legs. 

Vincent's excitement doesn’t stop, though, not even after Lawrence takes his hand away for fear of making Vincent oversensitive. Rather, his hand speeds up around Lawrence, stroking in a wild, rhythmless frenzy, causing a cascade of pleasure to run down Lawrence’s spine and gather at the base of his cock.

“ Por favor,” Vincent begs, his breath warm against Lawrence’s lips. His voice betrays a lack of control Lawrence knows he’s privileged to hear; Vincent’s nearly incoherent with want. “Please, please, Thomas, I want to see you - you’re so beautiful, I love you - I love you - take it, take it, please -”

Vincent squirms, pulling himself closer to Lawrence, eliminating the space between them, his trembling oversensitive body providing enough friction that Lawrence’s senses are completely engulfed in Vincent, Vincent, Vincent. 

Lawrence is swept up, taken, pulled by Vincent’s hand into a fire of deep, pure pleasure, cock first, the feeling jolting through him like a bolt of lightning. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut, shaking against the power of it. His whole body tenses, the muscles in his stomach flexing and then releasing in waves. His cock thickens, impossibly hard, and finally several ropes of come shoot out of him, each spurt a shock to his senses, everything tensing and relaxing, all the way down to his toes. 

It is, he must admit, the closest he’s come to facing the love of God head-on. 

Lawrence moans weakly as he rides it out, accepting the flurry of kisses Vincent places on his slack mouth. Vincent keeps stroking him until he winces, whispering te quiero, te quiero, and then he finally pulls away, not before swiping his thumb over the head of Lawrence’s cock, likely just to see him shudder. 

“Look at you,” Vincent coos. There’s humor in his voice. He sounds almost drunk, completely fucked stupid. “You came so much, mi tesoro.”

Lawrence gasps for air, rolling onto his back, letting Vincent tangle their fingers together. They’re both messy and sticky and soaked in sweat, but it doesn’t matter. 

“Christ,” Lawrence pants. 

Insatiable? Maybe he is, if sex is going to be like that. 

“Indeed,” Vincent agrees. He reaches down and swipes at one of the streaks of come on his thigh, sticking his fingers in his mouth casually to taste. His eyes close in satisfaction. 

Lawrence sputters breathlessly. “What are you, hungry?” He asks. He watches Vincent’s chest rise and fall as his breathing returns to normal. His nipples are hard from the sudden drop in temperature. 

Vincent once again looks surprised that he’s even being questioned about his behavior. “For you? Absolutely,” he replies. 

The Pope is a harlot, Lawrence thinks. He lets his head fall back on the pillow. 

Their breathing is the only sound in the room for the next several minutes. Eventually, Vincent reaches over him and grabs the tissues from the nightstand. He leans over and cleans Lawrence up first, then himself. Then he presses a few messy kisses to Lawrence’s collarbones, lazily marking his territory where he knows no one will see. 

“You are so pretty,” Vincent hums. Lawrence blinks, his brain only having been restarted seconds ago.

“You’re one to talk,” he mumbles. His voice is completely wrecked, unrecognizable even to himself. 

Vincent smiles and reaches over the end of the bed to grab his boxers. Lawrence idly admires his beloved’s arse before reaching over and grabbing his own underwear. 

“So,” Vincent says, once they’re both relatively put back together and the tissues have been disposed of. “What do you think?” He pushes Lawrence’s legs apart so he can sit between them.

Lawrence raises his eyebrows. “What do I think?” He asks. “About what we just did, or about what we’re going to do now?” 

Vincent shrugs. “Both,” he says. “Either. I just want to hear you talk.” 

Lawrence lies back on his elbows. His body doesn’t ache, oddly enough. Not his thigh, not his chest. The only soreness within him is sweet, a joyful sort of pain. “Well, Holy Father,” he says, “I can’t say I’m all that worried for my immortal soul.” 

He’s being honest. The God he loves, he’s sure, would never condemn him for such an act. Not with the intent behind it. Not with the love that motivated it being so tied to his identity. 

“I’m not either,” Vincent agrees. “Though you should really call me Vincent when we are in bed. Otherwise you’ll give me a complex.”

Lawrence grins. “I’ll keep that in mind, Holy Father.” 

Vincent rolls his eyes. He rolls over, lying back on the bed, curling up against Lawrence’s side. “You know, we have the rest of the afternoon to ourselves,” he muses. “We can do whatever we want, just for a few hours.” 

Lawrence nods, pressing a kiss to the top of Vincent’s head. The outside world needs attention, he knows, but they can have a little while to themselves. 

“How about…” Lawrence pretends to think. “Wedding planning?” 

Vincent grins, brown eyes sparkling at him. Lawrence will never tire of his smile. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“I will tell you, though,” Lawrence teases, “I can’t promise I’ll be the perfect spouse.” 

“Oh?” Vincent asks. “Will you hog the covers at night?” 

“I might. I’m also terribly stubborn, and often refuse to see what’s right in front of me.” 

“Ah,” Vincent acknowledges, nodding. “This is good to know.” 

“You might find me to be completely impossible.” 

“I can see how I might feel that way. I’m willing to take the risk, though.” 

Lawrence leans in for a kiss, one of many he’s certain he’ll have today, tonight, and the night after that. 

“I will admit I am not perfect either,” Vincent says. 

“Do you hog the covers at night?” Lawrence asks. 

“I might. But mostly you should know that I’m also terribly stubborn, and will not budge even if someone asks me to, several times.” 

Lawrence pretends to mull this over, just long enough to see Vincent’s smile spread into a sparkling, incandescent grin, the kind that’s just for him. 

Vincent drapes himself over Lawrence, his lips brushing against the corner of Lawrence’s mouth. “Still in love with me?” He asks.

Lawrence feels radiant in his arms. “Absolutely.”