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Chapter Text

September 2017

Angelo's last fare of the evening comes in the form of two men on the corner of Via Ostia and Via Leone IV. They flag him down under the lightening horizon and flail into the backseat, giggling like they've gotten away with something.

Angelo has been a cab driver for forty-five years. He's seen all walks of life, met people from almost every country, despite never leaving Italy. That said, he's quick to make assumptions about his passengers. It's a game he plays with himself—if they're local or foreign, hardworking or lazy, where they're from. He can even hear the difference between Catonese and Mandarin.

He makes a lot of assumptions about the two men fumbling for their seat belts in his rear view mirror.

They have to be drunk. No one else is this giddy at such an unsettled hour. And they're definitely tourists. The older man—long-limbed and pale-skinned—wears a faded New York Mets baseball cap with light pants and a linen button-down to combat the late summer heat. The younger one is even more ludicrously dressed in blue and white striped cotton shorts, red Converse, and a white T-shirt printed with an image of the Colosseum. It's captioned with the phrase: Thinking about the Roman Empire. He has brown skin and glossy black hair, but his face is hidden by a particularly hideous, yellow bucket hat and a pair of cheap sunglasses with hot pink frames.

Definitely tourists. Probably drunk. And probably together—Angelo watches the older one tenderly take the seat belt from the younger's hands and fasten it for him.

But then, he speaks.

“To the Forum, please,” he says to Angelo in perfect Italian. “The Plaza Venezia side.”

Angelo drives, calculating. Perhaps he picked up an Italian after all.

The younger man bursts into a fresh round of laughter. “That was invigorating!” he states in English through his mirth.

“Invigorating? We were nearly caught,” retorts the older, also in English, his accent low, British. He's smirking, despite his words.

Angelo, frowning, keeps his eyes on the road. He's entirely stumped. These men could be from anywhere. And the more time that passes, the more he's convinced that they're not drunk, either. Which raises the question: What were two stone-cold sober men of dubious national origin doing outside the Vatican at six in the morning on a Tuesday?

Angelo has no answer, and so he listens, occasionally checking the rear-view mirror.

“Thank you, Thomas, truly,” says the younger man. “I know this goes against your better judgment.”

The older man—Thomas, Angelo assumes—regards his companion fondly.

“It seemed cruel,” he says, “for you to have not seen Rome properly. And so you shall.”

“I'm so excited,” says the younger man. He pulls a worn black leather satchel from the foot well. “I brought plenty of water, and some books in case we have time to read.”

Thomas snorts. “Very ambitious, Vincent.”

Vincent shrugs. “How long do you think we have before my absence is noticed?”

“With you faking sick? At least until nine, I hope,” says Thomas.

“I stuffed some pillows beneath the blankets to make it look like I was still there.”

Thomas barks a surprised laugh. “You're serious?”

“I thought it couldn't hurt.”

“Goodness gracious, Aldo is going to lay an egg.”

Vincent chuckles. “He’s going to go full teapot. We'll buy him a nice vintage while we're out for his trouble.”

“Sister Agnes, too,” says Thomas. “Though she doesn't drink…”

“A different souvenir, then.”

“We will have to think hard. She desires so little.”

Angelo watches his late mother's rosary, dangling from the rear-view mirror, sway as he turns right and trundles across the bridge spanning the Tiber. Just who are these men? Why must one go to such extreme measures to escape?

He's not harboring fugitives, is he?

He gets his answer when he pulls up in front of the Forum several minutes later. Thomas reaches for his wallet, but Vincent beats him to it.

“I've got it, I've got it,” he insists, forking a wad of Euro bills to Angelo with a long-fingered hand. “Grazie, sir.”

Angelo fumbles to return the change—his knuckles are arthritic and not as nimble as they used to be. He accidentally drops a two Euro coin in the gap between the seat and center console. Immediately, his passenger dips to retrieve it. His hat knocks against the seat in the process, nearly pulling it from his head. His garish pink sunglasses slide down his nose. But he does recover the coin. He returns it to Angelo with a too-familiar smile—a smile regularly plastered across television screens and plates, magnets, and prayer cards in Rome's numerous tourist shops.

“Keep the change. Have a wonderful day.”

He pushes up his sunglasses and resituates his hat, but Angelo has already seen.

The Pope.

Angelo just gave the Pope a ride to the Roman Forum.

January 2017

Nine Months Earlier

Staring at his reflection in his office window, Vincent frowns. The red camauro atop his head, garishly trimmed in white sable fur, does not transform into something more sensible.

If he can't take himself seriously in this thing, the rest of the world won't, either. With dismay, he realizes he'll have to resign himself to cold ears every winter for the rest of his life.

A knock startles him. He whirls around, one hand clasped over his ridiculous hat—as if hiding it is remotely possible—but relaxes when he spots his visitor.

“Thomas!” he smiles. “How was your Christmas?”

His dean leans against the doorframe. He wears street clothes—dark slacks and a thick, creamy cotton sweater beneath a nondescript black coat. The collar is turned up against the cold. Vincent would hug him, were it proper. He hasn’t seen Thomas in weeks. It’s a relief to see him now.

Thomas doesn’t quite smile in return, but his eyes gleam. “A longer holiday than usual, thanks to you. It's good to be back.”

The extended absence was at Vincent’s insistence. The Conclave ended in November, but their work did not. They pulled numerous late nights together, straight into Vincent's inaugural mass in early December, in which Thomas placed the Fisherman's Ring on Vincent's finger with the entire world watching.

Then, he kept going. Only after coming down with a particularly nasty cold was Vincent able to convince him to return to Britain to visit his family for the holidays—against his own desires. He has few true friends in the Vatican, and it would have been nice to spend Christmas with one. And he second-guesses everything without Thomas’ counsel.

But admittedly, Thomas does look better. There's more color in his cheeks. His face seems less hollow. Someone has been feeding him. Vincent will have to ensure that continues here—his dean eats so little.

“Did you just get in?” Vincent asks.

Thomas nods. “Did the clothes give it away? I assumed you'd be working late and thought I'd drop by.”

“Your first day back is tomorrow. There was no need.”

“Well.” Thomas gestures vaguely, seemingly lost for words. For several heavy seconds, he studies Vincent with those intense blue eyes. “I see you've found the camauro.”

Vincent forgot he had it on. He pulls it from his head, face heating. “Don’t get used to it. Sister Agnes suggested it given the weather, but…”

“Not your style?” asks Thomas when he doesn’t continue.

He nods. “It’s ridiculous.”

Thomas’ mouth curves subtly upwards. “The late Holy Father scorned it as well.”

“I look like Santo Clós,” Vincent grumbles. “If only knit hats were appropriate attire for clergy…”

“I’ll pick one up from a tourist shop on my way in tomorrow,” Thomas says, casually enough that Vincent wonders if he’s serious. He enters the room and seats himself in one of the garishly elaborate chairs before Vincent’s desk. “Perhaps we can convince our brothers that our attire needs updating.”

Vincent smiles picturing it—Thomas in his cassock in a cramped tourist shop, frowning at an array of beanies emblazoned with various landmarks of Rome. What he wouldn’t give to see that.

His smile fades.

“Everything alright?” Thomas asks.

Vincent retreats from the window and sits at his desk. “A strange thought—I will never set foot in a tourist shop again.”

“You’re not missing much,” says Thomas, “but I see your point. I am sorry.”

“I’ll live vicariously through your descriptions.” Vincent rubs his fingers along the sable of his camauro, still in his hand. “But enough about me. Tell me about your trip.”

So Thomas recounts. Vincent peppers him with questions. An hour slips away. It’s nearing midnight, but Vincent’s exhaustion fades. It is nice to converse with a friend, someone who only calls him Your Holiness in the presence of others and feels as familiar as his own reflection, despite the short time they’ve known each other.

Vincent has never grown so fond of someone so quickly. He vividly remembers the night they met, a weathered face as exhausted as his own determining, with little hesitation, that Vincent belonged here. Thomas had the air of a kicked puppy, or at least someone who accidentally became too important at work and regretted it.

Vincent can relate to that.

Not that he scorns being Pope—he won’t question God’s plan. But at night, when his attendants and advisors have left him for the day and he lies in bed alone, he cannot help but remember that he’ll never walk freely in the street ever again. He’ll never grab a casual coffee with a friend, or go out to dinner, or experience the humbling feeling of anonymity. He will age and die within the Vatican.

It’s a little terrifying.

So, perhaps that’s why he likes Thomas. He has been a consistent presence since Vincent arrived here, but it’s more than that—he’s soothing. Relatable. On nights like this, where they let the time get away from themselves, they’ll speak for hours about everything and nothing. He should feel exhausted after evenings like these, but despite the limited hours of sleep, he always wakes in the morning feeling rejuvenated.

And during the day, he looks forward to every meeting he shares with Thomas, even when the subject matter is unspeakably dry. His voice is smooth, low, elegant. Everything about him is elegant—long limbs, handsome face, unmistakable gravitas. Vincent wonders if he’s aware how well he moves in his cassock, his choir dress. Not everyone does. He’s seen more than one cardinal trip on a stray hem. He has himself. But Thomas—never. It’s like he was born for the cloth.

Simply put, Vincent has never seen a more beautiful cardinal, or known a more beautiful man.

Thomas has finished his recounting. Vincent shares a little about his own Christmas, but there’s not much to divulge. It was quiet. Before long, he’s out of things to say.

“I’m glad you’ve returned,” he admits after a too-long silence. “I knew I’d feel your absence, but I didn’t realize how profoundly. It’s comforting to have a friend like you, Thomas.”

Thomas glances away. “You’re too kind.”

“I’m serious. What shall I do when your term as dean is up?”

It’s an uncomfortable subject. Thomas asked the late Holy Father if he could resign. He asked the same of Vincent. They agreed that Thomas will stay until June, enough time for Vincent to settle into the papacy. But still, Vincent worries. Even these few weeks without Thomas were arduous. He was easily frustrated, and barely managed to hide it from his advisors. He didn’t sleep particularly well. Prayer did not come as easily.

Thomas claims to be experiencing the same problem. Vincent cannot comprehend how. Surely there is no man that more closely follows the path of the Lord. A man who serves, despite his own doubts, who revealed corruption and lies while keeping himself clean. And his accomplishments—a cardinal; the former secretary of state; multiple degrees in theology; fluent in English, Spanish, Italian, and Latin. A man capable of running a conclave with dignity and competence, despite the loss of a dear friend, a terrorist attack, and dissent from small-minded colleagues. And then, when Vincent revealed his secret to him, he accepted it and moved on.

All of that noise, and he emerged from the conclave with grace. He took his place at Vincent’s side, and has not left willingly since.

How is Vincent supposed to survive without him?

It doesn’t matter. It’s selfish to ask Thomas to stay past June. He will pray to the Lord to reveal the path ahead.

Thomas offers a self-deprecating smile. “Everybody is replaceable.”

“Not you,” Vincent insists.

“Especially me,” counters Thomas.

“We will have to agree to disagree.” Vincent pauses, then takes a breath. “For now, you are here. And while you are, I shall need you more than ever.”

“Use me however you need,” says Thomas. “I am here to help.”

Help me forever, Vincent thinks, but does not say.

“Welcome home, Thomas,” he utters instead.

He swears Thomas’ eyes warm. “Thank you, Vincent. It is nice to be back.”

September 2017

They start with coffee.

“Díos,” gasps Vincent at the first sip. “I thought I'd never have a good latte again.”

Thomas chuckles over his cappuccino. “A shame that the Vatican lacks baristas.”

“Truly.” Vincent takes a second sip and leans back in his chair. “Thank you for all the lattes you’ve brought in for me these past months, but…”

“Any café willing to put their latte in a to-go cup is compromising quality,” Thomas finishes. “I take no offense.”

“Thank you,” says Vincent.

They sit at one of the few establishments open at this early hour—a café at the base of Palatine Hill. The Roman Forum stretches upwards to Vincent’s right. Thomas is across from him. Their patio table is cluttered with a smattering of pastries and their coffees. There’s a taste to the air that promises a scorching afternoon.

Vincent can’t wait.

Best of all, no one has noticed them—save for the cab driver. But the waiter didn’t bat an eye at Vincent’s ridiculous bucket hat and glasses. Passersby don’t look twice at them. Vincent initially balked at Thomas’ wardrobe choice for him when they cooked up this plan, but now he understands it was sensible. They are tourists, doing tourist things, and they look the part.

Admittedly, Thomas is far less recognizable than the successor of Saint Peter, which gives more leeway to his attire. Vincent is envious. He’s not used to seeing his companion in white, or this dressed down. Both suit him. His linen button-down appears breezy and lightweight. The first button is undone, exposing the soft flesh of his throat and a dusting of hair at his clavicle. Vincent is certain Thomas’ comforting scent is most intense there—incense, pine sap, musk. He thinks of that time on his sofa, when he permitted himself to indulge in it. If only he had an excuse to do so again.

Thomas catches him staring. He cocks his head, questioning.

Vincent scrambles for words. “I didn’t know you liked baseball,” he says. He trains his eyes on the faded, blue cap on Thomas’ head, and tells himself he was staring at it the whole time.

“I don’t,” says Thomas, nibbling on a fraction of a crumb of a pastry. “It was a gift from Aldo when we were in seminary. He loves the Mets. That, if anything, should have been a bellwether for the outcome of last year’s conclave…”

Vincent doesn’t know much about the Mets, or American baseball in general. He picks up the plate with the pastry Thomas was picking at and shoves it closer.

“Eat,” he urges. “We have a long day ahead. You’re going to need it.”

Begrudgingly, Thomas takes a slightly larger bite. “You are a mother hen.”

“I wouldn’t have to be, if getting you to eat wasn’t like pulling teeth,” Vincent counters. “Though you’ve certainly improved since our first meeting.”

Thomas chews, and swallows—to Vincent’s satisfaction. “Thanks to you.”

“Yes, thanks to me. My dear dean, if you do not eat, you cannot do your best work for our Church.”

“No, I suppose not,” says Thomas.

“Nor,” Vincent continues, allowing a smirk to cross his face, “will you be able to keep up with someone as young and spritely as me.”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Your back pain is worse than mine.”

“I got hit by a car bomb. What's your excuse?”

Thomas grumbles something under his breath. Then, he takes the pastry plate from Vincent and begins to eat in earnest. “You have me there.”

“That's right.” Vincent keeps his smirk. “Now, shall we review our itinerary again? Just to remind you why you need fuel?”

“Yes, yes,” Thomas mutters. He withdraws a piece of notebook paper from his breast pocket and hands it to Vincent. “Here it is.”

Vincent unfurls it. He takes a moment to admire Thomas’ script. It's as elegant as the rest of him, but not ostentatiously loopy. It reads:

05:45 - Rendezvous at meeting point

06:00 - Escape the Vatican

07:00 - Breakfast (a decent latte for Vincent)

09:00 - Roman Forum

12:00 - Lunch (pizza for Vincent)

13:30 - Colosseum

15:00 - Siesta in Parco del Colle Oppio

17:00 - Drinks (an Aperol spritz for Vincent)

Vincent's chest warms reading it, like a peony unfurling from a tight bud into a glorious flower.

“Maybe we'll get gelato, too,” suggests Thomas.

“I'd like that,” says Vincent. “And don't forget the tourist shop. And the wine for Aldo.”

Thomas swallows the last of his pastry, which nudges a nugget of satisfaction beneath Vincent's sternum. His cerulean eyes glimmer with amusement.

“I think we can pencil that in.”

February 2017

“Oh, no, what is that? Don’t tell me that you’ve bought into the American propaganda. Coffee is not meant for go-cups, Thomas.”

One moment, this hallway was empty. The next, not. Thomas isn’t sure where Aldo appeared from, but now he’s tittering at his shoulder like an over-excited bird, keeping pace with Thomas as he laments ‘the commodification of caffeination.’

“Seriously, I thought you were better than this,” he rants. “If you wanted coffee, surely we could have stepped out for a while?”

“It’s not for me,” Thomas clarifies, “it’s for the Holy Father.”

“Oh.” Aldo briefly stops walking, then jogs to catch up again. “Wait, what?”

In the weeks since Thomas has returned to the Vatican, he’s settled into a routine. He wakes before first light in his apartment in Rome, dresses, and makes his way into the office. Vincent is typically working by the time he arrives, so he pops in to catch up before settling into his own workspace down the hall. Then, it’s meetings for most of the day—most with the Holy Father, some not—and correspondence.

That’s what it is officially, anyway. But additional duties have found their way to the Dean of the College of Cardinals. He is a manager, after all. So, he manages. Vincent routinely comes by to ask him about the nuances of a particular cardinal or politician. They take frequent walks in the Vatican gardens to see the turtles. Usually, they eat either lunch or dinner together. Vincent frequently bounces ideas off of him for upcoming homilies. And on the nights they stay up late talking, their conversation usually turns to Vincent’s first encyclical, which he’s in the process of composing.

This apparent closeness has resulted in many members of the Holy See consulting with Thomas on matters that they wish to bring to the Holy Father—and that’s over Aldo, who has retained his position as Secretary of State, and Ray, who has become Vincent’s personal secretary. It seems that Thomas, somehow, is an unofficial chief of staff.

It was during a conversation with the Holy Father yesterday—over coffee in his office, with the late-afternoon sunlight cutting golden beams across the floor and furniture—that Thomas learned that Vincent loves lattes.

“An indulgence, I know.” Vincent had gestured offhandedly, as if the situation couldn’t be helped. He was seated in a sunbeam that turned his cassock blinding and his skin golden. “But the few opportunities I’ve had to try them were a delight.”

Thomas explains this to Aldo now.

“He’s the Pope, he deserves a latte,” he concludes lamely. “Unfortunately, given I cannot bring the Holy Father to a café in Rome, I have to bring the café to him. Hence, the go-cup.”

Aldo rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll excuse it. Bring your husband his coffee.”

Thomas stops, turns. “My what?”

Aldo raises an eyebrow. “Your husband, the Pope. Surely you’ve heard this joke by now?”

“I haven’t!” says Thomas, indignant. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You and the Holy Father are attached at the hip.” Aldo shrugs. “Sister Agnes thinks that you should just move into the Casa Santa Marta.”

“And the entire Curia is making this joke?”

“More or less,” Aldo says.

“Does the Holy Father know?”

“Of course.”

Thomas flushes with mortification. “Oh, dear—”

“He overheard the nuns talking about it. Said that if spouses had a relationship like yours, there would be no divorce.”

The mortification lessens, then grows, then lessens. Thomas isn’t sure how to interpret that answer.

Aldo squeezes his shoulder. “Thomas. It’s a joke. You’re not married to the Holy Father. You may recall that same sex marriages in our Church are, regrettably, not permitted. Don’t overthink this. Our Pope has found himself in a strange and unfamiliar place. In addition to advisers, he needs a dear friend. And he trusts you above all others.”

Thomas is touched. He also wants to melt into the elaborate tapestry hanging from the wall to his right.

“You really shouldn’t resign, you know,” says Aldo.

“I disagree. If people are joking that I’m married to the Holy Father, that’s one more reason to extract myself from this place.”

“He’ll be devastated when you leave.”

Thomas’ chest twinges. He imagines it—one last day with Vincent, one last walk in the gardens, one last dinner. A tough farewell, in which he says nothing to betray the depth of emotion he feels for the Holy Father, and then…what? He’ll just bumble off to a monastery and die?

That was the plan six months ago. It’s still the plan now. But it’s not sitting as easily with Thomas as it used to.

Still, Vincent has so much to do—decades ahead of him as leader of the Church. What does Thomas have? There won’t be another conclave in his lifetime, God willing. Soon, he’ll reach eighty and be too old to run it. And sure, he’s helpful to Vincent now, but once he learns the inner-workings of the Vatican? He won’t need him. Thomas will be dead weight.

So yes, it’s probably best to bumble off to a monastery and die.

Aldo pulls him from his trance. “Look, I’ve got to go—I’ve got a meeting with that unpleasant politician from the Nordics—Ashburn, or whatever he’s called. But think about it.” He pats his arm. “Bring your husband his latte.”

He turns and struts down the hall, mozzetta flowing behind him.

“Don’t call him that!” Thomas lamely protests to his retreating back.

Aldo just laughs.

September 2017

Vincent likes the Forum—it's a lot like the Vatican gardens. There are ancient relics everywhere, nooks and crannies to explore, bubbling fountains with verdant ferns that would make perfect homes for turtles. His heart twinges at the thought—he tamps down the memory of two nights ago.

It's at one of these fountains, partially secluded and halfway up the hill to the home of Augustus, that Thomas’ phone rings. The shrill sound interrupts the tranquility of the birdsong and trickling water.

“My dear Thomas,” Vincent sighs, “you would bring yourself so much peace if you changed your ringtone to something less jarring. Some Mozart, perhaps? Brahams? Tchaikovsky?”

“So you've said. Unfortunately, I miss calls with anything quieter.” Thomas gingerly lowers himself to a bench and pulls his phone from his pocket, squinting and holding the device at arm's length to read it without his glasses. “It's Aldo.”

Vincent glances at his watch—an ancient Timex gifted to him by a parishioner, an old widow. Vincent had been in his late twenties when he received it. He still thinks of her whenever he checks the time.

It’s after eleven o’clock. They got away with far more than Thomas predicted. There’s a strange satisfaction in Vincent’s belly. He feels like a schoolboy cutting class. But here comes the nun now, ready to rap them across the fingers with a ruler.

“Aldo?” answers Thomas.

“Thomas!”

Thomas has put the phone on speaker. Aldo’s voice is an octave higher than usual, his panic obvious. Privately, Vincent calls this state of being ‘teapot mode,’ in which his well-meaning secretary of state works himself into such a tizzy that he resembles a boiling tea kettle. Or, well, almost privately—Thomas knows, too, because Vincent accidentally referred to Aldo going into ‘teapot mode’ in a conversation after one exceptionally exhausting day in which the Polish prime minister fainted from heat stroke in the middle of a Vatican press conference, among other things.

Thomas had laughed so hard his eyes had watered. He so rarely does that Vincent had walked on air for the rest of that week, giddy that he had been the one to elicit such mirth from his dean…even if it was at Aldo’s expense.

Now, Aldo speaks at full teapot: “Thomas, where are you? The Holy Father is missing! You recall that he went to bed with a fever last night, so I didn’t find it strange when he didn’t wake as usual this morning, but, I, I…” He trails off, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “Sister Agnes went to check on him a few minutes ago, and he’s gone! Pillows stuffed under the sheets! He’s been kidnapped!”

“Kidnapped?” questions Thomas.

“Kidnapped!” Aldo repeats. “Why aren’t you panicking?”

“If he’d been taken against his will, I think the Swiss Guard would know,” says Thomas. “But a fever? Pillows under sheets? Did you never try to pull a fast one on your parents, Aldo? It sounds like the Holy Father needed time to himself.”

“We don’t know that for certain! And if he was sick—”

Vincent definitely wasn’t. Late last night, with the door to Vincent’s office closed, Thomas had produced a jump rope and told Vincent to get moving. He felt ridiculous skipping rope in full papal regalia, but it made him hot and sweaty enough that when Thomas escorted him to his rooms, insisting to anybody they encountered that ‘His Holiness is feeling unwell,’ every person’s face creased with worry. Sister Agnes brought him medication and sent him off to bed after feeling his forehead and determining he was ‘clammy.’

Perhaps it was disingenuous. But it has bought them time.

“Aldo, really,” Thomas reasons. Vincent sinks onto the bench beside him. “The Swiss Guard is highly capable. If something had happened to the Holy Father, they’d know. And do you really think a man who has lived in areas of conflict most his life would be taken so easily?”

It’s a good point—Vincent has survived two abduction attempts. He should probably tell Thomas about those at some point. He knows almost everything else about him, after all.

“The Swiss Guard doesn’t know yet, but we can’t rule out kidnapping—”

“You can, and it’s not kidnapping, it’s Popenapping.”

Aldo makes an exasperated noise. “Why are you not taking this seriously? You and the Holy Father are always together, you—”

He pauses. Thomas closes his eyes, clearly exasperated.

“He’s with you, isn’t he?” asks Aldo, voice staticky through the line.

“Today’s my day off,” says Thomas.

“You’re not answering my question,” says Aldo.

“Today is my day off, and I'm making the most of it,” Thomas repeats.

The line is silent. Aldo sighs.

“So what I'm hearing is that I shouldn't tell the Swiss Guard,” he says at a more normal pitch.

“No, I don't think so,” Thomas replies. “He deserves a break, don't you think? He had a stressful few days.”

“So long as he's safe,” grumbles Aldo.

“Of course.” Thomas' gaze slides to Vincent, blue eyes sparkling. “I'm sure he'll be fine. Just tell everyone he's ill.”

“Right.” Aldo sounds resigned. “Okay. Fine, very well.”

“Can I enjoy my day off now?” asks Thomas.

“In a moment, just…” Aldo pauses. “If you see the Holy Father, tell him that his turtle will be alright.”

Oh. Vincent's lips part. He nearly speaks. Thomas' hand finds his knee and squeezes before he betrays himself.

“That's a relief to hear,” says Thomas. “I know he was upset.”

Vincent was—devastatingly, disproportionally upset. For all the pain in the world, for all the suffering that he personally has borne witness to, it was an overreaction. He should be embarrassed. And yet a weight is already lifting from his shoulders. Not a large one—Thomas still plans to resign, which makes him nauseous if he thinks about it too hard—but at least the turtle will not compound on that worry.

“Have a good day, Thomas,” says Aldo. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Aldo.” And with that, Thomas ends the call. For long seconds, he and Vincent stare at each other in silence.

“I can't believe we're getting away with this,” Vincent finally says. “I'm in your debt.”

“Never.” Thomas’ hand is still on Vincent's knee. He squeezes again. “Now, we have the whole day in Rome. Let's enjoy it.”

That’s when it truly dawns on Vincent. They are in Rome, alone. No roaring crowds, no cameras, no press—just him, Thomas, and a glorious, late summer day.

They can do whatever they want. They can eat whatever they want.

Finally, they have escaped the Vatican.

Vincent swallows. He feels bubbly, like he’s filled with champagne.

He lays his hand over Thomas’ on his knee, then beams at his dear dean.

“Let’s go get that pizza.”

Chapter Text

March 2017

It starts with an interview.

It’s Ray’s idea, along with the Vatican Press Office. Vincent is…not a conservative Pope. A complete nightmare for the American Catholics that lean that way. And even if Innocent XIV hasn’t publicly stated his most radical opinions—namely, that women should be ordained, vows of chastity are archaic, and that same-sex unions really aren’t that bad—he has given the impression that he will never condemn these things.

And that’s enough for the Americans. The conservative bishops whisper dissent, and so do their congregants.

Thus, the interview.

They invite Davis Busch—of ABC’s America Tonight with Davis Busch—to Italy. He descends on the Vatican with an army of producers and cameramen, editors and writers, production assistants and gaffers and green college grads sent on various errands. They set up a city’s worth of lights in the Sala Clementina and seat Davis in one chair, and Vincent in the other.

And there, in gentle English curled with that beautiful Mexican accent, Pope Innocent XIV shares his love for pizza.

Pizza is, of course, not the only thing he talks about—he discusses goals for his papacy, and his experience in Congo, and Afghanistan, and in Mexico. But, naturally, it’s the pizza that goes viral.

Thomas didn’t know what a meme was, and could have gone on without knowing. Every morning the entire week following the interview, the Press Office prints out a stack of the most recent ones. Thomas gets looped into bringing them to Vincent each time. They’re truly preposterous—countless iterations of ‘Pizza Pope’ and images of Vincent framed by pies and restaurants that begin capitalizing on the hype by adding ‘Pope Pizza’ to their menu.

Every day, Thomas delivers the memes. And each time, Vincent splits into a grin as wide as a child’s in a candy shop.

“I suppose I’ll never have a true Roman pizza,” he says on the fifth morning. “But this may be better.”

“It’s ridiculous,” Thomas comments.

“Now, my dear dean,” says Vincent, still leafing through today’s dose of pizza content. Thomas’ heart skips at the moniker. “It’s not so serious.”

“You’re the Vicar of Christ, not the pizza man.”

Vincent rests his chin in his hand and gazes at him, expression blissful. His lovely hair frames his face in shining waves.

“Let them make their jokes. The Press Office reports that the Pizza Debacle has softened the American public’s opinion of me. This is all excellent.”

Thomas sighs, sinking into the chair before Vincent’s desk. “Americans,” he grumbles distastefully. “The quickest way to that country’s heart is through its stomach.”

“As is mine!” Vincent beams. He glances at the go-cup on his desk. “Presently, you are far ahead of your competition, dearest Thomas.”

Thomas flushes, even as something in his gut unfurls and preens. “It’s just coffee,” he says.

“It is so much more than coffee,” Vincent counters. “Now, don’t worry about the whims of the Internet. It’s not your job.”

It’s not. Thomas is the manager. He manages—or he will, until June. Vincent is settling in well enough. He won’t need him, and he’d hate to overstay his welcome. He did with the late Holy Father. The public knew him as Paul VII. Thomas knew him as Paulo, his given name, and as his dear mentor. But the older he got, the more paranoid he became. And then, Thomas lost his way, and the only worth the old man saw in him was his ability to manage small-minded cardinals. If his relationship with Vincent sours similarly, Thomas will never forgive himself.

Best to leave while things are still good.

Save for the pizza memes, the rest of the week passes uneventfully, until Vincent decides to say mass at the Papal Basilica of Saint Mary Major on Sunday. It’s on the way back, cruising through the streets of Rome in the Popemobile, that the pizza thing comes to a head.

Thomas, seated in the back of the vehicle, sees it happen in slow motion: the portly Roman man, covered in flour, leaning over the barricade. And, in his hands: an entire pie.

“Papa!” he calls. “Papa!”

Vincent laughs, delighted. He leans out of the car to take the pizza, turning to wave furiously as they drive past the chef. “Grazie!” he calls. The crowd laughs. Pictures are snapped. On Monday morning, newspapers will display images of an ecstatic Pope Innocent XIV, holding the pizza as if it has been given to him by God Himself. Thomas is in the background, swathed in scarlet with a perplexed expression.

Vincent frames the photo. It goes on his desk—a memory of the moments that follow. As they descend towards the Tiber, leaving the crowd behind, he glances to Thomas with that blinding grin.

“Look, Eminence!” he says, holding out the pizza as if Thomas somehow didn’t notice the whole incident. “Finally, a true Roman pizza!”

“Don’t eat that,” Thomas says. “It’s probably poisoned.”

His warm eyes dancing, Vincent takes a piece of the pie.

“Your Holiness!” says a member of their security detail. “Don’t!”

But it’s too late—Vincent is already chewing.

“Not poisoned,” he boasts around a mouthful. “Just lukewarm. Come on, everyone—have some.”

It takes some convincing, but once they return to the safety of the Vatican, the pizza is passed amongst the Popemobile’s passengers. Ray, in the front seat, and the driver, and the security team and, finally, Thomas.

Vincent brings Thomas and Ray to his papal apartments in the Casa Santa Marta to finish what remains of the pie. They eat it cold and spend a leisurely hour for just themselves—a rarity in the tightly scheduled blocks of their days.

It’s nice. Thomas’ anxieties melt to the background for a few blissful minutes. And when it’s over, he goes about the rest of his afternoon feeling lighter than usual.

It’s only that night, heading back to his apartment in Rome, passing restaurants cozy and glowing with the patrons stuffed inside of them, that Thomas realizes that the pizza presents the same problem as the latte: it will always have to come to Vincent. He will never sit amongst the people of Rome and eat while it’s still piping hot.

It seems a tragedy. And yet there’s nothing Thomas can do about it.

September 2017

“Thomas—this may be obvious, but…what is this? I see them whenever we drive through Rome and always wondered.”

“Hmm?” Thomas looks up from the maps application on his phone. He's never been directionally oriented and is only seventy percent confident he knows where they are. He thought it would be much easier to exit the Forum. He thinks they’re on the sloping path towards the Colosseum, but the line of tourists snaking along it is throwing him.

Vincent is referring to one of the municipal water fountains, gurgling happily to itself where it’s tucked against the iron fence. Water splashes onto the concrete, divoted by decades of flow.

“That's a nasone,” he says. “It provides water to the city.”

“Nasone, as in Italian for ‘big nose?’”

“Yes, exactly. The spigot is kind of nose shaped, don't you think?”

He studies the nasone. He's lived in Rome so long that he takes them for granted, but he supposes they are a novelty. Cylindrical and roughly waist-high, he walks past countless fountains just like this one all the time.

“What's the water for?” asks Vincent.

“Drinking, mostly.”

Vincent gapes at him. Thomas senses his shock, even through the sunglasses. “You can drink it?”

“Yes, of c—” Thomas cuts himself off. Not of course—Vincent spent decades in places where clean drinking water was never a given. Of course he's surprised.

“The tradition of free water to the people of Rome dates back to antiquity,” he says instead. “Though these nasoni were first installed by the city in the nineteenth century, they utilize aqueducts originally built by the ancient Romans.”

Vincent appears awed. “So we can just…drink from them?”

“Yes. There's actually a way to turn it into a water fountain, look here.” Thomas pockets his phone, stoops forward, and plugs the spigot with his thumb. Water shoots from a smaller hole in the top in an arc perfect for drinking.

“Thirsty?” Thomas asks.

Grinning, Vincent leans forward, bracing one hand on the nasone and the other on Thomas's shoulder, and dips his head low enough to drink. When he pulls back, drops of water cling like chandelier crystals to the pointed ends of his dark hair.

“It tastes wonderful,” he says, their faces centimeters apart. “You try.”

So Thomas dips forward, one hand on the nasone, the other on Vincent for balance. His palm burns where it clutches his bare forearm.

And he drinks—sweet, cool, Roman water. It cuts through the sweltering day, enough that he almost forgets that his shirt is clinging to his back with his own sweat, and that it's only going to get hotter.

When he straightens, they linger in each other's space. Vincent peers at him through the narrow gap between his hat and sunglasses, his brown eyes mirthful.

“You have water on your nasone,” he jokes.

Then, with gentle fingers, he wipes Thomas' nose clean.

Pizza—fresh pizza—is heavenly. Vincent bites into a still-steaming pie seated at a sidewalk café east of the Colosseum and swears that for a fleeting moment, he sees God.

“So good,” he gasps around bread and cheese and sauce. “The balance—the acidity of the tomato and the salt of the prosciutto…Thomas, try.”

Thomas watches him with a satisfied expression Vincent rarely sees. He doesn’t move.

“It's going to get cold,” Vincent presses. “The whole point of this was so that it isn't. So stop staring.”

Thomas’ nose pinkens, and Vincent's heart flips over. He shoves the pie at his companion. Head ducked and face hidden by the brim of his Mets cap, Thomas reaches for the pizza.

“Oh,” he says after chewing and swallowing his first bite. “That is nice.”

“Yes,” says Vincent. “I think we'll need two.”

Thomas barks a surprised laugh.

They pass a pleasant lunch together, occasionally lapsing into silence to eavesdrop on the trio of Spanish tourists one table over. They seem to be living a comedy of errors—they went clubbing last night and are all missing something: one girl is short a phone, the other her wallet. Their male companion has lost his virginity, apparently—to another man. Vincent commits Thomas’ expression to memory when this comes to light. He's never seen him so red.

“Perhaps we should mind our business,” he murmurs.

Vincent grins with all his teeth. “He is talking about it in public. And I never get gossip as juicy as this.”

“Oh, dear Vincent…” Thomas’ expression is exasperated, but fond. Vincent swears he sees the ghost of a smile.

Thomas’ phone buzzes on the table. Their gazes follow the disruption. It's a picture from Aldo. Thomas pecks at the screen until it opens.

“Ah, there you are—your prized turtle.” He turns the phone around for Vincent. “Reassuring, yes?”

Vincent is not reassured. He can hardly look at the screen. He stuffs another slice of pizza into his mouth, hoping it'll ease his tight throat, and banishes the vision of Thomas' office, empty of its contents. He wills himself to not think about Thomas leaving the Vatican with a singular suitcase to his name, Thomas aging alone in a monastery. Vincent may be Pope, but this is not in his power to change, and so he cannot dwell. He can't.

Thomas senses his discomfort. He pockets his phone, lips parted, as if weighing his words. Vincent anticipates as much as he dreads. The seconds drag by.

“I've discovered I like having my hair pulled,” proclaims the Spanish tourist one table over. “Is that normal?”

The girls squeal. Thomas closes his mouth, then sits back in his chair, resigned.

“Is that normal?” he mutters just loud enough for Vincent to hear, looking away. “The things you encounter outside the Vatican…”

Were Vincent not teetering on the edge of a metaphorical black hole, he'd laugh. Instead, he manages a smile.

“You're asking the wrong person, my dearest dean,” he replies.

He imagines himself crowding Thomas against a wall in the papal apartments, pulling on his hair until he knocks his zucchetto askew. Huh. Perhaps the experience is pleasant for some, if not done violently…

These are sinful thoughts. But they're a lot better than ones of his dean's departure. He lets go of them slowly, like cherry blossom petals floating down a slow river, and tries to remain present for the rest of the meal.

After, they wander back towards the Colosseum, popping into any tourist shop that catches Vincent's eye on the way. In this section of Rome, there are fewer Vatican-inspired items, but he does find some. First, an elegant rosary made of quartz that reminds him of Sister Agnes. And, second…

Thomas is in a different part of the store when Vincent encounters the magnets. They're fairly standard—renderings of the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain, various Roman emperors, Greek sculptures with exaggerated, erect penises. There are even several miniatures of Michaelangelo's David, which makes little sense, given it's in Florence, not Rome.

And then, there's him—Pope Innocent XIV.

Vincent doubts he'll ever get used to it—images of himself that imply he's holier than the rest of humanity. He's not. If he were, he wouldn't get angry each time he caught wind of Tedesco making another insensitive remark. He wouldn't wonder how it would feel if Thomas kissed his mouth instead of his hand. And he wouldn't constantly think of the warmth of Thomas’ body aligned against his own, like what happened on the plane in April and his sofa in May and again two nights ago.

He is human, and he does feel these things. And there's no shame in it, but he does wish he was depicted as someone more…regular. And luckily, amongst magnets of him doing holy things, there is one instance.

Of course it has to do with the Pizza Debacle.

It's the same image that circulated in the papers, the same image framed on his desk—him, in full vestments on the Popemobile, beaming widely, holding up his pizza for the world to see. And, even more delightful: Thomas in the background, expression bewildered.

The creator of the magnet has added a border of various pizzas and the words: “PAPA PIZZA ITALIA” in red, green, and white letters.

Vincent bites his tongue to keep from laughing. The phrase hardly makes sense. The magnet itself is preposterous. It's also the best souvenir of himself he's ever seen. And, even better, there's a matching keychain bearing the same image one display over.

With glee, Vincent purchases both in addition to the rosary. When he and Thomas spill out of the sweltering shop onto the equally sweltering street, he offers the paper pouch containing the keychain to Thomas.

Thomas frowns. “If you bought me one of those perverse statues, I'm throwing it in the Tiber.”

“Drama queen,” says Vincent. “Open it.”

They duck under an awning alongside a plaster wall. Further down the street, a nasone bubbles jovially at the corner. A group of Dutch tourists are taking turns sticking their heads beneath the spigot. Vincent envies them—his bucket hat is stifling.

The paper crinkles as Thomas unveils his gift. Vincent takes pride in the snort he chokes back when he registers what it is.

“You're kidding,” he says, holding it out to study it better.

“We should sell them in the Vatican,” says Vincent. “I think it would be popular. Look, I got a matching magnet for myself.”

He shows it off. Thomas’ face splits into a wide grin. The laughter he held back bubbles up, more delicious than any latte or pizza Vincent has ever tasted.

“You're putting it on your fridge?”

“I am,” Vincent promises.

Thomas sighs. “Then I suppose this should go on my keys.”

He fishes in the pocket of his cream-colored chinos and withdraws an unadorned key ring. Vincent has spent enough time with Thomas to know what each key goes to—the two small, silver ones unlock the monolith filing cabinets in Thomas's office. The ancient brass one belongs to the office itself. The ordinary brass one is for Thomas’ apartment, and the nondescript gold one unlocks Vincent's. Not that Thomas has ever let himself into the papal apartments, but it's more of a symbolic thing. It comforts Vincent to know he has it.

Thomas slips the keychain onto the ring holding the pieces of his life. Vincent's chest warms, seeing their faces on the tacky plastic, knowing they'll always be on Thomas' person.

Thomas holds the key ring up for Vincent to see. “Conclave,” he says. “With key. A fitting gift, Vincent. Thank you.”

“You broke me out,” says Vincent. “It's the least I could do.”

Thomas shakes his head, expression fond. “And I would do it again, if Aldo hadn’t gotten wise. Now come on, let's see the Colosseum.”

And so they continue down the street. Vincent floats like a man freed.

April 2017

The flight back from Pope Innocent XIV’s first trip abroad is not particularly long—they were on Chios, a Greek island so close to the coast of Türkiye that the mainland is easily visible. Once famous as the sole producer of mastic, it is now better known for the overloaded dinghies of migrants that keep washing up on its shores. Hence, the papal visit.

For a first foray out of Rome, Thomas thinks it went well. Despite being primarily Orthodox, the Greeks had plenty of interest in the Pope, but there was not pandemonium like there would have been if they visited a majority Catholic country. On the first day, Innocent XIV made several public appearances, met with Greek and Turkish officials, and gave mass in the main city's sole Catholic church before attending a late dinner with local community leaders.

After, there was also a pleasant stretch spent on the rocky beach behind the house rented by the Vatican's Office of Foreign Affairs to host the papal entourage. Vincent, Thomas, Ray, and Aldo shared a bottle of wine and sat on a blanket, wrapped in light coats to ward off the early spring chill.

Ray had been the first to go to bed, followed by Aldo. And then, Thomas had lost track of time, talking to Vincent by moonlight against the background of Mediterranean waves lapping against the shore. They parsed through the draft of Vincent's encyclical together—on the notes app of Vincent's beat-up smartphone. Apparently, that’s where he’s been composing it. By the time they ambled inside, it had been nearly three in the morning, and even the security team had looked bleary-eyed.

And then, the following day, Pope Innocent XIV had actually met with the migrants. Chios’ migrant center, bursting with the displaced, had been crowded and cramped. But Vincent had come alive. Stripped down to his blacks, he had served food, distributed blankets, held children. Thomas lost sight of him multiple times, but panicked less the more it happened. Each time he rediscovered Vincent, he was more joyful than the last. His smile shone brighter than the papal whites he had forgone.

And suddenly, Thomas understood what Vincent had given up when he left Afghanistan.

He asks about it on the flight home. It’s evening of the same day, and they sit beside each other in the last row of the Airbus 320 the Vatican chartered from ITA—the largest jet capable of landing at Chios’ tiny airport. The plane is unremarkably utilitarian, the seats arranged in lines of three on either side of the aisle. And while Ray, Aldo, and the other Vatican officials that accompanied them have spread out throughout the cabin, Vincent asked Thomas to sit with him. Thomas had been more than happy to oblige.

Now, Thomas says: “You smiled a lot today.”

Vincent hums. “I feel most useful to God when amongst people who need help.”

He stares out the window. The sun is setting over the Aegean, its color so vibrant that it turns his whites amber.

Thomas hears his guilt. “You help so many by being Pope,” he tries.

“I know. I tell myself that,” Vincent answers, each word deliberate. It’s something Thomas admires about him—every soft-spoken, lovingly-accented sentence that comes from Vincent’s mouth is thoughtful, as if he thoroughly chews on each of them before exhaling them into being. He never fumbles. He never misspeaks. He means exactly what he says, always.

“I think,” Vincent continues, pausing as he considers, “that we priests frequently talk about faith being the belief in the unseen. We do not see God as concretely as we read the news in the mornings, or pursue knowledge of the things we enjoy. But we believe in Him anyway. And yet it’s something I struggle with now. I believe I am doing good when I see the people I am doing good for, and the direct impact my service has on them. But being Pope…everything is so indirect. I cannot see with my own eyes how I am helping those that need it. And then I wonder if I am doing good at all.”

“Of course you are!” Thomas protests. He touches Vincent’s knee instinctively. Their shoulders bump.

“Thank you, Thomas,” Vincent murmurs, easing against him for a fleeting moment. His warmth seeps through Thomas’ blacks. “But what I am saying is that even if I have faith in God, I lack the same faith in myself. It is something I’m working on.”

“Some goods are easier to see,” Thomas says in a rush. “It is easier to see the impact of a nutritious meal, or a warm blanket. Easier to see the effect compassion has on people who are frequently given none. It is far more difficult to see how your ordinary, day-to-day actions guide others towards God. But our cardinals are more willing to listen to each other following your election. Even the whole Pizza Debacle—attendance increased in churches around the world in the weeks following.”

Vincent snorts. “I cannot believe you’re praising the Pizza Debacle.”

“It wasn’t even a debacle,” Thomas insists. “And that’s not all. There are more subtle things, I—”

He hesitates. Takes a breath. He should be like Vincent, and chew his words before spitting them out. The problem is, he doesn’t even know which words to say.

Vincent tears his gaze from the window, as if he senses that something weighty is sitting on Thomas’ tongue. The golden sunset catches the edges of his face, turns the dark tips of his hair an orange that’s as warm as his gaze. His lips part; his eyebrows peak with concern.

The realization hits Thomas abruptly, like plunging into a cold pool of water.

Vincent Benitez is beautiful.

It’s no surprise that it’s taken him this long to notice. He is a priest—his vocation centers around the salvation of people’s souls, not the beauty of their bodies. Rarely does he consider the appearance of those he interacts with. Nor does he consider his own. Aldo told him he was good-looking, decades ago. Thomas doubts that holds now, and hardly cares.

But, Vincent. Vincent—

He’s not conventionally attractive. He’s not the trendy actor or singer modeling underwear for Calvin Klein. But there is something—between his smooth, brown skin and sparkling eyes and glossy hair. It’s in his long fingers, nails neatly trimmed with tidy cuticles. It’s in the curve of his nose, and the stubble emerging on his jawline. It is his humanity, and his divinity.

Vincent laces his fingers with Thomas’ where they remain on his knee. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Thomas swallows. “I—just. You are so good. You have no idea. You know that when I went to the late Holy Father and asked to resign, I was struggling with prayer. I still struggle now. But it is not the same. Not as much. And you have helped. The circumstances that elected you were an act of God—”

“With some help from you—”

“No, Vincent. He worked through me. And if He worked through me, surely I can reach Him. That’s what I tell myself. And often, it works. I think of your grace, and it rubs off on me. Sometimes, I hear Him—and even if it is only whispers, it is better than silence. And my ears have been opened through you.”

Vincent says nothing. He appears speechless. Uncomfortable with the quiet, Thomas continues.

“So don’t ever question your faith in yourself. You do good all the time. You do good for me, your friend.”

Best friend, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

A slow smile seeps across Vincent’s face, like tea into hot water.

“This is why I need you,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Thomas nearly asks to stay past June. He can’t bring himself to.

“As am I,” he replies. “It was a beautiful trip. Hopefully one of many more. You can help from Rome, but you deserve to help elsewhere, too.”

“Thank you,” says Vincent. “I just…I enjoy caring for people. In Rome, everyone cares for me. It doesn’t feel right.”

“They’re happy to do it,” Thomas says. “Though if you’d like, I’ll stop bringing you lattes.”

Vincent huffs a laugh. “Please, no. That is care I am most willing to accept.”

“Then I will continue to oblige.”

For a long moment, they smile at each other. The moment doesn’t break until a stewardess comes by offering them coffee. Neither of them accept, but it ends the conversation.

Vincent sighs, returning to the window. The sun has dipped behind the horizon. Little of the world is visible in the twilight beyond.

“Pray with me, Thomas,” he says. “Perhaps you will hear God.”

“Perhaps I shall,” says Thomas, “if I am seated beside you.”

Vincent makes a noise that sounds almost like laughter. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws his rosary, then wedges the armrest between them up into the seats.

“Let us pray,” he murmurs.

Thomas bows his head and closes his eyes. And with the length of his thigh pressed to Vincent’s, and their shoulders and arms brushing, he prays.

At first, it is the usual disappointment. He feels as if he speaks into a void. The void does not speak back. He loses track of time trying. Eventually, his mind wanders to the drone of the jet engines, and everything he hears over them. Rustling of others in the cabin. The squeak of a seat reclining. The clack of Vincent’s rosary beads as he moves from one decade to the next. His deep, even breaths. Thomas tries to sync his own to the Holy Father’s. He focuses on Vincent’s side pressed to his, the warmth spilling between them. Perhaps, if Thomas prays hard enough, they will become one entity. And would that not be nice, to know another as he knows himself? To share a body, a mind, a common goal?

He feels Vincent’s weight against him and imagines their bodies fusing. Himself inside Vincent, Vincent inside him. Two in one, like three in one, like the Trinity. He feels weightless. Free, yet tethered. Content.

He breathes in, and out. The air is thick with the scent of plane, but there's a hint of lemon and mastic—probably the pastries Aldo purchased. Thomas inhales again, and exhales. Repeats, repeats.

He could stay like this forever.

Something knocks into his shoulder. Thomas’ eyes blink open, only to find—

Vincent has fallen asleep on him. His whole weight is slumped against Thomas, his cheek smushed into his deltoid. His white zucchetto sits slightly askew on his beautiful head. His rosary still dangles from his fingers, loosely enough that it could drop to the floor at any moment.

Thomas takes it from him before it does, movements gentle. Early in their relationship, just a few days before Vincent’s inaugural mass in Saint Peter’s Square, he shared that his rosary was among his most prized possessions. It is plain and unadorned—worn, wooden beads connected with silver—but it was a gift from his mother when he went to seminary. By the time Vincent returned home, she was dead.

Thomas would never let such a thing fall. He holds it reverently. Vincent doesn’t stir. Thomas thinks of the grueling schedule he kept, of how he energetically made his way through the migrant center. He thinks of how late they stayed on the beach last night. He must be exhausted. No wonder he fell asleep.

And, of all the people in the world, he decided to fall asleep on him. Thomas. Ordinary, used-up, doubting Thomas.

Perhaps his use to the Curia is fading. But he can still be a friend to lean on, a comforting presence. And, like Aldo said, Vincent needs one of those.

If Aldo comes back here now, Thomas will be the butt of his marriage joke for weeks. And yet he doesn't care. Vincent is asleep on him, and he is honored. Until he wakes, or until they land in Rome—whichever comes first—Thomas will watch over him. He will allow him these minutes of peace. And he will manage what he can't while he slumbers.

He eyes Vincent's rosary, recalls the bead Vincent was grasping. He moves his fingers there.

And he picks up where he left off.

Hail Mary, full of grace…

He has finished the rest of the decade and moved onto the next when he feels it. It's like sitting in the park on a cloudy day, only for the sun to emerge and banish the chill. It's like stepping into a hot bath on a frigid evening, or the first rays of light bringing the dawn. It is the same feeling Thomas got in the Room of Tears when Vincent revealed the truth of himself.

It’s not a voice, it’s a feeling. God has never spoken to Thomas like this, but the aching familiarity leaves no room for doubt. He does not know why it is different. He does not care. He floats in golden warmth, and understands inherently that right now, he is exactly where he is supposed to be. He has not strayed from the path—he was guided all along. His place is on this plane, with Vincent's heat seeping into him.

His place is with Vincent.

In the back of an ordinary Airbus A320, thirty thousand feet above the Greek mainland, Thomas weeps.

Chapter Text

May 2017

“Oh my,” Vincent laments, gaze on the turtle at his feet. “You're a long way from home, Goffredo…”

They're halfway between their offices and the Casa Santa Marta, where Thomas will join him for dinner. The turtle, in the middle of the covered hallway, is determinedly making its way in the direction of the closest road.

“Goffredo?” Thomas gives him an incredulous look. “Did you name one of the late Holy Father's turtles after the Patriarch of Venice?”

“First, I’m the Pope now, therefore they're my turtles,” says Vincent. “Second, yes: I named all of them after members of the Curia.”

He stoops to retrieve Goffredo as Thomas makes an undecipherable noise.

“This one is a troublemaker,” he elaborates, clasping the turtle by its shell. He straightens it and extends it towards Thomas, who appears to have no interest in engaging with it. “He's always wandering off. Hence: Goffredo.”

“You can tell them apart?” Thomas asks.

“There are subtle differences to their shells. Come, we should put him back before dinner.”

He leads Thomas out from the covered walkway and into the Vatican gardens. His dean follows begrudgingly. Vincent can't blame him. It's an uncharacteristically chilly May evening—the mercury didn't go above ten degrees all day. In the dark, it's far colder. Their breath mists in the air. They're both clothed in their cassocks and nothing additional. Thomas shrinks into his, reminiscent of the turtle Vincent holds. He keeps his smile to himself.

Luckily, the pond isn’t far—at least for a priest. For a turtle, it’s quite the journey. Before long, it appears on the path ahead.

“These creatures have a death wish,” grumbles Thomas. “I swear, I have to rescue at least one a week. You’d think they want to get run over.”

“Of course they don’t!” Vincent strokes a reassuring thumb over Goffredo’s shell. “They just want to see Rome.”

“They have everything they need in the Vatican gardens.”

“And I have everything I need in Vatican City, but that doesn’t mean I don't wish to see beyond,” Vincent counters.

Or, almost everything—he won't when Thomas resigns next month. Vincent feels like he sits under the pendulum of a giant clock, whooshing over his head with each passing day. Impossible to ignore, and yet he tries, because the thought of Thomas leaving him makes him dizzy at best and queasy at worst.

He hasn't brought it up. If he does, it'll become a concrete thing, not just an abstract worry that keeps him up at night. Thomas will either tell him he's off to a monastery that he's already chosen—likely in a place so remote that Vincent will have no chance of ever seeing him again—or remember that he wanted to retire to a monastery in a place so remote that Vincent will have no chance of ever seeing him again.

Vincent tightens his hold on Goffredo. This place is a prison, sometimes.

“I'm sorry,” says Thomas. “You're right.”

They come to a stop at the edge of the pond. Turtles lounge in groups both in the water and out. In his peripheral vision, Vincent sees Thomas hang his head.

He reprimands himself. The Vatican is a beautiful place. There is so much good that he can do from here, as Thomas frequently reminds him.

It's just a little harder to remember when he considers the prospect of living out the rest of his days here without his dean.

“Don’t be sorry,” says Vincent. “You're right. I can do good from here. It's part of God's plan.”

“Still,” Thomas protests. “It is a tragedy. You never saw Rome properly. And now, you can’t.”

“It’s alright, Thomas—”

Thomas’ hand finds his shoulder and squeezes. Vincent melts into the pressure.

“Sorry,” Thomas mumbles. “Sorry.”

They linger at the edge of the pond, as if frozen. Still clutching Goffredo, Vincent imagines himself closing the distance between their sides until they're pressed together like they were on the plane back from Greece. Vincent woke with his face buried in a cassock that smelled of incense, pine sap, soap, and a touch of Chios sunshine. He stole a long moment enjoying the warm sensation of their bodies aligned, and let Thomas take his weight for just a while longer.

Then, when the plane came to a stop on the tarmac, he stirred, alerting Thomas that he was conscious. His dean had fussed over him, straightening his zucchetto with a wider smile than usual.

Oddly, Vincent swore he saw tear tracks on his face. But then Aldo had started barking at the front of the plane—about Tedesco, naturally, who apparently had tweeted something inappropriate. When Vincent looked again, the tracks were gone.

Now, he wishes to repeat that moment. He wants to press close and commit Thomas’ scent to memory, before it leaves him forever. Instead, Goffredo struggles in his grasp, seemingly understanding that he has been reunited with his brethren. Thomas takes note. And the moment passes, squandered.

Vincent extends Goffredo towards Thomas, biting back his regret. He shouldn't be seen cuddling his dean in the Vatican gardens, anyway.

“Would you like to put him back?” he asks instead.

Thomas frowns. “Not particularly. I still can’t believe you named a turtle Goffredo.”

“Well, the whole Curia is here.” Vincent gestures to a smaller turtle lounging on the lip of the pond. “That’s Agnes. And the one that just dove into the water is Aldo.”

Thomas’ frown melts into something softer. “What about that one?” he asks, referring to the turtle slowly, but determinedly making its way towards Vincent’s beat-up Converse. Its shell is bisected by a jagged scar that has long healed over—Vincent assumes from a brush with a vehicle. It's the most distinctive turtle here in both appearance and personality—Vincent finds it away from the pond more than any others.

“That one’s my favorite,” he answers plainly. “His name is Thomas.”

To Vincent’s surprise, Thomas’ face flushes a lovely pink. Perhaps he has been too transparent. He fights his own blush. Desperate for a distraction, he thrusts Goffredo at Thomas again.

“Here, you do the honors.”

This time, Thomas doesn’t protest. He takes the turtle. “Alright, alright, here…”

He crouches, lowering Goffredo to the water, but halfway down, he gasps.

“Cramp!” he yelps, “Ouch, that’s—”

He reaches for his calf with one hand, and clings to Goffredo with the other. But the movement is sudden—he overbalances. And while most people would have released the turtle, already held over the water, Thomas seems determined to guarantee Goffredo’s safety—meaning that he topples into the pond with a triumphant splash.

“Thomas!” Vincent cries—and then, instinctively, jumps in after him.

The water is frigid. It stinks of the green algae that floats on the surface. Vincent is certain he’s covered in it, but doesn’t spare a thought for his white cassock. He finds Thomas and hauls upward until they break the surface, soaked and sputtering. Luckily, it's not very deep.

“¡Dios, Tomás!” he gasps, clutching Thomas to his chest. “Are you alright?”

Thomas grasps weakly at Vincent's shoulders and groans. “Fine. I’m probably dehydrated. How humiliating…”

Their cassocks billow out from their bodies beneath the water. Green swirls with white, with black with scarlet piping. Goffredo casually swims away, seemingly unbothered and unharmed. Thomas, soaked to the bone with his thinning hair plastered to his head, gives the impression of a half-drowned cat.

Vincent clears his throat. “Your zucchetto is crooked,” he observes.

Thomas doesn’t move to fix it, instead keeping his hands on Vincent. “Yes, well. You have a lilypad on your head.”

The sound of rapid footsteps is all the warning Vincent gets before two Swiss guards appear, panting and panicked.

“Your Holiness!” gasps one.

“Your Eminence!” gasps the other.

Thomas and Vincent glance at the guards, then each other.

And then, Vincent's zucchetto floats past them, seemingly having swapped places with the lilypad.

Vincent bursts out laughing. What a sight they must make—two priests, clinging to each other in a freezing turtle pond, covered in gunk. He didn't even laugh this hard during the Pizza Debacle. A slow smile spreads across Thomas’ face, then he's laughing, too.

And that frees Vincent. He throws his head backs and laughs even harder, face tilted towards the Roman sky. He clutches Thomas close, clinging to his collar, and thanks God for blessing him with a best friend.

September 2017

For the second time that day, Thomas finds himself standing before a nasone.

Hardly surprising, given the weather. It's a godforsaken thirty-five degrees, and there's not a cloud in the sky. And while the Colosseum is beautiful and sweeping, it's also an oven with little shade to speak of at midday. Vincent's awe was a wonderful distraction while they were in it, but now that they're back amongst the crowds in the surrounding area, he can think of little other than how unpleasantly hot he is.

Hence, the nasone. It's on a quiet, shaded street east of the park they're visiting later. Vincent sped up when he spotted it.

“Dios,” he says now, drinking from the spigot. “How is it so cold?”

Thomas doesn't know. He's distracted by Vincent's long fingers, splayed across his hip for balance. The touch burns—pleasantly.

These are not appropriate thoughts, especially given the circumstances. He thinks of the incident two nights ago; the way Vincent shook as he sobbed into Thomas' cassock. He thinks of lunch, when he showed Vincent the picture of the now-healing turtle from Aldo. Vincent had completely shut down.

And after spending most of his time for the better part of a year with Vincent, Thomas knows what that means: something is upsetting him, and he's not sharing it.

It could be the turtle itself. But Thomas suspects it isn't. And he doesn't want to pry, but he's supposed to be leaving the Vatican next month and abhors the idea of not knowing what's troubling Vincent even more than he abhors the idea of leaving.

But he can't stay. Vincent is adjusted. And Thomas’ usefulness has dried up.

Vincent finishes drinking. He straightens and wipes his mouth with the back of his arm. The action is strangely childlike. It provokes a wave of protectiveness in Thomas that has no outlet.

“Your turn,” says Vincent.

So Thomas drinks. And because he can't help himself, he clings to Vincent for balance with more boldness than usual. He anchors his hand on his waist and reassures himself with the strength of his obliques beneath his sweaty shirt.

When he's done, he finds Vincent scanning up and down the street. What for, he's unsure. This area is far enough from the Colosseum that it's not thick with crowds, just people walking alone or occasionally in pairs.

Then, he turns to Thomas. “Cover me, okay?”

“What—”

Vincent yanks off the sunglasses and bucket hat and shoves them into Thomas’ chest. Thomas accepts them automatically with a wordless yelp of protest. Vincent is as distinctive as he is beautiful, and now he's completely exposed.

Or he is, until he pitches forward and dunks his head beneath the nasone.

“Vincent,” Thomas hisses, “this is a horrible idea!”

“Hace calor, Tomás. I'm burning up,” protests Vincent, head beneath the stream. “You try wearing a bucket hat in thirty-five degree weather.”

That shuts Thomas up. Sighing, he clusters closer to better hide Vincent from passerby.

Vincent soaks his head, his face, most of his shirt. “Amazing,” he breathes. “Straight from the Kingdom of Heaven.”

He rises. Water drips off his nose, across his lips, over his cheeks. Thomas, leaned on the nasone to shield him, is so close that he doesn't miss a single detail. Vincent's dark eyelashes have clustered together. The inky lock of hair that always spills across his face is now plastered to his forehead.

Their gazes meet. Vincent exhales. His breath fans across Thomas’ face.

For a long moment, they look at each other.

Thomas wonders if Vincent will kiss him.

It's not the first time he's had that thought. There was, of course, the lake last month. The difference then was that it was pitch dark, they were both completely nude, and that Thomas dismissed the prospect the moment it crossed his mind.

He and Vincent are friends. Best friends. And sure, they touch more than most friends do, but it makes sense, given their vocation. They are both touched-starved by nature. Their only intimacy is each other.

It was easy to write off then. It is not so much now. He stares into Vincent's dark eyes and swears he sees the earth and sun aligning in the vacuum of space to cast a guilty shadow on the moon.

Because last month, at the lake—in the lake—Thomas did not know if he wanted to be kissed.

Now, he does.

Oh.

No sooner does the thought manifest that a shout sounds from down the street—two hotel workers, either done with their shift or on break, boisterous with freedom. Thomas’ eyes snap to them; so do Vincent's. Abruptly, Thomas remembers that he is standing with the Pope, plain as day, in the middle of a Roman street.

Instinctively, he drops the bucket hat back onto Vincent's head, like one might do with a zucchetto. With his palm still spread wide over his crown, he meets Vincent's gaze, their faces close.

“That could've been bad,” Vincent whispers.

“I told you,” grumbles Thomas, heart thudding a staccato against his ribcage.

He raises the pink-framed sunglasses in the scant centimeters between their chests. Not breaking eye contact, Vincent takes them, their fingers brushing. Only once he slides them up his nose is Thomas released from his spell.

Vincent steps back first.

“There's a liquor store over there,” he softly says, gesturing with his chin to something over Thomas’ shoulder. “Let's go find that vintage for Aldo.”

Thomas swallows. Tries to reorient himself in time and space.

“Yes,” he agrees. “Let's.”

May 2017

What dignity Thomas retains as the Swiss Guard helps him out of the turtle pond is lost when he begins shivering in the frigid air. Vincent does, too, but Thomas is worse—before long, his body is practically convulsing with it.

That's how he ends up in the papal apartments, wrapped in a nest of towels and blankets with half the staff of the Casa Santa Marta fawning over him. Vincent's personal doctor is summoned, who diagnoses Thomas with mild hypothermia and advises that he should stay here for the night.

“There's no need,” Thomas insists through a shiver once he's gone. “I'll be fine at home, don't trouble yourselves.”

Vincent, who at least had the grace to shower while Thomas was being poked and prodded, frowns, his face creasing with concern. Dressed in gray sweatpants and a white pullover hoodie so oversized that his form swims in it, he projects an air of domestic normalcy that makes something pleasant unfurl in Thomas' gut. His hair is still damp, and the sight of his bare, slender feet on the deeply colored Persian rug is entirely disarming. Thomas shouldn't be so affected—it's just Vincent. And it's not as if they haven't met in the papal apartments before. He's just never seen him so casually clothed.

“Don't be ridiculous,” says Sister Agnes. “I can hear your teeth chattering, Eminence. You will remain here tonight. I'll have the sisters prepare the adjacent suite for you.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Sister Agnes. In the meantime, I can warm up our dean. A hot shower is certainly in order. He can use mine.”

Thomas opens his mouth to protest, but Sister Agnes speaks first. “I’ll bring spare clothes, Your Holiness.”

“Nonsense,” says Vincent. “I have some he can borrow.”

And so Thomas is cajoled into the Pope's bathroom by the Pope himself.

“Vincent, this is unnecessary,” he protests as Vincent unpeels him from his nest of blankets and towels. He tries and fails to suppress another shiver.

“I can feel you shaking,” Vincent counters, guiding him across the room with two gentle hands on his shoulder blades. “Don't worry me, dearest Thomas. Take a shower—unless you're too weak to disrobe alone? Would you like me to undress you?” He smirks. “I'm sure Aldo would love if I did. I can hear the marriage jokes from here.”

Thomas’ cheeks heat. He shuts the bathroom door in Vincent's face. “You're not funny!” he barks through the wood.

Vincent only laughs. Despite the circumstances, something light and bubbly wedges itself beneath Thomas’ sternum.

He's so preoccupied processing the events of the last hour that he doesn't register that this is truly Vincent's shower until he picks up the soap. It smells just like him. Thomas didn't even notice Vincent had a scent, but now he realizes: the Holy Father smells of lemony soap and water. It's subtly herbaceous. Thomas recalls catching a whiff of it on the plane last month.

It's nice. Not overbearing. For an indeterminate amount of time, he stands beneath the stream of steaming water and inhales the bar clutched in his palms.

A knock startles him from his trance.

“Thomas?” says Vincent through the door. “I'm going to leave some clothes on the counter.”

It takes a moment for him to find his voice. “Alright, thank you!” he calls back.

The door opens. Thomas wonders if Vincent can see the shape of his body beyond the shower curtain. He wonders why he cares. Then the door shuts, and he forces himself into motion, lathering Vincent's soap across his skin until the scent of pond water is washed from him.

He emerges ten minutes later, dressed in clothes that smell like Vincent as much as his skin does. The sweatpants are a little short—his pale, knobby ankles make a pathetic display—but the black sweatshirt fits him perfectly. And it's warm—his shivers are subsiding, though his hands and feet remain freezing.

Vincent sits on one of the two long, leather sofas in his receiving room. Spread before him on the coffee table are two mugs of hearty soup, a basket of crusty bread, and a bottle of wine. He immediately rises when he spots Thomas, gaze darting from head-to-toe, as if assessing him for injuries.

“There you are! Are you warm enough? Does everything fit?”

Thomas glances at his naked ankles. Vincent’s eyes follow. His shoulders slacken; his expression eases.

“Oh,” he softly says. “I’ll get you some socks. Sit down—the sisters were kind enough to bring dinner to us, and I’d like to get some soup in you.”

He disappears towards his bedroom. Unsure of what else to do, Thomas sinks onto the couch.

He feels like he's being doted on. Shouldn't it be the other way around? It's his job to manage Vincent, and yet the soup smells good, and the sofa is comfortable, and his limbs feel heavy. That fall took more out of him than he realized. It's a miracle he didn't hurt himself. It's a miracle Vincent didn't, either. Thomas isn't sure how he ended up in the pond. He must have taken him with him—there's no way he would have willingly jumped.

Vincent reappears, a colorful, oversized pair of socks clutched in his hands. “These are my warmest,” he says, dropping to his knees before Thomas.

“Wait,” Thomas protests, “I can do it.”

“I know you can. But let me,” insists Vincent. “Don't you remember what I said coming back from Greece? It’s been too long since I’ve had someone to care for.”

Thomas relaxes, resigned. Vincent’s hand is warm on his tepid ankle. With gentle movements, he slides a sock onto his foot.

“Vincent,” Thomas mumbles.

Vincent, already reaching for the second sock, pauses. “Yes?”

“It's nice—to be cared for. Thank you.”

Something warms in Vincent's eyes. He gathers Thomas’ hands in his and kisses his knuckles, his breath hot and his lips dry. Thomas shivers. He must still be cold.

“There is no one I would rather do this for, my dean,” says Vincent. “Now, here. Hold out your other foot so we can eat.”

With his feet protected against the elements—in thick, baby blue socks with a pattern of repeating turtles—they start dinner.

The soup helps, marginally. His hands remain ice, and his feet aren't much better. But Thomas hardly notices, distracted by Vincent, who sits close enough that their knees touch.

“How are you feeling?” Vincent asks as they're finishing. He tops off their wine—they're down to the dregs of the bottle, and Thomas is feeling it. “Warm enough?”

Thomas shrugs. “The humiliation is worse than any physical side-effects. You recovered so easily.”

“I'm younger, and didn't have a debilitating cold after the conclave,” says Vincent. “Give yourself grace. And you didn't answer my question.”

Thomas flexes his fingers. They're pale, and still chilled. “I'm sure my extremities will warm up eventually.”

Vincent reaches for his hand. “Goodness,” he says, frowning as he squeezes him. “Are your toes much better?”

“I'm fine, really—”

Vincent has already reached for his feet, his chest pressed to Thomas’ thighs as he tests their temperature.

“You need another blanket,” he declares. “The sisters took the others to the wash—hang on.”

He disappears towards his bedroom.

“That's not necessary!” Thomas calls after him. Surely he's not so pathetic. “Vincent!”

Vincent re-emerges with a fluffy white duvet Thomas is almost certain belongs on his bed. He tosses it over Thomas, then tucks the end between his thigh and the sofa. “Of course it’s necessary. I don't want you getting sick.”

Thomas sighs. “Don't you think this is a little much?”

“Hardly, if it keeps my dearest dean healthy,” says Vincent. “Come on, have fun with it. It's like we're having a sleepover. I never have such leisurely company, and with my favorite member of the Curia, no less. We should watch something…”

There's true delight in his voice. Thomas is speechless as Vincent ducks beneath the other end of the blanket and again sits close enough that their legs touch.

“What do you say?” he asks.

The entire duvet smells of lemon and herbs. Vincent definitely took it from his bed. Now that Thomas is swathed in it, he finds he has little reason to move or protest. He sags into the couch cushions, into Vincent.

“Oh, alright,” he concedes.

Smiling, Vincent takes the remote from the coffee table and turns on the modestly sized television on the far wall. The news is on, showing footage of Vincent's meeting with a foreign diplomat earlier today. Thomas spots himself lingering over Vincent's shoulder, as he often does during such events. To his surprise, he doesn't look nearly as dour as he often did in footage from Paul VII’s meetings.

“Oh,” says Vincent. “Don't think I'll ever get used to that. Did you?”

“Not really,” says Thomas. “I signed up to be a priest, not a politician, and yet…”

Vincent breathes a laugh, then changes the channel. The impression of himself over Vincent's shoulder is left on Thomas’ retinas. They're together so often. They share so many meetings. Who will take his place when he resigns next month?

The thought makes him uncomfortable. Will his replacement know how Vincent takes his coffee, or his working habits, or that he's named his beloved turtles after the Curia? Will he be able to practice Spanish and Italian with him?

Is he doing him a disservice by leaving? Thomas has wondered for months. He's lost sleep. And he's so uncertain that he hasn't even begun to consider possible monasteries to retire to. If he starts searching, that'll make it real.

But he said he would resign. And what use is he anyway? He's just an old, used-up cardinal. A manager, nothing divine. It's a miracle that Vincent isn't insulted by Thomas' presence.

Still…he thinks of the plane last month, of the feeling of warmth that washed over him. Ever since, prayer has been easier. More productive. Being close to Vincent has brought him closer to God.

Vincent, still channel surfing, finally lands on something that involves a talking panda and kung-fu.

“Oh, I love this one,” he says.

Thomas clears his throat, quashing the death spiral of self-doubt corroding his insides. “What's it called?”

“Kung-Fu Panda.”

“Oh.” Thomas snorts. “I think I could have inferred that.”

Vincent's laughter is music to his ears. “Will you watch with me?”

“Of course,” says Thomas.

And so they settle into the sofa, finish their wine, and watch Kung-Fu Panda. Thomas isn't sure how it happens, or if it's him that instigates it, or Vincent, or both of them, but he ends up leaned against one arm of the sofa with his legs stretched out the length of it. Vincent lies behind him, his head propped on Thomas' bicep.

It's…God. The plane did something to him. Sharing this much warmth with Vincent makes him realize he missed the press of his body, the reassurance of his proximity. His limbs feel heavy—the wine is probably contributing to that. He drank more than he typically would. But at least his hands and feet aren't cold anymore.

Vincent's breaths are even with his. When the movie ends, they don't move. The credits roll; commercials follow. Thomas can't see Vincent, only feel and hear him. So when he sighs and presses his forehead into Thomas’ bicep, like an oversized cat nuzzling their person, he grows concerned.

“Is…everything alright?” he asks.

They should probably get out of this position. Perhaps that's what Vincent is trying to tell him. But instead, after several deep breaths, he says in a tight voice:

“I'm thinking that next month, you'll be gone.”

It's pained. Sad. Thomas’ stomach bottoms out.

So they're discussing this now. Maybe it'll be easier if they don't have to look at each other.

“Do you not want me to go?” he breathes, not yet allowing himself to hope.

“I could never trap you here,” says Vincent.

“I'm not trapped here. You are.”

“Just because you can still venture out to have an Aperol spritz at a café with the people of Rome doesn't mean you're not trapped here,” Vincent murmurs. He nuzzles into Thomas’ arm again, which sends his heartbeat skittering, for some reason.

“An Aperol spritz?” He scoffs. “That's oddly specific. I've never even had one.”

“Me either,” Vincent admits. “I wonder how they taste.”

Thomas sighs. “Speaking truthfully, I don't feel as if my work here is done. I was thinking that…” He trails off. Takes a breath. “I was thinking I might stay a while longer, if that's something you're okay with. That would be helpful to you.”

His heart thuds loudly. Is he being too transparent? Will Vincent think him pathetic for not wanting to go? Will he resent him?

Vincent's arm wraps around his middle and squeezes. He lets out a long exhale as he does.

“Thomas, you have no idea how helpful you are to me. Of course I don't mind. Stay.”

Thomas is surprised by the relief that floods his chest. He doesn't have to go. He doesn't have to leave Vincent. His place is still by his side, as God told him it was.

“Okay,” he murmurs, “I'll stay.”

“Good,” says Vincent. “That's…a relief. I still need you here, I think.”

Thomas closes his eyes. It's good to be needed.

“So long as I'm helpful, I'll stay,” he promises. “Until you know the Vatican well enough to survive without me. At least until the end of the summer.”

He's not sure why he makes the offer conditional. He'll be helpful and then what? He'll leave? He should've left it open, but can't take the words back now.

Vincent nods against him. “Thank you, my dear dean.”

A smile curves Thomas’ mouth. “Of course, my dear Vincent. Whatever you need. I'll even sneak you into Rome for an Aperol spritz.”

Vincent snorts. “Sounds lovely. Wouldn't that be nice?”

“Wouldn't it?” Thomas chuckles. He pictures Vincent posted at a café table in full papal regalia, smiling over a pair of dark sunglasses.

It's a pleasant vision. A funny joke.

And it'll never happen.

It makes Thomas’ chest ache. Vincent is trapped here. How could he resign and leave him in this beautiful cage, with only the turtles for company?

Vincent squeezes him again, pressing his forehead between Thomas' shoulder blades. He makes a thready noise. Thomas’ heart beats erratically—Vincent's front is plastered the length of his back. He's never been held like this. Now he understands what he's been missing—too late, unfortunately.

“I should get up,” Vincent mumbles. “If the sisters find us like this tomorrow morning, we'll never beat the marriage allegations.”

Thomas flushes, but doesn't move.

“We won't. I should go to bed,” he volunteers mechanically. But the thought of leaving the cocoon of warmth he and Vincent have created is abhorrent. It feels like gravity has doubled. His head is stuffed with fluff. His nose is filled with lemon and herbs. Next door, a Casa Santa Maria suite waits for him, cold and utilitarian. Vincent's embrace is warm and personal.

Neither of them stir. Thomas’ eyelids droop.

“I bet it’s warmer here than next door,” says Vincent, voice thick with drowsiness. “You should stay for a while.”

“Okay,” Thomas breathes, relieved.

“I'll…get up eventually,” says Vincent. “I just…I think I'm a bit drunk. Moving feels difficult.”

“Same.” Thomas tucks his face into the duvet and inhales Vincent, Vincent, Vincent—Vincent, covering him. Vincent behind him. Vincent, keeping him warm. Vincent, clothing him.

Oh, how nice it is to be cared for. To let someone manage him, for once.

“Don’t bother moving,” he finds himself saying. “If the nuns ask, we'll tell them I was very cold—which is true.”

Vincent wiggles further up his body, until his face is pressed into the nape of Thomas’ neck. With each of his exhales, Thomas feels like he's floating. His limbs tingle. Vincent tightens his hold around his middle; he snakes his other arm between the cushions so that he can hold him with both. With a sigh, he pulls Thomas to his chest.

It is bliss.

“You’re my best friend, Thomas,” says Vincent, voice thick with drowsiness.

Thomas' breath catches. The frigidity of the turtle pond feels like a distant memory after a declaration like that. He finds Vincent’s hand, wrapped tightly around his ribcage, and places his own over it.

“You’re mine,” he breathes.

“Oh,” Vincent says, and it sounds almost like a prayer, or a benediction. His nose presses just below Thomas’ hairline. Thomas fights a shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature.

He squeezes Vincent’s hand. Vincent squeezes his waist. Their breaths slow down and sync up. Thomas has never known clothes so soft, a couch so comfortable. He has never been so pleasurably warm.

He slips into sleep, and doesn’t worry about tomorrow.

***

Vincent wakes with a crick in his neck and a numb arm. He’s briefly disoriented—the early morning sun doesn’t slope through his bedroom window like this. Then he registers the scent of pine sap, and it all comes back.

Thomas is still in his arms, asleep. And he’s not leaving the Vatican next month. Vincent can keep him a while longer.

But the sisters will be here soon. As much as he wishes to remain on this couch forever, it’s best if they’re not discovered. Moving as slowly as possible so as to not wake his companion, Vincent extracts his arms and sits up, only to find—oh.

Sister Agnes is already here.

She hunches over the other side of the coffee table, frozen in place, holding the tray that holds last night’s dishes. Evidently, she was trying to not disturb them. Now, they stare at each other, as if they’ve both been caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

Vincent speaks—or, whispers—first.

“He was cold,” he offers in hasty explanation. “Tired.”

She seems to relax, her gaze falling to Thomas. “But he’s alright?”

“I made sure of that,” he says, willing his heartbeat to normalize. He expected Agnes to be judgmental, or awkward. Instead, there’s something kind in her typically stern expression.

She straightens with the tray. “Good. Nobody ever does. He's always the one that cares for everybody else.”

She sweeps towards the door, but pauses in the frame. She turns slowly. Vincent waits.

“I'll handle the adjoining suite,” she finally says. “Wouldn't want anybody getting the wrong idea.”

Vincent swallows. Right. If any of the nuns that set up the suite for Thomas see it's gone unused, it'll look suspicious.

“Thank you, Sister Agnes,” he whispers.

“Of course, Your Holiness.”

She leaves. Vincent exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

Thomas goes on slumbering. Vincent watches him for long seconds. And he allows himself to think what he hasn't dared to before:

I love him.

I love him, I love him.

September 2017

It is hotter inside the liquor store than outside, despite the dust-caked fans whirring at full speed at either end of the shop. An old Italian man that looks like he predates the fall of Austria-Hungary sits at the counter, smoking a cigarette. An 80's-era radio on the shelf behind him plays a static-thick rendition of Andrea Bocelli's Con te Partirò.

He doesn't glance up as Thomas and Vincent enter, which is fine with Vincent, given the incident in front of the nasone minutes earlier.

“Ciao,” says Thomas anyway, passing him and pausing to assess the store with his hands on his hips.

It's a bit of a labyrinth. Shelves of wine stretch towards the ceiling, forming narrow aisles. Earthquake hazard, Vincent thinks, pushing back memories of red wine pooling with blood on a glass-strewn floor in Mexico.

These, at least, are bolted to the ceiling. Thomas enters one aisle, Vincent the adjacent.

“Any thoughts on what we should get Aldo?” Thomas’ voice drifts between the shelves.

“You know wine far better than I do, my dearest dean,” Vincent replies. It's true. Vincent's life up until this year has not had him crossing paths with many sommeliers. “I'd say get two bottles of whatever you find—one for him and one for us in the park—but that seems unbecoming of our profession.”

Thomas’ footsteps halt in the next aisle. Vincent stops, too. Blue eyes peer at him through the gaps of dusty bottles.

“But that sounds pleasant,” says Thomas.

“Well—”

Thomas’ voice drops to a whisper. “You are not a priest today, my dear Vincent. Just a man. You will have your wine, and you will have your Aperol spritz.”

“I will be in a state by the time we return home,” Vincent half-protests.

“Then I shall dunk you beneath another nasone to sober you up.”

Vincent snorts. “Very well. Do your worst.”

Thomas hmmms, then continues down his aisle. Leaving him to the wine, Vincent meanders. There's a lot of limoncello—likely for tourists, given this location. There's also a large display of Aperol at the end of the aisle, stacked in another dangerous looking pyramid. Just over its top, he spots Thomas, face in profile as he assesses a wall of red wines.

Vincent stares, forgetting himself. Rarely does he see Thomas in street clothes. He loves the cassock, but right now, Thomas has never looked less like a priest. He's wearing the white Converse Vincent gave him for his birthday in July. His billowy linen shirt and creamy chinos combined with the baseball hat make him look like a vacationer. Vincent pictures him as the rich owner of a yacht, sailing between Greek islands. Imagines him stripping to his underwear and plunging into cobalt waters.

He adds himself to the vision. In this reality, they were never priests—they met elsewhere. They've been married for decades. They have two adopted and grown children. They made money doing something lucrative, and donated most of it. Save for the yacht. Vincent supposes that doesn't really suit them, does it? He changes the yacht to a more modest sailboat. That's better. Thomas would make a good sailor, he thinks.

Andrea Bocelli's opera hits a staticy crescendo. Thomas picks up a bottle of wine, studies it, and puts it back.

Vincent does this a lot—usually when he can't sleep, which is increasingly often. He imagines different versions of himself and Thomas, how they met, how they fell in love. As theater actors in New York City. As seminarians that abandon the idea of priesthood to pursue their own happiness. As university professors fixated on history and theology. By happenstance, at home in Mexico, if Vincent had never left.

It's deeply comforting. Vincent sees himself cooking for Thomas, or Thomas tending an abundant vegetable garden. He fantasizes about endless nights cuddled on a couch, or, when he's especially unhinged, all the places they'd kiss.

Not that Thomas has ever indicated that his feelings go beyond friendship. And Vincent will never ask for more—Thomas seems to be above that, anyway. Perfect, immune to base desires. Vincent once overheard Aldo complaining that Thomas has never been tempted by anyone. That doesn't mean that Vincent won't always be helplessly in love with him, no matter how far he strays from the Vatican.

The radio continues playing, and he’s struck by such despair that he clasps a shelf to steady himself. It's hardly fair—he imagines a thousand permutations of a different life with Thomas, but he's stuck in a reality where he'll slip from his hands like water. It's less than a month away. And Vincent could beg him to stay, but then Thomas would ask why, and Vincent would have to admit just how deep his love goes.

He's losing him. The fear comes like it did two nights ago, abrupt and crushing, similar to the daunting anxiety that sometimes finds him between consciousness and sleep that reminds him he'll age and die within the walls of the Vatican. That's it. Last stop.

He breathes deeply, trying to steady his erratic heartbeat. Not yet. Not yet. He has him a few more weeks. He has him today. And he'll always hold Thomas in his heart.

Con te Partirò finishes with a flourish. Thomas selects another bottle of wine, then searches the store—for Vincent. He visibly relaxes when their eyes meet.

“This one's good,” he says over the start of another Bocelli song. He grabs an additional bottle and approaches. “Shall we?”

Vincent nods, throat too tight to speak. He swallows, fighting it. He will not repeat two nights ago. He's supposed to be happy today—that was the whole point of Thomas sneaking him out.

He will enjoy this day as Thomas said: as a man, not a priest. And when his best friend departs for his new life next month, Vincent will hold this memory tight. He'll keep it close to his chest for lonely nights and lonely days, and smile remembering the sight of Thomas' face when he dunked his head beneath that nasone.

He stands close as Thomas checks out, their arms brushing. It feels right. Today is a good day.

He's going to cherish every second.

Chapter Text

August 2017

With the heat of the summer comes the first papal visit to Castel Gandolfo in nearly two decades.

Paul VII hated the papal summer home. Called it ostentatious, unnecessary. Vincent has other opinions—mainly, that letting it sit unused is ostentatious and unnecessary—which he shares with Thomas. So at the end of July, he packs up the Vatican's key staff and sets off.

Thomas is not, technically, key staff. He reiterates this after Vincent repeatedly asks him to come anyway.

“My dearest Thomas,” Vincent says one night during the fifth version of this exchange. They're seated by the turtle pond, enjoying the warm evening air. “You may as well be my chief of staff. It will be inconvenient if you don't come.”

“Ray is your personal secretary. Isn't that enough?”

One of the turtles—Thomas recognizes it as his namesake—has found its way to Vincent's feet and is now chomping on the lace of his Converse. Vincent's wearing the black ones today, the same pair he wore to the conclave, though now well-loved and turtle-bitten. Aldo won't let him wear them in public which, in Thomas’ opinion, is entirely reasonable.

“Ray is not my best friend,” Vincent quietly says.

“Exactly,” Thomas replies. “I cannot come just because I am your friend.”

“Why not?” Vincent sounds almost impatient, but he plucks Thomas the Turtle from the ground and puts him in his lap with reverent tenderness. “I'm the Pope, and this is what I want. Does that not count for something?”

“Well—”

“Do you not want to come?”

“Of course I want to come!” Thomas sputters. “Vincent—”

“Then come,” says Vincent. He scratches the turtle's scarred shell. “Please, Thomas. I know I will not have you here forever.”

Thomas swallows, surprised Vincent has brought it up. They haven't discussed his resignation since they extended it. It has remained undefined. But perhaps it shouldn't be.

He finds Vincent's hand, still scratching the turtle, and takes it.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “I'll come. I could use a vacation, anyway.”

There is some degree of compromise. Thomas doesn't leave until a week after Vincent. He's cranky the whole ride there. It's too damn hot. Work has been stressful. Nothing gets done in Rome in August, and yet he tried to be productive anyway. Instead, he spun his wheels and spent most of his time missing Vincent. He should have just gone with the rest of the group. Would anyone have really said anything? Why was he so stubborn?

He finds Vincent in some of the papal summer home’s less rigid gardens, seated in the generous shade of a large tree with a laptop and several folders and notebooks spread across a patio table. He wears a cappello romano with his white cassock. It would look ridiculous on anybody else, but on him, it looks like high fashion. Thomas can easily picture him on a runway in Paris or New York—at least until Vincent spots him. He rises hastily, then trips on the hem of his cassock as he strides over. He knocks his own hat off with the force with which he hugs Thomas.

“You're here,” he breathes, kissing Thomas’ cheek. “Thank God; I've been irritable without you.”

Thomas’ heart flutters. “I'm sorry, I should have joined from the beginning. Vincent, your hat—”

“Ah—fickle thing, but it keeps the sun from my eyes.” Vincent untangles himself and stoops to retrieve it. When he straightens, he's smiling. “Shall I show you around?”

And so Thomas walks with Vincent through the sprawling gardens, then the home itself, and its seemingly endless rooms. Curiously enough, when Vincent shows him through the papal living quarters, they look remarkably unoccupied. In fact, there's no trace of Vincent here at all.

“I don't understand,” Thomas says. “Did you pick a different room?”

“Hmm? No.” Vincent frowns. “Did I not tell you? We rented something smaller, on the water.”

‘Smaller’ is a relative term. It seems that Ray has rented a villa by the lakeside, again for Vincent's ‘key' staff. Vincent explains on the ride there.

“The papal home is beautiful,” he says, gazing out the window towards the cerulean lake, bluer than the cloudless sky. “But it is formal. Not much different from the Vatican, frankly. I couldn't relax there, so Ray found this. The Swiss Guard was able to secure the perimeter easily enough, so off we went. I've been returning to the palace when I need to get work done, which is most mornings. But the afternoons…I have grown lazy.”

Thomas understands when they arrive. The villa, glowing white beneath a red-tiled roof, is built into the slope leading to the lakeshore and surrounded by vegetation. The gravel driveway is at least a half-kilometer, lined by olive trees. There are eleven bedrooms. Thomas is given the one next to Vincent's. After a week of not seeing him, the proximity is a comfort.

He's not sure how he'll survive their separation once he resigns. Agonizingly, probably. The pain will dull with time, as it does with most things. This is what he tells himself.

As afternoon fades to evening, and evening to night, the rest of Vincent's ‘key’ staff appear. First: Ray, who spends an hour with Thomas catching him up on the activity here. Then, Aldo, followed by several other cardinals that make up Vincent's team. Sister Agnes is last, emerging to serve dinner. She pats Thomas on the arm and tells him she's glad he showed up.

The meal is unhurried and comforting. Vincent ushers Thomas into the seat on his right and touches him more often than usual, as if making up for the deficit of the last week. Thomas finds himself doing the same—a hand on Vincent's shoulder, his knee, his arm—reassured by the warmth of his companion.

By the time they stagger to bed, he's drowsy and slow with food and wine. He and Vincent embrace in the hallway in front of their bedrooms for longer than is proper, but Thomas has been apart from him too long to care. He cups Vincent's head in his hand as they hug, stroking his thumb over soft, ink-black hair shot through with silver. Vincent presses his face into his shoulder and breathes long and slow. Thomas smells lemon and herbs.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I should have come from the start. I don't know what I was on about.”

Vincent hums. “It's alright. You're here now.”

Vaguely, Thomas wonders why he and Vincent have become so codependent. A relationship like this should set off alarm bells in his head, but then he recalls the plane, and how much easier prayer has come since, and can't bring himself to condemn it. The depth of this friendship is good. It's reassuring to have someone looking out for him as much as he is for them.

So he lets himself melt into Vincent. Takes in his scent and his warmth and tucks his face into his neck.

“I'm sorry, my dearest Vincent,” he repeats, though he's not apologizing for the same thing. He's sorry for his attachment, his reluctance to leave. Still, he tightens his hold. He nuzzles into his skin. He must press too hard, because Vincent stumbles backwards into the wall. Thomas follows him, their limbs still entwined.

“Thomas,” Vincent chokes, pulling him to his chest. “Ah—there's no need to apologize.”

Thomas doesn't reply, just hums lowly. Vincent is trapped between him and the wall. The reassuring press of their bodies is as comforting as it was on the plane, on the couch. He's craved it even longer than Vincent has been gone. To have it again feels like his body is snapping into realignment.

“Tomás,” Vincent murmurs in his ear. “Mi Tomás…”

They stay like that for long minutes. Vincent strokes the back of his head. When they finally part, he kisses Thomas' cheek.

Thomas floats to bed, feeling better than he has in weeks.

September 2017

They deviate from the itinerary.

Not majorly—but when they step into the park, they find an outdoor café selling Aperol spritzes. Vincent can't help but stare at the vibrantly orange beverages on tables beneath vibrantly orange Aperol umbrellas. Thomas gets the hint. So they swap the siesta and the spritz and snag a spot.

Thomas is oddly quiet—or maybe Vincent is imagining it. It's not like he's particularly talkative either, with everything on his mind. They place their orders and pass the next five minutes looking at each other from the corners of their eyes.

“Doing alright?” Thomas asks, blessedly shattering the unbearable silence.

“Hmmm? Yes,” says Vincent. It's not a lie if he's speaking superficially. Physically, he's fine. His heart, on the other hand…

“Lots of people-watching,” Thomas remarks. He nods towards a table on the opposite side of the patio, where two Italian women on the cusp of middle age smoke cigarettes. Several butts smoulder in the ashtray between them. Clearly, they've been here a while. One complains about her husband while the other nods along.

“Lazy,” she spits, gesticulating.

Two tables away, a group of Americans sits looking stunned and dehydrated. At least this café is in the shade, beneath a canopy of trees so tall that he wonders how much of the city's history they've borne witness to. This park in particular is packed with ruins—ancient Roman bathhouses to the north, and Nero's Golden House practically beneath their feet.

He should be awed. Instead, he feels almost as stunned as the Americans.

Their server brings their drinks. Vincent has to remember to smile.

“This is your first spritz too, right?” he asks Thomas as their waiter leaves.

“It is. Cheers.”

They clink their glasses. Thomas seems to be faking his levity as much as Vincent is. He sips his drink—it's both sweet and bitter—and thinks it's fitting for the situation he's found himself in.

“Hmm,” rumbles Thomas. “I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. What do you think?”

Vincent shrugs. “I'd heard they were bitter. But I like it.”

“Right.” Thomas frowns. His blue eyes pierce into Vincent's. He studies him intensely—he gives a fantastic impression of an X-ray machine.

“Something is on your mind,” he finally concludes.

Vincent swallows. He sips his drink to avoid answering.

“Please, Vincent, tell me what's wrong,” Thomas pleads, expression soft. “I know since the turtle—”

“It's not the turtle,” Vincent insists. It's not. And he can't explain the relation without bearing his entire soul, so instead he asks a question that has been eating at him for a while, but he's never had the courage to voice: “Why did the late Holy Father refuse your resignation?”

Thomas’ lips part. He leans back in his chair. “Oh.”

He's pale. He won't meet Vincent's gaze. He takes a long drag of his spritz, wincing.

“This tastes terrible,” he says, then drinks again.

“Thomas,” Vincent tries.

Thomas shrugs, more interested in the surface of the table than Vincent.

“I know he loved you.” Vincent speaks to fill the silence, hoping it'll trigger a reply. “That's hardly surprising—you're easy to love. Adored by the Curia. Was it that? He didn't want to let you go?”

“He didn't love me,” Thomas murmurs.

Vincent's words die on his tongue.

“He didn't love me—not anymore,” continues Thomas, voice thick with a vulnerability that Vincent has never heard. “But he needed me. So he made me stay.”

Vincent's breath rattles into his chest, and out. Horror seeps into his blood like ink. Thomas’ shoulders slump forward. He has never looked so small.

“Surely not,” says Vincent.

Finally, Thomas raises his eyes. The blue is shockingly cold.

“I asked to resign,” Thomas recounts. He removes his cap and runs a hand over his thinning hair. “I told him I was struggling with prayer. I told him I wasn't worthy of Rome. He offered no consolation. He just said: ‘Some are chosen to be shepherds, and others are needed to manage the farm. You are not a shepherd. You are a manager. So, manage.’”

Vincent's knuckles have gone white, they're clasping the edge of the patio table so hard. He tastes his own anger—righteous, blooming in his mouth with the same intensity that urged him to speak against Tedesco in the conclave.

“I never saw him again,” Thomas says. “Not living, anyway. He had no use for my company. Had soured towards me. I don't know what I did that caused it, but…”

He trails off, voice brittle. He pulls his cap low over his eyes, leans forward, and takes a long drink of spritz.

“Shepherds are managers,” Vincent manages through the roaring in his skull. “He wasn't in his right mind.”

“Yes, fine. All shepherds are managers,” Thomas grates, eyes still hidden. “But not all managers are shepherds.”

“Thomas—”

“That was my only use to him. A manager. Nothing to do with my work for the Church, or me—”

He takes a heaving breath. It sounds wet, and Vincent still can't see his face.

“It's awful to mourn someone you loved and admired, who in turn was little more than indifferent to you,” Thomas says, voice shaking. A tear carves down his cheek and drips off his chin.

Vincent pushes his drink to a far corner of the table and reaches for Thomas’ hands, the movement urgent. He'd pull him into his lap—as Thomas did for him two nights ago—were that socially acceptable at a patio table in a public park. He squeezes his sympathy and anger into Thomas’ fingers. Thomas squeezes right back.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. “My dearest Thomas, I'm so sorry. It wasn't you, it was him. You are more than just a manager. I wish I'd written down every nice thing I've ever thought about you—it would be the length of a novel. And if I added in Aldo's, and Ray's, and the entire Curia's, it would be an entire encyclopedia set.”

Thomas’ shoulders shake. He cries silently, as if trying to trap his grief. Vincent almost chokes on his rage. How could Paul VII have looked at Thomas, who always continues to give even when he has nothing left, and been so cruel?

He strokes the back of his knuckles. “You are more than a manager, Thomas. Yes, you know when all my meetings are, and who I'm meeting with, and are capable of placating even the most difficult of personalities, but it is more than that. I trust you above all others. I go to you for advice first, always. You are a sounding board and an advisor and the best friend I've ever had. I crave your company, and am childishly cranky when I'm deprived of it. And I do not know of anyone more beloved in the Vatican than you.”

“You,” Thomas manages.

Vincent scoffs. “I am beloved because I am the Pope. You are beloved because of who you are. Are you that oblivious to the admiration of your colleagues? Thomas…”

Thomas’ shoulders hitch. Vincent continues clinging to him.

“I know the love of the Curia will not fix how things ended with the late Holy Father. I know my love won't, either. But do not let the way he treated you negatively impact the way you see yourself. You are the most wonderful man I've ever met. Please, Thomas.”

Thomas' shoulders shake harder. He squeezes Vincent's fingers. Minutes pass. Vincent doesn't dare move. His chest aches. He doubts he'll ever forgive the late Holy Father for this. It's a shame—the man did so much for him. But Thomas comes first, always.

Eventually, as the shadows lengthen and mid-afternoon slips into late afternoon, Thomas straightens. His eyes are dry, but red-rimmed. He gives one final squeeze to Vincent's hand, then withdraws.

“Thank you,” he says, barely audible.

Vincent reaches for his spritz. The ice has almost melted. He doesn’t care.

“I will never tire of you, Thomas,” he says. “You know that, right?”

Thomas’ throat bobs. For a moment, Vincent thinks he'll cry again. But he retains his composure.

“I do now,” he says.

August 2017

Thomas spends the next two weeks in a state of relaxation he hasn't achieved since the month between seminary and his first assignment. In the mornings, he heads up to the papal summer home with Vincent and the rest of the staff to focus on any work that can't be postponed until September. Vincent has decided he would like to open it more broadly to the public, given its lack of use, and dedicate the generated funds to missions aiding migrants. Given the tangle of logistics that requires, Thomas takes the project on. He doesn't mind—it’s a good idea.

After lunch, they return to the villa and spend the afternoons doing little. Thomas gets quality time with everyone—quiet cups of tea with Ray, seated on the shady patio overlooking the lake. Idle chats with Sister Agnes, who eventually succumbs to Thomas’ pleas and allows him to help with the pile of mending she's been working through. And then there are sun-drenched cappuccinos with Aldo at the café down the road that overlooks the lake. They speak little of work, and a lot about Paul VII. Thomas realizes Aldo mourns him too, and feels less bad about it.

And then, there's Vincent. Vincent, who's as bright as their sunny lay-outs on the private, pebbly beach on the villa's property. Vincent basks on a beach towel in nothing but white shorts and a T-shirt, gilding his already brown skin. Thomas sits under an umbrella and spares his own, which is translucent and sensitive enough to give Dracula a run for his money.

There are walks through the garden, and wine on the veranda, and the hammock—oh, Thomas loves the hammock. He hasn't encountered one in decades, but immediately climbs onto the netting when he discovers it strung between the trees at the edge of the sprawling lawn. He falls asleep almost instantly, lulled into slumber as he sways and stares up into the canopy of leaves.

Most days, he escapes to it for at least an hour. He reads endlessly and takes more naps than he ever has. It's usually Vincent that wakes him with a gentle hand on his shoulder or cheek, calling him to dinner. Thomas decides there's nothing better to wake to than his smiling face.

One evening after dinner, the night is so warm that he wanders back out. He lays in the hammock and listens to the wind sigh and thinks about resigning.

He really, really doesn't want to.

October. He'll go in October. Late October. He'll start looking at monasteries when they return to the Vatican.

“I thought I'd find you here.”

Thomas turns his head, though there's no need—he would know Vincent's voice while underwater, or trapped beneath the earth. His dearest friend hovers at the edge of the lawn, dressed in a plain shirt and cotton shorts. He's barefoot—no wonder Thomas didn't hear him.

“Looking for me?” he asks.

Vincent's smile is soft. “That's my typical state of being, yes. I wasn't ready for bed yet.”

Thomas shifts on the hammock, redistributing his weight. “Sit, then.”

So Vincent does. At first, he perches on the edge, but as the night goes on, he leans back against Thomas, their weight easing into each other until somehow, they end up stretched lengthwise. Gravity presses their sides tightly together, their shared mass straining the net. It's delightful.

They fall asleep there. Thomas wakes around three in the morning with a sore neck and Vincent half-sprawled on his chest. He reluctantly urges them to bed. But the memory lodges itself beneath his sternum, small and warm like an ember.

August slips away. Weeks dwindle to days, and finally, one last night. Dinner goes extra long. There's more wine than usual. Thomas is pleasantly light-headed and heavy-limbed by the time they finish, and entirely reluctant to go to bed. The sooner he sleeps, the sooner this is over.

So he retreats to the hammock. He's been in it only minutes when Vincent finds him.

He announces himself with a sigh. “My dearest dean.”

Thomas cracks his eyes open. “My dearest Vincent.”

He's dusted in moonlight. It turns his hair from black to silver, emphasizing the white of his T-shirt. He wears cotton drawstring shorts—blue with a light stripe—and no shoes. None of this is particularly shocking; Thomas has gotten used to this as Vincent's ‘vacation' attire. It doesn't make him any less breathtaking.

“Would you like to walk down to the beach with me?” Vincent asks. “Or are you comfortable where you are?”

“No, I'll come,” Thomas says automatically. “Help me up.”

Vincent takes his hands while he rolls out of the hammock, then they set off towards the water.

“Are you ready to return home?” Vincent asks as they walk.

Thomas shrugs. “I'm mostly packed.”

“I meant mentally.”

“Oh.” Thomas breathes a laugh. “Honestly? I could do another few weeks.”

Vincent smiles. “Me too. But I miss the turtles. I hope they've been alright in my absence.”

“I asked the groundskeepers to keep an even sharper eye on them than usual,” Thomas assures him.

“Of course you did.”

They reach the beach. The ground beneath their feet switches from springy earth to tiny pebbles.

“What about you?” Thomas asks. “Had enough?”

Vincent shrugs one shoulder. “Yes, and no. It is nice to be away from the noise of Rome, but I still can't wander here. I'm constrained to whatever secure property I'm on, no matter where I am. So I suppose it doesn't matter.”

They stop at the water's edge. Thomas, having no reassurance, says nothing, just stands close enough that their arms brush. They're both in short sleeves. Vincent's skin is hot in the places it fleetingly touches his own.

“I'm not saying this wasn't nice,” Vincent continues. “It was wonderful. It was a relief to not be in the public eye. But still, I was never truly alone here. I came with staff. And their presence…hangs. I'm always conscious of my company.”

Thomas hums in agreement. “Solitude is just as important as socialization.”

“Indeed. Or—” Vincent's eyes dart to Thomas— “at least being alone with a close friend. That's why I came down here, actually.”

“Oh?” prompts Thomas, unsure of his meaning.

Vincent meets his gaze again. And then, without another word, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

Thomas would swallow his tongue, were he mid-sentence. It's not every day that one confronts a half-naked pope. And especially not one as beautiful as Vincent, who is all taut skin and slender limbs. His fleeting youth still clings to him.

And then, as if the shirt wasn't enough, Vincent hooks his thumbs in his waistband and pulls both his shorts and underwear off his hips, down his knees, and—

Thomas becomes very interested in the horizon.

The gravel shifts beneath Vincent as he steps out of his clothing. He gives a low chuckle.

“Thomas, you look positively scandalized.”

“Well—”

“I'm going swimming,” Vincent clarifies. “I've wanted to all month, but kept talking myself out of it. Most of the staff can barely handle me in shorts. How would they have rationalized me in a swimsuit?”

“You were shy?” asks Thomas, gaze still fixed ahead.

Vincent hums, contemplating. “Yes. I was. But tonight is my last chance, so I finally worked up the courage.”

The water swishes as he steps in.

“Oh, it's cold,” he says mildly, advancing deeper. Thomas tries not to look, but it's impossible with Vincent in his direct field of vision. His eyes catch on narrow hips and a smooth posterior. He's certain his face has never been so hot.

Luckily, Vincent wades to his waist fairly efficiently. He turns to face Thomas with a wide smile.

“You should join me,” he suggests.

Thomas blinks at him. The suggestion takes longer to process than usual.

“In the lake…?”

“Yes!”

“Naked?”

Vincent laughs. “Yes, Thomas! You don’t want to walk back up to the house in soaking wet underwear, do you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Thomas says, thoughts buzzing like a swarm of bees. Vincent’s body is beautiful. His is not. He’s pale, and thinner than he was in his youth, and his skin has turned to crepe paper in some places. And—wait. He's a priest. He shouldn't care what Vincent thinks.

And yet he does. Why?

Rather than answer that question, he pulls off his shirt. Vincent applauds.

“I knew it! You sat under that umbrella all month staring longingly at this lake!”

“I did,” Thomas admits. And under the pretense of avoiding sunburn, he didn’t go in. But if he really thinks about it, his reasons are similar to Vincent’s. “I didn’t want everyone seeing me in only trunks, either.”

“You deprived them of a beautiful sight.”

Thomas snorts. He reaches for the button of his pants, takes a breath, and just makes himself do it. “Hardly. Nobody wants to see that much of me.”

He shoves his pants to his ankles and determinedly doesn’t think about Vincent’s eyes on him. The darkness softens his ugliest parts, but the moonlight is enough to see most of him. Surely Vincent will notice where his skin sags, and his cock hanging inert between his legs.

But it’s just Vincent, says a voice in his head. Your best friend.

Thomas forces himself to straighten and steps into the chilly water. He doesn’t look at Vincent until he’s past his waist and mostly even with him. To his surprise, he’s frowning.

“What do you mean, nobody wants to see that much of me?” Vincent softly asks.

“Exactly what I said. Nobody likes looking at naked old people,” Thomas retorts.

Vincent folds his arms. “First of all, you’re not even that old. Second of all, even if you were, there is no shame in our bodies. It is a privilege to age, and society should recognize that. And third…” He swallows, then glances away. “You are very beautiful, Thomas. So I don’t know how you could ever think that about yourself. And it displeases me that you do.”

Vincent thinks that he's beautiful? Unbelievable.

“I think you should get your eyes checked,” says Thomas.

Vincent glares at him. “Would it kill you to take a compliment? You are. You're the most elegant man I've ever seen.”

Elegant? Thomas has been called a lot of things—shrewd, pious, British, a manager. No one has ever used elegant.

“It's the way you walk,” Vincent continues. “You never trip over your cassock. And in the way you read. You look very distinguished in your reading glasses. And, I don't know.” He gestures vaguely. “The way you are. The way you're built.”

Thomas doesn't understand what he's getting at.

“Thank you,” he says anyway. And then, realizing he's forgetting his manners, adds: “I think you're beautiful, too.”

Vincent stares at him. The seconds stretch. And then, he sinks beneath the water.

It's a relief, because Thomas just called the Pope beautiful, and somehow that doesn't seem appropriate, even if he's his best friend. Perhaps it's because they've gone for a moonlit swim without a stitch of clothing on. And yet Thomas can't bring himself to regret it. It is a privilege to be so truly alone with Vincent.

Vincent resurfaces, his glorious hair plastered to his head. He says submerged to his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he finally says.

Thomas rambles. “It's true. According to the Vatican Marketing Office, they've sold more items with your image on it in your first year than any other pope—and that's saying something, given you've only been in office nine months.”

Vincent snorts. “Are you backing your compliment up with sales data?”

Thomas’ face heats. “I suppose.”

Slowly, Vincent smiles. And then, he laughs.

There's something about Vincent's laughter—true laughter, not the polite chuckle he often feigns in diplomatic meetings—that makes the tightness in Thomas’ chest unspool. He laughs, too.

“What am I supposed to say?” he manages through his mirth. “Surely it's sacrilegious to call the Pope beautiful, and yet I've gone with my fat mouth—”

Vincent laughs harder. He finds Thomas' hand beneath the water and squeezes.

“I'm naked in a lake, alone save for you,” he points out. “Do you really think I'm the Pope right now? No, I'm just Vincent.”

The statement gives Thomas pause. Vincent has a point—this is probably the most free he's been since he was elected Pope. And there is nowhere else in the world where he can be just himself—not even Rome.

Thomas' laughter sticks in his throat.

It's just not fair.

He gathers Vincent's hands in his and pulls them from the water. He brings his knuckles to his lips and kisses them—not as one would kiss the ring of the Pope, but as one would show affection to a dear friend.

Deep in his chest, his resolve clicks into place. He's taking matters into his own hands.

“I'm doing it,” he says, steely determination settling beneath his diaphragm.

Vincent blinks his warm brown eyes. Their faces are close enough that Thomas can feel his breath. “I'm sorry?”

“I'm going to sneak you out of the Vatican,” Thomas clarifies. “Somehow. I'll figure it out. We'll dress like tourists and go see Rome. And I'll buy you a latte and pizza and an Aperol spritz. We'll sit in a park and people-watch. You won't have to be the Pope that day, you'll be just Vincent.”

Vincent's expression softens. “I don't think it's possible, but the idea of it alone…Thomas…”

He cups Thomas’ face with one wet palm. The cool touch makes him shiver.

“No,” he insists. “Surely I can figure this out. Unless you don't want to go?”

“Of course I want to go!” Vincent's thumb strokes his cheek. “But if you can't find a way, I won't be disappointed. I'm honored that you're even willing to try.”

“Then I'll do it,” says Thomas. “Just you, me, and Rome.”

A gentle smile spreads over Vincent's face. “Oh, Thomas. Querido. I've never had a friend as dear as you.”

There are stars with less gravitational pull than Vincent's expression. Thomas falls into it. They're so close, and their hands are still joined, and Vincent is holding his cheek and somehow Thomas’ free hand has settled on Vincent's nape, his thumb spanning to the hinge of his jaw.

Vincent's eyes trace his face before meeting Thomas’. And Thomas has a sudden thought:

He thinks Vincent might kiss him.

And then, reality crashes back down, and he scolds himself for such silliness. Vincent is the Pope, and Thomas knows nothing of desire, not truly.

“I'm so glad,” he says. “I'm happy to do it for you. I can't resign until I do.”

Immediately, he regrets saying it. Vincent's lips press into a thin line. Sighing, his head pitches forward until his brow meets Thomas’. He lingers for a few breaths, then eases back until they're no longer touching, turning his gaze to the horizon.

“When are you going?” he flatly asks.

The water is very cold. Thomas can't believe he didn't notice before. The pleasant feeling in his chest shrivels like fruit dried in the sun.

“October, I think,” he says. “I'll start thinking about where when we return to Rome.”

Vincent's throat bobs as he swallows. “Somewhere far?”

“I don't know. I'll go wherever I'm most needed. Where I can do the most good.”

“Mmm.” Vincent's face is strangely unreadable. Thomas has grown used to the nuances of his expressions, but this one seems entirely blank. He opens his mouth—but then seems to reconsider what he has to say. Nothing comes out.

Thomas hates the silence. It carries a feeling of disapproval, just like many of the silences between himself and Paul VII in his final days. His insides pulse hot with shame. Perhaps he has overstayed his welcome after all. But Vincent wanted him here. He begged him to come. So why is Thomas getting this feeling?

“Vincent,” he murmurs. “Have I done something to upset you? Would you prefer to be alone?’

“What?” Vincent's gaze snaps from the horizon to Thomas. “No. Stay. Please, stay.”

He finds Thomas’ hand again and squeezes. The tense air vanishes. Thomas realizes it was never tense at all—he was only projecting Paul VII onto Innocent. How unfair he's being.

Vincent's thumb strokes over his knuckles. “I can't wait to see Rome with you.”

“Me too,” says Thomas, feeling as if something is caught in his throat. Because it's not quite a lie—he does want to see Rome with Vincent. But after, his time at the Vatican will be over. His usefulness will be gone. He'll have to see himself out.

He inhales deeply, bracing himself against the inevitable. It will come to pass, but not yet. And so he must make the most of what he has left.

“You're going to have an amazing time,” he promises Vincent. “I'll make sure of it.”

He tightens his hold on his friend. Yes, he will show Vincent an amazing time. He will give him an unforgettable day.

Because if he has an unforgettable day, he will never forget Thomas.

Chapter Text

September 2017

When their spritzes have melted into little more than orange-tinted water and Thomas seems mostly back to his usual self, they pay their bill and venture further into the park. In a wooded area some distance from two nasoni masquerading as fountains, Vincent withdraws a white and red striped picnic blanket from his bag, followed by one of the two bottles of wine.

“I didn't realize you brought a blanket,” says Thomas. “You've been carrying that this whole time?”

“Yes!” Vincent smiles as he unfurls it. “Come, sit.”

So they lower themselves to the grassy ground. Thomas removes his cap and sets it aside. Seated cross-legged on the blanket, Vincent opens the package of paper cups they purchased from the liquor store while Thomas deals with the wine. He pours liquid garnet into Vincent's cup with one hand, and rests the other on Vincent's knee. He doesn't seem to be aware of the contact.

“Cheers,” says Vincent after Thomas has his own drink.

“We should really let it breathe first,” Thomas says.

“The wine? We will, after I toast you. Cheers, dearest Thomas.”

Thomas’ smile is genuine. They tap their cups together, then sip. Even without the wine properly aerated, it's pleasant on Vincent's tongue. There's a hint of citrus in the aftertaste.

They chat, as they often do, about everything and nothing, switching between English and Italian and Spanish at their whim. The wine soaks into Vincent's bloodstream, twining with the spritz until he's heavy-limbed. Determining they're far enough from other people, he pockets his sunglasses so he can better see Thomas. He stretches himself out on the blanket, hands laced on his chest, and stares into the canopy of leaves above them. They sit in forgiving, dappled shade. A light breeze rustles the trees. In the distance, he hears the faint sound of children at play. The air is so thick with the scent of summer that Vincent convinces himself it can surely be extracted and bottled for the colder months.

And beside him, Thomas is still talking, recounting an incident between Aldo and Tedesco that occurred a decade before Vincent darkened the Vatican's threshold. He laughs as Thomas spins the tale, which involves an ecclesiastical summit on the Latin mass, a shouting match between the two famous adversaries, and much grumbling by the late Holy Father. It ends with an explosive argument in an elegant courtyard and Aldo chucking Tedesco's entire pack of cigarettes into a particularly grand fountain.

Vincent grins widely, heaving a content sigh as Thomas finishes the story. Thomas must misconstrue its tone—his expression turns concerned. Still seated cross-legged, he turns that concern on Vincent.

“Is everything alright?” he asks.

“Hmm? Of course,” says Vincent.

But Thomas’ frown doesn't vanish. He studies Vincent. The silence stretches.

“You know,” he murmurs after a moment, “you never answered my question earlier.”

“Which question?”

“Something is upsetting you, and you're not telling me.”

Vincent's heart thuds against his ribcage. The air leaves his body.

“I suspect that it's not the turtle. But it's related to the turtle. Am I correct?”

Vincent can't lie to him. He nods.

“Can you tell me more?”

Vincent longs to drop Thomas’ piercing, blue gaze. But he'd never dishonor him like that. He shakes his head.

“Can't, or won't?”

Oh, he's really trapped now. Vincent swallows, mind churning for a way out of this. No solution presents itself that isn't a falsehood.

Thomas reaches for his hands, unlacing them from each other so that his own can take their place.

“Please,” he breathes. “Tell me. You can tell me anything, you know. I'd never judge.”

Oh, but he would. There's no way to remain impassive when your best friend confesses to being in love with you. The silence hurts. Thomas bared his soul to Vincent barely an hour ago, and he wishes to reciprocate. The truth broke Vincent's heart. He will never tire of Thomas, he always wants him here, he—

Wait.

Is Thomas resigning because he thinks Vincent will turn on him as Paul VII did?

That…would make sense. Because while Thomas initially cited troubles with prayer as his reason for resignation, he has no such troubles now. He proved that two nights ago, and now the turtle lives. A miracle. He's a saint.

But if Thomas has overcome that obstacle and still wants to resign, then he has another reason for going. And Vincent is fairly certain he confessed that reason over Aperol spritzes in dappled Roman sunshine.

If that's true, then Thomas doesn't want to leave at all.

“Vincent,” Thomas presses, interrupting his reverie. “Please, tell me what's wrong.”

Vincent pushes himself onto one elbow. He releases one of Thomas’ hands to cup his cheek. He prays that he is right. That he isn't making a fool of himself.

“Dearest Thomas,” he whispers. “I don't want you to resign. Ever.”

September 2017

Two nights before the escape

Vincent happens upon the turtle during a rare evening walk alone—Thomas promised to join him for dinner, but had a meeting with Aldo beforehand, leaving Vincent's early evening entirely to himself.

So he takes a rare solitary stroll in the Vatican gardens, beneath a pink and orange-streaked Roman sky. The days may be getting shorter, but the sunsets are no less spectacular. There's probably a homily somewhere in that concept. Vincent will have to mull it over.

Of course, it's in the beauty that he finds the horror. He's not sure what it is, at first—just a dark shadow on the road back to the Casa Santa Marta. But as he draws closer, it turns into a vaguely familiar shape, and then it very feebly moves, and at that point Vincent puts together what has happened.

Frankly, it's a miracle it's been so long without an incident. Vincent is coming up on a year as Pope without a single casualty. He suspects the reason for that has to do with a certain Dean of the College of Cardinals, who he has overheard emphasizing to the Vatican gardeners to please look after the turtles. Vincent tries to focus on that positive note, even as his stomach turns in horror and his heart clenches with despair. The turtle's shell is split open. Blood stains the cobblestones. Its insides are exposed to the air. He breathes through it. Tries not to be so affected. He has seen humans in worse condition, after all.

And then, he spots a distinctive scar on the uncracked side of the turtle's shell.

Thomas.

Vincent falls to his knees, hands hovering over his favorite turtle, and becomes reacquainted with the feeling of helplessness he was familiar with during his ministry. There were so many beyond saving. The same emotion crushes his chest now.

Of course, it's not really Thomas lying before him with his insides leaking onto the pavement. But somehow, Vincent is devastated like it is. He swears his throat is closing up. He can hardly get air. All he sees is Thomas, leaving the safety of the Vatican to seek his doom. Thomas, withering away to nothing in a lonely, cold room. Thomas, eaten by a cancer that comes back. Thomas, shot in the head, as Vincent has seen happen to priests before. Thomas, his body dumped on the side of a dirt road—no rites, forgotten, his flesh decaying and his bones bleaching in the sun.

The turtle struggles to move. Its eyes, clouded with pain, meet Vincent's.

This is what happens, he thinks. Something becomes precious to him, and the devil destroys it. Thomas will be taken somewhere far away, and Vincent won't be able to protect him. Just like this turtle.

He tries to inhale. A strange whine chokes out of his throat. He can't breathe. He can't breathe—

“Holy Father?”

Vincent's eyes fly up.

Ray.

His personal secretary, bathed in a stripe of golden sunset where he stands several meters away, wears an alarmed expression. It makes sense—it's dangerous for Vincent to be kneeling in the road. But he can't make himself move. He can't even make himself speak.

He gestures vaguely at the turtle. Tries forming words. Nothing is intelligible. He just sounds like he's in pain. Abruptly, he realizes his face is wet. His whole body is shaking.

And still, the turtle clings onto life.

“Help,” Vincent finally manages, voice cracking, but Ray is already crouching before him.

“Breathe, Holy Father,” he says, squeezing his arm. “I'll get the vet. It'll be alright. Just breathe.”

Vincent looks at the turtle. Struggles for air. “Thomas…”

“I'm calling him,” Ray says, phone already to his ear. Of course he'd misunderstand—only Thomas knows Vincent named the turtles.

The call proves unnecessary. Seconds later, from some distance, Vincent hears his name. He turns, and—

He's never seen Thomas run before. He's never seen any cardinal run, frankly. But Thomas emerges from a covered walkway at an aged sprint, his cassock clenched in his fists to keep it out of the way. Aldo follows just behind him, equally hurried.

“What happened—” Thomas starts, but then he sees the turtle. “Oh. Oh, Vincent…”

He kneels beside him, draping an arm over his shoulders. Vincent, unable to look any longer, turns his face into the crook of Thomas’ arm. His weak inhale is scented with pine sap and incense.

Thomas.

He is here now, warm beneath Vincent's cheek. But soon, he will be gone.

Vincent breaks. His sobs are loud, echoing off the cobblestones.

“What's going on?” says Aldo, breathless. Vincent barely registers him speaking. “Oh—that's bad.”

“Vincent,” Thomas murmurs in his ear. “Dearest Vincent, take deeper breaths.”

Vincent can't. He wraps his arms around Thomas and clings to his cassock.

“We need to move him,” Aldo says. “He can't be this distraught out in the open. Ray, what are you doing?”

“Calling the vet—”

“I'll call the vet. You and Thomas, take him back to the Casa Santa Marta.”

“Yes, Eminence.”

Vincent isn't listening. Thomas’ hand is holding the back of his head, pressing Vincent to the solid heat of his body. He's whispering reassurances into his ear. It's equally comforting and devastating. The love he feels has an expiration date.

He can't stop crying.

“Your Eminence—Thomas—let me help you get him up—”

An arm slides around Vincent's other side.

“Careful, Ray,” says Thomas. “I think he's panicking.”

Vincent is definitely panicking. His breaths aren't even. But he keeps himself tucked against Thomas and forces one foot in front of the other.

“The turtle…” he weakly protests.

“Aldo will take care of it,” Thomas says in that low, gentle voice Vincent has always adored.

“I don't think it can be saved,” Vincent gasps. “It was—it was you, Thomas—”

Thomas rubs his shoulder. “We don't know that yet. We will pray for a miracle. Right, Ray? We will pray for the turtle.”

“Of course, Eminence, Holy Father.”

Maybe Vincent never deserved Thomas. Maybe this is his punishment for abandoning his flock in Afghanistan. Now he, in turn, will know that same feeling of abandonment. A dull roar fills his ears.

They cross a threshold—the Casa Santa Marta. Vincent hears Sister Agnes, her tone gravely concerned, and Thomas, explaining what happened. He's steered to his rooms, and then to his bed. Vincent doesn't get real clarity again until he's sitting upon it. Thomas kneels at his feet, unlacing his red Converse. Ray and Sister Agnes are absent. He's not sure when they disappeared.

“You're going to drink some water and ride this out,” Thomas is saying.

Vincent reaches for his shoulder and squeezes. He has to touch him. Has to ensure he's real. If he had his way, he'd never release him. Would take Thomas into himself until their souls became one.

“Breathe, dearest,” Thomas says, firmly grasping his ankle as he pulls one shoe from his foot. He does the other. “It's in God's hands, there's nothing you can do.”

Yes. Thomas is in God's hands, not Vincent's. There is nothing he can do to make him stay.

Vincent gasps into a fresh round of sobs.

“Oh, dear,” says Thomas. “I'm too British for this; I've made it worse. I'm terribly sorry. Come here.”

He rises, seats himself on the bed, and pulls Vincent back against himself. Vincent gives him his entire weight, face tucked into his neck, arms circling his waist. He cries like a child, uncontrolled and unabashed as his body heaves. He can't make it stop.

“Shhh.” Thomas pulls Vincent's zucchetto from his head, places it on the quilt, and begins stroking his hair. “Oh, Vincent. If I could take this pain from you, I would.”

Vincent knows he would. If he asked Thomas to stay, he would cast his own desires aside. And so Vincent says nothing. It wouldn't be fair. Thomas doesn't even know he's in love with him. He can't.

So he just cries, greedily taking the love he's offered. The last person that held him this tenderly was his mother when he was still a boy. Thomas runs his fingers through his hair and presses his cheek to his forehead. He rubs his back in soothing circles. He whispers comforts in his gentle voice.

Eventually, Vincent cries himself dry, though he still shakes with the occasional tremor. Thomas cups his face and leans back enough to look him in the eyes. His concern is visible as he takes him in. He swipes away the dampness on Vincent's cheeks with his thumbs.

“Have some water,” he says, turning towards the bedside table. He presses a glass to Vincent's lips. Vincent drinks, lost in the blue of Thomas’ irises, the slope of his nose, his elegant fingers.

“Are you hungry?” Thomas asks.

Vincent shakes his head.

“Would you like to lie down?”

Yes—provided Thomas is with him. Vincent will have to make that known. For now, he nods.

“Alright.” Thomas’ hand returns to Vincent's cheek. Vincent leans into the hold. Thomas kisses his other cheek, his forehead.

My mouth, Vincent thinks. You missed my mouth.

The thought lingers only briefly—because Thomas’ fingers begin undoing his fascia.

“Let’s get you comfortable,” he says. Vincent nods, mind suddenly blank. He’s dreamed of Thomas disrobing him—though under more sinful circumstances. This is innocent, done by one friend caring for the other. But his heart still pounds as Thomas loosens the tie. Then, he removes his pectoral cross, setting it on the bedside, and Vincent’s mother’s rosary from his right pocket, putting it in the same spot. He moves onto the buttons of his cassock. Vincent clutches his shoulder for support and stares at the scarlet piping against the black of Thomas’ own cassock instead.

Thomas’ expression is one he often wears when hunched over his desk, or parsing through drafts of Vincent’s homilies, or the encyclical he still hasn’t published. It’s focused in a deliberate and thoughtful way. Vincent has never been the subject of it, just an observer. But under such scrutiny, his stomach flips. Thomas’ knuckles brush his throat as he undoes the buttons near his collar, then makes his way down.

He goes only far enough for Vincent to slip out of the garment, stopping just below his navel and reaching up to shuck the cassock from Vincent’s body. Vincent has enough presence of mind to rise. He slips from it like a butterfly from a cocoon, or a hermit crab from its shell. Innocent XIV slides to the floor, pooling in a crumpled heap. Only Vincent Benítez remains, standing on socked feet and clothed in the blacks of an ordinary priest.

Thomas reaches for those, too, seemingly unfazed. Perhaps this is nothing. They’ve seen each other nude now, after all—even if the darkness didn’t reveal every detail. Vincent still can’t believe the impulse that came over him that night. With anyone else, he would have borne the uncomfortableness of returning to the house in wet underwear to avoid revealing the most intimate parts of himself. Superficially, he passes for an ordinary man, but there are differences.

But Thomas already knew of his condition. And so Vincent had stripped to his skin, and felt true liberation as he stepped into that water.

He never expected Thomas to join him.

He’s played the memory on repeat in the days since. The heat of the summer air on his upper body, the chill of the lake on his lower. The chirp of the crickets, the rustle of the trees. And Thomas—his perfect, elegant Thomas—all lithe lines and moon-kissed skin. Vincent had drunk him in. The hair on his chest, thickening the lower it went, and the patch of it between his legs, and the suggestion of his cock, partially hidden in the darkness. His fluid gait, unobstructed by fabric, as he stepped into the lake, and the flex of his quads flowing into narrow hips.

Vincent had watched him and thought that if humanity was made in God’s image, Thomas was the most perfect imitation.

So perhaps Thomas thinks nothing of disrobing him now. With that same thoughtful, focused expression, he peels Vincent out of his button-down, then reaches for his belt. Vincent barely breathes. He feels like a shirt in a dryer cycle—overly warm and consistently disoriented, bouncing from side to side of a vast chamber.

Thomas undoes his fly. Vincent’s pants drop to the floor, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt. Finally, Thomas’ eyes find his again.

“Go on, then,” he says. “Lie down.”

Vincent swallows. Works up to making himself heard.

“Don’t leave,” he begs. Now. Ever.

Thomas squeezes his shoulder. “I won’t.”

Vincent glances to his bed. Thomas follows his gaze. A loaded silence follows, each second heavier than the last.

“Do you want me with you?” Thomas asks.

Vincent nods.

Thomas hums. “Alright.”

He slides his feet from his Oxfords without unlacing them, then sits, positioning himself with his back against the headboard. Vincent crawls after him on his hands and knees, feeling more animal than human. He’s not sure where Thomas wants him, but he knows where he’d like to be. He lowers himself to the mattress, stretching the length of his body along Thomas’ legs. He presses his face into his lap, in the crook of his leg and hip, and breathes deeply.

Thomas’ hands return to his hair. He slowly strokes through the locks. The seconds pass, measured by the near-silent tick of the analog clock on the nightstand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Thomas asks after what must be several minutes.

They can’t. Going into the nuances of what upset Vincent so deeply about the turtle will be the equivalent of flaying himself open for Thomas’ scrutiny. He’ll know Vincent loves him more than he’s supposed to. And so Vincent shakes his head, rubbing his cheek against Thomas’ cassock. God. He could stay here forever, even with the weight of Thomas’ impending departure sitting in his stomach like a stone.

Thomas sighs. “I’m here if you change your mind, my dearest Vincent.”

“I know.” Vincent swallows back the renewed burn in his eyes and throat. “Thank you.”

He feels Thomas settle deeper into the pillows. His breath turns slow and even, even as he continues stroking his hair. But eventually, he stills, his palm broad and hot on the crown of Vincent’s head. He inhales. And then—

“Saint Francis, we pray for your intercession on behalf of the turtle that strayed from its home today. Just as we often stray from our faith or loved ones, this turtle—”

He pauses. “Vincent, which turtle was it?”

Vincent turns his head enough to meet Thomas’ gaze, but Thomas isn’t looking at him. His head is bowed in prayer. His eyes are closed. One hand rests on his pectoral cross, the other Vincent. He looks as peaceful as he did the morning Vincent woke to him on his couch in this same apartment.

“It was your turtle—Thomas,” Vincent manages in a thready voice. “I thought I said so.”

Thomas shakes his head. His eyes open, the blue sympathetic. “Perhaps you did, and I didn’t understand. I’m sorry. No wonder you’re so upset—I know you’re particularly fond of that one.”

Vincent’s expression crumples. “It’s my favorite,” he clarifies. “Like you.”

“You’re too kind to me,” Thomas murmurs, closing his eyes again. He takes a breath and resumes.

“Saint Francis, please intercede on behalf of Thomas. Like we stray from the safety and love of our faith, families, and friends and into danger, he strayed from the safety of our gardens into the unknown, and paid a price he couldn’t have anticipated. Now, his life hangs in the balance. Please ask the Lord to not take him yet. Let him have many more sun-filled days in the gardens with his friends. Please, Saint Francis. Amen.”

“Amen,” Vincent whispers, again hiding his face in Thomas’ lap. It’s too much. Thomas prayed for the turtle, and Vincent prayed for the turtle and Thomas. Prayed it won’t happen. Prayed that he won’t stray, or, if he does, he remains safe and happy. It made his throat thick and his body heavy with exhaustion. He’s warm all over, as if he’s been cast into a bath.

Thomas’ hand resumes its stroking.

“May I borrow your rosary?” he asks.

“Of course,” Vincent automatically answers—not that he'd let anyone other than Thomas even touch it.

“Thank you,” Thomas says. He shifts underneath Vincent to retrieve it from the bedside table. “I don’t think I told you—but there’s something special about yours. When you fell asleep on the plane back from Greece, it looked like you might drop it, so I took it from your hand and picked up where you left off. It was the first time in a long while that I clearly heard God.”

“Oh,” says Vincent, simultaneously touched and bewildered. “It’s yours whenever you need it, then.”

“Thank you,” Thomas murmurs. “I have need of it now, if there’s any hope of saving your precious turtle.”

Vincent throws an arm around his waist. “Should it survive, I am attributing the miracle to you and beginning the canonization process.”

Thomas scoffs. “Blasphemy.”

Vincent hears the familiar clink of his rosary beside his ear. And then, Thomas begins to pray.

Vincent doesn’t pray with him, just listens. He takes comfort in the low lull of his best friend’s voice and tries not to think of the future, when he’ll never hear it again. Each Our Father and Hail Mary keeps him in the now. He thanks the Lord for His mercy.

When Thomas finishes, he says nothing. His breaths are slow like Vincent’s. Again, only the ticking clock measures the time.

But eventually, Thomas speaks.

“The Swiss Guard changes shifts at six in the morning,” he says. “And there’s a back entrance out of the Vatican that takes us past very few postings. I’ll bring you into Rome that way.”

Vincent stirs. “You’re serious?”

“I am. I asked around—discreetly. Ray did most of the work. So, let’s go.”

It doesn’t feel real. None of this feels real—he’s in bed with his best friend. He’s coming out of the largest breakdown he’s had in decades. And apparently, he’s going to sneak out of the Vatican.

“Alright,” he says. “When?”

“Before I lose my nerve,” answers Thomas. “How’s the day after tomorrow?”

September 2017

Thomas isn’t certain he’s heard Vincent correctly. Surely it’s too good to be true. Vincent, asking him to stay forever?

He’s so stunned, he forgets to speak. Doubt crosses Vincent’s lovely face.

“Of course,” he rambles, glancing away. “Only if you want to. If you want to go, you can go. But if you’re resigning only because you feel obligated, I will not accept it.”

Thomas finds his tongue. “It’s not a sense of obligation, it’s a sense of usefulness,” he clarifies. “You know the Curia now. And there are plenty of others that manage as well as I do. I’m all used up. A waste of space.”

Vincent’s expression shifts from doubtful to outright murderous. Thomas has never seen him so openly angry.

“Did you forget the conversation we had over our spritzes?” he flatly asks. “Are you that determined to insult yourself?”

“It’s not an insult if it’s true—”

“Stop,” Vincent hisses. “Just stop. God did not put you on this earth to be useful, He put you on this earth to do good. He will not judge you by your productivity—He’s God, not the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Por el amor de Dios, Tomás. I thought you would know that, after you soothed my own concerns after Greece. Why do you not give yourself the same grace you give me?”

“I don’t deserve it,” Thomas says automatically.

This is not the right thing to say. Vincent’s grip tightens on his face. His typically warm eyes turn steely.

“Do you want to leave the Vatican?” he bluntly questions.

“If I cannot serve you, I shouldn’t stay.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Vincent’s shoulders are hackled. “Do you want to leave me, Thomas?”

Beneath his ire, there’s vulnerability. Thomas’ next inhale catches. Vincent looks…hurt.

“Of course not,” Thomas answers, voice thin. “You’re my best friend.”

Vincent’s expression softens, just barely.

“That’s why I need to go,” Thomas weakly continues. “I could never burden my best friend.”

Vincent winces. He glances away. “That's why you want to resign? So that you don't burden me?”

“Yes,” Thomas admits.

“You are not a burden to me, my dearest Thomas.”

Surely there is a condition, or something will go wrong. Thomas’ throat feels tight.

“But what if you change your mind?” he asks.

Vincent sighs.

“Dios,” he mutters. “Do I have to say it all?”

He cups Thomas' cheeks, framing his face, and stares into his eyes. “I'll never change my mind,” he vows. “I can't change my mind. I love you. It's irreversible.”

Thomas is speechless. Vincent loves him. He knew, intrinsically—they're best friends, after all. But it's another thing to hear it. To be told. It satisfies something he didn't even know he longed for while raising a new question: what type of love? Is it brotherly, or more? And why does Thomas, who spent a lifetime pursuing chastity like it was an Olympic sport, hope it's the latter?

“You're right,” Vincent says. “It's not about the turtle, but it has everything to do with it. It was your turtle that was hurt, Thomas—the one I named after you, because it suited you so perfectly. Because it was scarred, like you seemed to be when we met at the conclave. Because it was the first turtle to trust me, as you were the first cardinal. And because it kept straying from the pond, as you claimed to wish to stray from the Vatican.”

His eyes are glassy. He takes a slow breath. “And so two nights ago, when I found it—”

His voice breaks. He drops his gaze to their laps. They're sitting with their knees tangled. Thomas finds his shoulders and squeezes.

“When I found it…” Vincent meets his eyes again, his own glassy. “All I could think about was you. You, who kept telling me you wanted to stray from your home here. I thought it was because you actually wanted to leave. For months, I have tried not to think about what would happen if you did. Tried not to imagine all of the terrible ways your life might end. And all the while, I'd be here, missing you. Longing for you.”

“Vincent—”

“It was always about you,” Vincent says, trembling. “Don't go, Thomas. I love you—far more than I should, more than a friend—but we can look past that. Stay, please.”

Thomas’ thoughts crash over each other like waves on a cliff. The man he once was would panic. But now, all he feels is relief—and the desperate urge to comfort Vincent.

“Dearest Vincent,” he whispers, bringing a hand to his jaw. He brushes a thumb over his cheekbone. “I love you, too. Intensely. Like no one else. It feels like I lived my entire life in darkness before meeting you, and your arrival marked the dawn. Of course I will stay. I want to stay.”

A tear spills down Vincent's cheek. “Oh,” he says. “It doesn't bother you?”

“What?” asks Thomas.

“That I'm in love with you. We're priests. And you're a very good priest who, according to Aldo, has never been tempted by anyone. I overheard him complaining about it to Ray once. I wouldn't dare presume I'm the exception.”

Thomas nearly laughs. “Do they have nothing else to gossip about? And don't presume. I have never been in love before, but I am with you. It's just taken me some time to realize.”

Vincent's cheeks flush. “When did you know?”

“By the nasone earlier,” says Thomas. When you nearly kissed me, and I was disappointed when you didn't.

“That's recent,” says Vincent. “And you're not…disturbed by it?”

Thomas shakes his head. “Perhaps, were I a younger man, I would have been. But not now. We can discuss it.”

Vincent's throat bobs as he swallows. “Yes, we will.”

“You are the Pope, after all.”

“Yes,” says Vincent. “Anything we do will have to be discreet.”

“It's possible,” says Thomas. “Aldo has been with Gofreddo since the Fountain Incident. I only found out a few years ago because I have the keys to Aldo's apartment and walked in on them cooking together. Neither was fully clothed.”

Vincent's jaw drops. “I'm sorry?”

“I'm serious.”

“You can't be. They hate each other.”

Thomas shrugs. “They don't. It's complicated. But they make it work. So we can, too.”

He can hardly believe what's coming out of his mouth. He shouldn't be so calm, but it's Vincent. If anything, he feels light for the first time in months. He doesn't have to leave. He gets to keep his best friend. Nothing else matters. He'll process the celibacy vows later.

Vincent looks at him with glistening eyes. “Thomas,” he breathes. “Querido.”

He throws his arms around him. Thomas does the same, pulling Vincent close until their chests are flush. He buries his face in his neck and breathes in lemon and herbs and Roman summer. He has never hugged someone so fiercely. He has never been hugged so fiercely.

“Vincent, my love,” he says. “Oh, I'm so relieved.”

Vincent doesn't answer, just whines. His hands are fisted in Thomas’ linen shirt. He nuzzles into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

Thomas holds his head. “I'd stroke your hair, if it weren't for this stupid hat.”

Vincent laughs wetly against him. “It felt so good the other night. You'll have to do it again.”

“Gladly,” Thomas promises. “I love your hair.”

“I love yours.”

Thomas barks a laugh. “What hair?”

Vincent snorts. He pulls back, kissing both of his cheeks, and then reaches for the wine.

“Here,” he says, filling Thomas’ cup. “This deserves a toast.”

And so they tap their cups together. Thomas drinks deeply. He feels so bubbly, the wine may as well be champagne. Vincent holds his gaze, mischief in his eyes. Their free hands twine together on Thomas' knee.

Vincent drains his drink, then sets the cup aside. He traces Thomas’ face with light fingertips and a reverent expression. Thomas shivers as he caresses his brow, his nose, his cheek, his jaw. He allows himself to study Vincent openly—his depthless eyes, his parted lips.

The air feels charged. Despite the heat, Thomas has goosebumps.

“Thomas,” says Vincent, somewhere between a whisper and his normal tone.

“Yes?” Thomas’ reply is breathless. His heart thuds against his ribs, anticipating.

“I'd like to kiss you. May I? Just a small—”

“Yes,” Thomas interrupts thoughtlessly. “Please.”

The brown of Vincent's irises yields to black. His hand tightens on Thomas' cheek.

“Have you ever kissed anybody?” he asks.

Thomas’ breath catches. “No, I—it never happened.”

“Never?” Vincent's eyes soften.

Thomas shakes his head. “You have?”

“A girl, when I was fourteen,” Vincent admits. “It's been a while. Come here.”

He guides Thomas forward as he leans in. Thomas thinks his heart may beat out of his throat. He can count Vincent's lashes, and still he draws closer. His eyes shut. Thomas feels his breath on his face, and then—oh.

Their lips brush. It's dry—a faceful of Vincent. Thomas’ eyes flutter closed automatically. He places a hand on Vincent's chest for support. Vincent makes a soft noise, his exhale caressing Thomas’ jaw. Something warm unfurls in Thomas’ gut.

And then, to his disappointment, Vincent withdraws.

“Was that—” Vincent starts, but doesn't finish, because Thomas chases him.

He's overeager—their noses bump. Thomas feels the impact against his teeth. Vincent gasps, but pulls him closer. He tilts his head, slanting his lips against Thomas’ just-so, until they properly align and suddenly there's moisture and taste.

A great roaring fills Thomas’ ears. He has never known anyone like this. It's heady. There's something mind-rending in Vincent's flavor, an additional musk that has his biology overcoming him like a wall of water. It's fireworks, it's fire. He gasps. His hand fists in Vincent's shirt. Vincent clutches his cheek as if he fears Thomas will fly away. His teeth drag over Thomas’ lip. A jagged noise escapes his lungs.

“Oh,” Vincent shudders between their mouths. Seemingly overwhelmed, he drops his forehead to Thomas’ shoulder. Thomas holds him. “So that's what it feels like.”

“What?” asks Thomas, surprised by his capability to form words. That roaring still fills his mind.

“Kissing someone you love.” Vincent sighs, nuzzling into Thomas' neck. He kisses his throat, then drags his lips towards the hinge of Thomas’ jaw. Thomas’ breath comes in short pants. He raises his chin, offering more, addicted to the white-hot sensation of Vincent's mouth on his skin.

“Is this okay?” asks Vincent.

“Yes.” Thomas’ voice is thready. He belatedly realizes that he has one fist in Vincent's shirt while the other clings to his shoulder. He doesn't let go. Surely he'll be swept off to sea if he does. His mind pulls together a loose conjecture of Saint Peter and rocks and Vincent, but it slips through his mind like water.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Vincent murmurs, his breath hot on Thomas’ ear.

Thomas groans, protesting. “No. It's—God. Vincent.”

Vincent brushes another kiss against his neck, sighing. “It's good?”

“Let me—” Thomas stumbles, struggling to form words. “I want—let me try.”

He must give Vincent the same pleasure he's giving him. The feeling of this is incomparable. Holy.

“Alright.” Vincent fleetingly presses his lips to Thomas' and withdraws.

Thomas starts with his fingers, figuring his mouth will follow. He leans into Vincent's space and traces his brow, his cheeks, his nose. He offers light kisses to each, just enough to tease both of them. His gaze feels sticky, lingering in places he has never allowed it to before. It fixes on Vincent's mouth—plush, parted, and darkened with wine.

He reaches for it mindlessly. “You have wine lips,” he proclaims with a fond smile.

It's not until his fingertips land on pliant flesh that he realizes what he's done. They were casual with touch even before everything confessed between them; it felt perfectly natural. But it's too late—he can’t take the touch back.

Nor does he want to, if he's honest with himself. Especially when Vincent's breath catches. His head tilts back. His heavy exhale caresses Thomas’ hand. And his lips part, just enough that Thomas feels moisture on the pads of his fingers.

His entire body flushes with heat.

“Sorry,” he stutters, abruptly breathless. But he doesn't drop his hand. Vincent makes no move to push him away.

So he stays. Trails his fingers over Vincent's lower lip, the touch feather-light. Vincent quashes a noise.

“Is this too much?” asks Thomas.

Vincent shakes his head, eyes wide. He seems incapable of speech. When it finally comes, it's as direct as it is riveting.

“More,” he begs.

Thomas swears he hears his own heartbeat. He can't look away from Vincent's mouth, the flesh yielding beneath the pressure of his touch. A lifetime of restraint has banished all thoughts from his head. There's only sensation, and the wet of Vincent's lips.

Yes, more, demands a voice in his head, echoing Vincent. And Thomas, adrift in his own mindlessness, can only obey.

He eases his fingers into Vincent's mouth.

Vincent closes his lips around him. And then, he moans.

Thomas’ next exhale is ragged. Vincent sucks on him, his tongue wrapping around his fingers. If Thomas was thoughtless before, it doesn't compare to now.

“Oh, God,” he says. It comes out like a whine.

Vincent moans again. His eyelids look heavy, half-shrouding black pupils. His free hand clutches Thomas’ wrist, pushing his hand further into his mouth. Thomas could have never imagined the sensation of his fingertips pressing onto someone else's tongue. He feels dizzy.

“Vincent,” he gasps. “I—”

He doesn't even know what he's saying. He's babbling.

Vincent pulls himself free. “Kiss me,” he begs.

Yes. Again. Thomas drags Vincent's face toward his until their mouths crash together.

It's not like last time. It's wetter. It's needy. Vincent's tongue pushes into Thomas’ mouth and brushes his own. Thomas nearly falls forward, it feels so good. More. He scoots closer. Vincent's fingernails scrape bluntly along his scalp.

“Por favor,” Vincent whispers between kisses. “Tomás—”

He devours him, his mouth wide as he presses the flat of his tongue to Thomas’. It's not elegant. It probably betrays inexperience. But Thomas is too far gone to care. They are merging; becoming one. Connected by their lips, Vincent's tongue in his mouth. Inside him, as Thomas has longed for.

Their hands wander. One of Vincent's strokes the back of Thomas’ head while the other squeezes his shoulder, his bicep, his waist, his chest, his thigh. Thomas’ travel to similar places before sneaking beneath Vincent's hat. He buries his fingers in his soft locks. It's so much, a thousand sensory inputs he's never felt before compounding on each other. Thomas is barely in control of himself, which is why he squeezes Vincent's hair at the root.

Vincent moans straight into his mouth. It's loud—louder than any noise he's made before.

Thomas withdraws. “I'm sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No, querido.” There's a wrecked quality to Vincent's tone. “Dios—ah. Do it again, Thomas, please.”

So Thomas tugs again. Vincent crushes his vocalization into Thomas’ shoulder.

“Hair-pulling,” he gasps, dragging his lips along Thomas’ throat again, which is equally as dizzying as everything else. “Those Spaniards were right; otra vez, por favor…”

Thomas returns his mouth to Vincent's and does as he asks. They're both panting, and he's half in Vincent's lap, and vaguely he registers that they're technically in public and shouldn't be necking like teenagers. But he's seen far more obscene displays of affection in Rome, and for once he doesn't want to take the safe option, he just wants to live.

So he kisses Vincent like he'll never get another chance. He treats each moan and whimper that Vincent places on his tongue like the eucharist, and offers up sounds of his own when Vincent's teeth scrape over his lower lip. He stretches the fabric of his T-shirt with how tightly he clings to him.

It is glorious. Time loses meaning as they kiss beneath shade dotted with slices of golden Roman sun. They explore each other's mouths so thoroughly that Thomas convinces himself he could identify Vincent by the taste of his molars. Gradually, their movements shift from urgent to languid. Their bodies melt into the picnic blanket until they're half-sprawled across it, supporting themselves on elbows as they sigh against each other.

Eventually, Thomas pulls back from a kiss that leaves their mouths connected by a thread of saliva. His heart pounds as it stretches and snaps, fresh heat pooling in his abdomen. He's hard—has been since they started kissing. He didn't realize he was still capable of such arousal. And yet he's content to do nothing more than this. One step at a time.

“Oh,” Vincent breathes, expression dazed.He leans forward and steals one more kiss—this one more chaste. Then, he retreats until he's flat on his back, arms spread wide.

“I could kiss you for days, querido.”

Thomas reaches for his hand. “Me too.”

“Are you alright?” Vincent rubs his knuckles with his thumb.

Thomas smiles. It feels unrestrained, giddy. “I'm wonderful. Just don't ask me to stand up anytime soon.”

Vincent's knowing gaze slides to his. “Really?”

“You can't tell?”

Vincent's eyes dip below Thomas' belt. He flushes, his breath catching. Thomas’ own body heats.

“Oh,” Vincent says. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I shouldn't stand up either.”

They snicker like teenagers.

“Take a nap with me,” Vincent suggests. “Just for a while.”

Thomas is so heavy with wine and lust and love and Roman sunshine that he doesn't think twice.

“Alright,” he says, then lays his body in the space beside Vincent's. He rests his head on his chest. Vincent tucks his nose against his crown and begins to pet his hair.

“So,” he murmurs, already sounding drowsy. “You won't resign?”

“No,” says Thomas. “I'm happy where I am. The happiest I've ever been, actually.”

Vincent's chest swells with a large breath. He exhales slowly.

“Good,” he says. “Me, too.”

Chapter Text

September 2017

Vincent is, admittedly, still a little drunk by the time they begin making their way back to the Vatican—though perhaps more on Thomas than the wine. They hold hands when they leave the park, while eating the gelato they forgot to buy earlier, while hailing a cab. They scramble in, then find each other again.

Vincent clings to Thomas’ fingers, still disbelieving of his luck. His treasured dean is staying. And, by some miracle, he loves Vincent. That's two miracles in two days. Fitting—Thomas may not officially be a saint, but he may as well be.

The taxi drops them off a few blocks from the Vatican. Vincent stumbles out, unable to find his feet. He's too happy to be concerned with such worldly matters. Luckily, Thomas catches him.

“Are you still drunk?” he asks, bemused.

Vincent muffles a snicker into Thomas’ shoulder, clustering close. “Yes.”

“Oh, dear,” says Thomas. “We better fix that.”

This is how Vincent ends up with his head beneath a nasone. He laughs as Thomas holds him under the stream.

“Thomas!” he huffs through his mirth. “I didn't think you were serious!”

Thomas pulls him upwards and replaces his bucket hat and sunglasses. Such accessories are beginning to look suspicious, given it's almost dark.

“I was serious about sneaking you out,” replies Thomas. “Why wouldn't I be serious here?”

Vincent grins at him. “You're a man of your word.”

They linger in each other's space. Thomas’ eyes wander Vincent's face, catching on his lips, and Vincent is overcome by such a strong urge to kiss him that he only stops himself at the last second. His hand lands on Thomas’ shoulder instead, squeezing the muscle there. Thomas relaxes into the pressure.

“You're beautiful,” says Vincent. “Were we not in a neighborhood that's home to many Vatican employees, I'd kiss you again.”

Thomas flushes. It makes Vincent's stomach flip over.

“Oh, imagine that,” he says breathlessly, and Vincent nearly melts onto the still-warm sidewalk. Thomas pats his cheek, eyes soft. “Let's go home.”

Home.

Unlike this morning, in which they snuck out of the Vatican through a side door under the cover of darkness, they are far more honest in their return. They walk through the gates like it's routine, Vincent pulling off his hat and sunglasses as they pass. The poor guards look aghast.

He feels a little bad. If Aldo has kept his word, then nobody knows he snuck out. The Pope appearing at the gates in shorts and a T-shirt must be quite the shock.

They get quite a few wide-eyed glances as they make their way in. Nuns, bishops, cardinals, lay employees—anybody that notices him does a double-take. Vincent fights back his smile and laughter. He meets Thomas' eyes. He appears to be fighting a chuckle of his own.

When they burst through the doors of the Casa Santa Marta, Vincent can no longer contain himself. He doubles over, he laughs so hard. Thomas joins him, their joy echoing through the lobby.

“Oh, you think this is funny? I've earned years in purgatory with the web of lies I spun today.”

Vincent, resting a palm on the small of his dean's back, raises his gaze to find Aldo watching them from one corner. He stands with his weight on one leg, arms crossed, foot tapping, as he glares at them through his glasses.

“Aldo!” Vincent straightens and puts on his broadest smile, the one he typically reserves for General Audience. “Thank you! I had a wonderful day.”

Aldo blinks at him. “Why are you wet?”

“Nasone,” says Thomas, as if it's a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“I'm sorry?” says Aldo. He eyes Thomas. “Wait, is that the Mets cap I gave you in seminary?”

“Yes, of course it is.” Thomas seems surprised by the question.

“I didn't know you still had it,” Aldo murmurs. He wears an expression Vincent has never seen that he can't interpret.

“Why wouldn't I?” Thomas poses. “I treasure all my gifts from you.”

“Oh,” replies Aldo, clearly lost for words.

No one says anything, until Thomas speaks again to fill the silence. “Good news, by the way. I'm not resigning after all.”

“You're not?”

“No, I'm staying right here.” Thomas crosses the room, folds Aldo into an embrace, and kisses his cheek.

Aldo appears flabbergasted. “That's—good. Thank God.” He glances between Thomas and Vincent. “Though it makes me wonder what, exactly, you two got up to out there. What did you say to him, Your Holiness? What did you do?”

Thomas’ nose has turned violently pink, and his flush is spreading to his cheeks. At least Aldo hasn't noticed.

Vincent shrugs. “I asked him to stay.”

“Oh, for God's sake.” Aldo tosses an exasperated hand. “It was that simple?”

Vincent just grins.

Thomas comes up for coffee. When Sister Agnes brings a tray to the papal apartments, a multitude of micro-expressions flit across her face.

“I see you weren't quite ready to end your vacation at the Castel Gandolfo, Your Holiness,” she remarks when she spots Vincent's shorts and T-shirt.

Vincent smiles. It's beautiful. Thomas could stare all day. He could kiss him.

“I swear it's back to business now, Sister Agnes.”

She turns to Thomas. “You did this, Eminence? You snuck him out?”

Thomas nods, choking back his own smile. “The Pope should see Rome.”

“Indeed.” She eyes his white Converse approvingly. “Enjoy your coffee, gentlemen.”

They're left to themselves. Vincent pours—fixing Thomas’ coffee exactly how he likes. He loves me, Thomas thinks, dazed. Vincent presses the mug into his hand with a tender expression, then moves to his own. When he's done, he settles beside Thomas with their sides pressed flush together.

For a few minutes, they don't speak, sipping quietly.

“Are you alright?” Vincent finally asks.

“Hmm? Of course,” says Thomas. “Are you?”

“Yes, the best I've ever been.” Vincent's glance, shot out of the corner of his eyes, is knowing.

Thomas smiles, heart fluttering. He wants to kiss him again. He thinks about how they nearly did on the street. He thinks about the park—their lips sealed together, their breaths mingling. Oh, he longs for more. Now he understands the warnings from his schoolteachers, his mentors. Desire is addicting. He could kiss Vincent forever.

Instead, he clutches his coffee and forces himself to drink.

Vincent's hand finds his. His thumb strokes Thomas’ knuckles. It's enough to make Thomas' exhale stutter. He leans his cheek against Vincent's head.

“Do we talk through it now?” Vincent asks. “Or later?”

“Later,” says Thomas, pressing his nose into Vincent's scalp, inundating his senses with lemon and herbs. When he next speaks, his words are muffled into his hair. “As happy as I am, I haven't wrapped my mind around this properly yet.”

Vincent chuckles, squeezing his hand. “Me either.”

So Thomas drinks his coffee, and basks in Vincent's proximity. They keep their bodies flush like they did on the plane, on this same sofa, on the hammock, on Vincent's bed two nights ago. It is bliss. It is a relief to know their feelings are the same.

It is a relief to not leave the Vatican.

Too soon, Thomas' cup is empty. Reluctantly, he eases himself off of Vincent.

“I should go,” he murmurs.

Vincent looks like he'd rather he not. He smiles softly, then raises their still-joined hands to his lips to brush a kiss over Thomas’ fingers.

“Probably,” he sighs. “Come.”

He sees Thomas off at the door. He cups his cheeks with light in his eyes.

He loves me, Thomas thinks, giddy. And I love him.

Vincent loves him. Loves him. And Thomas—

He takes a breath.

“Te amo, Vincent,” he murmurs.

Vincent grins more widely than Thomas has ever seen. “Te amo también.”

“Sorry,” Thomas says. “You said it in my language. I should have said it in yours.”

Vincent presses a palm to Thomas’ chest. “You have the kindest heart, mi amor.”

Thomas blushes for what must be the thirtieth time today. Vincent chuckles, then leans in.

“Kiss me again, Thomas. Please.”

Thomas could never deny him. They are alone, after all, though it's difficult to not lose himself as he did in the park. He keeps it chaste, just a dry brush of lips, but his whole body relaxes at the contact.

“Oh,” sighs Vincent, his hand hot against the nape of Thomas’ neck. “Thomas…”

Thomas kisses him once more, his mouth a little softer, and tastes moisture. He clutches Vincent's chest for stability, suddenly dizzy.

“Te amo, Vincent,” he repeats.

Vincent whines. His hand moves from Thomas' neck into his hair, fisting in the short length. He surges forward. Thomas' shoulder blades meet the door.

It's not chaste now. Thomas is pinned like he pinned Vincent in the lake house. Their bodies are flush; their mouths are fused. Their hands fumble—Thomas clutches Vincent’s collar to drag him closer with one, while the other strokes through his hair. This time, there is no hat in the way. Vincent whimpers. His tongue brushes Thomas’. Everything is hot and slick, and Thomas’ heartbeat is erratic, and his skin feels five sizes too small.

“Vincent,” he gasps. “Oh—”

“Te amo,” Vincent smears his lips down his jaw. “Te amo.” He nibbles at his throat—Thomas chokes on his exhale. “Te amo, Tomás. Dios—” He finds his lips again.

This is paradise. Vincent’s teeth scrape over his lip and Thomas’ hips stutter and—

Far off, past the door, long down the hallway, he hears the faintest sound of footsteps.

Vincent must hear them too, because he rips himself away as abruptly as he initiated their contact. They stand frozen, regarding each other with wide eyes and heaving chests. Thomas braces himself against the door, fearing his legs will give out otherwise. But the footsteps continue, then fade.

They are alone.

Vincent's cheeks are flushed, his eyes are black, and his lips are spit-slick. His dark hair, already typically disorderly, is the worst Thomas has ever seen it. A tendril of heat swirls in his gut.

I did that, he thinks, mildly alarmed by the possessive sense of pride that surges through him at the realization.

But then, a slow, mischievous smile spreads across Vincent's face.

“Oops,” he says, very quietly.

And Thomas can't help it: he smiles back.

“Oops,” he replies.

He has been good his whole life. It's nice to be naughty, for once. It feels like teenage rebellion, decades overdue.

Vincent laughs airily. “I'm sorry. I overstepped.”

Thomas shakes his head. “Don't apologize. Though I really should be going.”

“Alright, alright.” Vincent reaches for him again, then pecks his cheeks. “Goodnight, my dearest dean. I love you.”

Thomas’ heart swells. He kisses Vincent's hands. “I love you too, my dearest Vincent.”

He reaches for the doorknob with one hand, and maintains his hold on Vincent with the other. He clings to him until he opens the door, and even then, disengages slowly. He steps into the hall, but lingers.

Vincent, still smiling, leans against the doorframe, hands by his face. He looks as besotted as Thomas feels.

“I'll see you tomorrow?” he asks.

“Yes,” Thomas says. “Bright and early. I'll bring your usual latte.”

“Gracias, querido.”

Thomas wants to kiss him again. He wants to go back inside. Instead, he gives Vincent one last, fond, look.

“Goodnight, Vincent.”

Vincent returns his expression. “Goodnight, Thomas.”

Having no more excuses, Thomas turns and begins his journey home. He has never felt lighter. Multiple times, he catches himself grinning at nothing. Luckily, the Vatican is deserted at this hour. Nobody sees him floating through the halls of the Casa Santa Marta and out onto the streets of Rome like a lovestruck schoolboy.

He doesn't register anything about his trip home until he's on the same block as his apartment in Trastevere. He hears the bubbling of a nasone just as he feels his phone vibrate. He stops before the fountain, set against a stone wall crawling with greenery, to withdraw the device from his pocket.

Of course it's Vincent. Text me when you're home safely, amor, it reads.

Thomas blushes. He takes a deep breath of slightly humid, late summer air, and stares at the second-floor apartments lining the street. Their windows are aglow, shutters thrust open, curtains billowing in the light breeze. Soon, he will reach his own dwelling and do the same.

Again, his phone vibrates.

I had a wonderful time today. Don't be shocked if I sneak out again…

Thomas grins. He shakes his head. Then he steps towards the nasone, dips forward, and drinks sweet, cool, Roman water.