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Chapter Text

Vincent finishes the first year of his papacy as the cooler chill of autumn squeezes through the cracks in the walls of the apostolic palace, giving every Monsignor, Bishop, and Cardinal the occasional shiver as they walk to and from the Holy Father’s office. It is interesting, then, that around this time Vincent finds a decidedly spring-like word to describe the nature of the transformation happening inside him since he was elected.

Blooming.

It started slowly, about a month after his coronation. At first, anxiety and sheer awe of the circumstances surrounding his election were the only emotions that filled his mind throughout the beginning of his papacy. Vincent had served his ministry as a Cardinal, yes, but he had not familiarized himself with the intricacies of the Vatican. His trip to see the Holy Father years before the conclave was a short one, with layers and layers of secrecy attached to it. He had no time nor opportunity to meet the many people involved in the complex ecosystem that keeps the heart of the Church working. 

Upon his ascension there were names to learn, schedules to edit, speeches to make, offices to locate, finances to supervise, diplomats to meet, and an endless, endless amount of paperwork to go over, all of which required a keen eye for detail and a skill for avoiding controversy that Vincent will admit he did not succeed at immediately. Still, after a few weeks, the world had gotten used to Pope Innocent’s presence and had even spared him a compliment or two, calling him the Peaceful Pope because of his quiet voice and pleasant disposition.

Certain members of the Curia were not nearly so complimentary. Cardinal Tedesco, despite obediently kissing his ring after his election and pledging his loyalty and servitude, made it clear that he would be a vocal and spirited rival throughout Innocent’s papacy, beginning the month of November with a thorough attack on every one of Vincent’s political positions, right up to and including his stance on whether the Pope should wear new shoes. (He did acquiesce to this critique, but only insofar as he bought another pair of Converse. They were red, though, so surely the Cardinal of Venice saw the humor in the purchase?) 

Cardinal Bellini, on the other side of the ideological spectrum, proved to be a welcome addition to Vincent’s senior staff, agreeing to remain in his position as Secretary of State and immediately filling Vincent in on whom to befriend and whom to avoid within the Vatican. You may be Pope, the man said, irony dripping from his voice as always, but not even you can get everything done around here on your own. 

Archbishop Wozniak returned to his place as senior advisor with tremendous enthusiasm and grace, sharing stories of how the previous Holy Father carried out his daily schedule without imposing any sort of pressure on Vincent. Vincent felt grateful to the Archbishop, since this stance left him free to both emulate his predecessor when necessary and distance himself when he felt a change needed to be made. 

Sister Agnes, in turn, interviewed Vincent for hours on every one of his personal preferences on how to live, right down to what brand of underwear he usually bought (Vincent had the sudden, somewhat alarming realization that he would likely never go shopping on his own ever again), so that he could live in relative comfort while performing his papal duties. Mercifully, Sister Agnes understood Vincent’s desire for privacy within the “home” of the papal apartments, as well as his desire to continue the late Holy Father’s tradition of keeping a low profile in terms of wealth and ostentation - or at least as low of a profile as one can keep while living in a palace. 

Vincent made fast friends with Ray O’Malley from the moment he stepped into the pontiff’s office. Ray's system was designed for efficiency; he showed Vincent that his files were in fact already color-coded for his convenience and sorted into piles of “must be addressed immediately”, “should be looked over within the week”, and “worth only a minute of your time, if that, sometimes people write to the Pope just because they want someone to vent to.” O’Malley proved to be a fiercely protective ally in the first half of the year, warding off reporters and members of the media with a small army of surprisingly young press officers, all of whom seemed glued to their computers, waiting for whatever tweet or post would cause a controversy. Vincent now knows that Ray is one of the most indispensable members of his senior staff, and that he had no ill will when he discovered the secret of Vincent’s condition. Ray simply told Lawrence the truth, and then told no one else. 

Lawrence. 

Vincent had felt a pull towards Cardinal Lawrence from the moment they locked eyes in Sister Agnes’ office. There was the simple fact that he was handsome, sure, but Vincent had met plenty of handsome people before in his life. (Indeed, he has never met anyone truly ugly.) What impressed Vincent more was Lawrence’s kindness, his compassion for a man whom he had never met and had no reason to trust amidst a conclave that Vincent soon learned was full of less than trustworthy people. Lawrence fed him, sheltered him, and clothed him without a second thought, going so far as to ensure Vincent was not amongst strangers but could talk with people in his native tongue. Voting for him on the first ballot had been natural, a consequence of knowing few people in the pool of candidates and wanting a pope who recognized the desire to serve God and other people.

Voting for Lawrence a second time was different. That was an act with clear intent. By that time, Vincent had witnessed the various manipulations of his fellow Cardinals, and had found himself recoiling from them on instinct. Politics was never his strong suit; Vincent preferred to speak truthfully with people rather than cajole them into siding with him in some sort of transaction. Lawrence appeared to feel the same way; when he expressed his own difficulties with prayer, Vincent felt an honesty within the man that was refreshing. The second ballot was easy for him. Lawrence was no longer just a colleague, but someone who had showed vulnerability, evidently a rarity within the walls of the Vatican. 

Lawrence had come out of his shell, just a little, rather like the turtles Vincent found so enchanting.

The third vote had come after their discussion in Vincent’s room. Lawrence had a flush on his cheeks the entire time; in retrospect, Vincent could pinpoint the start of his physical attraction there. 

The idea of voting for Tremblay was not only a poor one strategically, it seemed to Vincent to be an expression of Lawrence’s own self-loathing or diminishment of himself. Did he not see that he was truly the best candidate to become Pope? It’s not as if Vincent was making up his qualifications out of whole cloth. Dean of the College of Cardinals, senior advisor to the late Holy Father, a former nuncio in Vincent’s beloved New York, a set of values that showed an open-mindedness and willingness to learn and grow, and guide the Church towards growth…

And he didn’t want the position. Not in a false way, either. The idea seemed to truly scare him, no matter if he was considering it. Vincent took that as a good sign. The papacy should scare people. To be so close to God, to be his spokesman on Earth… It requires the bravery of one standing next to a live wire, ready to grasp it in one's hand.

I don’t want your vote! That was almost amusing. Vincent understood Lawrence’s frustration, but compared to the barrel of a gun or the flying shrapnel from a car bomb, it did not intimidate him. Rather, it only made Lawrence appear better suited to be pope. Every pontiff should have a lion’s roar somewhere within him. Sure, it wasn’t effective on Vincent, but Vincent admits he has seen fearful things most people have not.

Nevertheless, you have it. Vincent meant it as a compliment. Maybe even an expression of love. Lawrence was - and is - a passionate man. His on-the-spot homily about faith walking alongside doubt proved that. Whatever his faults, he has a great depth of feeling towards Christ and the Church. He deserved - and deserves - a passionate response. 

This did not satisfy him. But Vincent voted for him anyway. 

By the fourth vote, Vincent was buoyed by the fact that several of his colleagues were also aware of Lawrence’s strengths as a candidate. It seemed the more Lawrence fretted, the more he revealed the depth of the conclave’s weaknesses, the more his own strengths were highlighted. 

Vincent did spare a thought for his fellow Cardinals, though. The late Holy Father clearly did not leave without exerting a significant amount of influence over the conclave that resulted from his death. Tremblay begged the crowd to see the situation from his point of view; Vincent was not unmoved. He felt a pang of sympathy for the man; maybe the late Holy Father really did ask him to bring that poor Nigerian nun, Sister Iwaro, to the Vatican. 

(If I were ever Pope, Vincent had thought, I would not deal in secrets like that.)

Then there was the bombing, and suddenly Vincent had to balance his feelings towards his fellow Cardinals with the trauma of past horrors reverberating in his own throbbing head. As the men around him argued and panicked, all Vincent could think of was how the darkness of war seemed to follow him, first from the Congo to Kabul, then to the Vatican, where he was supposed to be safe, where they were all supposed to be safe. 

He kept his fear in check, reminding himself of God’s mercy and security. His colleagues were not so easily calmed. 

Looking back, Cardinal Tedesco was likely not acting solely out of anger when he said such hateful words. Vincent recognizes a fear response when he sees it. But he still felt a need to reply. To invoke images of war, to state that the next Pope needed to be an enemy of those with different faiths, to suggest that the power of the Church should be used as a weapon rather than a balm, a healing salve… Vincent could not stand for it. He was not thinking of Lawrence, or Tremblay, or Adeyemi, or Tedesco when he spoke. He was thinking of the men and women he left back in Kabul, tired and underfed, looking for guidance through love at a time when so many were impelled by fear to rule by force.

After he spoke, he saw that people were listening to his words. Lawrence was listening to his words. 

When I leave here, I will take that feeling with me, Vincent thought. It will be better than any souvenir. Sweeter than any treat. I will be able to tell my parish back home that while these men have not seen your faces, they know who you are. They see you. 

He never ended up leaving. His vote, like the others, went up in smoke. A different result emerged, one he could not have predicted in his wildest dreams. But before he could even really accept the magnitude of what had happened to him - before the ink saying Innocentius had even really dried - Lawrence was in front of him, wary, afraid, looking for an answer.

Vincent gave it to him. By that point it was not a hardship. Lawrence was worthy to hold the keys of St. Peter; how could Vincent not trust him with the secrets of his body? 

In the Room of Tears they held hands. They prayed. They talked. 

I know what it’s like to live between certainties. 

Lawrence took all of him in; every bit of Vincent’s mind, soul, and body. He found it to be good. If it weren’t for him, Vincent likely would have spent the rest of his papacy questioning whether his election was a gift or a punishment. But God confirmed his blessing with the true blue of Thomas’s eyes. 

The transformation after that was just as natural as everything else. There was no moment of realization; there was no explosion of rainbows or angelic music in Vincent’s head. Time passed, Vincent became Innocent, and his friendship with Cardinal Thomas Lawrence granted him the ability to not simply see but to observe.

The roses in the papal gardens hang low in the morning, dripping with dew, their stems tilted downwards the way Lawrence tilts his head down when he’s embarrassed or bashful.

Saint John Paul II’s notes on the death penalty, hidden away in the Vatican archives, are written in scratchy, rushed writing, like he was so passionate about the subject he could barely get his words onto the paper ahead of thinking them. Lawrence’s voice does the same when he speaks on the subject, rising in pitch and volume, betraying a keen mind that often moves faster than he can communicate. 

The Vatican is full of cliques and special interest groups and little coalitions of friends and allies, all of whom want their own goals accomplished with the help of the Pope. Lawrence is at once a member of all of these groups and yet also displays a clear sense of individuality, preferring to stand by positions and ideas rather than ideologies or labels. 

Every detail of Vincent’s papacy is to be recorded, enshrined in reports, photographs, film, speeches, and homilies. Lawrence finds none of this daunting. Rather he’s exhilarated by the process, a smile on his face whenever Vincent speaks to a crowd. You’re making history, he says. His excitement is contagious.

The city of Rome has its own massive ecosystem of workers and tradesmen, all moving to provide tourists and natives alike with food, shelter, entertainment, and fashion. Vincent sees none of this, as he is kept securely behind the walls of the apostolic palace. Instead he witnesses the fruits of Rome’s labor from afar, noticing as Lawrence eats a pastry from a cafe, as he pulls a new leather notebook out of his pocket, as he walks in inexpensive but sturdy looking shoes from room to room. 

There’s a slightly reddish tinge to Lawrence’s hair, what’s left of it that hasn’t gone an attractive shade of grey. His eyes are not the color of the sky in Rome, but are rather robin’s egg blue, the color of the dress Vincent’s sister wore at her quinceanera. He keeps fit, sometimes arriving to Vincent’s office with wet hair as a result of showering at the gym in the Casa Santa Marta. His voice is deep and rich, and slips into a lower register when he’s speaking of matters he considers sacred. His shoulders are broad; if he were to lie on top of Vincent, Vincent would be covered entirely, with only his feet sticking out. Lawrence’s tongue sometimes pokes out between his lips when he types; he types with two fingers, hunting and pecking for each letter. His hands are strong and dextrous. 

Vincent has never had a boring conversation with Lawrence. They have never spoken on an unimportant topic, or, rather, every topic becomes important as soon as they sit down and discuss it. There has never been any awkwardness between them, no stilted silence or pregnant pause. Vincent spends the first year of his papacy looking to Lawrence for support, for guidance, and for friendship. He does this so often that when Lawrence is not around, he sees the qualities that make him exceptional manifested in other people. The phrase oh, Lawrence would like this becomes common in his thoughts. Vincent finds himself wondering when he will next get a chance to see Lawrence, and finds himself missing Lawrence when he’s gone. The world becomes more vivid in his presence, turning from black and white to color. Vincent feels that he has become a better person for knowing him. 

By the end of the first year of his papacy, Vincent has bloomed into a better strategist and navigator of Vatican politics, a more reverent servant of Christ, and a more confident leader of the Catholic Church. He has also fallen in love. These changes did not happen separately, or without an effect on each other. They also occurred somewhere deep inside Vincent’s psyche. Even if he wanted to change himself, return to who he was before he ever left Kabul, he could not do so. Loving Lawrence has become part of his identity. He is in love, in the state of it, now and likely forever. It’s almost a comforting feeling to have. He knows he can rely on it, can depend on his own love, like the sound of his own beating heart. 

He also knows that, for lack of a better word, he is completely and totally fucked. 

Ay, carajo.

—

The knee-jerk reaction to Vincent’s state of affairs would probably prompt a simple declaration of fact: The Pope can’t be in love. This statement may be true, but over the course of his life Vincent has learned that certain definitions find themselves lacking when put under the barest amount of scrutiny. Most would say man cannot be human and divine, and yet Christ was born, lived, died, and rose from the dead all within a human and divine state. Many would say that a man cannot have a uterus and ovaries, and yet Vincent wakes up every morning proving this assertion wrong. As Lawrence stated in his homily over a year ago, certainty is something to be questioned and examined, and Vincent has had plenty of opportunities to do just that. A Pope cannot be in love, and yet he is. 

What people mean by such a statement is that a Pope shouldn’t be in love. That’s easier to understand, but more difficult to grapple with. Priests are celibate as a form of discipline. The choice to refrain from getting married is seen by all as a sacrifice. Perhaps there are some priests out there who never felt inclined towards marriage, but Vincent isn’t one of them. He’s had thoughts about it. He’s thought about a house, a couple of children, a domestic life with laughter and routine and arguments about who left the milk out the night before. He even planned to get married, once. But those plans were short lived; in the end the priesthood attracted him more, and his desire for marriage remained an abstract idea, disconnected from any actual desire for someone. 

Vincent has desires now. He wants. 

His vows are meaningful to him, yes. He took a vow to live simply, a vow to serve the Church, a vow to refuse a higher calling unless it was imposed upon him. But vows are only useful as far as they serve Christ. Ritual, routine, rules - Vincent accepts and admires all of these elements of the Church, but not when they obstruct God’s will. And often they do just that.

An unwillingness to accept homosexuals, a rigid position against birth control of any kind, a separation between men and women that has grown into a chasm - Vincent finds these ideas tiresome and, frankly, outdated. 

Is celibacy outdated? Vincent isn’t sure, but he also knows that he can no longer look at the topic objectively. Celibacy no longer serves him. He no longer feels closer to Christ with such a restraint around him. Christ taught him to love with his whole being - when he loves Lawrence, he’s doing that. When he loves Lawrence, it gives him the same sense of connection that prayer does. 

So he does not punish himself for his feelings. He does not weep over his own failings, nor does he try to wipe them out or cover them up in his own mind. He simply exists alongside them, praying with them, wrestling with them like Jacob did with the angel. There’s nothing to be done. As useless as his vow of celibacy is at the moment, he can’t actually break it. He’s the Pope. The danger of it is self explanatory. And even if he were to take that chance - 

Would Lawrence even want him back? 

(Hidden smiles, a blush on his cheeks, sharing food in the cafeteria, soft whispers of praise, physical closeness, jokes only they understand -) 

Vincent isn’t even sure Lawrence likes men that way. He likes men, sure, but he has no real sense of when someone else is straight or gay. All of that is a foreign concept to him. He simply likes people; gender has never factored into it the way it does for others. Has Lawrence ever been in love? Has Lawrence ever broken his vows? Priests do it all the time, often with each other. One might even say there’s an atmosphere of that sort of thing within the Vatican. But if Lawrence is inclined towards breaking his vows, whether it be with a woman or a man, he’s never mentioned it to Vincent, and likely never will. 

Vincent’s love is entirely internal. It remains inside him like he remains within the walls of the apostolic palace. As much as he has bloomed over the past year, his desires remain clipped and tamed. There’s nothing to be done. 

He’s just going to have to live with it. That’s… fine. Vincent has lived with greater secrets in his head. All things considered, he’s actually very lucky. How many people get to spend every day with their beloved? How many priests get to counsel others on the unique complexities of love while experiencing it themselves? 

He will continue like this, until his desires either fade away or fizzle out, if that’s even possible. He will simply love silently, peacefully, while focusing on the requirements of his job. The Pope will be in love. He just won’t do anything about it. 

That is, unless Lawrence does something first. 

—

Lawrence’s sister is a delight. She has Lawrence’s blue eyes and dry sense of humor, and she thankfully does not treat Vincent like a china doll or a godlike figure. Her children are adorable, and appear equally fascinated by the glamour and mystery of the Vatican as they are by the variety of desk toys Ray has in his office. 

“Do you know Jesus?” The little boy - Dominic - asks.

“I do,” Vincent responds. “I talk to him every day. He lives in Heaven, though, so I can’t see him.” 

“Do you wear white all the time?” 

“Just when I’m at work. It’s like a uniform.” 

“Like the garbage man.” 

“Exactly like the garbage man.” 

Katherine is willing to regale Vincent with plenty of memories from her and Lawrence’s childhood, all of which Vincent listens to with rapt attention. He can’t help but wonder if he would have been friends with Lawrence as a child. Apparently Thomas was shy when he was young, preferring to stay inside with his books and model planes, only coming out of his shell in his older years.

“Of course, I didn’t know him, then. We only really became close because he lived at home during university. He practically raised me in those days.”

“Someone had to take care of you,” Lawrence murmurs. “The pigtails weren’t going to plait themselves.”

“Looking back, he was always going to be a priest,” Katherine muses. She takes a sip of her tea and stretches a little, keeping an eye on Dominic and Ilsa as they play in one of the many courtyards of the papal gardens. “Thomas liked to study. If there was something he didn’t know, he’d check out every book on the subject. Sometimes he’d come home from the uni library with a huge stack of them. His Bible was so dog-eared it was practically falling apart.” 

“And you?” Vincent asks. He hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s judging. 

“Oh, I tried, Holy Father, believe me. But in the end I just couldn’t get into it. Took after mum’s side of the family, I suppose.” 

Vincent looks over at Lawrence, who’s sitting quietly with his hands in his lap. “Your mother wasn’t religious?” 

“She felt the hierarchy was alienating,” Lawrence explains. “The governing element. She didn’t talk about it much, but I think my interest in the Church confused her.” 

“That and your love of the indoors,” Katherine adds. “She wanted you to be an athlete, not a bookworm.” 

“Only because that’s what boys do,” Lawrence shrugs. “They play sports, they stay active. They lose the baby weight after primary school.” 

“Boys get in trouble,” Katherine counters. “You never did that.” She turns to Vincent. “Ugh, you’ve caught us reminiscing again. Next thing you know I’ll be bringing out old photographs.” 

“Do you have pictures?” Vincent asks. Baby Thomas!

“I have one or two on my cell phone - here,” Katherine says, pulling up the app on her screen. She hands Vincent the phone and leans over, pointing at the figures in the picture. “That’s us on vacation, I think. Thomas would’ve been about seventeen, there.” 

Vincent looks at the grainy picture-of-a-picture of a chubby teenage boy with round cheeks and longish hair, smiling as he holds a tiny infant in his arms. The sleeves of his t-shirt are hiked up around his shoulders, revealing a painful looking sunburn. 

“Oh, tesoro, you were so cute,” Vincent coos.

“I was so fat,” Lawrence sighs.

“Shush,” Katherine scolds gently. “You sound like Mum.” 

No wonder it’s so hard to get him to eat, Vincent thinks. He’ll have to keep that in mind. 

When Katherine and her children leave, it’s with plenty of souvenirs from the Vatican museums, and promises to return during Christmas or Easter.

“Take good care of my brother,” she asks him. 

Vincent smiles. “I will. He is very special to me.” 

Then she and her children are gone, another set of faces that Vincent will keep in his mind whenever he thinks of his vocation as a lonely one. He will have to ask Lawrence about them often; it’s clear Katherine is a major contributor to the vibrant tapestry of Lawrence’s personality.

Three weeks pass before Vincent gives the visit another thought. In that time he meets with two prime ministers, a king, two youth groups vying for the canonization of yet another “internet saint”, a committee of interfaith transgender activists, and one reporter hoping to know more about Vincent’s hair care routine. (It’s shampoo and a little bit of oil.) Throughout all of these events, Lawrence is by his side, supplying him with both information and companionship as necessary. Despite their seeing each other nearly every day, Vincent allows himself a certain amount of greediness in his desire to spend time with his friend. For Lawrence’s birthday, Vincent walks with him in the papal gardens, and presents him with a small gift he spent far too much time fussing over. It isn’t much - a donation to a hospital ward, Vincent would have cured cancer himself if he could - but Lawrence appears immensely pleased anyway. His smile makes Vincent’s entire body arch up in pleasure, like a flower tilting its face towards the sun. 

Lawrence comes to pray with him in the evenings most nights, making the process of decompressing after a busy day of being a political figure worlds easier than it would be for Vincent on his own. It is on one of these nights that Lawrence brings up the subject of Katherine, making Vincent pause as he sets a cup of tea into his waiting hands. 

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

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

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

“I’d say most people are less devout than we are,” Vincent cuts in. “I don’t necessarily think that’s a bad thing.” Honestly, he could do with a daily conversation with an atheist or an agnostic. Sometimes he wonders if he lives in a big bubble full of faith, and that makes him a poor ambassador of the Church to those who don’t know the capital T-Truth yet. 

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

Vincent raises his eyebrows. Oh, no, he thinks. She didn’t like me. Maybe she noticed the titanic amount of paperwork on Lawrence’s desk. Vincent is constantly trying to convince him to take more time off, but the man loves his job and it’s a bit difficult to tell someone to stop working when the work they are doing is carrying out God’s will…

“You know, never mind, it’s fine.” Lawrence swallows and glances away. The top button of his cassock is undone. Vincent refuses to get distracted by this. 

“No,” he insists, “tell me. I promise I won’t be upset.” He can handle a little bit of criticism, especially if it’s about how he treats his colleagues. He can always be kinder, more loving, more accepting of Lawrence; it’s not as if Thomas doesn’t deserve it. 

“It’s just…” Lawrence chuckles nervously, “She said that, the way we interacted, it looked like you had a crush on me.”

Vincent’s brain shuts off momentarily. 

“Isn’t that - isn’t that ridiculous? I think so - that’s - that’s - that’s what I told her.” A thin sheen of perspiration breaks out across Lawrence’s forehead. 

Vincent still can’t speak. The neurons in his brain are refusing to fire. 

Lawrence blinks. He blinks again. 

Holy Mary, mother of God, please, help me!

Vincent has three options here. 

The first is obviously to deny everything. Take Lawrence’s offer to pass off the entire exchange as a joke, force a laugh, and move forward. Silly Katherine, with her secular ways and her misunderstanding of the complex homosocial relationships between priests. Vincent is the Pope! He isn’t able to have a crush. He isn’t allowed to feel any sort of romantic attraction at all, really. In terms of his connection to other people, he is entirely asexual, a symbol more than an actual person. Yes, he is close to many people, but sex and sexuality became abstract ideas the moment he completed the sacrament of Holy Orders. Deny, deny, deny. Vincent is a good enough politician to know when that is the most sensible option. Lawrence would not question him; he has no reason to. Vincent has been subtle, hasn’t he? He has behaved like a professional. He’s been good. He’s been good. There’s no reason to answer in the affirmative. A denial is quick, easy, and clean. 

Don’t panic. If you panic he’ll see it on your face.

The second option is to admit to a crush. Vincent could probably concede some level of physical attraction without ruining his and Lawrence’s friendship entirely. The majority of the Curia already sees Vincent as a sprite-like character, boyish in nature, a friend to small animals and children. If he were to say he had a crush, Lawrence might pass it off as a flight of fancy, a phase Vincent is in, one that’s sure to pass very soon. It would be as if Vincent imprinted on him, like a duckling. That would be an embarrassing impression to give off, but it would ultimately save Vincent from having to explain himself further. There would be some tension at first, maybe, depending on how Lawrence reacted to such news, but these things happen between colleagues, between friends, between brothers in Christ. A quiet shrug, a sheepish smile, a “well, it’s just that you’re so charming” - that could do plenty to assuage any of Lawrence’s initial disgust. 

Don’t break eye contact. Think of something to say! If you’re quiet for too long he’ll come to his own conclusions. 

The third option is to admit the truth. This is a bad idea. Vincent doesn’t need to detail why. It’s self-explanatory. 

And yet… Is honesty not one of God’s commandments? Would it really be better for Vincent to lie to the one person who has accepted him when given every opportunity to recoil in horror? 

Is that fair to Lawrence? Is that fair to his friend, his advisor, his student in faith?

Just like falling in love, the moment of confessing it is entirely natural. 

“I wouldn’t call it a crush,” he begins, bracing himself for the storm. Be calm, he tells himself. God is with you. 

“You wouldn’t?” Lawrence squeaks. His eyes are wide, searching. Vincent would spare a thought for his beauty, if he had any to spare in the first place. 

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

Lawrence’s jaw falls open. He stares at Vincent blankly, disbelieving, his expression almost as shocked as when Vincent first revealed his condition.

“What? ” He says loudly.

Vincent tries not to wince. He knows there’s no going back now. He might as well double down. “I’m in love with you. I’m sorry you had to find out this way.” The distinction is important to him, he realizes. If he merely had a crush, this conversation wouldn’t even be necessary. He tries for humor to lighten the mood. “This is a bit awkward, isn’t it?” 

Lawrence is still staring at him like he’s announced he has plans to play American football. “I don’t - what ?” 

“I really didn’t mean for you to find out this way,” Vincent apologizes. “Actually, I didn’t mean for you to find out at all. But I’d rather be honest with you than pretend.” Perhaps he should acknowledge his apparent lack of subtlety. “You’ve clearly… picked up on things.” 

For a brief moment Lawrence says nothing, and a wild, insane thought fills Vincent’s mind in the silence. 

Maybe he’s pleased. 

Maybe Vincent’s idle longings have some basis in fact. Maybe every little touch, every smile, every warm conversation has been leading up to this moment, where Vincent’s dreams will turn into a sparkling, brilliant reality, and he can reach over and take Lawrence’s hand like he did in the Room of Tears and - 

“…No.” 

The bubble in Vincent’s head pops instantly. It barely had time to crystallize into an actual emotion. 

Vincent winces. There’s a tightness in his chest and a tingling in his armpits that is making it difficult to focus. “I imagine this causes a certain amount of distress for you.” 

Of course it would. No one likes being hit on by someone they don’t want. It happens in bars, in gyms, in cafes and offices every day. Why should Vincent be any different? Because he is the Pope? 

“Vincent,” Lawrence says soberly, “you’re the Pope.” 

Vincent almost wishes Lawrence would call him a creep instead. Of all the consequences of his election, he didn’t expect this particular burden to hang so heavy around his neck. “I am aware of that.” 

“You can’t have feelings for me.” 

Lawrence’s words cut right to the bone. Is this how it is, then? Vincent is a neutered, impotent thing, unable to feel a spark of lust just because of the office he holds? He may be Pope but he is still a man.

Or is it something far worse than that? 

Is Lawrence denying Vincent’s attraction because Vincent is attracted to him? 

Vincent can only pray that isn’t the reason. That can’t be the reason. Anything but that. 

“And yet, I do,” Vincent answers. A familiar sense of defiance grows inside him, word by word. “Very strong feelings, in fact. But we don’t need to discuss that at this moment.” 

Lawrence’s eyebrows are knit together so close Vincent could get a headache just by looking at them. “Why?” He asks. 

What a strange question. “Why am I in love with you?” Oh, beloved, let me count the ways. “Why does anybody fall in love?” Your mind, your heart, your body, your spirit, the sound of your voice in the morning… 

Lawrence shakes his head minutely. He still looks tense enough that he might bolt from the room at any given moment. “I don’t understand,” he says. “You’ve made a vow of chastity.” 

Oh, Christ have mercy. Now sex has entered the conversation. Vincent could point out that he hasn’t physically broken any of his vows, but he knows he has a desire to, and one could argue they were broken the moment Vincent realized his attraction months ago. “I know,” He concedes. “And my vows are very important to me. But… not as important as what God has been telling me.” 

Surely Lawrence will understand his feelings within a religious context. Vincent did not embark on such a personal journey with the intent of committing sacrilege. 

Unfortunately his meaning doesn’t seem to have gotten through. “You think God is telling you to fall in love with me?” Lawrence exclaims. 

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

He’s pleased with his language. Vincent’s love for Lawrence and for God transcends his desire to abide by human rules, even the rules of the Church. It’s not as if his vows aren’t important - but they should serve a purpose. What would he be accomplishing by denying his feelings? What sin exists that he needs to avoid? Lawrence understands this, surely. He sees that Vincent’s feelings aren’t a basic matter, doesn’t he? 

“Vincent, are you telling me you’re a homosexual?”

This isn’t working. This isn’t working at all. Please, dearest, just listen to me. “No. I don’t think of it like that.”

“How do you think of it?” 

Vincent takes a moment to self reflect. He wishes he had a word to describe himself that could neatly fit into Lawrence’s understanding of sexuality. “I like people,” he says finally. That is as close as he can get to it, but really he should be more specific. “I like you.” 

That’s what’s at the heart of it. If nothing else, Lawrence can accept that. Vincent likes him. He’s always liked him. He just knows now that he likes him more than a colleague or friend normally does. 

Lawrence leans back in his chair. He takes that in for a second, then asks, “Why me?”

Vincent tilts his head. He could go on at length, could express all of the reasons Lawrence is the only one for him, and part of him wants to. But the last time Vincent was completely and wholly honest in his assessment of Lawrence’s qualities, Lawrence shouted at him. It did not intimidate Vincent, but it didn’t make him happy, either. Lawrence is not a man who enjoys compliments. He has to be given them bit by bit, like inoculations against a disease, or he’ll have a poor reaction. For someone so honest, he finds the truthful details of his own character to be quite noxious. 

“Do we need to go into specifics? I don’t want to cause you any more distress. I know how embarrassed you get when you are… showered with…” Vincent doesn’t even say the word compliments. 

Lawrence doesn’t entertain the idea further. “Vincent, we can’t be in a relationship.”

Another strike at Vincent’s heart, this one deeper than the last. Vincent was expecting it, but to hear Lawrence say it out loud is worse than he could have imagined. “I - I know. I just…”

“I’m flattered, but… I don’t feel the same way about you.”

Vincent’s fingers curl up into a fist in his lap, his nails digging into his palm. There’s no room for doubt in that sentence. No living between certainties there. Lawrence doesn’t feel the same way. They’re misaligned, like two puzzle pieces jammed together wrong. 

This isn’t a surprise. It isn’t a shock. It isn’t anything. 

Vincent’s feelings have no effect on the world.

“I know,” Vincent says. A horrible numbness has taken over his anxiety. 

“I’m flattered, but, I - I can’t encourage this. I can’t be involved.” Lawrence cringes at his own words. Vincent wants to reach out and comfort him, but he realizes how ridiculous such a gesture would appear right now. 

He needs to get a hold of himself. He needs to manage this. He’s made a mess of this conversation and now it’s time to clean it up. “I know,” Vincent replies. “The last thing I want is for you to feel any discomfort.” 

Lawrence seems to understand that desire, at least. Vincent is glad for that. It means Lawrence knows their friendship is Vincent’s first priority, now and always. 

“So you will cease your infatuation with me?” Lawrence asks.

Vincent blinks, uncomprehending. He offers a nervous chuckle. “I don’t think I’ve treated you any differently, Tomás. Have I made you uncomfortable?” 

“No - you haven’t,” Lawrence responds, much to Vincent’s relief. “It’s just - I can’t - the Pope can’t be in love with anyone, especially not a man.”

There’s that word again. Can’t. It rubs up against something deep within Vincent’s character. Why can’t he be in love? He’s proven all expectations wrong several times before. His very existence is a paradox. His arrival in Rome was a surprise to all. He was never supposed to get out of Afghanistan. He was never supposed to take part in the conclave. He was never supposed to be made the successor to St. Peter. 

No, what he can’t do is pretend like nothing has happened. A change has taken place in Vincent’s heart, in his soul. To deny the love he has for Lawrence, his friend, his neighbor - it would be an affront to Christ Himself. 

Lawrence is his beloved; Vincent would do almost anything to please him. But he cannot fulfill this request.

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

Lawrence is insistent. “You must. It’s part of your duty to the Church.”

What is that tone? Vincent is perfectly aware of his duty to the Church. He is also aware that he has a duty to a far higher power than anything man has created. “Are you speaking to me as my friend or as my advisor?”

“Vincent -“

“I highly doubt God would want me to deny my own feelings,” Vincent argues. “Especially my feelings for you, as they are more true to me than -“

“Vincent!”

Okay, that was too far. But Vincent is in the right here and he will not be moved by appeals to his own authority. “Tomás, I will endeavor to mind your comfort around me. I will follow your lead whenever possible. I will treat you as a friend, as a colleague - whatever you prefer. But no one can ask me to deny my feelings - not even you.”

Lawrence’s mouth is fixed in a hard frown. It breaks Vincent’s heart. Is he really being selfish in trying to maintain his dignity?

He spares an instant to pray. Lord, tell me what to do. 

The answer comes to him immediately. He must make sacrifices. He cannot rid himself of his feelings, but he can rid Lawrence of his anxieties. 

“I would like to be with you, but I do not need the feeling to be mutual,” Vincent says. “We can simply continue as though nothing has changed. Nothing has changed, really.”

This is how it was going to be originally. Vincent was always going to love silently and without effect. 

Lawrence doesn’t seem satisfied by the plan. “So I am to just - pretend like nothing’s taken place?”

It doesn’t sound as elegant of a solution when Lawrence puts it that way. But he offers no other option, and short of ending their friendship (a truly terrifying thought), Vincent has none either.

Vincent’s love will just have to be another secret between them. One even they don’t acknowledge. 

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

Lawrence takes all of this in without saying anything more. Finally he nods. “Alright.” 

You’ve ruined what’s between you two. You’ve ruined it entirely. It’s gone now and it’s all your fault. “Do you want another cup of tea?” Vincent asks. 

“No, I’m - I’m fine.” Lawrence won’t meet his gaze. “I’m sorry, it’s just - I’m trying to take this all in.” 

“I understand.” Vincent hopes he sounds empathetic. He honestly has no idea what’s going on in Lawrence’s head right now. 

“Do you think - do you think maybe I could have some time alone? I just - I need to process all of… this.” Lawrence waves his hand, gesturing at nothing.

Vincent nods. “Of course.” 

“Are - are we still friends?” 

Vincent’s response comes late because of the knot in his throat. He cannot cry; not now, not here. “Always, Thomas,” he replies. “The best of friends.” 

“Good.” Lawrence nods, though his mind is clearly elsewhere. “Good.” 

There’s some shuffling, an awkward cough. Lawrence fusses a little with his cassock as he gets up from his chair. 

“Take as much time as you need,” Vincent says.

You sound like you’ve just told him he’s dying. 

“I will,” Lawrence replies. “I - I will.”

Vincent stands and walks Lawrence over to the door. Lawrence opens it, and then turns back, looking Vincent in the eye. 

“Goodnight, Holy Father,” he says. 

“Goodnight, Cardinal,” Vincent replies. 

The door shuts with a click, leaving Vincent alone. He turns to head for bed but catches his own reflection in the hallway mirror. 

A year of constant praise has clearly gotten to him somehow. Despite the world’s approval, Vincent can now see exactly why his desire for romance would not be reciprocated. The bags under his eyes, for one. The dullness in his complexion. The grey in his hair, betraying an awkward period in between youthfulness and the wisdom of age. Lines around his mouth - he smiles too much, talks too much. He is too much, all around. He is too outspoken, too playful, too headstrong, too earnest, too lustful to be a good priest, too pious to be a free spirit, too much of a man to be a woman yet too much of a woman to be seen wholly as a man, too elevated in his office, expecting too much and never getting enough, and on top of all that is the white of his cassock, a blinding, searing reminder that he has loved above what his station requires, he has loved his friend too much, exceeding the boundaries of their relationship, so far that Lawrence would rather flee the room than talk more about Vincent’s feelings, of which he has too many.

He is what God made him, it’s true. He cannot insult his Creator’s handiwork to the point of calling himself ugly or broken. But as much as God made him, he did not make him for Lawrence. That in and of itself is devastating. 

The Pope in love. It’s ridiculous. It’s preposterous. It’s true. But it will amount to nothing.

Vincent goes to his room and takes off his clothes on autopilot. He brushes his teeth, takes his multivitamin, combs his hair, and puts on pajamas. Then he crawls into bed and pulls the covers up around him. 

Most nights he prays. Tonight he just talks. 

Please, God. Make it hurt a little less.

—

Vincent spends the first week after his confession to Lawrence trying to keep as much distance as possible between the two of them. He figures Lawrence will want time to process the shift in their relationship, even if they agree that nothing actually needs to change. Vincent has had almost a year to sit with the knowledge that he’s fallen in love; he can at least give Lawrence the courtesy of a little space as he takes in yet another bit of information about Vincent no one else knows. 

It’s funny, really. Vincent doesn’t normally consider himself to be a secretive person. But he’s discovering all sorts of new evidence about his character as a result of the journey upon which God has set him. 

Like that he is far needier than he ever could have imagined.

Three days since I have touched Lawrence. Five days since I have touched Lawrence. A week since I have touched Lawrence. Vincent promised to follow Lawrence’s lead. He didn’t think it would be so difficult. Touch, fresh air, sunlight - these little pleasures are necessary to Vincent’s well-being. Touch especially. In Kabul he had friends and neighbors who clasped his hands in their own to thank him. In Baghdad he would sometimes fall asleep in his desk chair, waking up to find one of his extremely competent nurses passing the time by braiding his hair. Lawrence’s touch has never been sexual or even more intimate than the occasional holding of hands, but without it Vincent feels like he’s going through withdrawal. 

He’s being dramatic, of course. Even more so when it turns out that his exile from Lawrence is a short-lived one. After a week or two of unsteady stares and whispered are you alright, Cardinal?s Lawrence returns to Vincent’s side, apparently satisfied that they can continue their friendship as usual. Vincent doesn’t know if he should be thrilled or disappointed by this. It’s wonderful that he hasn’t ruined his relationship with Lawrence, but - did his confession really have no effect?

Of course it didn’t. You’re the only one who changed. You will continue to be the only one who has changed. 

Such is the life of the Pope, Vincent supposes. Taking on new names and new roles every day. Catholicism is a religion of transformation. Maybe falling in love is like that. Maybe this is something he just has to go through alone.

It’s nice to have Lawrence back as a friend. They fall back into their usual routine easily. Lawrence talks with him in the mornings and prays with him in the evenings. They edit each other’s homilies and ask each other for advice and occasionally point out an interesting looking bird they might see walking through the papal gardens. It’s almost - almost - normal. The elephant is in the room, yes, but Vincent is happy to ignore it if it means Lawrence will not drift from him again.

It wasn’t the week alone. It was the terrifying thought that Vincent could spend a lifetime alone. Friendship is a welcome balm to all of that fear.

There is only one small problem. Despite their half-spoken agreement to pretend that Vincent never confessed his feelings, Lawrence is intent on bringing them up. Not out of malice - Vincent knows Lawrence would never be cruel on purpose - but out of confusion.

“Are you still in love with me?” Lawrence asks one morning while Vincent is still tugging his body out of drowsiness.

It takes him a moment to even process the question. Is Lawrence testing him? Probably not. Does he still wish that Vincent would simply cut his feelings off like an overgrown vine? It’s not even that Vincent won’t do it, it’s that he can’t. He doesn’t know how to stop emotions like that. How does one stop the sun from rising? The rain from falling?

“I’m afraid so.” Vincent thinks for a moment and then feels dread rise in his throat. “Have I made you uncomfortable?” He should be more careful about his own behavior from now on.

“No.” Lawrence shakes his head. He casts his eyes downward, like he’s embarrassed to talk about the subject despite having brought it up. “I just don’t understand it.”

There’s a joke Vincent’s nephew told him once. Apartment complex? I find it quite simple. “You don’t understand how someone could be in love with you?” 

Lawrence makes a half-shrugging motion. Vincent resists the urge to point out that falling in love is a very natural thing to do, and that Lawrence must have been on the receiving end of someone’s affections before, surely. 

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

Vincent straightens up in his chair. His ego, bruised and battered, gathers itself together for a fight on instinct. “You mean since you rejected me.”

Lawrence says nothing. Vincent sets his teacup down. He weighs his pride against his desire to please. 

His pride wins out, but only because it is just as much pride in Lawrence as it is in himself. 

“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry. You simply haven’t done anything to change my point of view.” Vincent tries to sound sympathetic. He probably could have tried harder to keep his distance, to entertain the idea of changing his mind. It wouldn’t have worked, but he could have tried harder. 

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

Vincent’s sympathy disappears immediately, replaced by bubbles of amusement. Lawrence, acting badly! What could he do? Reject the authority of the Vatican? Steal from the collection basket at Mass? Chew with his mouth open? Hog the covers at night?

“Please,” he says. “Feel free to make yourself less desirable.” He holds out his hands, waiting for the bad behavior he knows will never come. “I will tell you you’ll get nowhere by being yourself.”

Lawrence blushes. He mumbles something under his breath and glances out past Vincent at the doors leading out into the courtyard of the Casa Santa Marta. 

“What was that?” Vincent asks.

“I just - you think very highly of me,” Lawrence says. His hand comes up to rest on his cheek. 

Vincent blinks. “I would think highly of you in any circumstance,” he replies. “You’re easy to admire.” 

Lawrence doesn’t preen at the compliment but he doesn’t deny it, either. He takes a long sip of his coffee, finishing it. “Tell me what you need from me today, Holy Father.” 

Vincent nods. “Today? Mostly your ability to edit and proofread. I have some notes on the words I will say to the president of the Forum of Families, as well as a draft of the homily for the World Day of the Poor.” 

“Is it that soon already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Alright. Audiences as well, I assume?”

“The ambassador to Fiji, and his wife, as well as members of Doctors Without Borders.” Vincent knows Lawrence has all of these appointments written down in his calendar, but he likes feeling a little bit special by going over them. They’re more of a team this way. “Along with a few hundred other people who would like to speak to me.”

“I’ll put the kettle on in my office.” Lawrence smiles and gets up from his chair. “See you soon, Holy Father.” 

“See you soon.” Vincent watches Lawrence as he goes, eyes following the hem of his cassock. 

Are you still in love with me? 

Vincent wonders if anyone could fall out of love in a week. The Curia could barely elect a Pope within a week. 

As he goes to recycle his cup and compost the used tea bag he passes Sister Agnes, sitting at a table with another young Sister. There’s a large ball of salmon-colored yarn between them, along with two wooden needles and a partly-knitted piece.

“Good morning, Sisters,” Vincent greets on his way back.

The woman next to Sister Agnes looks up at him with wide eyes. She’s very young, no more than thirty, with wisps of blonde hair peeking out from under her habit. A fiery red blush appears on her cheeks as soon as Vincent makes eye contact with her. 

“Good morning, Holy Father,” Sister Agnes says. 

“Good - Good morning, H-holiness,” the second Sister squeaks. “I - um - you’ll have to excuse me. I have to -“ 

She clumsily rises from her chair, grabbing a worn messenger bag next to her. Sister Agnes simply watches her as she hurriedly exits the room, her head facing down. Vincent can only blink as he watches her go. 

“Was it something I said?” He asks. 

Sister Agnes raises an eyebrow. “You have an effect on people, your Holiness.” 

“I’d rather not have people run away from me,” Vincent says. 

“I just mean Sister Winifred likes you,” Sister Agnes says. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” 

“Oh.” Vincent sits with this information for a moment. He’s not used to people thinking of him as handsome or attractive. As asexual as the figure of the Pope is, Vincent has not been blind to the newspaper headlines calling him the “Hot Papa.” He really doesn’t see it; he thinks he looks like everyone else, the way he has the whole time. “Shouldn’t she then want to talk to me?” 

“You’re somewhat intimidating. But pay it no mind,” Sister Agnes says. “She’ll get used to you soon, once she remembers her vows and yours as well.” She gestures for Vincent to sit.

Vincent swallows. Vows, vows, vows. Little pieces of people, given to God. Is it wrong to want to keep something for oneself? He used to think so; now he’s not so sure. “She left her knitting,” Vincent observes. 

Sister Agnes glances down at the ball of yarn on the table. She sighs. “Indeed she did. She would likely lose her head if it wasn’t attached to her body.” Without any hesitation Sister Agnes picks up the fabric and begins to continue Sister Winifred’s knitting, with decidedly neater stitches moving in a line down the needles. 

“You’re very good at that,” Vincent says. 

“Thank you, Holy Father.” Sister Agnes blesses him with a rare smile. “Do you knit?” 

“No, I don’t know how. I’d love to learn, though. Do you think I’d be any good at it?” 

“It depends,” Sister Agnes says. “Are you a very patient person?” 

Vincent squirms a little in his seat. “I’d like to be,” he replies. 

“Mm.” Sister Agnes raises an eyebrow. “We need a patient Pope, Holy Father. The Church works in -“ 

“In centuries, I know.” Vincent sighs and looks at the yarn moving through Sister Agnes’ fingers. “I just don’t know how anyone can wait that long.” 

“Simple,” Sister Agnes responds. “You make sure the thing you’re waiting for is worth it.”

Chapter Text

“You look great, Holy Father. Really, very handsome.”

Vincent tries to ignore the heat rising to his face. “Your name is Carla, yes?” He asks.

“Yes, your Holiness.”

“Carla, there’s no need to flatter me, my ego is big enough already.” Vincent shifts in his chair and tries to straighten his back. He doesn’t want to look as though he’s slouching in the photograph.

This picture is going to be on candles, on posters, on walls in schools, restaurants, and old ladies’ homes. People are going to pray to you for help when they’re sick, when they’re afraid, when they’re simply in need of a friendly face. When you die, this is the picture they will show at your funeral. Your funeral, by the way, will be viewed by millions. The designs for your tomb have already been made with foot traffic in mind. You are the most famous man in the world.

Vincent forces his face into yet another smile, not too strong, not too soft. His muscles hurt a little bit from the exertion, but he supposes it’s not the worst feeling to have.

“Don’t squirm,” Lawrence says from behind the photographer. “Or we’ll have to start again.”

Vincent’s nerves melt away like butter under the gentle heat of Lawrence’s voice. “You don’t have to be here, you know,” he replies smoothly. He keeps his gaze fixed on the lens of the camera. “Carla here is taking good care of me.”

“I enjoy bothering you,” Lawrence replies, not even hiding his smirk. “And I want you to get used to the sound of cameras.”

“Aren’t I already used to them?” Vincent asks. He stills while Carla comes forward and brushes a lock of hair out of his face.

“It’s only going to get worse when you start traveling,” Lawrence warns. “People are going to flock towards you. In the Philippines, in Brazil, in Mexico. The press won’t let you have a moment of privacy. You’ll have to stick by your guards - if you get lost in a crowd they’ll do everything but rip your clothes off.”

Vincent grimaces at the camera as the shutter clicks.

“We’ll delete that one,” Carla reassures him.

“It’s been a year and it seems I am still learning how to be Pope,” Vincent observes. “Will I ever become an expert?”

“That depends,” Lawrence says. “Do you feel close to God?”

Vincent pulls his eyes away from the dark eye of the camera to meet Lawrence’s gaze. His expression is soft, amused. His cheeks are tinged pink. In his element as a manager, Thomas is, as usual, breathtaking.

“Closer than ever,” Vincent responds.

“Then you already are an expert,” Lawrence declares. “The rest is just extra.”

“Alright, one more smile for me, your Holiness?” Carla asks.

Vincent grins, without any pain at all.

—

Vincent actually likes Cardinal Tedesco.

He understands why people don’t. The man exudes controversy. He revels in it, thus repelling most people. He is unabashed in his conservatism, often embodying an almost medieval sense of zealotry for the traditions of the Church. Rather than act as the diplomat, he prefers to rub up against those around him, sure that his abrasiveness will push people along. Oftentimes it works. Vincent has been told that the monologue - or, more accurately, the rant Cardinal Tedesco gave just before the final vote of the conclave was not an out-of-character moment for him. Rather, the Venetian persuades people of his politics in short bursts, spectacles of passion, usually those that hide careful moments of calculation where he pits ideologies against each other. He is very clever; most would admit this. But most would also say that his style of debate makes him too much of an annoyance to be counted as a great ambassador of Christianity. Cardinal Bellini finds his reverence for tradition over the top and indicative of a false humility; Monsignor O’Malley simply thinks he’s obnoxious.

Vincent finds him interesting. In many ways, Cardinal Tedesco reminds Vincent of his father. A gruff man, Vincent’s father was often confused by the changing world around him. He’d dutifully take the entire Benitez family to Mass in his Mercury Colony Park station wagon, the radio crackling as it played the same cassette of José Alfredo Jiménez songs over and over again. Vincent remembers his father shushing Carmen and Alma as they played together in the pews, making them focus on the priest as he delivered his homily. But on the way home all Vincent would take in as he stared out of the rear window of the car was the sound of his father complaining that fewer and fewer women were coming to church with veils covering their heads. The correct dress, the correct level of solemnity - those things were important to Vincent’s father. They brought him closer to God, therefore they must bring everybody else closer to God. Tedesco shares many of the same beliefs. Vincent finds that it’s often not so simple, but he had difficulty explaining that to his father. He knows he would have the same difficulty with Tedesco.

Still, he prefers to keep company with the man. For one thing, Bellini has suggested he take on the strategy of “keep your friends close and your enemies closer”, and for another, Cardinal Tedesco’s conservatism is not a world from which Vincent necessarily wants to distance himself. There will always be people like Vincent’s father in the pews of churches around the world, and their needs must be met as well, as long as they serve Christ in the long run.

Vincent also does not find Tedesco nearly as obnoxious as many of his colleagues find him. The cape, the vape pen, the loud ranting - Vincent knows it mostly shields insecurity. When Tedesco recognizes authority, he knows to obey. A large amount of his unhappiness comes from not knowing what to do at any given moment.

“Walk with me,” Vincent says, after dining with Tedesco and his entourage in the apostolic palace. The evening is unusually warm, a hint of the summer to come. Had Vincent hosted the get-together by himself, he would have invited his colleagues to bring their coffee and dessert outside. Instead the red clothed Cardinals scatter empty handed across the papal gardens, no doubt debriefing each other on the discussions held over supper.

“Ah, Holy Father,” Cardinal Tedesco answers, falling in step beside him. “How are you doing this evening?” He asks in heavily accented Spanish.

“I am well,” Vincent says evenly.

“I want to, er, apologize, for - for my earlier comment about Cardinal Lawrence.”

Vincent thinks of the one quiet moment of the dinner, when he shocked his guests by scolding the patriarch for calling Lawrence a trained dog.

“I was only teasing him, but… that is no excuse for my behaving poorly in front of you.” The usually confident Cardinal puffs at his vape sheepishly. Vincent eyes him, wondering what his angle is.

“It is not I whom you need to apologize to,” Vincent tells him. “Cardinal Lawrence is right over there.”

He gestures over at his beloved, seated on a bench at the other end of the garden. Lawrence is deep in conversation with Cardinal Bellini, likely discussing the merits of having Pope Innocent make a post on Twitter or Instagram or some other platform that will inevitably attract the world’s youth.

“Cardinal Lawrence,” Tedesco says, “knows that I was not criticizing his character, only his behavior.” He takes a long drag of his vape, blowing the sweet-smelling vapor in the opposite direction of his pontiff.

Vincent doesn’t quite see the difference in this context, but he decides to let it go. “You called him a trained dog,” he says, “because he is loyal to me. Is that such a problem?”

“It is not that he is loyal to you, Holy Father,” Tedesco says. “It is that he is devoted to you. Because of that, you should consider my words to be a warning of sorts.”

Vincent stops their slow stroll around the garden. He carefully keeps his face neutral as anxiety prickles in his joints. “Cardinal Lawrence is devoted to me,” he repeats, “and I am supposed to see that as a bad thing? Enough to warrant a warning?”

“Holy Father, a good Cardinal should be devoted to the Church, not to you,” Tedesco says. “I understand it is easy to confuse the two, given your… tendency towards a postmodern view of the world -”

Vincent doesn’t know how his worldviews are in any way more postmodern than they are modern, or in fact traditional, but he decides not to touch the subject.

“- but a Pope cannot get attached to any one of his advisors, nor can his advisors grow attached to him. The Church is, as you have said, always moving. It is the ideals of Christ we should look towards, not the virtues we find in each other.”

Vincent frowns. “That seems a very lonely life, for a pontiff.”

“It is!” Tedesco waves his hand. “It is a lonely life for all of us. But that is the sacrifice the Church demands of us. We are to be married to her. We are to live as individuals, not as units. We are together insofar as we are - as Tommaso likes to say - brothers in Christ.”

Vincent bites his lip. He looks over again at Lawrence, who has gotten up and is walking out of the garden arm in arm with Cardinal Bellini. (Such easy affection between them! Vincent should confess his envy sometime.) “It must be one or the other, then? Devotion to the Pope, or devotion to God?”

Another puff of that infernal device. “It is only so simple when you put it that way, Holy Father.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “How often have I warned you of speaking in absolutes, Cardinal?”

Tedesco blushes, a spark of irritation appearing behind his eyes. But he tempers it before it can catch. “Some things are absolute, Holy Father. Others are more complicated. But the truth cannot be avoided either way.”

He is so much like my father, Vincent thinks. He doesn’t know if this is a compliment or an insult towards the man.

“I will take what you say into account,” Vincent says finally. “But I have to say - God did not want us to be hermits. Priests are meant to be leaders of our communities. How can we be subject to Christ if we are not subject to each other?”

“Subject to each other, yes,” Tedesco pushes, “but not subservient to each other. You want the Curia to see you as human, yes?”

Vincent nods. “Yes, absolutely.” He detests any depiction of himself as a saint or anything close to otherworldly. He is a man, with human thoughts and human desires.

“Then your advisors should advise you, and devote themselves to God.”

Vincent sighs. “You are overestimating any one Cardinal’s feelings towards me.”

“I am reporting what I see, Holy Father.” Tedesco suddenly goes quiet. He leans forward, making eye contact with Vincent. “Your Holiness, you are not the first person to want to be friends with everyone you meet.”

Vincent leads them to a bench, sitting down and looking at his shoes. “I know that.”

“You are not the first Pope, either.”

Vincent looks up. “No?”

“John Paul the Second was also very attached to one of his advisors, though in a different way.” Tedesco huffs from his vape and then blows the vapor out through his nose. “Your predecessor, too. So perhaps it is not a trait common only to liberals, eh?” He nudges Vincent with his elbow, a slightly too friendly gesture that Vincent ignores.

“Pope John Paul had an advisor who was… overly devoted to him?” Vincent asks.

“Si. Not in the same way, though. She may have had different intentions, se capisci il mio significato.”

Vincent raises his eyebrows. His heart begins pounding in his chest. He thinks of Lawrence’s retreating figure, his broad shoulders. “And did he feel the same?”

Tedesco shakes his head. “He was the Pope! He could not feel the same. Do you feel the same way towards Cardinal Lawrence?”

Vincent’s heart flies up into his throat. He had forgotten who he was talking to. Tedesco is interesting, yes, and oddly magnetic, but he is not one to confide in, not about matters of the heart. “No,” Vincent says finally. “No, my feelings towards Cardinal Lawrence are very different from what he feels towards me.”

Tedesco seems satisfied by this. “All you must do is keep that in mind, Holy Father. And keep him aware of it.”

Vincent has no desire to do that. He is also tired of the Venetian controlling the conversation. “You dismiss a priest’s need for attachments,” he says, “but other religions do not hold priests to such a strict standard. Protestant Christians allow their priests to be married.”

Marriage. Is that what he wants? Yes, if marriage means freedom to love without so many rules and regulations attached to it. Marriage means the world understands your need for a specific person to be with you, even if it comes with a cost. Marriage is celebrated as one of the sacraments.

Vincent was going to be married, once. It was only for a short time. The girl had been a family friend, a young woman with dark brown hair in braids down her back and a quiet disposition. Her name was Rosario, though everyone called her Chayo. She had liked Vincent, and he liked her, though they didn’t talk about much other than schoolwork and what was on television when they were with each other. It wasn’t an arranged marriage, exactly, but in retrospect Vincent should have known he was never going to marry her. There was no spark, no flame of passion. He had no reason to be attached. After half a year of engagement, she expressed a desire to go to college and he expressed a desire to go to seminary. They parted ways amicably, though he remembers his mother being initially disappointed.

He looked Chayo up a few years back, on his extremely slow laptop in the field hospital in Kabul. She had gotten married, moved to Missouri, and had a teenage son who was transgender. Because of that she posted often about the need for activism within the “queer” community.

If Catholic priests were able to be married, perhaps Vincent would have ultimately followed through with the engagement. Perhaps the lack of a spark in their relationship would not have been enough. Maybe she would be in the apostolic palace right now, waiting for him, ready to ask about his day.

Or maybe he would be the father of the teenager, posting on Facebook about the need to protect trans lives. Would he feel more at home there, given his condition?

Unlikely. Home is where his faith is, therefore his home is in the Church. Therefore his home is with Lawrence.

If he were to marry Lawrence…

“Other religions are wrong,” Tedesco says, interrupting his thoughts. “I beg you, Holy Father, do not make a mockery of the Catholic Church by pretending as if it is merely an item on a dessert menu. There is one holy and apostolic Church, created by our Lord Jesus Christ and founded by St. Peter, to whom you are the direct successor. If I were Pope -”

“Careful, Cardinal,” Vincent warns, but he is mostly ignored.

“- I would make it clear that our so-called ‘brothers and sisters’ of other faiths have been led astray, and they need to see the truth and the light and the way if they want their immortal souls to be saved! If they try to attack the Church, or resist its teachings, they will perish in the fires of hell, where God’s love will not reach them, all because of their own stubbornness!”

Vincent has to fight not to smile. Trust Tedesco to believe he is an authority on stubbornness. As for the rest of his rhetoric, Vincent feels no need to argue with the man. He is simply wrong, just as he was during the conclave, when his words were clearer in their panic.

He is so much like my father. But like Vincent with his father, he and Tedesco will never truly be friends. They see the world too differently.

Vincent lets the silence linger, watching his brother Cardinal puff vapor into the evening air. The overly saccharine scent lingers on his tongue, sticking to his teeth. Cherry, possibly.

So attached to something so sweet. How can one stand it?

“Cardinal Tedesco,” Vincent says quietly, “if I am to push away those who would devote themselves to me, who would carry on my work if something were to happen?”

Tedesco’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “If something were to happen?” He repeats.

“As you have said, there are those out there that would try to attack the Church,” Vincent says. “I am the head of the Church.” He opts for a joke. “Whether you like it or not.”

Tedesco nods, accepting the humor with a grunt. “Your Holiness, if something terrible were to happen, your legacy would be secure, I assure you. We may disagree on many things, but the teachings - the life of Pope Innocent would not be forgotten.”

Vincent nods, though a hollow feeling has opened up in his chest. He thinks once again about Chayo, and the life he gave away. If he could marry Lawrence, would he be the smiling face in the Facebook profile? Would he be posting about attending an event in support of his son?

Could he ever leave the Church behind?

“Thank you, Cardinal,” Vincent says. He wills his voice to stay present rather than fade away.

Yes, the life of Pope Innocent will never be forgotten - but what of the life of Vincent Benitez?

—

Vincent is very aware that, at this moment, he is acting like a ten-year-old boy. He also doesn’t care.

“Holy Father,” Sister Agnes says, “it’s time for us to return to the apostolic palace.”

Vincent glances up at the midnight blue of the night sky. They’re at the outer edges of the Vatican, walking down towards one of the gates where tour buses drive through, giving high school students a glimpse of St. Peter’s Basilica. Just past an ornate iron gate are the last few lingering travelers leaving the Vatican to return home, along with a few tourists content to snap a picture of the basilica from afar. The sight of average people living their lives makes Vincent ache with a feeling that’s only emerged in his heart since the beginning of his papacy; a homesickness not for a specific place but for the general community of the outside world.

“Please,” he begs, turning to the Sister. “Just a little longer?”

Sister Agnes’ mouth hardens in a mixture of sympathy and disapproval. “Your Holiness, you will be exhausted tomorrow if we do not turn back now.”

“I’m not a child,” Vincent protests. “I can stay up late.”

“Holy Father…”

He sighs. “Fine.”

Occasionally Vincent’s life as a supreme pontiff veers on absurdism. He is supposedly the Vicar of Christ, and yet sometimes he finds himself being treated like a particularly spoiled child. People are constantly asking if he is too hot, or too cold; if he would like a jacket or an extra pair of gloves. His days are scheduled down to the minute, sometimes including bathroom breaks and moments for “self-reflection” in addition to prayer. When he walks, people are constantly watching to make sure he doesn’t trip over his own feet. Once, when he returned from a long day of meetings, a sister had left at his door a plate of milk and cookies to snack on. The gesture was appreciated, but it left Vincent feeling infantilized.

Lawrence waits for Vincent to ask for help. He offers it sometimes, but only after waiting for Vincent’s word. Despite the Curia’s understanding of Vincent as a boy, he sees Vincent as a man, through and through.

As they return to the apostolic palace, Vincent sees that someone has left the window of his bedroom open to let in a breeze. He thinks of his sisters sneaking out to see their boyfriends late at night when he was young. Carmen always told him that she’d kill him if he tattled on her…

Wait.

Well, it wouldn’t involve climbing out a window. But Vincent could probably do it.

He could sneak out of the Vatican.

“Sister Agnes,” he asks, trying to sound casual, “do you know where one could find a regular black cassock in the apostolic palace?”

Sister Agnes gives him a suspicious look but continues walking. “There might be a spare or two in a closet I could show you, in case a priest has an emergency… may I ask why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Vincent replies. He avoids the Sister’s gaze, reaching for his key card as he passes the Swiss Guards. (Yes, even he has to use a key card in the Vatican.) “I was just wondering.”

“Occasionally previous popes have had uses for them. Your predecessor was quite fond of… extracurricular activities.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that, Sister.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

The plan is simple after that. Sister Agnes shows him where an extra cassock is hidden, and he thanks her for her time. Once she’s left and wished him goodnight, he takes the outfit for himself, changes in his room, and makes his way out again, shoulders already feeling lighter for their lack of white.

He hasn’t worn a black cassock in over a year. It feels like coming home. So much of being the Pope is restrictive. So much of being a priest is freeing.

He doesn’t climb out the window, though the thought does occur to him. Instead he merely walks quickly as he exits the building, keeping his head down and his hair tucked under his zucchetto. It’s late in the evening at this point; most of the staff has gone home. Only the Swiss Guards are around, and they don’t notice a lone priest wandering the hallways.

After the palace is a walk to St. Peter’s square, and then past a few darkened buildings, and through a gate, and then -

He’s free. Just like that. No one even stopped him. No alarms sounded. No lights flashed.

He’s in Rome, alone. Completely anonymous. After two blocks of walking it becomes clear - he could go anywhere, do anything. He could run away if he wanted to. The pope who vanished into the Italian countryside. He could do it.

Well, not with the less than sixty euros he has stowed away in his pockets. It’s all he has in cash, saved from when he first arrived in Rome. He should probably give it to the poor. Maybe he will, if he sees someone who needs it.

As he walks, he passes by the residential neighborhoods and enters a livelier part of the city, a section filled with closing storefronts and still-open restaurants. Above, apartment windows glow with yellow and white light, showing silhouettes of people coming home from work. A lava lamp sits on a windowsill. A cat peers outside. A woman calls to a man outside carrying two heavy bags of groceries. Below, the bars and restaurants teem with people eating, drinking, and making conversation. While Vincent has been away, the world has not stopped turning. It has continued to move with the steady rhythm of human life and culture.

God, Vincent has missed it so much. He knows he is not the only one, too. The Vatican is beautiful, a whole city-state dedicated to spirituality and holiness, but it cannot replace the joy and wonder that comes with a real city full of people. Yes, there are thousands and thousands of tourists that walk through Vatican City every day, but it’s not the same. Outside, people live. He should make it a rule that his cardinals and priests have to spend more of their time outside the Vatican’s walls, helping the poor and talking to the common people. Yes, some of the older members of the Curia would object to the idea, saying it is unbefitting for the Pope to be walking amongst the crowd instead of above it, but Cardinal Bellini would agree with him, and Thomas would -

Thomas. Thomas is out here, now, likely asleep in his little apartment on the street with the statue of the dog at the corner. Vincent wishes he knew the exact address; but it would be strange to stop by, wouldn’t it? Could he claim it was a special occasion? Hi, I know I’m the Pope and I’m not supposed to be here, but I snuck out, do you want to get a piece of pizza? Or a drink? Or we could just walk around and enjoy the fact that no one is staring at me? Yes, I know, I am still in love with you, but you could just ignore that, and focus on the adventure, because I feel incredible right now and I desperately want someone to share it with…

Vincent wishes he had his phone. Then he realizes he doesn’t actually know Lawrence’s number. He’s never had to learn it by heart. He’ll have to do that.

For now, he can enjoy a night of solitude. There is something wonderful about how no one seems to notice him. Why would they? A priest walking in Rome is nothing out of the ordinary, even late at night.

Vincent is mulling the options of stopping by a pizzeria for a slice and a soda or getting a small cup of gelato when he sees a glowing neon sign in an apartment window.

TAROT READINGS, it says in cursive Italian script. SPIRITUAL ADVISOR.

Vincent can’t help but smile. Whomever she is, he thinks, she shares my occupation, in a sense.

Vincent has never believed in astrology, or psychics, or anything of that nature. But he is not so disapproving of such practices as to think they shouldn’t exist. He knows people find balance and meaning in life in all sorts of ways. Would he prefer that every man and woman looking to their horoscope for guidance instead seek the word of Jesus Christ? Yes, absolutely. But it doesn’t seem like people’s use of zodiac signs and tarot cards are hurting anybody in the meantime, so long as they aren’t being used to actually predict the future. Vincent’s abuela occasionally read out her horoscope to him when he stayed at her house after school; she never thought that the future it predicted would actually come to pass. She just used the words to evaluate her own life and draw connections between events. She wasn’t a witch. (Though that is a funny image.)

Vincent has never actually encountered occult magic. He knows why it’s wrong, though, and believes in the Church’s feelings against it. Witchcraft is used to gain power over the future and over other people, often for malicious purposes. People should trust in God for guidance about what will happen, not the stars, or cards, or palm readings.

Of course, if Vincent were to get his palm read, he wouldn’t be using the information to gain power. He would just be doing it for fun, knowing it didn’t really matter. If Vincent got his tarot read, it would just be a thought exercise.

And he’s not even Vincent right now. He could be anybody. He’s just an anonymous priest in a black cassock, walking around Rome.

Lawrence would be scandalized by the Pope entering a psychic’s shop. That’s half a reason to do it already - Vincent can’t wait to see the look on Thomas’s face when he tells him the story.

The buzzer rings obnoxiously, the noise lingering in his ears as he stands in the doorway of the apartment building. A crackly voice comes in over the intercom.

“Hello?” A woman answers in Italian.

“Yes, I’d - are you available? I’d like to get my tarot read.” Vincent pauses. “If it’s too late, that’s fine, I can - I can come again another time -”

“No, no, I’ll be right down!” The woman abruptly ends the intercom link; Vincent hears footsteps travel down the stairs. A mid-fifties woman with dark brown hair pulled into a messy bun and rhinestone covered glasses opens the door. She gives Vincent a quick once-over, and then says in perfect American-accented English, “I’m happy to do a reading for you.”

Vincent blinks. Somehow this woman is able to recognize just by looking at him that he is both a foreigner and an English speaker, but not that he is the Pope. “Are you sure? I can come back another time,” he says, knowing he likely cannot come back at another time.

“Oh, no, it’s fine! Come in, come in. I was just watching my shows. You know it’s only three PM in the States?” She closes the door behind him and leads him into a small sitting room with a beaded curtain separating it from the kitchen, hosting a small table complete with crystal ball and a velvet tablecloth. From behind the curtain, Vincent can see the light of a muted television throw shadows across the wall. On the shelf to his left sits a set of half-melted candles above a small framed picture of a cat labeled Princess. “Sit, sit. What was it you said you were looking for? You want your palm read?”

“Uh, no thank you.” This is all moving very fast; Vincent wonders if perhaps he was too impulsive. “Just - just tarot, please.”

He has no idea why he’s so focused on that practice as opposed to any of the others. Is there a fuzzy memory in the back of his mind of one of his sisters playing with a deck, or perhaps a nurse in Baghdad giving readings to her friends as they waited for patients to come in?

He sits down in one of the plush red chairs and folds his hands in his lap awkwardly. The woman sits down across from him, the gold of her cards glinting in the lamplight.

“My name’s Nancy, by the way. I’m American, as you can probably tell, but don’t hold it against me. I moved when the idiot-in-chief took over.”

“Oh,” Vincent says. He thinks of his meeting with said idiot. It wasn’t very memorable; the man had little to say to him, clearly alienated by so many earnest displays of faith.

“So,” Nancy says, shuffling her cards. “What’s in the stars for - what was your name again?”

“Uh…” Think of something, fast! “Rick. Ric…cardo. Riccardo.”

“Riccardo. I know you’re not from Italy, Riccardo, I can tell by your accent. Where are you from?”

This woman must never open a newspaper. Or look out her window. “Mexico. Veracruz.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico. They have such sandy beaches on the brochures.” Nancy hums and spreads the cards out on the table. “Alright, pick three.”

Vincent looks over the cards and feels a sudden swoop in his stomach, the same feeling that comes up whenever he has to tell a white lie. “Um, excuse me,” he says. “Would it - would it be okay if - I don’t want to talk about the future. Would it be okay if we just talked about, um, where I am? I don’t - I don’t want to try to harness the future, here. I just - want to think about my life in a new way.” Maybe he isn’t making any sense.

“Of course,” Nancy replies. “Trust me, I get clients like you all the time.” She glances down at his neck, where Vincent feels the fabric of his collar rub against his skin. “Do you have a specific question in mind?”

Vincent raises his eyebrows. “No,” he says honestly. He didn’t think he had to bring anything to the discussion.

“That’s okay too. I’ll look out for what you need. Just pick whichever ones speak to you.”

Vincent looks down at the cards, all purple and accented in gold. None of them are ‘speaking’ to him in any particular way. So he does what he often did as a child when faced with a difficult decision.

Jesus Christ, you are the most holy and wonderful. Please help me make the right choice. Also, sorry for invoking your name while potentially practicing witchcraft. I hope it’s not a big deal. Amen.

He picks three cards.

Nancy lets him sit with his choices for a moment before turning over the first card. It depicts a woman on a throne with curly hair tumbling down from her crown. In her hand is a golden scepter. Her robe is covered in roses; she sits among lush green shrubbery and fields of wheat. The writing on the bottom of the card states: THE EMPRESS.

“Now the Empress…” Nancy begins, a warm smile on her face, “has to do with power. But not that of a tyrant. She’s a nurturing leader, very warm, very feminine. Do you feel that people view you as a source of comfort in their lives?”

“I hope so,” Vincent responds. “I know that I need to be especially caring in spaces where I am in charge.” He knows that all of Nancy’s interpretations are going to be vague enough that they could apply to anybody’s life, but it is still comforting to be affirmed that he is a nurturing leader. He wants to excel at caring for his flock. Christ compared himself to a mother hen with all her chicks. Vincent often feels the same.

“Don’t be afraid that she’s a woman. Femininity can be just as powerful as masculinity,” Nancy says. “You need both elements within yourself to be a good leader.”

“Oh, I know it,” Vincent responds. His hand automatically comes up to cover his lower belly.

“Do you have children?” Nancy says automatically. Then she catches herself. “I’m sorry, Father, I forgot for a moment.”

“I do,” Vincent responds. “I have children, in a sense.” Over a billion of them.

“I’m sure they look to you for guidance. That’s a good thing. Don’t be afraid of it. So, that’s your physical state…”

Nancy flips over the second card, revealing a bright yellow sun with a serene expression, looming over three cheerful flowers. Curly white clouds line the edges of the card.

“The Sun,” Nancy says encouragingly. “What a great card for your emotional state. The Sun means positivity, happiness, and fulfillment. Especially fulfillment that comes from attained knowledge.”

Vincent smiles nervously. “I certainly feel fulfilled in my line of work,” he says, careful not to reveal too much. “I am trying to stay positive, even when it gets difficult.”

“I imagine in your line of work you often meet people who are struggling.”

“I do.” Thousands of them. When I do not see them during the day, they are in my prayers.

“You’re doing good work by guiding them. But it should make you happy, too.”

Vincent thinks about these words for a moment. “Sometimes I feel trapped in my position. But I try to remind myself of all the work I am doing. I know that by being kept still, I am also being honored. Lots of things are kept away from people because they’re precious.”

Nancy nods. “If you weren’t in your position, what would you do?”

Vincent closes his eyes. He thinks of traveling, of returning to the hospital in Baghdad or his little camp in Kabul, or of going even further back in his past, back to his shabby apartment in New York or his grandmother’s house in Veracruz. He thinks of sitting in Central Park twenty years ago, with the warm sun on his face and the sound of children’s laughter in the background.

Then he thinks of the person who gives him that feeling no matter where he is. Lawrence is warm and gentle, a summer day cresting before it dips into evening.

He knows travel is impossible. Even if he resigned (a thought that has crossed his mind at least once), he could not simply become anonymous once again. He is forever the peaceful Pope, the Pope from Kabul, the first Mexican Pope, the young Pope…

More than the freedom to move, he wants warmth within himself. For that, he can only think of one person.

“I would… like to have a closer relationship with someone.”

Nancy nods. “Well, I hope you’re able to be somewhat close with them now.”

Vincent gives a small smile. “Yes. We are very good friends.”

Perhaps he’s saying too much. Perhaps tomorrow Nancy goes to the papers and tells a reporter that the Pope had his tarot read the night before and that he confessed to wanting to be with someone. Well, at least she has no photo of him. Who would believe her?

Nancy flips over the third card. Vincent instantly frowns at this one. It’s of a stone tower sitting in front of a night sky, with flames emerging from its windows. Below, two figures are falling, tumbling, looks of shock on their faces.

“Ooh,” Nancy says. “This is an… interesting card for you.”

Thank you, Vincent responds in his head. Her tone makes him uneasy. Does this card mean I’m going to die soon?

“The Tower,” Nancy explains, “means that you’ve just faced a moment of devastation in your life. Did something happen recently that gave you a great sense of loss?”

Vincent swallows. “Yes,” he replies. He thinks of Lawrence’s hands shaking slightly as he set his teacup down. I don’t feel the same way. Sure, they repaired their friendship, but it will never be the same as it was before. Lawrence will always look at Vincent with some amount of suspicion. And Vincent - Vincent will have to live with Lawrence’s rejection, forever bitter on his tongue.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Nancy asks.

Vincent shakes his head. “No, thank you.” It’s bad enough he’s said so much already.

“Well, the good thing about the Tower card is that it doesn’t speak to a permanent point in your life. It means that you could be facing a period of unforeseen change. A lot of people think it means destruction, but that’s not what it represents. The Tower means that you’ve gotten rid of what you had before, so you can build something new in its place. Your life is going to move forward.”

Vincent thinks of Christ’s birth, his words in the thirty three short years he lived on Earth. He thinks of how the rules and customs of the Old Testament were supplanted with new teachings and new commandments, with two above all others: love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. Love your neighbor as yourself. Vincent thinks of Christ’s death, of His agony on the cross. He thinks of His resurrection after three days. Did He know of the change that would come as a result? Did He know the world He would create?

Lawrence and Vincent share their own little covenant, now, their own private truth. Perhaps they can create their own world in the space where their friendship was. Maybe, despite all of Thomas’s anxieties and Vincent’s inability to hide his feelings, the entire ordeal will bring them closer.

Or maybe one day you’ll wake up and he’ll want you back, a traitorous voice says in the back of his mind. Despite knowing what he knows, that little spark of hope cannot be snuffed out.

It doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, it’ll be something completely new.

“By clearing away the tower, you can see the bedrock underneath,” Vincent says, mostly to himself.

“And upon this rock I will build my church,” Nancy quotes.

Vincent raises his eyebrows in surprise. Nancy just grins at him.

“I wasn’t always a psychic, Father.”

Vincent looks down at his lap, suddenly shy. “This is - this has given me a lot to think about.”

“I hope it’s meaningful for you.”

“Can I ask a question?” Vincent asks.

“Sure.”

“This… unforeseen change… what if it never happens?” Vincent glances away, out the window onto the street. “What if the progress I’ve been waiting for never comes?”

Nancy hums in sympathy. “It’ll come. I know it will. By God or by the stars, you’ll get what you need.”

Vincent shrugs. “Do the cards tell you that?”

“No. Just a woman’s intuition.”

Vincent says a little prayer that she’s right.

—

The next morning, an exhausted Vincent sleepily looks up at an enormous white car, on top of which sits a booth made of bulletproof glass.

“It’s entirely electric,” Ray comments for what might be the fourth time.

“Impressive,” Lawrence adds, possibly because there’s nothing else to say about it.

Vincent has never liked the popemobile. It’s nice that he has a car that allows him to greet the crowds that inevitably form around him, but he’d much rather just walk amongst his people than stand above them like a king. Not to mention the bulletproof glass makes him feel rather claustrophobic, like a trophy kept on display inside a small box.

“Could we have a picture of the Holy Father next to it?” The photographer says. “Perhaps pointing at the Mercedes logo?”

Vincent raises an eyebrow but obediently shuffles over next to the car. He smiles, but does not point at the logo. The Pope does not endorse car companies.

Lawrence walks over to him, whispering in his ear. “Do you need a cup of coffee, Holy Father?” He asks.

“No, I’m -” Vincent stifles a yawn. “I’m fine.”

“Are you getting enough sleep?” Lawrence asks.

Vincent takes an instant to bask in his beloved’s concern. “Yes, I am,” he says. “I just - not last night. I was…” He can’t lie, not to Lawrence. “I was praying,” he says.

Lawrence frowns but nods, stepping back.

“And one more picture?” The photographer says. “Holy Father, perhaps with you in the chair?” She gestures at the seat on the car’s back, surrounded by glass.

Vincent nods obediently and picks up the hem of his cassock so he can climb the monstrosity of a car. Lord, give me strength, he says to himself. Yes, he knows he’s grouchy. Yes, he knows he should be grateful that a company donated an environmentally friendly version of the Pope’s famously secure car to the Vatican. But in all honesty, he did not expect running around in something called a popemobile to be one of his duties as a leader within the Catholic Church.

“Do you have it?” Lawrence asks, observing as Vincent struggles to get his footing on the step up to the open back of the car. “Or do you need help?”

Vincent wobbles a bit and then steps down again. “I need help,” he answers.

Lawrence reaches out and offers his hand. Vincent takes it, relying on Lawrence’s strength to balance him as he climbs up. Once he’s stable and actually in the car, he turns back to look at Lawrence.

Lawrence makes eye contact with him. His blue eyes sparkle. His expression asks, are you alright, dearest? as clearly as if he’d said the words aloud.

Vincent nods. He lets go of Lawrence’s hand.

“I hope I didn’t squeeze too hard,” he jokes.

“No,” Lawrence replies, wiggling his fingers. “Nothing’s broken.”

Chapter Text

While it is a far cry from the sandy beaches of Veracruz or the desert rock of Kabul, Vincent cannot deny that spending a summer at Castel Gandolfo becomes a more exciting prospect with every moment he spends accompanying Lawrence on the elaborate palace grounds. Knowing that Vincent had no time to move house the previous summer, Lawrence takes Vincent on a massive tour of the campus, showing him the gardens, the museums, the offices, the lake, and the swimming pool. Everything, from the private train they took to get there (Vincent will have to open that to the public at some point, it’s simply too convenient) to the little cakes in the cafeteria (Lawrence says the Sisters use a special recipe, though he’s never tried one himself) comes with its own story or fact or memory, all of which Vincent listens to with rapt attention. He sometimes wonders what he’d do without Cardinal Thomas Lawrence, always at his side, always providing him with new information. He imagines he’d be very bored. 

Their first day at the palace is spent staying out of the Sisters’ way, so Lawrence and Vincent go on a walk through the palace’s gardens, taking in the bright summer sun as it glitters across the lake. Vincent admires the topiary skills of the palace gardeners, watching quietly as they shape various shrubs into neat little rows and mazes. Lawrence tells Vincent that he will have more time to walk around and explore if he wants, given that the palace is meant to be a vacation home for him. Vincent isn’t sure what to do with that idea. He’s never really been on vacation, not since the year he graduated from seminary and took a week off to visit friends in the Philippines before moving to New York.

There is still work to be done, of course. There are still homilies to be written and canon laws to be made and world leaders to meet, but all of that sounds a little sweeter with the addition of beautiful blue water and soft green grass. Yes, it will be a good summer. 

In the evening Lawrence walks Vincent to his bedroom, a hand on the small of his back as he moves through the corridor. Vincent rarely initiates touch these days for fear of scaring Lawrence off, but he feels like he is allowed to respond, when being touched. The smooth fabric of Lawrence’s cassock is heavenly under his fingertips when he touches Lawrence’s shoulder, just because he can. It’s like a tennis match; Lawrence serves, and Vincent returns. 

“Oh, look,” Vincent says, peering into his bedroom. Above the too-big bed pushed up against the wall is an enormous curtain draped over a hoop hung to the ceiling, forming a massive canopy. The fabric, a white mesh that looks fairly breathable, drapes over the bed like sea foam falling over a cliff.

“Wow,” Lawrence says, poking his head in behind Vincent. 

“For the mosquitos, I suppose?” Vincent asks. He walks over to gently touch the fabric. Didn’t Alma have a canopy like this in her bed when she was young?

“Or so you can sleep like Scheherazade,” Lawrence quips, following Vincent in. 

Vincent grins and falls back on the bed, careful not to let his shoes touch the duvet. “I don’t have a thousand and one stories, unfortunately.”

“That’s okay,” Lawrence replies. “I still think you’re very interesting.”

He thinks I’m interesting. He knows so much about me and he isn’t bored yet. How did I get so lucky? Vincent leans back on his elbows. He wonders if it would be too much to ask Lawrence to lie down next to him. He won’t try anything - he would never. He just wants a little more of the touch he got earlier. Lawrence is very gentle. 

Lawrence catches his eye and perhaps notices that Vincent’s gaze is too adoring. “I should -” He clears his throat. “I should leave you to get ready for bed. It’s getting late.” 

Vincent tries not to let his disappointment show on his face. Like a little kid hoping to delay bedtime, he wants five, ten, fifteen more minutes. “Stay a little longer, would you? I’m enjoying your company.”

Lawrence grins. “Alright,” he concedes. “How shall I entertain you, Holy Father?” 

Vincent toes his shoes off and sits up, crossing his legs underneath himself. He looks up at the hoop above him, a little halo for his bed. “Tell me something about yourself that nobody else knows,” he muses. 

Lawrence raises his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just a game my sisters and I used to play when we were little kids,” Vincent explains. “You tell each other a secret, but it’s not meant to be serious. Like, you secretly don’t like garlic, or you once had a pet butterfly, or something.”

Lawrence nods. “I think I understand.” He sits on the edge of the bed, the mesh curtain of the canopy between them. “Hm… let me think.” 

Vincent waits patiently, taking the moment to admire Lawrence’s hands as he fusses with them in his lap. 

“When I was a teenager,” Lawrence says finally, “I once successfully defended a girl’s honor, and she called me her hero.” 

Vincent’s eyebrows fly up into his hair. “Please, go on, brother cardinal!”

Lawrence chuckles. “Well, I was seventeen -”

“With your longish hair,” Vincent cuts in. He thinks of the picture Katherine showed him.

“Yes, with my longish hair,” Lawrence agrees. “I was seventeen, and I was at an end of the school year party with some of my friends - it was around this time of year, just when it was really starting to get warm - and there was this one boy, called Daniel, and he was - really, I think he was just insecure, but it manifested as his being really quite obnoxious to everyone around him, and I had a friend called Diane Richardson, and she sort of - well, sometimes she liked to talk to Daniel, I think she had a lot of pity for him, she’d try to tutor him sometimes, and while we were at this party he grabbed her and tried to throw her in the swimming pool. I think it was his way of flirting with her.”

“Oh, no!” Vincent exclaims.

“It was awful, and she was screaming, and I’m really not the most…” Lawrence searches for the right word, “confrontational person when I don’t have to be, but I knew she was in trouble and she had talked about getting her hair plaited the day before so she really didn’t want to get thrown in the water. So I just kind of… marched up to him and demanded he put her down, and made it clear that there would be consequences if he didn’t.”

Vincent grins. “Oh, you were a knight in shining armor.” 

“Something like that. Anyways, he ended up leaving the party, and Diane gave me a big hug and said I was her hero.” Lawrence shrugs. “It’s a nice memory, though I’m sure it wasn’t as nice for Diane. Still, I’m glad I was there.” 

Vincent leans in. “And…?”

“And what?” 

“And did you get the girl, Thomas?” Vincent asks excitedly.

Lawrence barks out a surprised laugh. “Obviously not, Vincent, I’m a priest.”

“I don’t mean did you marry her, I just meant if you…” Vincent waves his hand. “You know! Kissed her, held hands with her, things like that. You weren't a priest then, you were seventeen!” 

“Ah. I would have to say no, then. Diane was a good friend of mine, but we never saw each other that way. I wonder where she is now. I’ll have to look her up.” 

Vincent tilts his head, taking in the man before him. He can see why Diane Richardson called him her hero. Vincent often feels the same way.

“Okay, now you go,” Lawrence says. “Tell me something about you no one else knows.”

Vincent thinks, sticking his tongue out slightly as he comes up with an idea. He decides to first be bold. “You know,” he says, “some might say you know all of my secrets already.” 

Lawrence knows about Vincent’s condition, about Vincent’s feelings. Why bother pretending like he doesn’t?

Lawrence doesn’t fllnch, however. “I think there’s still more to learn about you. I think I could spend the rest of my life learning about you.” 

Please, please do. “I guess I have to come up with a good one, then.” 

“I’m waiting with bated breath.”

Vincent tries to think of something as wonderful as Lawrence’s story, but can’t come up with a good memory to share. “I have… never had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” he says after a moment.

Lawrence looks genuinely surprised. “You haven’t?” he asks.

“I’ve had peanut butter, and I’ve had jam, and I’ve obviously had bread,” Vincent says. “But not all three at once.”

“What did you eat after school when you were a child?” Lawrence asks. 

Vincent shrugs. “Quesadillas. Fruit. Leftovers from the night before.” 

Lawrence makes a face that says, fair enough. “We will have to get you a sandwich before the summer is over. I’ll put it on my list.” 

“You have a list?” 

“Of things to show you. New experiences for you to have.” 

Vincent hums and sits up straight. “I’m excited.” 

“I’ll bet,” Lawrence replies, barely hiding a grin.

Vincent licks his lips. He wants to tell Lawrence everything; every memory, every hope, every dream inside him. He wants to crack open his chest and give Lawrence his heart just for safekeeping, not out of a romantic instinct, but because he knows Lawrence would take the utmost care of it. “Let me tell you another one, that one wasn’t as good as yours.” 

“Please do.” Lawrence’s features are softened by the curtain of fabric between them, making him appear a bit fainter, a bit blurred, hazy. 

“When I was four, I got bit by a very large dog on a playground,” Vincent says. “My mother says I cried every time I saw a dog, for months afterward.”

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Lawrence says.

“I still have the scar, see?” Vincent holds up his hand, pressing it against the fabric. To his surprise, Lawrence raises his own hand, pressing it against Vincent’s. 

“I see,” Lawrence says, though he’s looking into Vincent’s eyes. 

For a moment they sit there, transfixed, separated by the thin divider. The symbolism isn’t lost on Vincent; but what separates him from Lawrence cannot easily be pushed away like a bit of fabric. 

Lawrence’s skin is warm; Vincent wishes he could hold his hand. 

“Holy Father,” Lawrence says quietly, “you need to be going to bed soon.” 

Vincent sighs. He hasn’t been told to go to bed early by so many people since he was living at home with his parents. “I know.” 

Lawrence stands, smoothing out his cassock. He moves to the front of the bed, out of the way of the curtain. “Goodnight, Vincent.” 

“Goodnight, Thomas,” Vincent says. “Shall we share more secrets tomorrow?” 

Lawrence nods. “I’d like that.” 

After Lawrence goes, Vincent sits by the window and watches his friend as he walks out of the palace and towards the guest house.

Is this what love is? Just a constant swirl of friendship and romance, all in one’s head? Vincent wonders how Lawrence sees him. If there’s even a spark of attraction there, or if Vincent has made the whole thing up. 

It’s wonderful to have a friend like Lawrence. But the seed was planted long ago. When Vincent looks at him, he will always see the brightest parts of him, the most attractive, the vision of him as the hero saving the girl from being thrown in the pool.

Maybe Vincent will learn to live with that. 

No, he has to learn to live with that. It’s the only way to survive. 

—

The last vestiges of May at Castel Gandolfo wash away into summertime, with butterflies populating the gardens and a thin sheen of perspiration appearing on Monsignor O’Malley’s forehead. Vincent spends the majority of his time talking to advisors and meeting with various world leaders, but he also gets the chance to go hiking for the first time in several decades, enjoying the view up in the mountains. He talks with people in the town, all of whom are a little less starstruck than the normal crowds with which he comes into contact. And he uses the swimming pool as often as possible, reveling in the cool water on his skin. (He invites nearly every one of his colleagues to swim with him; almost everyone refuses, but Archbishop Mandorff has an impressive backstroke!)

It’s on a lazy afternoon when Vincent is resting with his legs in the water that Cardinal Lawrence approaches him. Vincent has decreed that his staff should wear plainclothes at least on Fridays, so Lawrence looks particularly tidy in his button down shirt and pants.

“Come sit with me,” Vincent says, patting the warm stone next to him. 

Lawrence bites his lip.

“Please,” Vincent insists. “It’s late in the afternoon. We won’t be out long enough for you to burn.” Bless his little bald head.

“Vincent, if people see us -“

“They will think we are two friends relaxing,” Vincent replies. Then he wonders if he has gone too far. If people see them, what will they think? Does that matter to Lawrence? Does he make an effort to not be seen as too close to the Pope? “Unless - am I - ?”

Lawrence shakes his head immediately. “No, Holy Father. You’re not making me uncomfortable.”

Vincent relaxes. “Then come sit, please. The water feels wonderful.” 

Lawrence sits down with a quiet groan, taking his shoes and socks off and pulling his pants up around his knees so he can place his feet in the water. 

“How are you doing?” Vincent asks. 

“I’m doing very well. I’ve been meaning to ask you, how did you get over your fear of dogs?” Lawrence asks. 

“What?” 

“When you were little. You said you cried for months. But I saw you just the other day pet the little stray that hangs about the gardens.”

Vincent tries to control the size of his smile. Their exchange of secrets was weeks ago, but Lawrence still remembers. 

“I think eventually I learned that the dog didn’t actually want to hurt me,” Vincent explains. “He just didn’t know me. Once I met him again later, the fear went away.” 

Lawrence hums in understanding. A quiet calm washes over them. Vincent looks over and observes how the afternoon sun catches in Lawrence’s eyelashes, how his eyes sparkle bluer than both the water of the swimming pool and the lake out in the distance. 

If Lawrence is comfortable sitting next to him with his legs relatively uncovered, perhaps Vincent can go a step further and deliver a compliment. 

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

“Of course,” Lawrence replies. 

“You look very handsome in this light.”

Lawrence relaxes into the token of affection. “Thank you,” he says. “But - Vincent - my dear Vincent…“

Vincent sighs. Must every rejection of his love be preceded by a term of endearment? It’s all very confusing. Lawrence is free to tell him he needs to back off, but he shouldn’t do so with words of affection. Then again, Vincent is no better. Lawrence is his treasure, and Vincent can’t resist calling him that. Still, Vincent is in no mood for another discussion of Why The Pope Can’t Be In Love. 

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

Vincent bites his lip. Even if I did feel that way? Is Lawrence entertaining the idea of returning Vincent’s affections? Surely not. So why are they even discussing this? And if Lawrence does feel similarly, why focus on what they’re not allowed to do rather than the world of possibilities suddenly open to them? “I - I suppose, but -“

“Let me explain.” 

Lawrence reaches over and takes Vincent’s arm, holding him at the wrist.

Immediately Vincent’s brain starts firing on all cylinders. He’s touching me! His inner monologue screams. Vincent tries to stifle the voice quickly and focus on what his friend is saying. 

He has such a gentle touch… such long and dextrous fingers…

Lawrence turns Vincent’s hand so his palm is up. He dips his fingertips in the water and draws a circle on Vincent’s skin. Vincent zeroes in on the action, feeling goosebumps break out over his entire body. He holds back a shiver. 

“This is you,” Lawrence says. 

It’s suddenly very difficult to breathe normally. Lawrence’s touch on his forearm is feather-light, but Vincent’s skin is sensitized, eager for contact. “Okay.” 

Lawrence dips his fingertips back in the water in a slow circle, the pads of his fingers coming away shiny and wet. He draws another circle, larger, overlapping the first circle which is fading fast on Vincent’s heated flesh. “This is the Church.”

Vincent nods, ready for the opportunity to get closer. He leans in. Lawrence is wonderfully warm, a better source of heat than the summer air around them or the hot stone beneath them. 

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

Vincent struggles to come up with words. He thinks he can feel every swirl and pattern of Lawrence’s fingerprints on his skin. “Takes up most of me… how?”

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

A lover. It would only ever be Lawrence, of course. But Vincent likes the word. It sounds secret, romantic, conjuring images of torrid affairs and hidden glances. Suddenly the prison of his papacy becomes an added twist of pleasure to his wanting. Such scandal - the Pope’s secret lover, his mistress, his stolen treasure. 

Lawrence dips his hand in again - holy water, holy oil, Vincent is anointed three times over -  and paints yet another circle, moving his fingers in a slow drag. Vincent has to do everything to keep from trembling. He feels charged, tuned, ready to be set alight. He wants Lawrence’s hands all over him. 

Vincent might be missing the metaphor Lawrence is trying to convey but he doesn’t care. He wonders what Lawrence’s touch would feel like on his neck, on his cheek, on his lips. 

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

Vincent nods stupidly. Yes, Lawrence has plenty of influence over him. So long as he’s touching him Vincent is completely and totally under his spell. Vincent knew from the beginning that Lawrence deserved the throne of St. Peter, but here at least he can enjoy the man as his own private king, receiving his favor in the form of a simple touch. “Yes,” he breathes. “They would be very powerful.”

Lawrence’s voice is shaky when he speaks. Perhaps he, too, notices the tension between them, though he likely doesn’t sense Vincent’s arousal. 

“If I were to - if I were to have you… like that,” Lawrence says slowly, “I might have my own ideas about the future of the Church.”

Vincent feels heavy with the weight of himself. He hopes he’s not hard; he doesn’t dare break eye contact. Lawrence’s eyes are deep and penetrating. Vincent’s nipples drag against his shirt as he shifts; the friction is almost too much to bear. “Mm-hm,” he says. “You would have your own… ideas.” He parrots helplessly, beyond thought, sinking into the feeling at a mile a minute. 

Anything you want, anything, anything, just keep touching me, just keep looking at me like that, like I’m special, like I’m worthy of you…

Lawrence dips his fingers in the water again.  He’s almost cruel this time, drawing designs on Vincent’s skin that Vincent can’t follow. Vincent feels dizzy with want, full to bursting. “What if I wanted to control you, or restrain you?” Lawrence asks. 

“Restrain me…?” Vincent repeats. Immediately visions appear in his mind, pictures from ages and ages ago on grainy computer screens and in magazines he wasn’t supposed to look at. He’s never imagined himself in either the master or the servant’s position before but now he can see himself in the lower role immediately. It suits him perfectly, the reward of service alluring as always. Rope and leather around skin, restriction for the purpose of pleasure, a type of denial that would be familiar to anyone who has felt the hunger of a fast or the ache of celibacy. Vincent imagines Lawrence tying him up, putting Vincent at his mercy. Maybe even ordering him to do as Lawrence commands. God, yes, please!

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

Lawrence turns Vincent’s arm over and gently pets the hair on his forearm. Vincent doesn’t say anything in response. His fantasy has blossomed in his head, making it impossible to think clearly. 

God, just take me right here, would you? Ravish me and leave me for dead. I don’t care if anyone else sees. Take what you want from me. I’m yours, I’m yours! 

It’s a desperate call that would seem entirely out of character were Vincent to ever say it aloud. It could only come from someplace hidden deep within Vincent’s heart, someplace untouched by shame or shyness. But God has allowed Vincent to have his own thoughts and so he has them, vividly, within his own mind.

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

Our relationship. As if Vincent wouldn’t be able to handle both the papacy and Thomas Lawrence. No, he would relish the challenge. Even on his knees he could hold both treasures in his hands. All he needs is a chance. All he wants is for Lawrence to give, just a little bit, just enough for Vincent to grasp…

“Y-yes,” Vincent whispers. “I’d be entirely at your mercy.” What a wonderful position to be in.

Lawrence looks up. Immediately Vincent realizes he’s said too much. But he can no more take back the words than he can rub the blush off his cheeks. 

Lawrence pulls his hands away, but he doesn’t do so out of disgust or shame. Vincent misses the touch immediately. He whines, petulant, a child robbed of a treat. Come back to me, please, please…

“But - but it wouldn’t be like that,” Vincent protests. “I’m not so - easily swayed. Have you ever seen me do something I didn’t want to do?”

It’s true. Vincent may desire Lawrence’s touch almost as much as he desires Christ’s approval, but he is not easily manipulated. Lawrence would never try to influence him for malicious reasons, and Vincent would never let himself be influenced. 

Pope Innocent is a rock in a stream, refusing to be moved or eroded away. Vincent, on the other hand - Vincent would happily bend himself to Lawrence’s will, safe in the knowledge that Lawrence would never hurt him. 

Lawrence nods, silently admitting that Vincent is far too stubborn to be swayed by a paramour. Vincent leans in, a spark of brilliance shining in his mind. Yes, he will show Lawrence how their relationship could be good, could be holy, even, if Thomas could just see…

“If it were like that, I would - I would have to be careful, yes, but I could manage it. I manage the desires of the Curia every day. I could handle - I could handle your -“ God, Vincent can barely speak of it out loud, the thought is so delicious, “- power over me, and besides, it wouldn’t be as if I hadn’t consented to it. I would have invited it, offered it to you, and wouldn’t that allow me to be more Christlike? In my - in my submission, wouldn’t I be more holy - in your eyes, in God’s eyes -“

Lawrence bites his lip, and for a moment Vincent honestly thinks he’s gotten Lawrence to see his point of view. 

Then the door to the pool’s entrance opens and shuts behind them. Both he and Lawrence jerk away, the spell broken. 

Vincent is still shaking with excitement. The adrenaline in his veins is not so easily dismissed. 

Lawrence is better at steeling himself. His gaze returns to its usual mixture of melancholy and anxiety.

“We couldn’t,” he insists. 

The denial should chasten Vincent immediately but it doesn’t. Rather the cold rush of rejection is halted by the heat under his skin. He didn’t say he wouldn’t, a voice in Vincent’s head whispers. He just said he wasn’t able to.

It doesn’t really matter, though. The glory and pleasure of Lawrence’s touch is gone, leaving Vincent horribly bereft. He stares at the ground between them, slightly damp from where water dripped from Lawrence’s fingertips. 

“I - I see your point,” Vincent says, dazed. He aches for more than the crumbs Lawrence has given him. 

“Thank you,” Lawrence replies. His voice is low and rich and intimate. It sends shivers up Vincent’s spine. 

“You may have to remind me again, once or twice.” Or three times. Or a hundred times. Vincent is no saint. He would take whatever is offered to him. 

Lawrence nods, slow, solemn. “Okay.”

The moment has passed but the fire inside Vincent refuses to be extinguished. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head slightly as if to clear it. But the ache inside him persists, throbbing, sending shock waves throughout every part of his body, from his toes to his hair. He takes another deep breath. He thinks he can feel every cell of Lawrence’s body, less than a foot away from him, warm and strong and dominant. Lawrence doesn’t even know it, but he has Vincent wrapped around his finger. And Vincent’s happy that way. 

So much for survival. Lawrence will be the death of him. 

Vincent closes his eyes and pushes himself off the edge of the pool, sinking into the water. His clothes billow around him, his shirt clinging to his skin when he comes up for air. He can feel Lawrence’s eyes on him, watching him. 

He swims, and swims, and swims, and wonders what to do with all that he is feeling.

—

Vincent dreams. 

In his dream, he’s on the floor, kneeling. He’s naked. He stretches a little, trying to move, and realizes his hands are tied behind his back, along with his ankles. With what, he doesn’t know. Rope, maybe, or smooth cord. Whatever it is, the fibers don’t hurt his wrists. Whatever it is, the knot is tight. 

Lawrence is behind him. Vincent can’t see him, but he doesn’t need to. He can feel the weight of Lawrence’s footsteps, can smell the scent of his soap - sage and juniper, the shampoo he once said he uses, and something else Vincent can’t name. Then there’s something deeper, some sense that Vincent has specifically for his beloved to tell when he’s there. Sometimes he feels he could be in a stadium or an arena and Lawrence could be in the crowd, and Vincent could pick him out just through that sense alone. 

Lawrence circles him slowly, a lion observing his prey. Vincent keeps his head down. To his embarrassment, he watches his cock harden from nothing except the knowledge that Lawrence is watching him. 

Lawrence circles him again. This time Vincent takes a risk and glances up, seeing Lawrence’s bare feet. He’s naked too, then. It’s that sort of dream.  

Lawrence finally stops in front of him. Vincent tries to keep his eyes to the ground but Lawrence reaches down and tilts his head up with two fingers under his chin. 

He doesn’t look angry, which is good. But he doesn’t look happy, either. He almost looks bored, which only strengthens Vincent’s arousal. No one ever looks bored around the Holy Father. No one ever expects Vincent to impress them through any means other than his connection to divinity. 

Vincent can impress Lawrence. He can earn his approval. He just needs to be given a chance. 

His gaze slips downwards, past the parts where Lawrence’s body is constructed by Vincent’s memory. Vincent has never had the privilege of seeing Lawrence shirtless, so he can only imagine the pale expanse of his torso and the color of his chest hair. Then down, down, past his too-thin waist (he needs to eat more, he’s always denying himself something) and Vincent is confronted with Lawrence’s thick hard cock. 

Vincent swallows looking at it, his mouth suddenly dry. He knows, vaguely, that this is a dream and he has no actual idea what Lawrence’s cock looks like. But he imagines it’s big. Maybe that’s simply part of the fantasy. Maybe it’s just because all the pricks Vincent’s seen in pornography have been big. But in his mind Lawrence is imposing all over, his cock hard and flushed with arousal, already leaking at the tip. There’s a vein in it that Vincent follows with his eyes, twisting underneath the head of it. It’s beautiful, and Vincent would reach out and touch it if he could move his arms. 

Lawrence’s cock twitches enticingly. Other than that, he’s as still as a statue. Vincent tears his eyes away and looks up again at his beloved’s face. Lawrence raises an eyebrow at him, as if to say, don’t you know what to do already?

It’s difficult. Vincent can’t quite get close enough. He manages to push forward about half a foot, struggling against the bonds keeping him held tight to himself. A musky alkaline scent fills his nose, tempting him forward. He wants it - he’s never sucked cock before but he imagines he’d enjoy it, especially if the cock in question belonged to Lawrence. Sweet, shy Lawrence who likely would try to keep quiet right up to the edge, his pleasure gradually outweighing his modesty. Vincent would do the best he could. He would practice as much as he could, too, spending hours perfecting his motions, until his jaw ached and Thomas was too wrung out to give any more. 

Lawrence’s cock twitches again. A drop of precome gathers at the tip of it, shiny and wet. Vincent’s mouth opens on instinct. He’s suddenly very hungry. Starving, really. If he could just - get a little bit closer - 

The bead of precome drops to the floor, barely making a noise. Vincent whines at the wasted opportunity. He leans forward, hoping to get whatever comes next. Maybe Lawrence will take control. Maybe he’ll pull on Vincent’s hair - everyone on earth seems to have a preoccupation with Vincent’s hair - and guide him towards his cock, thrusting into his mouth with abandon. Maybe he’ll come down Vincent’s throat. Oh, wouldn’t that be - pure dominance, marking what’s his, inside and out - 

Another drop of precome falls to the floor, agonizingly slow. Lawrence’s cock is massive, a steel tower that Vincent can only look at rather than approach. Vincent opens his mouth desperately, sticking his tongue out, hoping to entice the man. He looks up. Lawrence’s expression doesn’t change. 

Arousal runs through him with nowhere to go, ultimately gathering in his hips and at the base of his cock. He squirms, so hard he’s uncomfortable. His cock twitches uselessly between his legs, desperate for friction that he knows isn’t coming. 

He leans forward, hoping to get a drop in his mouth, just a taste, just a taste - 

Lawrence steps away and Vincent wobbles, falling to the ground. He winces as pain blooms in his shoulder. It doesn’t matter. Suffering is good for the soul, especially when it’s in pursuit of a greater purpose. God, he was so close…

Abruptly he’s pulled to his feet and tossed onto a nearby bed that didn’t exist a moment ago. He’s flat on his belly, his face hidden in the pillows. Despite the shifting quality of the dream, Lawrence’s movements are almost hyperreal, to the point where Vincent can feel every minute change in his breathing, every time he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. Vincent can feel his beloved’s heart beat faster in anticipation of whatever is going to happen next. What is he going to do to him? 

He undoes the ties around Vincent and for a moment there is peace. Vincent lays on the bed, face down, pliant and willing for his tesoro. This Lawrence is not nearly as gentle as the one in the real world, however. Thomas gropes him as though he’s one of Monsignor O’Malley’s desk toys, grabbing at his ass and his thighs and his shoulders. He flips Vincent over and pushes his legs apart, his grip coming within inches of Vincent’s cock but not quite touching it. Vincent whines and arches his hips up but gets nothing, no reprieve. 

Lawrence looms over him, enormous, taking Vincent’s hands and positioning them so he’s holding onto the headboard. Vincent gives his most mournful look but, unlike how it usually goes in real life, Lawrence’s expression doesn’t contain a hint of sympathy. His eyes are focused and clear, managing Vincent like he does everything else. Sweat is making his skin glisten. Vincent wildly thinks of Greek warriors, mythical figures who toppled empires. 

Lawrence shoves his thigh between Vincent’s legs as he ties his wrists to the headboard. Vincent whines and tries to grind up, tries to get some sort of contact on his aching cock, but it’s no use. Lawrence is on top of him and all around him and Vincent can’t reach him. 

Vincent lies on the bed with his arms spread, a lewd parody of the crucifixion, his cock dripping precome over his stomach. Lawrence peers down at him, and then with lazy fingers smears the fluid over the trail of hair leading down to Vincent’s pelvis. He raises his hand and Vincent sees a pink tongue dart out to taste. 

No fair! Vincent thinks, his eyes wide. I want - I want - I want it -

It is sitting in a pew while someone else gets communion. It is being held inside while every other child gets to play. Lawrence may be repressed as all priests are to some extent but he has control over Vincent’s sexuality. He makes the call, and all Vincent can do is ache for more than the crumbs he’s been given. 

Vincent whines, a wordless noise that does little more than add to his own frustration. Lawrence looks down at him with the indifference of a king. Then he grabs Vincent’s legs, places them on his shoulders, lines up his cock, and pushes inside.

It doesn’t hurt. It can’t really hurt, or feel like anything other than pure pleasure, because Vincent has never had penetrative sex before. But he can imagine. Priests are not the asexual creatures most people think of them as. He has seen things, has heard rumors. He knows the mechanics of it, knows that there are points of pleasure inside himself that he can’t see. Once when he was very young he traced his entrance with a fingertip in the shower, looking for sensation, but found none. He has never had the courage to push further. Here, in the dream, he can make it real. He can feel the blunt head of Lawrence’s cock pushing deep inside him, slick with lubricant that wasn’t there before, forcing him to adjust, to bear down around him. Vincent cries out, and Lawrence seems to enjoy the sound, judging by the way he thrusts in harder. Christ, he’s big, and hot, too. Vincent is mere flesh, something soft for Lawrence to cut into with a knife. He rocks into Vincent with a quick and steady rhythm, the sound of skin on skin filling the air. Vincent can see the muscles in his stomach and chest flex. His beloved uses the gym as a coping mechanism. Like every other detail about Lawrenc. Vincent could learn about Lawrence’s taste in handkerchiefs and he would somehow wrap that up into another expression of desire for him. 

He feels his face get warm. Every molecule, every particle of Lawrence is just fuel for the fire. Vincent wants every inch of him, wants his hands and his eyes and his nose and his mouth and his cock, whatever it looks like. It feels so good inside him, and if this weren’t a dream perhaps Vincent could reciprocate or say something or act in such a way that gives him a modicum of control, but here he is stripped of all his power, stripped of the papacy, only allowed to feel himself twitch with every thrust of Lawrence’s merciless thick cock. 

“Don’t squirm,” Lawrence scolds after Vincent tries desperately to pull his hands away from the headboard. Vincent whines and Lawrence leans forward, inches away from his face, bending Vincent nearly in half. Vincent is a toy, a plaything for Lawrence to wring pleasure from. The air between them becomes impossibly private, quiet, a whole universe in between a scant few inches. Vincent can feel Lawrence in his throat, he’s so full. Every bit of Lawrence is crystal clear to his senses; Vincent can feel precome smearing inside him, sliding out of him, making him filthy.

Lawrence doesn’t say anything further. His gaze is dark, dismissive, with a hint of cruel command. This isn’t a reward for Vincent. It’s a punishment, a collection of all his basest desires brought out into full view. Vincent knows it’s wrong to want these things, especially with a man who will never want them himself, and yet the pleasure building up inside him holds him as tight as the ties around his wrists. If he could just explain himself, to God and to Lawrence, surely his mind would be clear again, and he wouldn’t drown in the ocean of his own desire!

Vincent opens his mouth to speak, but all that comes out is pleading. “Please,” he begs, “please, please…” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for. It’s like he’s a tuning fork that’s been struck, every cell in his body humming with the same tone, all for his beloved, all for his dear cardinal. 

Lawrence makes a hm noise, and slows down his thrusts. Vincent can feel Lawrence’s breath hot on his neck. A bead of sweat drips down his bicep. 

Lawrence sits up; Vincent misses the warmth immediately. He wants to be consumed as much as he wants to consume; he wants to be enveloped, surrounded by Lawrence on all sides. That would be a blessing, a sweetness comparable to God’s love. God forgive him, but Lawrence’s cock inside him feels holy, right and sure in its place. 

Lawrence tilts his head slightly, his hips slowing. He licks his palm and then reaches down and wraps a hand around Vincent’s cock. 

Vincent gasps and jerks against his bonds. He rocks his hips up, forward and back, trying to get more contact or get away, he doesn’t know. Liquid pleasure drips down his spine, golden and sweet. It’s too much. It’s too much!

Lawrence’s hand is slick with lubricant and precome, and glides over the head of Vincent’s cock smoothly. He strokes with the same steady pace as he thrusts into Vincent, leaving no room to breathe, no room to think, no room to do anything except moan weakly and give in to his beloved’s ministrations. 

Vincent begins to tremble, the pleasure that started at his spine gathering around his hips. He feels loose and open, driven higher and higher by the cock inside him and the ties around his wrists. There’s no use in resisting; the force of his desires has always won out in the end. His desire to help others, his desire to speak the truth, his desire to love, to love, to love - that’s all it is, anyway. Vincent can’t dream of anyone else doing this to him. No one else could take him apart like this and still leave him wanting more. 

Lawrence is whispering something Vincent can barely hear over the roaring in his ears. Vincent strains to hear it, every stroke of Lawrence’s hand over his cock sending a cascade of sensation up his body. 

Glory be to the Father, to the Son, to the Holy Spirit…

Vincent’s eyes roll back in his head. An unstoppable tension builds inside him, bit by bit, starting slowly but then becoming as forceful as a hurricane, as true and right as the word of God. It’s undeniable, a function of his own body that is as natural as breathing.

He arches up, every muscle in his body straining. A wordless, broken scream escapes from him. He comes hard, cock twitching, come dripping down his cock in thick spurts. His muscles tense, and release, and then tense and release again in great shuddering waves. Lawrence doesn’t stop, doesn’t pause, doesn’t give Vincent a moment of relief. In fact he thrusts harder, forcefully, making Vincent wish he could cover his face with his hands in shyness. 

This is what he wants. To be used, completely and totally. To be taken. 

God, if his flock knew of his desires! What a poor excuse for a Pope he must make. Has any other pontiff put himself through such trials? Has anyone else ever had dreams like this? Vincent can’t be alone in his desire. Surely even Christ struggled with his own feelings of love, his own wants…

Vincent is dizzy with his own emotions. He’s completely filled up with desire. His mind isn’t working right. All of his senses are filled with Thomas, the way incense fills his nose during Mass.

Lawrence pulls out suddenly, leaving Vincent wet and aching and open. He can’t hide himself, though. He could never hide from Thomas. He whimpers weakly, his voice barely capable of wrapping itself around Lawrence’s name. Ay, que rico…

Lawrence shifts, dropping Vincent’s legs by his sides. Then he straddles Vincent’s waist. For a brief, hopeful moment Vincent thinks he’s going to come on Vincent’s face. Then Vincent will have a taste, and he’ll be saved. He’ll be deemed worthy, impressive, whatever the word is. He’ll be rewarded for his efforts, having given up his body for Lawrence’s pleasure. 

Lawrence doesn’t give him what he wants. With a few short strokes of his cock, he comes with a groan, come splattering over Vincent’s chest and belly. Vincent jerks against his bonds and tries desperately to get a taste, sticking his tongue out, but it’s a fruitless endeavor. He’s still too far away, too tied up. It’s devastating. Vincent whines and thrashes about uselessly, amazed at the wild animal he’s become. What have you done to me? he thinks. I can’t focus, I can’t function around you, I know this is a dream but if you could just give me a little bit, a taste, I could - I could - 

Vincent closes his eyes and wills the frenzy inside him to die down. He thinks his heart might actually stop otherwise. 

Eventually his breathing steadies. (Yes, he breathes, even in his dreams. He feels pain, he feels pleasure, he feels every bead of sweat on his skin. He is spared no mercy in his dreams, despite their impossibility.)

When he opens his eyes, Lawrence is enormous over him. Not just tall, now he is the size of a skyscraper, peering down at Vincent like he is an insect to be observed through a magnifying glass. Vincent jerks once again against his bonds, and finds that they’ve been untied, loosened enough that he can slip out of them.

Lawrence is a tower, a castle, a fortress. Vincent blinks through the fog of his own lust and sees an open door in the middle of Lawrence’s chest. It must be tens of stories high but when he reaches up to touch the edge of it he can pull himself up and through, feeling stone underneath his fingertips. Suddenly he’s bathed in brilliant white light, moving through a portal within Lawrence’s heart. 

Once he tugs himself through, he can see he’s in an empty St. Peter’s square, sitting at the foot of the steps towards the Basilica that have long since melted away with time and countless tourists walking over them. It’s a brilliant, beautiful day with a cloudless sky above him. Vincent’s skin warms immediately. 

Near the front of the basilica is a grand throne, sitting tall, decorated with gold and silver. Atop it sits his beloved, dressed in pure perfect white. Vincent smiles through his exhaustion. This is Lawrence as he imagined him initially, all the way back at the first vote of the conclave. The Pope who doubts, who calls for diversity, who sins and carries on. He’s stunning. 

Lawrence gestures for Vincent to come forward, his wave casual, friendly. Vincent stumbles a little getting to his feet, but then walks on steady legs. When he makes it to Lawrence, he finds that he’s completely clean, purified from the ecstatic punishment of before. 

Lawrence peers up at him with a twinkle in his eye. Vincent takes the opportunity and reaches over to cup Lawrence’s cheek. Then he remembers - it’s his dream - and promptly sits down on the throne as well, draping his legs over Lawrence’s lap. 

“Mm,” Lawrence hums, the way he does when one of the turtles in the sanctuary does something clever. 

Vincent finds himself wrapped in the excess fabric of Lawrence’s cassock, which is suddenly long enough to drape over the throne and part of the stone underneath. He feels safe and cared for, enclosed in a ball of warmth and light emanating from Lawrence’s entire being. But it’s not just Lawrence. There’s a holiness in Vincent, delicate but present, that he can feel from the top of his head to his toes. God’s approval has washed over him, telling him that everything is more than okay.

Vincent feels tears well up in his eyes. This feeling is familiar. It has appeared in many of his dreams since he met the Dean of the College of Cardinals nearly a year and a half ago. 

Lawrence leans down and presses a soft kiss to Vincent’s temple. He wipes away Vincent’s tears as they fall, brushing them off with his thumb. Vincent wishes he had proper holy water to give, that Lawrence could feel God’s blessing, his Father’s wishes for a happy marriage. 

“Hold out, dearest,” Lawrence says. It is a phrase he has never said to Vincent in real life. Such a desire only exists in Vincent’s mind. 

This is the problem with dreams like this. Despite the cruel eroticism of the fantasy (and it is a fantasy, as much as Vincent hates to admit it), the real pleasure comes from the deep, penetrating feeling that Vincent’s love for Lawrence is right. It’s not a phase or a passing fancy. It isn’t immoral or against nature. It certainly isn’t dangerous or distracting. It’s a gift, carefully woven into Vincent’s very being so that he could no more separate from it than he could from his own faith. In his desire for Lawrence, he feels a love for God. How could he ever deny that? How could he ever turn his back on such a stunning bright light? 

Vincent wakes up calmly, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling. He listens to a bird chirp outside for a few minutes before getting up and inspecting the damage. His pajama shirt is drenched in sweat; his boxers are uncomfortable, covered in come. He sighs. He will wash them himself; he’d rather the Sisters not know about his nocturnal activities. 

Vincent undresses. He washes his boxers in the sink, and then tosses them in the hamper. After wiping himself down with a damp washcloth, he pulls on another pair, and returns to bed shirtless. He says a quick prayer, thanking the Lord that he still has an extra hour of sleep, and then closes his eyes again. 

— 

At breakfast, Lawrence is in a good mood. He’s chattering away about - something. Vincent hasn’t really been following. Lawrence has been twirling his stirrer in his coffee cup with his index finger and it’s put Vincent in a sort of trance, forcing him to relive the events of his dream. 

“Are you alright?” Lawrence asks. “You seem distracted.” 

“I’m fine,” Vincent says, sipping his tea. “I just - I didn’t get much sleep last night.” A lie, but a small one. He’ll confess to it later. 

“If this pattern keeps up, I’ll have to put you to bed myself,” Lawrence warns. 

Vincent bites his lip and says nothing. This is just how Lawrence is. He is kind and generous, and Vincent’s desire takes all of his simplicity and makes it into something with limbs and teeth and kisses, something that doesn’t exist. 

A blasphemous thought enters Vincent’s mind before he can stop it.

No wonder Christ died for his people, Vincent thinks. To be so filled up with love - any kind of love, philia, eros, agape - and to have nowhere to put it… death is the only real option. Otherwise you’d just drive yourself mad. 

Vincent is not Christ, nor does he intend to die. But the ache inside him grows stronger still. 

He sips his tea and says a little prayer, though he suspects God will give him the same answer he always does.

Hold out, dearest.

Well. If He insists.

Chapter Text

“Holy Father,” Aldo whispers, leaning over in his chair. “You may want to adjust your facial expression.” 

Vincent’s unhappy frown turns to one of confusion. He’s dimly aware of a photographer in the room, but he’s usually good at appearing neutral. “Why?” he asks. 

“You’re glaring at the root vegetable.” 

Vincent sighs and adjusts his face appropriately. But his displeasure remains. 

It had been Vincent’s idea to hold a small conference at the Vatican to usher in the return from Castel Gandolfo back to the apostolic palace. It wasn’t anything formal; he just noticed that so many members of the Vatican staff had been working on interesting research projects over the summer, and he wanted to hear about them. Word spread, and a day of learning was organized; Ray drew up a little program and everything. Suddenly priests from all over Italy wanted to be involved, eager for a chance to show the Pope and his staff their academic work. Vincent welcomed everyone; he often lamented that he never received a “normal” university experience, and this was a way to get a little taste of that. A TEDx conference for the staff, maybe. Or simply an excuse to hear what everyone did over the summer. 

The day had been going wonderfully, except… well. Vincent shouldn’t make a fuss about it. Even in his own head. It’s not really worth it. 

It’s just that everyone - everyone - from Aldo to Ray to Archbishop Mandorff to his dear beloved Lawrence - is completely enamored with Father Lopez, whose presentation on fifteenth century illustrations of real and fictional herbs and medicines by monks living in Northern Italy is not the reason everyone is staring at him with rapt attention.

Father Lopez is, in a word, beautiful. Handsome. Gorgeous, even, were Vincent to use the term for anybody except a certain Cardinal. In fact, Vincent only knows Father Lopez is handsome because he himself takes note of it - normally he merely appreciates everyone’s individual beauty in a distant manner, without any sense of attraction. But Father Lopez has sparkling green eyes and tan skin and perfectly coiffed hair and an alarmingly white smile, and if Aldo’s are you seeing this guy? expression doesn’t make it clear enough, the priest from Verona is more than capable of commanding attention through his looks alone.

Even worse is his assistant, Sister Deborah, who’s a dead ringer for a singer Vincent can’t name but sometimes hears about whenever Sabbadin comes to visit, phone full of six billion pop songs in hand. Sister Deborah has blonde hair peeking out from under her habit and blue eyes that stay glued to Father Lopez no matter who is talking to her. Vincent had spent most of the morning chastising himself for his own suspicions, claiming them to be both sexist and a symptom of a sinfully lust filled brain. But after seeing the two of them brush fingers during a quiet moment, Vincent felt his face warm. He turned away, embarrassed at the gesture. It seems he has not been the only one testing the limits of celibacy. 

The allure of even a hint of sexual chemistry between two literal clergymen is apparently like catnip to many members of the papal staff, once again making Vincent question the practice of celibacy in the first place. But mostly his brother cardinals just stare in sheer wonder at two of the most attractive people they’ve ever seen. 

Vincent wouldn’t care, except. Well. Lawrence is looking, too.

During Father Lopez’s presentation, Lawrence has been staring with rapt attention at everything the priest has presented. Every illustrated leaf, every funny little turnip, every age-weathered drawing of a dandelion has reflected back in Lawrence’s eyes - and, by extension, so has the shadow of Father Lopez’s hands as they gesture along every brush stroke and line of a pencil. 

Vincent can appreciate good art as much as the next person. But Lawrence, unlike Vincent, has a weakness for beautiful people more than he does for beautiful things. Vincent has learned this by noticing just how Lawrence describes people. He's capable of noting the smell of a man’s cologne, the shade of a woman’s blush. He can admire the movement of a priest’s cassock. His attention to detail is admirable, it’s just - it’s just -

Vincent can’t help but wish it were reserved entirely for him.

Jealousy. It’s a new feeling. Vincent thought he understood all of the myriad ways love could affect a person, could change their personality and outlook on the world, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that such revelations are not limited to progressions in his virtue. Vincent deeply dislikes the deep green tendrils that have wrapped around his heart, eagerly reaching out for any scrap of Lawrence’s attention. But they persist anyway. When Lawrence smiles, Vincent wants it to be for him. When Lawrence laughs, Vincent wants to be the cause of his good humor. And if Lawrence were ever to express a spark of attraction beyond the passing observation of a person’s warmth or color, Vincent wants to be the cause of such an outburst. He wants it desperately. 

The idea of someone else having Lawrence’s attention in that way drives him mad. Father Lopez doesn’t deserve such a soft gaze. Surely his academic efforts, while impressive, are not nearly enough to hold Lawrence’s attention? 

They’re only illustrations, Vincent sulks. They’re just doodles some monks made many centuries ago. Some of the plants aren’t even real. That turnip has a face on it. Turnips don’t have faces. 

Dear Lord, he is in such a bad mood today! His mother would smack his arm with her sandal if she saw how he was frowning. But as much as Vincent tries to engage with the subject matter, he can’t help but think of Lawrence’s engrossed expression, and the way Father Lopez’s fingertips brushed against his assistant’s earlier in the day.

Vincent wants intimacy like that. Hidden, private. Alluring in its mystery. Such small pleasures are a little like God, he thinks. Just out of reach but ripe enough that you keep grasping for it.

He squirms in his seat and accidentally looks directly at the photographer as he snaps a picture of the front row of the conference room. When he turns away, Aldo is staring at him. 

“Are you alright?” he whispers.

Aldo always knows more than he lets on. Sometimes this is a good thing. Other times, Vincent wishes he would keep his observational skills to himself. “I’m fine,” he says, trying not to sound petulant.

Father Lopez’s presentation ends with a brief conclusion from Sister Deborah, and then Vincent is called to talk about his own research. He knows his work isn’t nearly as impressive as some of the other speakers of the day - being the Pope, he has only had a few hours to research by himself how other Christian leaders are trying (or not trying) to reach out to those within the Holy Land to deliver relief and aid in such a way that does not further agitate political negotiations - but he hopes that people will listen anyway.

It is a strange contradiction that comes with his occupation. People feel obligated to listen to him because he is the Pope. But rarely is he actually able to tell whether people are paying attention to what he is saying. 

Lawrence almost always pays attention. The only times he has not have been during moments of stress or worry. So it burns especially hot on Vincent’s skin when he sees only the top of Lawrence’s balding head during his presentation. Lawrence keeps his head down the entire time, scribbling in his notebook. 

He’s probably bored, Vincent thinks charitably. It’s the end of the day and he has heard so many people speak already. Maybe he’s just tired.

But the underlying fear remains inside him - that Vincent is not interesting, not special, no longer the sparkling pearl Lawrence once saw him as at the beginning of his papacy. Vincent wasn’t blind then and he isn’t naive now - he knows that part of his allure was due to the grueling process of the conclave and how hard it was to find a suitable candidate for the papacy. But Lawrence’s connection to him was undeniable. Is it too much to hope that it remains?

Vincent feels uncomfortably like the older brother of a new baby, begging for a relative’s eyes on him. He really shouldn’t be so thin-skinned. Lawrence is easily his closest advisor. He could ask him his opinion on any topic and Lawrence would provide an answer. But Vincent wants more than that. Love has made him greedy. He wants all of Lawrence’s attention, his pride, his inquisitive nature, his curiosity. 

After the presentations conclude Vincent mingles with his fellow priests, shaking hands and greeting those who have travelled from the farther regions of Italy. All of them compliment his presentation, though he wonders if any of them could recall what he actually said. It ultimately doesn’t matter, though. He will find some way to push his ideas forward. As much as his position is a burden, the power of it can produce blessings. 

Lawrence spends the majority of the evening talking with Father Lopez and his assistant. His eyes are bright and joyful, his hands animated as he talks. Vincent feels jealousy stew inside him, bubbling up and combining with self-pity. He finds himself wanting to hide. If he can’t get Lawrence’s attention, why is he here? 

At the end of the day Vincent means to confront his own childishness. He even makes plans to pray the rosary twice over, just to cleanse himself of his own petty sins. But as soon as he sits down in the soft chair in his library with the string of beads in hand, he hears a knock at the door.

It’s Lawrence. Apparently Vincent had forgotten in his slurry of emotions that they had planned to pray together before bed. 

(Vincent’s cheeks burn. Thomas already gives so much of himself to you. Why are you so greedy?)

“I enjoyed today’s presentations,” Lawrence says once Vincent has given him a cup of tea and guided him towards the chair opposite his own. “I like the idea that the return to the Vatican should come with a day of learning. A little like dusting off the shelves in our minds.” 

Vincent smiles. “Thank you,” he says. “I couldn’t have done it without Ray and the other staffers, of course.” 

“Of course. It must have been a handful, getting all of the priests and deacons from Italy to gather in one room.” Lawrence sips his tea. “I particularly enjoyed Father Lopez’s talk. All those adorable little illustrations - it makes one long to be a medieval monk, living in the mountains somewhere.” 

Vincent stiffens. The idea of Lawrence leaving the Vatican to join an order has come up before under more serious circumstances. Vincent likes it now about as much as he liked it then, which is to say not at all. “I suppose. It would get rather lonely, wouldn’t it?” 

“That’s true. Perhaps the loneliness inspired the monks back then. They only had each other for company, so they imagined little creatures. Proto-cartoons, that’s what Sister Deborah called them.” 

Vincent licks his lips. “And you managed to catch my presentation?” He tries to sound casual. 

It doesn’t work. Lawrence blinks at him, frowning. “You know I did.” 

Vincent bites his cheek. “Was my presentation as - as engaging as Father Lopez’s? I mean… I know I had no… illustrations of - of pretty vegetables, but…” 

Lawrence is staring at him. His head is tilted. The corners of his lips turn up. 

Vincent swallows. He must sound completely desperate, or worse, completely in love. Why does Lawrence put up with him? This is no way to be a friend. 

Lawrence’s curious smile has grown into one of amusement. “Vincent,” he asks, eyes sparkling, “are you jealous?” 

Vincent’s heart flies up into his throat. Oh, God. He’s gone too far. There’s a line and it’s far behind him and if he looks back he’ll turn into a pillar of salt. 

He can’t say anything, so instead he looks down at his cup of tea. 

“It’s alright,” Lawrence chuckles. “But you should know you don’t have to be.” 

It suddenly occurs to Vincent that jealousy is something friends can experience about other friends. That such an idea didn’t occur to him immediately is cringeworthy in and of itself. He clears his throat awkwardly before he speaks. “Oh?” 

“Father Lopez’s talk was interesting, yes, but there’s only so much I could do with what I learned. I had far more to work with during your presentation.” 

Vincent’s lips part in surprise. “You did?” 

Lawrence’s gaze melts into fondness, eyes fabric softener-blue. He reaches into the pocket of his cassock and pulls out a neatly folded piece of notebook paper, sliding it across the table. Vincent’s fingertips brush against Lawrence’s as he pulls the paper close. If he feels an electric spark between them, silent but powerful, it’s only his imagination.

It’s notes, questions about Vincent’s talk. More than that, it’s the beginnings of an action plan. Vincent was working in theory, but Lawrence has taken his ideas and turned them into a case for movement and change.

Vincent feels all of the childlike misery in his chest fade away instantly. Lawrence’s eyes on him are like a beam of light. 

“Well,” he says quietly, “it’s good to know that people still want to hear what Pope Innocent has to say.” 

He means it as a joke, but it comes out too honest. 

“I’m more interested in what Vincent has to say,” Lawrence replies. 

—

“Holy Father,” the pilot says, “it has been a pleasure flying with you as always. Let me be the first to congratulate you on a successful apostolic visit, and may your journey through South America inspire others to -“ 

“Yes, thank you,” Vincent says quickly, quickly rushing down the stairs of the plane leading to the tarmac. He knows he’s being rude, but if he spends one more second in that metal death trap he’s going to explode.

The ground. Sweet, sweet pavement. Vincent hopes he looks suitably graceful and holy as he sinks to his knees, getting closer to the earth for which he is so, so grateful.

The flight had been long, and suffered a fair amount of turbulence. Perhaps not enough to make the average flyer nervous, but more than enough to make Vincent’s stomach turn. Flying is not something man was meant to do, in Vincent’s opinion. (He actually thinks this is a fact about the human condition, one Catholic tenet that for some reason he isn’t allowed to put into Church doctrine.)

Ever since his flight from Afghanistan before the conclave, Vincent has - in the name of maintaining his wits about him - refused to get through his flights using his previous standard method of coping, namely by knocking himself out through however many Bloody Marys were necessary. He has never been much of a drinker, so planes were the sole exception. No longer. In this role, in the global spotlight, it's too risky. Now, he has to “rawdog” it, as the youth say. It’s not pleasant.

Vincent bends his head down on the tarmac and kisses the hot surface lightly, as his predecessor John Paul the Second did. He sends a quick prayer of thanks to Christ, and then an apology for seeming too excited to return to land despite safely crossing an ocean. 

When he stands up, Lawrence is a little ways away, waiting for him patiently along with his secretaries and the press. 

 He’s glowing. 

It’s not just the sun. It’s not just that Vincent hasn’t seen him in weeks. It’s not just that Vincent is horribly besotted with his Dean of the College of Cardinals and he would probably find Lawrence beautiful were he covered in mud and wearing a trash bag. Lawrence is stunning, outlined in gold by the sunshine. His silhouette is neat and trim, his arms folded in front of him. Even from a distance, Vincent can see Lawrence is smiling.

He has to slow himself down to stop himself from running towards his beloved. When he gets to him, he forgets himself entirely and pulls Lawrence into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around him. 

Lawrence gasps, but then hugs back, tucking his face in Vincent’s neck. He feels like home. He smells like his shampoo - sage and juniper. 

“I missed you,” Vincent whispers, eyes squeezed shut. I missed you like I missed birdsong. I missed you like I missed cold air. 

Lawrence’s arms are strong around him. “I missed you too, Holiness.” 

Vincent shivers. Lawrence’s voice is a balm to the soul. 

It’s hard to pull back - Lawrence is comfortable, like a well-worn coat - but Vincent loosens his grip eventually. He takes a good look at his beloved.

Wow. As if he could look any more stunning. 

“You’ve grown a beard,” he murmurs reverently. Vincent has never been able to do the same, only producing a weak patchy stubble. But Lawrence’s scruff is thick and healthy, with spots of grey amidst the auburn. 

“Yes,” Lawrence admits. Smile lines form at the corners of his eyes. “Do you like it? It was mostly born of laziness.” 

Vincent desperately wishes he could touch. His fingertips tingle with desire. “I love it,” he says. I love you, he thinks.

Vincent spent weeks in Brazil and Peru and Chile trying to rid himself of his more intense daydreaming about Lawrence. He wasn’t trying to deny his feelings entirely; he merely wanted to temper them, stop himself from swooning like an old-timey maiden at every move Lawrence made. Evidently such efforts were in vain. It is no matter; Vincent has learned that while love makes one an embarrassment, such small moments of airheadedness are limited to his own perception of himself. He is free to think whatever he wants about Thomas, so long as he keeps such thoughts contained. 

For example - here, on the tarmac in front of so many people, Vincent desperately wants to kiss Lawrence. He wouldn’t need much - a simple press of the lips would do. It’s not as if they haven’t kissed before. The exchange of the sign of peace at Mass is a common occurrence between the two of them. Once Vincent slipped and kissed Lawrence’s jawline rather than his cheek. But what Vincent is looking for would not need to be so charged. His love for Lawrence isn’t always so intertwined with lust. He just wants to say hello to his friend, his advisor, his - 

His media naranja. Yes, Lawrence fits that description. 

He can’t kiss Lawrence, but that’s okay. Vincent is used to wanting things he cannot have. Instead he will enjoy the gift of being in Lawrence’s arms, warm and safe, staring into eyes as blue as the sky above them. 

A couple of photographers take pictures. Vincent ignores them, but Lawrence’s expression changes immediately. His eyes go wide, fear sparking in them. Before Vincent can say anything he’s being pushed away. Lawrence’s touch is gentle but Vincent is still rattled by it. He steps back, blinking, confused. 

“Don’t stand so close,” Lawrence whispers. 

Vincent stiffens immediately. Right. Yes. Of course.

Too close too close too close too close - 

With the photographers? Lawrence wouldn’t want to be seen as - 

Some queer, strange thing, full of secrets and desires, like Vincent is -

And Vincent had already gone too far in his head already, talk of kisses and romance, what an idiot he is, unable to control himself - 

It’s just that - 

He just - 

Vincent takes a deep breath and steadies himself. He looks for Lawrence’s eyes but can’t meet them. 

The car ride home is quiet. Vincent looks out the window and tries not to mope. Did he really go too far? 

“How was the tour overall?” Lawrence asks. 

Vincent knows he’s trying to soften the blow, but he can’t make himself play along. “It was fine,” he replies. He doesn’t push the conversation further. 

Ray greets them when they return to the apostolic palace, along with his gaggle of secretaries. Vincent has only a few minutes to rest and change out of clothes that smell like plane, and is told that the preparations for tonight’s Mass have been made. 

“If you are feeling tired, Holy Father,” Ray says, “I can arrange for someone else to lead Mass tonight.” 

Vincent nods. He suddenly feels exhausted. Perhaps the weight of five countries and a bruised heart is getting to him. 

Lawrence celebrates Mass, which isn’t Ray’s or anybody else’s fault, but makes Vincent feel even more ashamed of his actions. It’s not as if Lawrence has been giving him mixed signals. He’s shown all of the qualities of a good friend, and Vincent has been deluding himself into thinking he could push further than that. 

Lawrence could have distanced himself from Vincent the moment he found out the truth about his feelings. He didn’t. So why is Vincent asking for more than he is being given?

Vincent walks up to the front of the aisle when it’s time for communion. When he is not leading the mass, he’s always given the Eucharist first. It’s a small privilege he’s received as Pope everywhere he’s traveled. He’s grateful for the privilege. He’s grateful to even receive the body of Christ in the first place. 

But he wants God’s love in more than one form. He wants the communion, and he wants the hands that feed it to him. 

Vincent sinks to his knees and looks up at Lawrence, pleading. Forgive me, he thinks. Be my friend, still, despite all I am. 

“The body of Christ,” Lawrence says. There’s no tone to his voice. 

Vincent aches all over. “Amen,” he replies.

Lawrence places the wafer on his tongue. It tastes like nothing, as it always does. Vincent closes his lips around it and gets a hint of Lawrence’s fingertips. He suppresses a shiver. Mistake after mistake. God’s love and Lawrence’s rejection.

Loving Lawrence is not a sin - this he believes. But making Lawrence uncomfortable, pushing further than Lawrence wants, viewing Lawrence how he does not want to be viewed - that is sinful. That is something for which Vincent will have to do penance.

After Mass, Vincent skips his usual mingling amongst the staffers. He lingers outside the chapel, dipping his fingers in ice cold holy water and watching a starling hop around on the ground, looking for food. 

“Vincent,” he hears, along with footsteps coming towards him. “Vincent, can I speak to you?” 

Vincent stays as still as a statue. Lawrence moves closer, into his personal space. He’s warm, as always. 

“Vincent, about earlier -” Lawrence begins, but Vincent cuts him off. 

"You know I never want to make you uncomfortable," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "I'm sorry - I was just - I was tired, I forgot - but that is no excuse -"

“Vincent, Vincent, calm yourself." Lawrence puts a hand up between them. “I’m not angry with you.” 

Vincent glances over at his bodyguards, ever present, hovering some ways away. They don’t react, which is good. Vincent knows he should trust them entirely, but in the back of his mind there is always a worry that someone will leak his private conversations to reporters. Cardinal Lawrence Angry with Pope Innocent, reports of a confrontation…

Lawrence says he isn’t angry. That is some comfort, at least. 

“You pushed me away,” Vincent says lamely. He can’t meet Thomas’s eyes. 

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

Vincent rolls his eyes. Holy Father - is he Innocent or Vincent in this moment?

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

Vincent feels some of the anxiety inside himself dissolve. They were rather close. Who knows what stories reporters could spin with pictures like that, the Pope wrapped up in the arms of another man. 

If you were to have a relationship… Vincent would have to be quiet and secretive. It would be a game of glances. That sort of thing is not in Vincent’s nature, but he could manage. 

Has Lawrence been thinking about the logistics of a secret relationship? Have Vincent’s feelings been on his mind? 

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

Vincent nods obediently. He is in love, yes, but he isn’t crazy. He knows the gift God has given him.

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

Vincent bites his lip. Does the imposition of a boundary imply freedom elsewhere? 

“And in other moments?” He asks.

Lawrence’s expression goes through a series of minute changes. He searches Vincent’s face for something - Vincent doesn’t know what - and then takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly. 

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

The words wash over Vincent like a wave, filling him up with hope. Is it possible he’s been reading things wrong the whole time? Has Lawrence been leaning in, rather than leaning away?

Is something happening between the two of them? Has Lawrence been blooming, too?

A shiver runs through him. He struggles to speak but gets the words out anyway.  "Thomas," he asks, "is there something you need to tell me?" 

The moment of silence between them is so big and heavy that Vincent feels as though he may collapse with it. 

Then Lawrence shakes his head. "I'm not - I can't. I don't - I don't know."

It’s both a better and worse answer than Vincent could have expected. It’s not a no. It’s not a rejection, another line through the words do you have feelings for me. But to not know - to recognize their relationship’s metamorphosis, but to not see what it’s turning into - that makes Vincent’s heart nearly beat out of his chest in sympathy. 

Poor Lawrence. Vincent wishes he could do something to help.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “It’s okay.”

I have been so sure of my own feelings I never considered what it would be like to be confused. All the time that he’s wanted more, Lawrence has wanted, too - wanted clarity, wanted insight. 

“Thank you,” Lawrence says gruffly, looking down at their feet. 

“Can I hug you?” Vincent asks. 

Lawrence nods.

Vincent wraps his arms around him and breathes in the scent of detergent and incense. It occurs to him that he has played a role in all of this. He’s hardly been passive. Whether Lawrence wants him or not, Vincent has not been a bystander. He’s stood firm, a tree rooted to the ground.

“How could you be in love with someone so stubborn?” Lawrence whispers, a hint of humor in his voice. 

Vincent laughs, tears springing to his eyes. He could ask Lawrence the same thing. “I wouldn’t want it any other way,” he replies.

—

As the mild chill of autumn creeps under the doors and into the hallways of the Vatican, Vincent’s schedule remains filled with activity. He meets with various state leaders, most of whom are cordial and pleasant, some of whom are a little more challenging. (He enjoys those the most.) He writes encyclicals and makes edits to canon law. He meets with the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith and ensures there are strict and vigilant measures to investigate allegations of sexual abuse within the Church. He travels to Nigeria, and greets Cardinal Adeyemi, who makes no mention of the events of the conclave but assures him that the Sisters working in hospitals across the country have received extra funding and attention for their efforts. Vincent celebrates Mass in front of nearly a million people, a mind-boggling prospect that makes him tremble as he reads the words in front of him. He also holds an interview with an American news network, and manages to only make the current presidential administration a little bit upset, per Cardinal Bellini’s request. (Bellini’s job is not easy; Vincent does not envy him.) 

Amidst all of this, though, there is still room for fun. Vincent greets small children and invites actors and performers to visit the Vatican, thanking them for their efforts towards spreading joy and comfort to people all around the world. He even gets a chance to meet the actor who played him in a movie, a surreal experience to be sure. (Vincent doesn’t think he looks anything like the man, but at least he gets his accent right.)

Around the time the leaves start changing in the gardens, Archbishop Mandorff gives Vincent a brilliant idea. 

“The late Holy Father loved this time of year,” he says to Lawrence as they walk around the courtyard, enjoying the slight bite to the air. “What was it, four years ago, when the circus performers came and all the children sat in the audience? What office handled that, Eminence?” 

“I believe that was…” Lawrence’s eyes move up and away, towards the sky. “The Commission on the Spiritual Care of Migrants and Itinerants. There was work done for travelling circus members, I think.” 

“How wonderful,” Vincent says. “I wish we could do that again this year.” 

Both Lawrence and Archbishop Mandorff stare at him.

Vincent blushes. The white cassock is a brilliant indicator to everyone else, but yes, sometimes he forgets he is Pope, and thus one step above a king. “Ah, yes. Right. Let’s do that again this year, shall we?” 

And so it goes. Everyone gathers in Paul IV Hall on a blustery day in late September and the people of Vatican City are treated to a performance from an expert team of acrobats, jugglers, and dancers, several of whom have long fluttering wands with ribbons on the end that ripple and flow in the air. Vincent’s favorite, though, is the group of magicians. Witchcraft is sinful, yes, but sleight of hand has fascinated Vincent since he was a little boy. The lead magician plucks a coin out of the air and shuffles cards in a deck and makes things appear and disappear, and Vincent thinks of the mystery of faith, the way God appears in strange places, without any rhyme or reason why. 

The magician goes over to Lawrence, sitting some feet away from Vincent’s chair in the middle of the stage, and holds out a black top hat. Lawrence stares at it with some trepidation. 

“Please, Cardinal,” the magician says, “A blessing, would you?”

Lawrence blinks, and then after giving Vincent a wry look, obediently blesses the hat, and whatever contents may come out of it. 

The magician laughs and repeats the joke to the audience, who laugh as well. Lawrence blushes and Vincent relishes the color. His pequeña rosa inglesa. 

The magician takes the hat back from Lawrence and gives it to an assistant, chattering the whole way about God’s love for all creatures big and small, including the animals that walk the earth. He waves his wand, and turns the hat, and suddenly a fat white rabbit appears, its beautiful black eyes peering out curiously. 

The audience claps, delighted. Vincent can’t help but coo at the adorable creature. Such soft fur! Such a winsome face! Oh, un conejito tan lindo, solo quiere comérselo! 

The magician thanks his assistant and then, in a moment of comedy, passes the rabbit to Lawrence, who holds it, bewildered, while it sniffs his face. 

Vincent has to hold back a sigh at such a sight. Lawrence’s fingers sink into soft fur, crystalline white. He carefully cradles the animal, resting it against his chest like an infant. The rabbit’s ears flatten. It closes its eyes, resting, perhaps listening to Lawrence’s heart. A breeze flutters through the air, making the creature’s fur ruffle and shift. 

Vincent wants to reach out to touch, either the rabbit or Lawrence or both. He leans on the edge of his seat, his chin resting on his hand. He blames his heritage for being such a romantic, but perhaps there is no excuse for how affected he is by such a lovely vision. He is a sensualist, through and through. 

Vincent feels light on his feet after the performance, insisting he and his party take the scenic route back to the apostolic palace. “Did you enjoy the performance, Tómas?” 

“I did,” Lawrence replies. 

“And you, Cardinal Bellini?” 

“I enjoyed it very much, your Holiness,” Aldo replies. “I especially enjoyed the look on your face when Thomas conjured the rabbit out of the hat.” 

Lawrence rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “I hardly conjured it. Though I still can’t figure out where it came from.” 

“The Holy Spirit, maybe?” Vincent teases.

“Some impressive sleight of hand, more like,” Aldo says. “You were very good at handling the little guy.” 

“Katherine’s best friend in grade school had a rabbit,” Lawrence explains. “Holy Father, did you have any pets as a child?” 

Vincent thinks back to his parents’ house in Veracruz. “Not really. I think my sister had a fish once. And there was the goat.” 

“A goat?” Lawrence repeats. 

“Mm-hm. Grey, with big eyes and everything. We played with it in the backyard after my father brought it home. That was a fun afternoon.” 

“Did you keep the goat in the yard, or…?” 

“Oh, no,” Vincent shakes his head. “My father took care of it that evening. It made for a very delicious stew.” He licks his lips, thinking of the savory mole his mother made.

Lawrence and Aldo go quiet for a moment, likely exchanging looks over Vincent’s shoulder. 

“My life in Veracruz was not that exotic, brother Cardinals,” Vincent reassures them. “Just a little different.” 

“I’m sure, Holy Father,” Lawrence agrees. He leans in as they walk, his fingers brushing against Vincent’s sleeve. “Perhaps when I retire,” he muses, “I’ll have a goat in my backyard.” 

Aldo chuckles. “Or a hutch of rabbits.” 

“I’ll be a farmer in my old age.” 

Vincent’s heart skips a beat, but he forces himself to remain calm. “Do you… think of retirement often?” he asks.

Vincent has thought about it. It hasn’t been a pleasant idea. Any reminder of the age difference between him and Lawrence scrapes at his heart when it’s not in the context of a pleasurable thought. Sure, Vincent’s spine tingles when he thinks of the grey in Lawrence’s hair and the lines at the corners of his eyes, but with such age and wisdom comes the knowledge that Lawrence will eventually want to retire from his post, likely long before Vincent could ever consider doing the same thing himself. Lawrence has brought up his own concerns about dying before Vincent; it’s natural to think of retirement as an appropriate time for a clean split between them. Vincent doesn’t fault Lawrence for such a desire, but the prospect still hurts. What will life be like with Lawrence away somewhere in England? Would he call? Would he visit? Who would take care of him? Lawrence is introverted; Vincent could easily see him locking himself up in some cold apartment somewhere, forgetting to eat or talk to people, depending on illustrations of turnips with faces for social life. He can’t allow that to happen. 

Lawrence has caught sight of the gears turning in Vincent’s head. “I don’t think of it very often,” he replies. “There’s also the fact that - well - if you needed me, Holy Father, I would be of service to you for as long as you’d like.” 

Vincent feels his face get warm. He glances over at Aldo, who is conspicuously silent. Then he looks at the apostolic palace looming ahead of them. “I will always need you,” Vincent says honestly. “But it would not be fair to you to hold you at my side at all times.” 

Lawrence frowns. “I don’t know about that,” he counters. 

What a curious statement, Vincent thinks, from a man who has explicitly rejected me. If Thomas were a layman, he would be breaking hearts left and right.

Beside Vincent, Aldo frowns, too. Vincent wonders what’s going through his mind. Does he know what Lawrence is thinking? Often it seems he has a link to the man’s mind Vincent cannot access. 

“You’ve thought about retirement before,” Aldo says. He doesn’t sound upset, just inquisitive. Still, the reminder makes Vincent’s stomach twist. 

“I did,” Lawrence replies. “But that was different. I suppose I just… I don’t know. Shouldn’t every priest retire eventually? Bring in new blood?” 

“He can’t,” Aldo points out, pointing to Vincent. 

Vincent grins, caught off guard by the joke. “I think I am an exception to the rule.” 

Lawrence looks thoughtful. “That’s not true, though. You could retire if you really wanted to. Ratzinger did it, of course, though it caused something of a stir. And your predecessor considered it once, though likely only in jest. Remember, Aldo?” 

Aldo nods.

Lawrence’s brows furrow in concern. “Is that something you’ve thought of?”

Vincent blinks. “Me? I have thought of it, yes, but…” But who would I see every day if I did? Would I really want to waste away in some castle somewhere, away from people? Away from you? Would mere fatigue be a good enough reason to leave the post given to me by divine mandate? I may not have wanted this job, but it is mine now, for better or for worse. “It is not in my nature.” 

Lawrence nods. “Then we shall be together for a while yet.” 

Vincent smiles, but it’s not a perfect solution. He slows his pace as they approach the palace doors and lingers, looking for closure on the conversation. “How about this,” Vincent says. “When you retire, you’ll set up your farm not far from Rome. You can have your goats and your little rabbit hutch, and I’ll come visit you every weekend.” 

Lawrence grins, raising his eyebrows. “Every weekend, hm? What a privilege.” 

“Maybe,” Vincent replies. “But I get to annoy you with whatever questions I have. And I’m sure I will have many, as your successor will no doubt be inferior to you.”

“You’re a flatterer, Holy Father.” 

“I speak only truth.” Vincent can see it now; a nice little cottage in the countryside, accessible by train, someplace sunny where Lawrence can rest and read detective novels to his heart’s content. Perhaps it could never be real, but one never knows. At the very least, Lawrence isn’t insisting upon returning to England or New York. “I’ll come visit, and I’ll pester you with questions, and I’ll cook for you.” 

“Very domestic,” Aldo says, coming up behind them. There’s a strange tone in his voice.

“Just as long as you don’t make a stew out of my goat,” Lawrence quips. 

“I won’t. But you’ll have to let me pet the rabbits.” 

“Can someone tell me what we’re doing with this conversation?” Aldo asks. 

Vincent thinks of Lawrence’s fingers sinking into snow-white fur. “We’re retirement planning,” he says. 

“I’m suddenly looking forward to getting older,” Lawrence quips. 

“The future is bright,” Vincent agrees. 

—

“Holy Father,” Cardinal Bellini says, “I need to remind you that you do have other appointments today.” 

“None of them are as important as this,” Vincent replies, putting on another pair of frames and looking in the mirror. 

Lawrence shares a look with Aldo and smiles, eyes sparkling. “You know, I seem to recall your not wanting to get glasses in the first place,” he comments. 

“That was before I knew how important this decision is,” Vincent snarks back. He looks in the mirror at the glasses on his face. This set is copper, with octagonal lenses. He looks very academic in them, in his opinion. Professor Benitez, maybe? The sort of man who would lecture on the intersection of theology and cinema, and would meet students in a coffee shop after class. 

He sets the frames down and picks up another pair. Outside the small shop, dozens of cameras click click click, capturing the Pope in a rare moment of humanity. Vincent remembers seeing similar moments on television of past Popes, all similarly swarmed by reporters. 

This pair has squarer lenses, and clear blue frames. They’re not solemn enough for the Pope to wear, but Vincent likes how they sit on his face anyway. Dr. Benitez, maybe? Seeing patients in a little office, giving children check-ups and ensuring little old ladies stay healthy…

The third pair has bright red frames, exactly matching the color of Vincent’s shoes. He turns to Lawrence and strikes a little pose. “What do you think?” He asks. 

Lawrence says the same thing he said the last time Vincent asked his opinion, and the time before that. “You look very handsome, Holy Father. Very distinguished.” 

Vincent sighs. “You are not being honest with me. You’re telling me what I want to hear.” As much as Vincent enjoys the compliment, he really does need to know what pair fits him best. 

Lawrence gives a quick shake of his head. “Just because it is not what you want to hear doesn’t mean it isn’t true.” 

Vincent huffs and goes back to trying on glasses. After a few minutes of this Aldo evidently gets tired of this rigamarole and hands over a pair of simple black frames. “These,” he says simply. 

Vincent tries them on. The lenses are squarer than the last, but the frames soften his features. He doesn’t look like a doctor or a professor. He looks like he could be a father, a family man. 

I sort of am, he thinks. Just a different sort of family.

They’re perfect.

After Vincent makes his purchase (and Lawrence finishes teasing him with some of the more outlandish glasses on display),  the whole group squeezes out of the store and walks into the sunlight. Immediately Vincent’s many bodyguards start pushing back the crowd that has formed, making a path for Vincent to follow.

“Nice day for a walk, isn’t it?” Vincent asks, turning to look at Lawrence.

Lawrence winces at the screaming crowd, but smiles. “Does it ever get easier for you?” He asks.

Vincent thinks back to his first few moments as Pope, looking out onto St. Peter’s square. He thinks of the heaving, shapeless mass the crowd used to be. Now he knows they are all just people, eager to be blessed. “You know, it does!” Vincent replies. “It’s much easier than it was a year ago.” 

He walks alongside the crowd, shaking hands and brushing fingertips with people. Most of the faces he sees are Italian, but he imagines there are people from all over gathering to see him; there always are. He sees a little baby with a Korean flag in his hand, held out by his mother. He smiles at the child and blesses him, squeezing his chubby fingers. There’s an older woman with dark skin near the back of the crowd, leaning on a walker; he reaches out and touches her wrist, praying that she can walk without pain.

So many people, all of whom just want a glimpse of the Holy Father. Just a brush with something holy. For them, that’s what Vincent is. 

Vincent’s mother had a friend who was a nun. She traveled with a bishop back in the 1980s to meet Pope John Paul II. When they arrived, his mother’s friend managed to overcome her shyness enough to ask the Holy Father to bless her rosary. Vincent can still remember his mother talking about it, about how she got to touch the rosary weeks later. A spark of divinity, passed from leader to follower to follower. Or, more accurately, from Christ to follower, to follower, to follower. And on and on forever. 

Vincent is now the start of that chain. Vincent was chosen to be Christ’s chief spokesman on Earth. He doesn’t take that job lightly. It may be hard, but he embraces the challenge with joy. 

Another baby is held in front of him, this one with a shock of black hair and a bewildered expression. Vincent gives the child a blessing and hopes it is able to find some peace and quiet soon. 

He waves to a family of tourists dressed in colorful Kente cloth before falling back nearer to his Cardinals, keeping in step with Cardinal Bellini and Cardinal Lawrence.

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

Vincent looks over at Lawrence to see how he’s handling the crowd. He knows sometimes Lawrence gets overwhelmed by the noise. But Lawrence barely looks at him; he’s staring at something off in the distance. It’s no matter; they’ll regroup once they get back to the apostolic palace. 

They pass a group of high school-aged girls, obviously American, giggling and shouting at each other in excitement. Vincent notices one of them is holding out a rosary. He brushes it with his fingertips, unable to stop the movement of his entourage. “God bless you, all of you,” he says in English. “And be good for your parents!”

"¡Viva México!" Someone shouts from the crowd, and Vincent grins, raising his hand in thanks. He moves to get closer to whomever said the words, but Lawrence steps in front of him abruptly, blocking his way.

Vincent stops short, confused. “Thomas?” He asks.

Out of the corner of his eye, Vincent sees Gustav, the only one of his bodyguards not wearing sunglasses, begin to move towards him.

BANG!

A split second passes before Vincent recognizes the sound as a gunshot. It’s not enough time for the message telling him to move to travel from his brain to his feet. He’s grown slow in his old age.

BANG! 

Vincent’s ears ring, drowning out the sound of the crowd around him. As he looks for the source of the shots, Lawrence stumbles backwards, crumpling to the ground. Vincent holds out his arms to catch him but just misses his head. Lawrence falls back onto the cobblestone, his face twisted into a grimace. 

As if he’s underwater, Vincent sinks to his knees and looks over Lawrence’s body. He sees darkness forming around Lawrence’s chest, unfurling like the petals of a flower. Dazed, he leans over and covers the wound with his hands, pressing down hard like he’s done countless times before on both smaller and bigger bodies. 

Lawrence’s eyes flutter shut. Vincent thinks he can count every single one of his eyelashes, he’s so close.

What’s happening? What’s going on?

Thomas just - 

There were shots, and Thomas just - 

Vincent feels the roar around him grow stronger, threatening to pop the silence in his own head. 

“Thomas!” He shouts. He can’t hear his own voice. “Tomás, what have you done?”

There were shots, and you jumped in front of me - you - how could you -

Blood runs over Vincent’s fingers like communion wine, dripping onto the cobblestone, precious life spilling onto the ground Vincent kissed weeks before, thanking God for his mercy, his love, his only begotten son -

Lawrence’s body is still underneath Vincent’s hands -

The world suddenly slams back into focus as someone tackles Vincent, pulls him roughly to his feet, and shoves him against the door of a car that didn’t exist five seconds ago. He tries to speak but the wind is knocked out of him entirely, leaving him limp enough that the - two? Three? - people holding him against the front door are able to cram him inside the car without much issue. 

Vincent vaguely recognizes that people are screaming, running, panicking around him. He has no idea where he is, what car he’s in, what’s happening at all. He just knows that Thomas was in front of him seconds ago and now he’s not. 

Stupidly, he pulls at the handle of the car door to his left. Nothing happens. His hands are too slippery to even move it. Maybe it’s child-locked. 

Someone’s talking to him. Someone’s talking to him and he needs to answer. 

“Holiness!”

Vincent looks up at the man beside him. He blinks. It’s Georg, the sweet boy who takes too much milk in his coffee and likes to talk about his girlfriend. 

“Vincent!” Georg shouts, shaking him by the shoulder. “Have you been hit?” 

Vincent doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head. Georg ignores him and pushes him forward in his seat, checking the back of him, maybe for gunshot wounds. 

The car begins to move. Someone’s driving, though Vincent can’t tell who. Another bodyguard, maybe. Somewhere in the distance he hears a siren begin to scream. 

“Holy Father,” Georg says. He reaches over and takes Vincent’s hand, squeezing it. It makes a horrible squelching sound that produces a wave of nausea in Vincent’s stomach. “Holy Father, are you okay? Are you with me?” 

Vincent nods, though he really, really isn’t. He’s not in this car. He’s not even in this body. 

He’s back on the cobblestone, with his beloved, watching life leak out of his chest. 

Thomas, he thinks, what have you done?

Maybe Vincent doesn’t even exist. Maybe he’s disappeared entirely.

Thomas, he thinks. What have you done to me?

Chapter Text

The ride to the hospital happens in a blur. Vincent is surrounded by people, Georg a welcome point of familiarity amongst a sea of faces that appear suddenly and disappear just as fast. Reporters have not yet begun to swarm the building, but Vincent is herded through a back entrance anyway. He briefly catches a glimpse of the Sisters who were accompanying him as well as Cardinal Bellini, but then they are pulled away in different directions, leaving Vincent alone. 

The emergency room is empty when Vincent enters, which provides a welcome distraction. Where did all the other patients go? Were they taken to another hospital? Is Lawrence in such a bad way that he needs every doctor on hand to look over him?

Is Lawrence - is he - 

Someone in pale blue scrubs is listening to Vincent’s heartbeat and shining a pen light in his eyes. “Were you hit by anything, Holy Father?” She says. “Did you get shot, did someone push you to the ground?” 

“Uh, no, I…” Vincent’s mouth feels sticky and dry; he has to push hair out of it that’s been stuck to his skin with sweat and tears. “My shoulder… hit the car…” 

The woman moves his arm around a bit. Vincent lets her maneuver him like a rag doll. Across the room, half a dozen people have gathered around someone on a gurney. Is that Lawrence? Or have other people been hurt? Vincent only heard two shots. Were there more? Were there other gunmen? Was this a terrorist attack? Have the people chasing Vincent since Kabul finally caught up to him? Is this the price he pays for taking part in the conclave?

Vincent rises, meaning to go over to the person being treated on the other side of the room, but another nurse stops him. 

“Holy Father, you’ll want to wash your hands,” she says. Behind her, the person - it must be Lawrence, it must be him, Vincent can’t see what they’re doing to him - is wheeled off into another room and out of Vincent’s sight. 

About ten feet away, a small group of nurses surround a Sister who’s clutching her arm and sobbing quietly. Vincent catches a glimpse of her face and realizes it’s Sister Winifred, the young woman whose knitting Sister Agnes sometimes does on her behalf. 

Was she hurt, too? How did that happen? Were there more shots?

Vincent looks down at his hands and blinks at the rapidly drying blood on them. There’s so much of it, on his sleeves and on his cassock, too. 

He can’t speak. He doesn’t have anything to say. He wants Thomas. He wants to see Thomas. 

The medic hands him a bunch of wet wipes and helps him wipe off his hands before guiding him to an elevator. Vincent follows. A hollow ache in his chest grows larger with every step.

Before long he’s being guided into a hallway, where a doctor comes up to him and starts speaking in rapid Italian. Vincent only understands some of it - his Italian is still not as good as he wants it to be, he’s been practicing with Mandorff and Ray during spare moments - but he gets the parts where the doctor says Lawrence was shot in the chest and the thigh. 

“Will - will he be alright?” Vincent croaks. He feels like he’s trying to speak with sand in his mouth. 

“We’re going to do everything we can,” the doctor replies.

Vincent doesn’t know what’s happening to him. All of his senses feel sluggish, delayed. He wonders if perhaps he’s not in his body, and is instead standing beside himself, operating his limbs like a kid controlling a video game character. 

He’s crying. He only realizes that when the doctor puts a hand on his shoulder and offers to get him a tissue and a glass of water.

“Is Thomas going to die?” He asks. He doesn’t know why he says it. What does this doctor know? What do any of them know? It’s in the hands of God now, isn’t it? God and whomever was holding the gun. 

“We are doing everything possible to treat Cardinal Lawrence,” the doctor says. 

Vincent nods. The numbness in his body is starting to fade away, replacing itself with a horrible hot anxiety, like flames crawling up the inside of his throat. He looks around for a familiar face but finds no one. That’s odd. Normally he is surrounded by people he loves at all times. 

He needs to talk to someone. He needs to tell someone that Lawrence is allergic to penicillin, that he has a bad reaction to Novocaine, that he’s a little deaf in one ear because of the bombing. He needs to tell someone that Lawrence uses exercise to cope with his anxiety, so he needs the use of his legs, and his arms, and his graceful fingers that point out Bible verses in the pocket version of the book he keeps in his cassock. He needs to talk to someone, to know that Lawrence is going to be okay, that Vincent still has time to love him, that he didn’t live in the dark for fifty years only to get such a small glimpse of daylight - 

No one is looking at him. 

Vincent would laugh at the contrast from his daily life after becoming Pope if he didn’t feel like his throat was about to close up. He tries to keep his breathing steady but new images force their way to the front of his mind as quickly as he can bat them away. Guns pointed at civilians, Soviet and American-made, silver and black metal glinting in the light. A pregnant mother with a bullet hole in her breast, lying in the dirt by the side of the road. A little boy screaming for his sister. 

Lawrence can’t - he can’t - Vincent can’t take any more of it! Is the papacy truly not enough to protect him? Is anyone safe if even his closest friend is not safe?

“Holy Father,” a voice says. Vincent jerks himself out of his memories and looks up at the ghoulishly pale face of Aldo Bellini. “Holy Father,” Aldo says, “let’s find someplace for you to sit.” 

“What’s happening to Thomas?” Vincent asks. He can feel tears clog up his windpipe. He knows he’s making a scene, that now nurses and orderlies are looking at the crazy Pope who’s probably shouting, but he doesn’t care. “Is he very badly hurt? Did the bullet hit his heart?”

“I don’t know,” Aldo replies. “He’s in surgery now, I know he’ll be in there for some time. I’m sorry, your Holiness, but you need to be -”

“What about his leg? He got hit in the leg, where in the leg? Will he be paralyzed? He fell, did he hurt his head, or - or his neck?”

“I don’t know,” Aldo says again.

Hot, frustrated tears slide down Vincent’s cheeks. “Am I to know nothing?” He exclaims. His voice comes out high pitched and shrill, a tone he absolutely hates.

Aldo looks both sympathetic and a little afraid. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, Holy Father, until we can get his family over here there’s not much more they’re able to tell us -”

“No one will talk to me!” Vincent shouts. He can barely breathe; it’s as if someone has been stepping on his chest and has applied more and more weight as time goes on. “No one will tell me what’s happening!”

In the Congo, in Baghdad, in Kabul, Vincent was able to compartmentalize all of the horror around him. He was told he had a special skill, a resilience within him that allowed him to work with the sick and the dying without getting crushed under the weight of his own grief. Vincent never claimed to have any sort of skill. He simply respected and liked people as they lived, and set aside time to pray for them when they died. 

If Lawrence dies… there would not be enough rosaries in the world to pray for him. What could Vincent do? Say a Hail Mary for every time Lawrence took a breath of clean, cold air in the English countryside? If Lawrence - If Lawrence dies - 

If Lawrence dies there will be no slow, casual conversations over cups of tea in the morning. Lawrence will not tease him for staying up so late the night before, suggesting he should take after the Italians and have two or three shots of espresso.

If Lawrence dies Vincent will have no one at his side during meetings, asking important questions, making sure the dignity of personhood is respected and given priority over any other consideration. 

If Lawrence dies there will be no more walks through the garden, no more shared jokes about the ins and outs of the Curia, no more late night exchanges of secrets, no more warm hugs and special signs of peace during Mass. Vincent will not receive carefully typed out texts when he’s in other countries. He will not get updates about the amount of candy Ray ate that day. Newspapers will become dull without Lawrence’s commentary; the Vatican museums will once again become cold shrines to tradition without Lawrence’s context. 

If Lawrence dies, the world will be without a man who doubts, who calls for diversity, who sins and asks for forgiveness and carries on. The Curia will be without one of its most important members; the Church will be without one of its most holy men. And Lawrence’s family - Lawrence’s family - 

Katherine’s little children won’t have a doting uncle. There will be no one to tell them stories about taking care of their mother, about New York, about Rome. The fish he kept in a tank in the apartment on 72nd street. The girl he saved from being thrown into a pool. Her hero.

All of those stories will never again be heard from the author’s voice. The complete picture of Thomas Lawrence will be lost, left to people like Vincent who will struggle for the rest of their lives to remember the brilliant blue of his eyes. 

That’s who Vincent will be. A man constantly reaching towards heaven for multiple reasons, unable to get to what he really wants. He was never satisfied with a little bit of affection. A warm smile, an embrace - that was never enough for him. Lawrence has always been a shining beam of light and Vincent got greedy enough to wrap himself up in it without thinking of the consequences. 

This is what love is, Vincent thinks. This is what it feels like to be in love. It is the total and complete merging of one’s soul with another. It’s not soft. It’s not delicate. It’s painful. No wonder poets write against it. St. Paul did not write about devastation. He did not say that love is as destructive as it is patient and kind. He did not say that love would rip away all of a man’s strength. 

Vincent thought he knew what love was, before. Now he sees it is something entirely different.

“No vale la pena,” Vincent mumbles miserably. He finally collapses into a nearby chair, his head in his hands. “It’s not worth it.” 

Aldo stays with him for as long as possible, until he’s called away by someone who can clearly see Vincent is in no state to lead. (Since when did he become so soft? Did a year of the papacy really make him so weak?) Apparently the Swiss Guard are setting up a perimeter around the hospital, along with the Roman police. The gunman has been caught, according to Aldo, but there could be other people out there. Vincent stares at the reddish-brown stains on his cassock while Aldo tells him all of this.

After Aldo leaves, someone comes up to him and hands him a tissue and a glass of water. It doesn’t help. Vincent drinks the water and wipes his eyes but the tears still come, this time accompanied by loud embarrassing sobs. Vincent can’t stop them, so he cries and cries until he hiccups and a student doctor has the good sense to sedate him. Then, mercifully, he falls asleep.

—

Vincent lies on the floor in the bombed out ruins of a church he once called home. 

When he opens his eyes fully, he can see through the broken window of his bedroom that it’s midday, with the sun high in the sky. A little boy is standing over him, with olive-colored skin and a cut on his left cheek. It’s Suhail, the son of one of the nurses Vincent worked with in Baghdad. He’s a talkative boy normally, always going on about the stories he makes up to pass the time, but here he’s strangely silent. Vincent sits up and runs a hand through his hair. It’s longer here; he’ll need to find a band to tie it back. 

“What is it, habibi?” Vincent asks.

Suhail doesn’t say a word. Instead he begins to run, out of the small rectory where Vincent keeps his few worldly possessions and into the destroyed nave of the church. 

Sunlight filters through destroyed beams made of wood and steel, all broken and leaning precariously against each other. Vincent walks down the aisle and into the street, shielding his eyes from the light. 

The buildings around them don’t indicate that Vincent is in Baghdad. He may be some surreal combination of the Congo and Kabul, or some other space ruined by war that Vincent has seen on the news or in a paper or online. The Holy Land, or Ukraine, or another place so filled with pain and devastation that Vincent has to search hard to find evidence of God’s presence, if it is even there at all. 

Vincent follows Suhail’s footsteps past boarded up buildings and the ruins of what used to be a bakery. Further along he sees the rubble of houses, apartment buildings, storefronts. All places where life used to exist and doesn’t anymore, because the sin of certainty was so strong it made people unwilling to talk, unwilling to listen, unwilling to see each other as human. 

Vincent weaves through groups of people, all with faces painted like impressionist portraits. Gradually the civilians around him stop looking like those he worked in foreign countries and start looking like the crowds he’s walked through in Rome. People from the Americas, from Asia, from Africa. People who traveled from all over to see Vincent, to hear Vincent’s words. And yet Vincent cannot save them from violence. The sin of wrath has infiltrated people’s hearts, people’s minds, making them their own personal armies, their own weapons of war.

Vincent runs and runs, pushing people aside. Hot sweat trickles down his face; he wipes it away with a dust-covered hand. When the crowd clears and Vincent can see Suhail again, he is with his mother, standing outside an enormous pile of broken beams and concrete debris. 

Suhail points to the top of it; Vincent nods. The two of them step forward, moving upwards on the pile of what used to be someone’s home.

The climb is precarious; Vincent stumbles nearly every time he puts his full weight down on something. One of the beams groans under his foot and snaps, making Vincent fall forward, his palms scraping on a cinder block. He pushes onward. What is Suhail guiding him towards? What is up there?

Hot tears fill Vincent’s eyes as he reaches the top. He stumbles and hits his knee against a steel beam, scraping through his trousers. Blood trickles down his leg; he ignores it.

At the top of the pile Suhail points to a large object, nestled in between beams like an egg in a nest. Vincent pushes himself up and sees that he’s looking down at a coffin, a simple wooden box, the kind his father was buried in. 

Vincent feels nausea rise up inside him. He doesn’t want to see what’s inside. Another little boy, like Suhail? A mother, or a father? One of the Sisters Vincent worked with? A soldier, forced to fight for a cause he doesn’t believe in? Another innocent victim in a war against basic human decency? Another human being, another child of God, taken too soon, caught by a bullet, hot metal through flesh…

Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing. How did Christ have that much faith? How can Vincent possibly do the same?

Vincent meets Suhail’s eyes. He finds no answers there.

Together, they pull open the lid of the coffin. It’s heavy under Vincent’s hands. 

When Vincent sees what’s inside the coffin, all of the air leaves his body instantly.

Lying in the wooden box is Thomas Lawrence. Not Thomas as Vincent knows him, the older man with lines around his eyes and pain in his joints, but as the chubby teenage boy with longish hair and rolled up sleeves, the same boy who held his infant sister so gently in his arms decades ago. Eyes blank, blood seeping out from his chest and thigh, covering pale skin. His mouth is a hard line. No rosy hue in his cheeks. No spark of blue in his gaze. Devoid of color, of life. He sees nothing, says nothing, is nothing. 

Vincent jerks back, terror rushing through him. He opens his mouth to scream but no sound comes out. Below him, hands are pulling at his ankles, threatening to drag him back down to the crowd, which is now a shapeless, heaving mass. Vincent looks up at the sky and is blinded by the hot sun. He tries to say something, to talk to Christ or to the crowd or to Thomas, but no words come. 

Please, God, don’t do this, don’t do this, put me in his place, let me die so he can live -

Vincent wakes with a start, brushing off the hand that’s shaking him by the shoulder. 

“Your Holiness?” Katherine says, her face inches away from him. “Your Holiness, it’s me, it’s Katherine Lawrence.”

Vincent stares at her, waiting for the panic to release him from his paralysis.

Katherine’s eyes are the exact same shade of blue as Thomas’s are. 

Vincent makes a broken sound and pulls Katherine into a tight embrace. She hugs back, fingers digging into his cassock. Vincent thinks if either one of them lets go, they’ll fall apart entirely. 

—

They pray.

Katherine says she hasn’t prayed since she was a little girl; Vincent tells her that the words haven’t changed. That earns him a small, cheerless laugh. There is an exchange of rosaries; Vincent gives Katherine the one from his own pocket, made of pressed rose petals whose scent still reminds him of his mother, and Katherine gives him hers in return, a cheap one she bought in the hospital gift shop. Vincent rolls the turquoise plastic beads between his fingers and says the words he’s known since he was three over and over again until they lose all their meaning. Then he thinks of every lovely thing about Lawrence, from his kindness to how he taps his shoes together when he’s nervous. Then he prays again, this time in English, then in Italian. 

Lawrence has to live. He has to. 

Katherine doesn’t cry. The entire time she stares straight at the wall, repeating the prayers a half second behind Vincent, until the words run together in her mouth and she has to get up and pace around the room. Vincent asks her about her children, about the United States, about the perfume she’s wearing and how the flight was. She answers all of his questions in a steady, even voice that only wavers when they talk about Lawrence. 

“I thought it would be cancer,” she says. “I have this - this recurring nightmare that Thomas is hiding his cancer from me, and that I’m going to get a call that he’s collapsed somewhere. That’s what I thought it was.” 

Vincent nods. Thomas would do something like that, thinking it would spare his friends and family the pain of watching him waste away. Vincent adores Lawrence, but his actions often betray a certain self-loathing that at its core is more prideful than Lawrence would likely believe. 

A critique of his character you may never get to make to his face, a voice says in his head. You may never get to say anything to him again, good or bad. Remember when he shouted at you? The passion in his voice? Where will all of that go if he’s gone?

Katherine eventually gets up to get both of them something to eat from the cafeteria. Vincent looks around the waiting room and realizes that no one has bothered them in hours. He’d expected Aldo to come looking for him, or Ray, or one of the bodyguards. But people have mostly kept their distance. That’s good, he thinks distantly. People know he is needed here.

All the televisions have been turned off in the waiting room. Vincent wonders vaguely what the news must be saying and then decides he doesn’t care. No one has told him he has to be elsewhere, so he will focus his attention where it is needed. If there is a crisis, surely Aldo will handle it. He may be neurotic, but Vincent meant it when he said he was brilliant. 

Vincent sleeps again, this time after forcing himself to chew and swallow pieces of a poorly constructed panini and drink a glass of wine. (Yes, they do serve wine in some Italian hospitals, apparently.) Katherine says she’ll keep watch and wake him if there are any changes. Vincent wants to tell her that if Lawrence dies he’d prefer to sleep, possibly forever. (He doesn’t actually tell her that; they’re both upset enough already without his adding to the stress and melancholy.)

Eventually Katherine wakes Vincent up for two reasons: one, because Lawrence is finally out of surgery, and two, because Vincent’s bodyguards are finally asking for him. Vincent is far more interested in hearing about the former than the latter.

“He’s been through a lot,” the doctor says. He barely looks at Vincent, focusing instead on Katherine. “It’s going to be touch-and-go for a while. Everything’s very delicate. Right now the best thing to do is to let him rest and heal.” 

Katherine nods and begins asking questions, most of which are medical-sounding and make little sense to Vincent’s exhausted brain. The hours of sleep he spent in his waiting room chair have done little for him, apparently. 

After the doctor leaves Vincent is guided over to a group of bodyguards and policemen. According to them, the shooter was an American man who had a political agenda; he was caught and captured immediately following the shooting. A perimeter was set up around the hospital to ensure Vincent’s safety, but it appears the gunman was acting alone. Vincent is safe for now.

This is all cold comfort. Just when Vincent thinks he will be able to get away, he’s handed a phone. Aldo is on the other end of the line. He asks Vincent if he’d like to make a statement to the press. Vincent almost has to cover his ears to think, his brain is so fogged up with the noise of the world around him. 

“Tell them I am praying for Cardinal Lawrence, and for Sister Winifred,” Vincent says slowly, “and any others who were injured.” 

“And the gunman?” 

Vincent blinks, confused. “I - I cannot pray for him right now,” he says honestly. Not with Thomas in a hospital bed. Vincent is no saint. His empathy only extends so far, especially under stress. 

“No, Holy Father, the - the press wants to know if you’re going to meet with him.” 

The idea is so bizarre to Vincent’s ears that for a moment he forgets there’s precedent for it. He thinks of the picture of John Paul the Second meeting with his would-be assassin. The man converted to Catholicism later - Vincent read that once, in a book or an article. 

Vincent can’t think about that right now. He needs to devote his time to Lawrence. 

“I don’t wish to speak on the subject at this time,” he says. It’s a line Aldo once told him to use if he ever got questioned about a difficult subject. Normally Vincent would find such an evasive maneuver distasteful, but the words are necessary here. 

Aldo hangs up the phone after a few more words about Lawrence. 

“He’ll be okay,” he says. 

Vincent closes his eyes. “I hope so,” he replies. 

Finally Katherine emerges from down the hall. She gestures for him to follow her and then steps away. 

“I’m going to go - call my kids,” she says quietly. “You should, uh - go talk to him.” 

Vincent is almost afraid to enter the room. But Lawrence is not the tattered, ruined mess Vincent was afraid he would be. He just looks… small. Vincent thinks of the impressive figure that leaned over him when he first arrived at the conclave. This man is a shadow of that - ghostly pale skin, pearly eyelids, veins visible in his arms. Vincent sits down next to the bed in an uncomfortable chair and carefully places his hand on top of Lawrence’s. 

Once he feels warmth under Lawrence’s skin it’s as if something in his own body breaks, releasing a wounded sound from somewhere deep in his body. His life is so delicate, Vincent thinks. So precious. All of ours are. Please, God, have mercy on us. Have mercy on me. Have mercy on Thomas.

Vincent ducks his head down and thinks of Lawrence’s hand on his shoulder, that night in Sister Agnes’ office. He thinks of the kindness Lawrence showed him. Vincent knows he’s changed in so many immeasurable ways since then, and he has Lawrence to thank for that. 

He needs Lawrence to live. He needs Lawrence to return to him, the way Lawrence’s faith returned to him after Vincent’s election.

Vincent stays there, still as a statue except for the rosary running through his fingertips. He prays, and waits, until Katherine comes back. Then they take turns keeping watch while Lawrence sleeps.

Eventually Katherine gets up to get something to eat. As she goes Vincent has the strange urge to ask her for the time, but it’s a fleeting feeling that disappears as soon as she’s gone. What does it matter? It could be two days or two weeks since Vincent arrived at this hospital. It’s almost a good thing that Vincent can’t see the outside world. He doesn’t want to be distracted. 

Perhaps sequestration is the only way to truly reach God. Perhaps praying in the dark, in the quiet, in the moments where the soul struggles is the only way to truly heal. Vincent hopes this is true. Otherwise he is suffering for nothing. 

Fresh tears rise in his eyes. He leans over, his face in his hands, unable to look at anyone or anything. Reaching out blindly, he covers Lawrence’s hand with his own. The small point of connection between them is all that’s keeping him sane. 

“Por favor,” Vincent says. “Vuelvas a mi, querido. Por favor.” He has no idea if Lawrence is listening, or even if he’s conscious, but he says the words anyway.

For a few minutes there is silence except for the beeping of the heart monitor. Vincent cries, less out of sadness, more out of exhaustion.

When in the next minute the monitors begin beeping to signal something’s wrong, Vincent feels the same sense of dread he felt nearly twenty years ago, when he got a phone call from his sister in Baghdad telling him their mother had died. He races to his feet and calls for a doctor, once in Spanish, and then - remembering himself - again in Italian.

—

“They just needed to look through the area again to find what they missed,” Katherine says, biting her lip. She has repeated that motion so many times over the last few hours Vincent thinks she might start bleeding. 

Vincent blinks stupidly at the update, uncomprehending. Learning things secondhand has not been a practice of his for quite some time now; the lack of information has become maddening. 

“There was likely a fragment of bone or of shrapnel that got a little too close to Thomas’s heart, and they’re finding it now and making sure there’s nothing that could nick something else and hurt him -”

“So they’re just rummaging through his body?” Vincent exclaims. A dull sense of deja vu slams into him like a blow to the face. He thinks of appendectomies and doctors hovering over his own body, years and years ago. They had no right, a voice echoes in his head. They had no right then and they have no right now. “They’re just opening him up and hoping to find something?”

Vincent thinks of Lawrence being cut open, put on display for faceless doctors to peer inside, rooting around in his body like a real-life version of Operation. He knows, logically, that his own experience under the knife was relatively safe and revealed nothing that actually caused him harm, but fear runs through him anyway. His condition - the dormant organs inside him - were never what bothered Vincent the most. That was inevitably going to be revealed at some point in his life. It was always the feeling of being violated, of being inspected, like some rare specimen of insect or bird, that hurt Vincent deep inside. 

“I know it seems risky, but -” 

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

What if they find something unexpected? What if this hurts Lawrence even more?

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

Katherine has the same fire in her eyes that Lawrence does. Vincent just isn’t used to seeing it directed at him rather than on his behalf.

He nods, chastened, and returns to his chair in the waiting room. He’s too exhausted to fight, and it isn’t his place anyway. It’s suddenly hitting him how long it’s been since the actual attack, and how little sleep he’s actually operating on. 

People will be wanting to speak to him. No doubt there are crowds outside, praying for his and Lawrence’s safety. Vincent closes his eyes and tries to make these facts sink into his skull amidst the fog of everything that’s happened.

He turns to one of his bodyguards. “Georg,” he says quietly, “I need you to do something for me.” 

Georg steps forward. “Anything, your Holiness.”

“When Lawrence returns -” He will return alive, he must. “He will be sleeping for a while. I need to…” Vincent sighs. “I need to attend to some of my duties.” 

Georg nods. “I will keep watch over him, Holy Father. Just as I watch over you.” 

Vincent offers a small smile. 

—

Vincent is in a cramped bathroom stall on the third floor when he gets the news. He’s cramped because he’s sharing the space with one of Ray’s many secretaries, a bespectacled boy named Isaac who brought him a fresh set of clothes. (Isaac listened to every one of Vincent’s instructions for the rest of his staff, and only asked at the end if Vincent wanted his words to be repeated in Spanish rather than Italian. Apparently Vincent has been switching back and forth at random throughout his time at the hospital, too tired to realize he needs to translate.)

He almost doesn’t hear his phone buzz because he’s too busy wondering where exactly his ruined cassock is going to go after he gives it up. Will it be in a museum, like the last papal cassock stained with blood? How many times does an event like this have to happen before it’s no longer seen as extraordinary?

Katherine’s text shakes him out of his reverie. He’s awake, she writes. He wants to see you. 

Vincent nearly runs out of the bathroom without his socks or shoes on. Isaac manages to wrangle him long enough to ensure he’s fully clothed, and then he’s off, up two flights of stairs and down the hall.

Lawrence is sitting upright in bed when Vincent rushes into his room. He looks - he looks alive, with color in his cheeks, and that alone is enough for Vincent to thank God with every fibre of his being. 

Lawrence smiles at him, and Vincent wants to say, marry me. 

He doesn’t, because that would be insane. 

Instead he says, “Thomas! You’re awake!” 

“I am,” Lawrence replies. His voice sounds small, but sure. “It’s good to see you, Holy Father.” 

Marry me. Marry me, and we will run away together and live in the countryside. You can raise rabbits and goats and I’ll cook for you every day and we will forget this horrible episode in our lives. God above, you are a marvel to look at. 

Vincent steps forward and allows himself the luxury of touching Lawrence’s angelic face. He’s covered in bandages that are poorly hidden under his hospital gown but other than that, he looks far better than he did hours ago. “Oh, it is so good to see you, Cardinal.” 

Katherine makes a small noise and Vincent finally notices that she and Georg are in the room. “I’m going to go call home,” she says. “Check in on the kids.” She gives Lawrence a look that says something Vincent can’t infer. “I’ll give you two some privacy, okay?” 

Vincent doesn’t need to be told twice. He snaps his attention back to Lawrence. He hopes he isn’t in pain. Odds are if he were, Thomas might just try to stick it out, thinking it is an appropriate mortification of the flesh or some other such nonsense. 

“Vincent,” Lawrence asks, “were you hurt?” His voice is thin and reedy.

Vincent’s heart somehow manages to crack even more under the weight of such attention. Of course Lawrence asks after his well-being. He shakes his head, sitting down in a nearby chair.  “No,” he says. “You - you - the shooter did not hit me.” He swallows. “He injured one of the sisters in the arm, though. Sister Winifred.”

“Oh, God.” Lawrence tries to sit up a bit more in his bed, then winces and relaxes. “Will she be alright?”

“She should be fine. The doctors here are excellent.” Vincent suddenly regrets ever questioning their decision making; he will have to arrange for some sort of award or blessing to be given to each one of them. “They took good care of you, I hear.”

Lawrence looks like he wants to say something, but then decides against it. “And you? How are you doing?” 

Again with questions about him; doesn’t Lawrence see that Vincent is fine? Yes, he’s exhausted, and he might be crying right now, and he hasn’t eaten anything in hours, and he has no idea what the world is like outside, but he’s fine. He’s fine because Lawrence is here, alive and safe and warm. “You’ve been shot, Thomas. You were in surgery for hours. You don’t need to worry about me.” 

“I will always worry about you,” Lawrence says, faintly but firmly, his voice betraying more exertion than Vincent would prefer. “It’s part of who I am. Talk to me.”

Despite Vincent’s exhaustion, he is buoyed by the passion in Lawrence’s statement. Marry me, his mind traitorously supplies once more. Marry me and worry about me in my home, in my bed, in my arms.

They talk for hours. 

—

“Kat,” Lawrence says, his voice muffled by the bathroom door, “I don’t think this is the best time to be having this conversation.” 

“And why is that?” Katherine replies.

“Because you have a knife in your hand.” 

Vincent can’t help but smile. It’s been several days since Lawrence got out of surgery and with every passing hour the two siblings have sniped at each other more and more. Vincent’s pretty sure if they don’t all get out soon St. Benedict and St. Scholastica themselves will have to come down and sort them out. 

He shouldn’t be eavesdropping, he knows, but he just stepped out of the room for a moment to take a phone call, and he couldn’t help but overhear the Lawrences’ discussion inside the bathroom. 

“Relax,” Katherine says, “I’m almost done.” 

Vincent imagines a straight razor running over Lawrence’s cheek. He shivers. He’s always wanted to grow a beard, but it’s never happened. 

“I’m just saying,” Katherine continues, “you’re going to have a hard time getting around for a while. You’ll need someone to cook you food, to help you get dressed, to drive you places if need be. I should stay, I should be there to help you…” 

“I’m not an invalid,” Lawrence protests. “And I can manage meals myself.” 

“Hmm,” Katherine says, disbelieving. “Cereal, the rich man’s gruel.” 

Vincent frowns. Katherine’s right - there’s no way Tómas will be able to stay in his apartment while he recovers. 

The Casa Santa Marta, maybe? No, that is still so far from Lawrence’s office… he will need to get his strength up before walking long distances again… the Sisters do a fine job but Lawrence will need real food, good food… 

“I don’t want you getting depressed,” Katherine goes on. “I remember how you were after Dad died.” 

“That was different,” Lawrence says. “I was genuinely unhappy then.” 

“Oh, and you’re doing great now? You’ve got a bullet in your chest.” 

“They took the bullet out,” Lawrence says brattily. “What I mean is that I was going through a crisis then. I didn’t feel close to God. It’s different now. Despite everything that’s happened - mentally, I don’t feel like I’m going to get worse.” 

That’s some comfort to Vincent, though he’d like to have a therapist back up Lawrence’s claim of inner peace. 

“Does it mean anything that I want to take care of you?” Katherine asks.

“It does.” There’s the sound of the faucet running, and Lawrence hissing as if in pain. “You nicked me, by the way.” 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

“Of course it means something to me. I would love to have you here, Katherine, but I can’t recover while thinking about Dom and Ilsa. They’ll miss their mother too much.” 

“It would only be for a few weeks.” 

“In a cramped apartment that can’t possibly fit both of us. Kat, I have a support system. The Church is my family. My brothers will take care of me.” 

There’s a pause. “I’m your family,” Katherine says in a small voice. “You took care of me when I was small. Shouldn’t I return the favor?”

Vincent closes his eyes. The Lawrences feel too much; it is not good for his tender heart. 

“You are my family,” Lawrence replies, “but you have your own, too.” 

Katherine makes a sound like she’s about to protest further, but Lawrence cuts her off.

“Kat,” he says seriously, “the man who attacked me was a very disturbed individual.” 

Katherine scoffs. “Understatement of the century, Tom.” 

“What he wanted to do was cause chaos. He wanted to destroy any chance of Vincent -“ Lawrence sighs, “the Holy Father having a normal life, a normal papacy. He didn’t care about women, and he certainly didn’t care about God’s vision for a family. I think you should stand up to that sort of madness by carrying on, and leaving the boring bits of healing to me. Aldo is going to look after me, Ray is going to look after me, Sister Agnes is going to look after me - the Pope is going to look after me. You need to take care of my niece and nephew.” 

Vincent sighs. Lawrence is so very British sometimes. 

There’s some silence. Perhaps Katherine is giving in. Vincent leans back from the door, in case one of them decides to leave.

Instead, he hears: “Have you talked to Vincent?” 

Vincent stills, waiting for Lawrence’s answer. 

“About my recovery?” Lawrence asks. “Yes, he says he’s going to make sure I have every need met, though what that means to Vincent is probably far more than I’ll ever -“ 

“I don’t mean that.” 

Another pause. 

“Katherine -“ 

“You two are very close.” 

Vincent feels his heart leap up into his throat. Oh, God! In the intense relief of Lawrence's recovery, he’d somehow forgotten that Katherine was the one who read his feelings in the first place. 

“We are,” Lawrence replies. “And I value that friendship very much.” His voice lowers; Vincent strains his ears to hear more. “I would like to say that what you’re implying is practically blasphemous.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t believe in God, then,” Katherine replies. “Have you talked with him?” 

“Yes,” Lawrence says quickly. “Several times.” 

“… Really?” Katherine asks. She sounds surprised. 

“Why did you ask if you think I didn’t do it?” 

“Because I assume you’re a bit of a coward at the best of times, and I can’t imagine the Pope talking about a schoolboy crush in any situation.”

Vincent’s cheeks burn with embarrassment. At least Lawrence hasn’t told her it’s more than a crush, for him. 

“Yes, well.” Lawrence sounds extremely reluctant. “We’ve discussed it, alright?” 

“And? What did he say?” 

Vincent can’t stand it. To hear Lawrence recite with any sort of disgust a highlight reel of all the times he’s rejected Vincent’s affections is simply too much. He swallows his humiliation and knocks on the door, stopping the conversation short.

“Excuse me,” Vincent says. “I’ve returned from my mission.” 

Katherine and Lawrence step out of the bathroom, Lawrence holding a piece of tissue paper to his neck. He shuffles, leaning on Katherine for support, until he can slump down into a wheelchair. 

“These are the questions for the press conference,” Vincent says, passing over a sheet of paper. “All of the reporters are going to be very gentle with us, apparently.” 

“According to who?” Lawrence asks, looking over the paper. 

“According to me. If they ask anything you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to answer it,” Vincent declares. 

Lawrence shrugs, then winces in pain. “Alright,” he says. His eyes scan over the paper again. “It’s mostly just about how I’m doing. I can answer that.” 

“Do me a favor, tesoro,” Vincent says. “Don’t talk about the gunman. I don’t want today to be about that.” 

Lawrence frowns. “Are you sure?” 

They will ask me again if I am going to meet with him, Vincent thinks. I don’t have the courage to say yes just yet. “I’m sure.” 

Lawrence nods and glances over towards Katherine, who has finished packing up Lawrence’s things. The many, many flowers and fruit baskets sent to Lawrence’s hospital room have been distributed around the children’s ward, at Lawrence’s request. 

“Time to go,” Katherine says. 

Vincent takes the opportunity to be useful and begins pushing Lawrence out of the room in his wheelchair. Lawrence frowns and raises a hand to stop Vincent from performing such a task, but Vincent lightly slaps his hand away. He’ll have to get used to being taken care of, Vincent thinks. I know just the place to start. 

The Casa Santa Marta is a suitable place to recover from injury, yes. Vincent has done it himself, healing a small cut on his forehead. But Lawrence deserves better accommodations.

The apostolic palace will do nicely. 

—

Love has turned Vincent into a skittish, needy little thing. 

Most days he finds some sort of balance. He will wake up, often covered in sweat, the remnants of a nightmare clinging to his mind like the dregs from a cup of tea. Most of the time it’s just the shooting, again and again, replaying in Vincent’s mind with the colors warped and Lawrence’s eyes staring at him helplessly, but sometimes it’s the bombing during the conclave, only Lawrence is killed this time, and Vincent is elected without anyone to help him. 

He’ll dry himself off - a shower if necessary - and then pray the rosary. Usually this is enough to calm his nerves. But sometimes it isn’t. 

If Vincent’s heart is still beating double time after the rosary, he’ll exit his bedroom, wandering around the kitchen, debating whether having something to eat at this hour will upset his stomach. Often he’ll give in, and will make himself a small bowl of whatever snack he prepared the day before - usually fruit salad, or chips and guacamole. 

(The fruit salad was a small indication that despite the new, strange shared experiences he and Lawrence had, his lust for the man has not diminished one iota. Lawrence sat at the table while Vincent was preparing it and eagerly sucked on the fibers of a mango pit, occasionally glancing over at Vincent with wide, innocent eyes. Vincent calmed the storm inside himself by slicing every cherry in half perfectly. Gunshot wounds, hospital stays - Lawrence is alive and growing stronger every day. This notion has only strengthened Vincent’s desire, and thus furthered his guilt. Is nothing sacred? Can’t Vincent care for his friend without wanting to taste the sweetness of his mouth?) 

If that is not enough to quell Vincent’s nerves, he moves on to knitting. He’s picked up the practice since meeting with Sister Winifred, days after Lawrence moved into the apostolic palace. She’s recovering well, and should regain the full use of her arm. Vincent prays for a painless recovery and looks over patterns with her. Socks are what he would work best with, according to her. 

“You just have to remember to make the other one,” Sister Winifred giggles. “That’s where I always get tripped up.” 

Half of a pair. Vincent could never forget. 

(Has he always been like this? The shooting has laid bare the most vulnerable parts of himself, and within the mess comes clarity. Some part of Vincent wonders if he was always meant to fall in love with someone, if he was always going to have unruly desires whose ultimate fulfillments lie outside the priesthood. Perhaps it is in his nature, to want a life with elements of the clergy and elements of the family. Living between certainties… well, that’s familiar territory for him.) 

(He is unable to explain any of these feelings to a therapist. Unfortunately the trappings of the papacy have made him paranoid. He can talk about his anger towards the shooter, yes, and his anger towards the world for having produced such a man - a man who would rather fire a gun into a crowd of people than speak peaceably about Vincent’s policies - but he cannot talk about the loss he nearly experienced. The magnitude of it isn’t understood by anyone else. To therapists and reporters and fellow Cardinals outside of his inner circle, Vincent nearly lost a colleague and an advisor. Such a loss would have hurt, yes, and it would have made him angry, but it wouldn’t have caused him to spiral. It wouldn’t have caused him to question the value of love at all, which, in his mind, is the same as heresy. 

As a result of his paranoia, a comedic irony has emerged. Vincent has only been able to talk truthfully about his affections with the object of his desire.)

Normally he knits in his bedroom, but some nights that is not enough. Some nights the fear that Lawrence isn’t with him is so strong that it paralyzes him. On those nights Vincent takes every liberty he can with their friendship.

He knocks on the door. 

“Thomas?” 

Lawrence doesn’t always answer the first time. Vincent hates waking him but he always needs permission. He knocks again. “Thomas?” 

Silence from the other side of the door. Then, “Come in.” 

Vincent enters, feeling his way around in the dark. The room Lawrence is staying in used to be a library. Some of the furniture is still present; there’s an elegant looking sofa shoved into a corner. Vincent takes his seat there, turning on the small light clipped to it. It’s a makeshift station for him; the room directs all attention towards the bed. 

Vincent has slept beside Lawrence once in his life. At the time he was too upset to truly appreciate it. He wonders what would happen if he asked Lawrence to do it again. Would they brush hands? Would Lawrence turn on his side, so Vincent could slot against him? Would they whisper to each other, like schoolboys at a sleepover? 

It doesn’t matter. Vincent wrangles the monster inside him that constantly demands more from his friendship than Lawrence can give. He runs his fingers through deep purple yarn, and waits until he is finally calm enough to set his knitting down and sleep. 

Morning is always only a couple of hours away. 

Chapter Text

Vincent has a problem. 

It’s not a constant thing. It’s not something he needs to deal with every moment of every day. For example, some hours he is sleeping. Other times he is dealing with especially irritating politicians, inside and outside the Curia. But those distractions can only go so far. 

His problem is this: Lawrence has turned out to be a wonderful roommate. He doesn’t stay up particularly late or play loud music. He washes dirty dishes whenever he sees them in the sink. He makes his bed every morning, though his healing leg is limiting his mobility and makes him slow at this chore. He even lights candles sometimes before he and Vincent pray together, creating a warm and inviting atmosphere. They spend their evenings talking, discussing everything under the sun. Lawrence is a world away from the boys Vincent roomed with in seminary. From Lawrence’s first week living in the room next door to Vincent’s, Vincent knew that this time of his life would be very special. The closeness between the two men, the intimacy of caring for one another - Vincent wouldn’t trade it for the world. Lawrence is lovely.

Lawrence is also… tall. And broad shouldered. He also has an extremely deep and rich voice in the mornings. Sometimes he walks around with two of the buttons on his pajama top undone, revealing a hint of greying chest hair. His eyes are a more complex shade of blue than Vincent understood previously, revealing hints of green. In short, Lawrence is wholly, completely, devastatingly beautiful.

And Vincent wants to fuck him so badly.

Alright, well. It’s not that Vincent wants to fuck him, necessarily. Though he does. He wants to see Lawrence pushed back onto a bed, hair messed up, a blush on his cheeks, spreading all the way down to his torso. He wants to get his fingers slippery with oil or lubricant and push them high inside his beloved, making his eyelids flutter, making him sigh with the effort of it. Vincent doesn’t know what he’d do after that, what pace he’d go at or even what position he’d be in, but no matter what he’s sure he would enjoy it, as long as Lawrence was enjoying it too. 

Far more often Vincent thinks about the reverse. He imagines himself on his back, palms up, an offering for a man who deserves the world. He imagines himself on top, too, straddling Lawrence’s hips, pushing himself down on a cock he’s never seen. These images - fantasies - have started appearing in his head at a more rapid pace than ever, fueled by the changing circumstances that have brought Lawrence closer to him. Guilt has come with every one of these fantasies, yes, but it hasn’t been enough to outpace them. With every new glimpse of Lawrence Vincent gets, he imagines some new lustful, vivid daydream in response. 

He has had to help Lawrence in the shower a few times, helping him get partially undressed without putting too much stress on his leg or chest. This has involved the unbuttoning of buttons and the awkward fumbling of belts and flies before Vincent makes an awkward exit. Vincent has never seen Lawrence naked, and he does not want to. He has already spent actual, real days on God’s earth obsessing over his friend’s collarbones, his biceps, and his rosy red nipples. He does not need to know what the man’s cock looks like, hard or soft. 

God, let me see his cock hard, let me see him filled with desire, would that not be the truest sign of health? Not just alive, but ready to make new life? Couldn’t you make me into some beautiful woman to tempt him, so that he could at least understand how I feel? 

The problem is that Vincent has no right to think these things. He knows very well that every time he lusts over Lawrence during his recovery he is taking advantage of him in his mind. Christ said that whoever looked at a woman with lust in his heart had already committed adultery in his mind. Vincent worries that he is doing this every time Lawrence clings to him for support, and a thrill runs up Vincent’s spine. 

Of course, Christ was talking about more than mere sexual attraction. He meant the viewing of people as vessels for one’s own fulfillment. But guilt stews inside Vincent anyway. Perhaps it is not shame for his thoughts, but guilt over not feeling guilty. Guilt without shame. He was more comfortable with his own desires before Lawrence got hurt; now he feels like a creep. His friend is recuperating, and extra vulnerable. Ideally Vincent would be fantasizing about protecting Lawrence. How can something feel so natural, and yet almost certainly be wrong?

(There is even some small part of him that gets hot, pure pleasure out of caring for his friend during his recovery. Lawrence is pliable and willing as Vincent nurses his wounds. He eats everything Vincent puts in front of him. He rests when Vincent suggests a nap might be helpful towards his healing. Service has never felt so meaningful, so fulfilling. Vincent has cared for the sick and the dying for the better part of his adult life, but it is a different experience entirely with Lawrence. It fills him up, like a strong cup of coffee or a hearty meal. Finally, he gets to pamper his beloved. Lawrence’s protests that it’s too much, you shouldn’t be doing this, Holy Father, it’s unworthy of you are music to Vincent’s ears. Perhaps it is unworthy of him, as Pope, being responsible for these small tasks promoting healing. Perhaps that is the point.

In Vincent’s wildest fantasies Lawrence is tied by the bonds of his own propriety the way the dream image of him tied Vincent up with rope. He resists Vincent’s repeated application of luxury, of comfort, but is equally unable to stop it because of his basic desire to be comforted. The contrast is sharp and intense; Vincent wants to push it until it breaks. He wants to push until Lawrence finally gives in and accepts his role as a jewel, a prize, a being worthy of adoration. This, surely, is a feeling that would not be welcomed by anyone, much less Thomas Lawrence, if only because it places an intense burden on the supplicant. Vincent is willing and eager to take on the role, but suspects that Lawrence would likely find the dynamic distasteful. Dominance and order through submission and service is a way of living Catholics know well, but Vincent is now keenly aware of the eroticism of it. Therein lies the guilt. Vincent would never take advantage, of course - he never, ever does anything Lawrence expresses a modicum of displeasure towards - but he certainly worries he is enjoying his work too much.)

Vincent tries to keep his daydreams at bay. He focuses on Lawrence’s mind, on his sense of humor, on the way he has kept his spirits up despite all that’s happened to him. Lawrence has spent his first few weeks of recovery reading detective novels, studying the sacrament of matrimony, and thinking of new ways to build coalitions between faiths against inhumane treatment of immigrants and refugees in foreign countries. His wounds have begun to heal; the color has begun to come back into his cheeks. Vincent has even begun hoping that Lawrence will emerge from his convalescence stronger, smarter, and happier than he was before, if that’s even possible. 

All of this only makes Vincent want him more. The bandages come off and scars form over the wounds on Lawrence’s body, and Vincent longs to kiss them, to mark the evidence of Lawrence’s incredible act. Vincent’s own private miracle. 

He saved the Pope’s life, not because he was the Pope, but because he was a human being. If Vincent had the power, he’d make Lawrence a saint this very day. 

Lawrence’s kindness and intelligence are elements just as arousing as his body, if not more so. It leaves Vincent trapped, surrounded at all times by the urge to capture such a clever mouth with his own. 

The fantasies always start out relatively chaste. They never spring out of nowhere; there is always a real-life stimulus. For example:  Vincent wakes early to pray and prepare something simple for breakfast. He and Lawrence used to eat at the Casa Santa Marta and plan to do so again, but for now Vincent is happy to cook something small in his little kitchenette. Lawrence wakes, and they eat together, making quiet conversation. Lawrence thanks Vincent for the meal, and then heads off to get ready for the day. 

He stops. He turns back to look at Vincent. 

“Tell me if I’m taking up all the hot water,” he says. His expression is coy, his voice shy. 

Vincent can’t resist the opportunity to tease. “I can always draw you another bath,” he says, referring to his generous use of shampoo and soap the day of Lawrence’s return to the office. The words always escape his mouth before he can stop them. The worry that he has gone too far always follows a second too late. 

Lawrence smiles. “Maybe sometime soon,” he says. “I don’t want too much of a good thing.” Then he disappears behind the door to his bedroom. 

And Vincent’s imagination runs wild. 

Vincent wants Lawrence to have every good thing in the world. He wants Lawrence to be awash in pleasure. He can imagine in perfect technicolor the precise shade of pink Lawrence would turn if he ever were confronted with the amount of happiness he deserves. Vincent could provide. Vincent could be a very generous husband, if he were given the chance. How does Lawrence like it? Would he want Vincent on his knees? On his back? Maybe Lawrence could lean over Vincent’s head, with his knee on the bedspread, and feed Vincent his cock, inch by inch, until Vincent can’t breathe, until all he tastes is Lawrence’s come - 

On and on it goes, until Vincent is caught daydreaming with a pen in his mouth during meetings. Once Lawrence caught him during a meeting with the Apostolic Signatura, nudging Vincent’s leg with his foot under the table.

Are you alright, Holiness? 

Yes. Vincent was just fine. 

At first Vincent doesn’t do anything about the fantasies. He has them, he runs through them, and then he sets them aside. Lustful thoughts can be managed, the same way angry thoughts can be managed. But after a while Vincent’s daydreams of a gold-dipped romance with Lawrence stop requiring any substantial amount of inspiration. A touch, a glance, a word is all it takes. 

Lawrence bumps into him in the hallway in their apartment, and Vincent thinks of stealing a kiss. 

Lawrence stretches with his arms up, yawning, and Vincent thinks of wrapping his arms around him, pulling him close, smelling the scent of detergent on his neck. 

Lawrence asks for Vincent’s opinion on a newly tailored cassock, and Vincent’s eyes trace greedily over his silhouette, mapping a path for his hands to follow. 

Not all of these desires are necessarily sexual, or even overtly intimate. But Vincent feels them as strongly as he feels the desire to be thrown against the nearest flat surface and fucked within an inch of his life, so what truly is the difference? Love is, apparently, much closer to lust than Vincent had previously thought. This is somewhat distressing; he may have to write an encyclical about it. 

Perhaps Vincent’s feelings are a natural extension of love, and he shouldn’t feel guilty at all for having them. Perhaps it is entirely normal to see one’s friend walking without pain or stress after months of physical therapy, and think, te quiero comer a besos.

But it is a conscious choice to do something about the fantasies. When Vincent wraps a hand around his cock late at night, he is doing so with the knowledge that, despite how much he believes he is doing nothing wrong, the rest of his world believes he is committing a sin. 

It doesn’t feel like a sin. It feels… wonderful.

Vincent wakes up to the sound of a sparrow chirping outside his window. He’s lying on his belly, his cheek pressed against the pillow. It’s cool outside, but not unpleasantly so. Underneath all of his layers, he’s wrapped up in a little cocoon of warmth. 

The dream had been pleasant, vague enough that it didn’t feel too real. Someone was touching his face, their fingertips brushing over his cheeks, his nose, his lips. Vincent didn’t see, but he can imagine now who it was. Gentleness is a virtue; Lawrence has it in spades. 

He shifts slightly, bending his knee to release a little tension in his hips. Nestled in his boxers, his half-hard cock twitches in interest. Vincent rocks down a little and closes his eyes at the tension. 

There’s too much fabric for it to be good. But that’s a warning, isn’t it?

Just another small movement. Just another twist of his hips - yes, that’s enough. That’s fine. 

Vincent hears shifting from the room next door. Is Lawrence already awake? If so, that’s unlike him. He usually emerges from his room about half an hour after Vincent does, long before the sun comes up. Did he have good dreams? Did he have a nightmare?

Not for the first time, Vincent wishes he had the courage to stay long enough in Lawrence’s room to see him wake up. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps. 

He has such long lashes… such soft creamy skin… oh, when he blushes… an English rose in full bloom, sparkling with morning dew, begging to be plucked, smelled, admired…

Vincent squirms. He can feel his cock twitch between his legs. He turns, leaning on one knee. With one hand he grabs a pillow, shoving it between his legs. He shouldn’t touch himself. Thinking is one thing, acting is another. 

Thomas whispering hello in Vincent’s ear, asking him how he slept… perhaps teasing him for tossing and turning… you know, he says, if you have that much trouble sleeping, you can always wake me up…

Vincent protesting, trying to maintain some decorum even as Lawrence’s arms wrap around him. You need your eight hours. I can always take melatonin if I truly cannot sleep.

Lawrence’s smile is easy to conjure; Vincent sees it whenever he closes his eyes. It’s not a far cry to imagine that expression pressed against his neck. Maybe Lawrence would press kisses there, or at his collarbones, or down his chest. 

Yes, but my way’s more fun. 

Most people rarely see the side of Lawrence that Vincent gets more and more often these days. The part of him that’s playful, almost youthful. He has a brilliant sense of humor, sharp and biting. He teases Vincent like he’s any other person. If they had met when Vincent was just starting his ministry, perhaps they would have been good friends. If they had met earlier than that, in the wild, liberal world of 90s New York, maybe…

Vincent pushes the pillow up against his cock, reveling in the small amount of pressure there. His cock swells in response, interested in this new way of finding pleasure. There are lots of ways to masturbate, Vincent knows, but if he doesn’t do it with his hands there’s at least some element of deniability. He can pretend he’s just stumbled into this position, warm and comfortable under the blankets, his cock slipping out from his boxers and dragging against the pillowcase.. Precome gathering at one spot, giving him the tiniest bit of space to glide, to thrust into…

Vincent would ride him, in the morning. Lawrence’s leg would probably ache from whatever position he’d slept in and Vincent wouldn’t want to hurt him. There would be some fumbling, yes, rummaging around in the cold air of the bedroom for a condom and lubricant, but Vincent could warm the both of them up in no time. Besides, if Vincent rode him in the morning, he could then feel Lawrence’s cock inside him for the rest of the day, during meetings and during phone calls and - God forgive him - during Mass. He could receive the miracle that is the Eucharist with the memory of the morning swimming in his head, proof twice over of God’s love.

Vincent’s hips loosen more, seeking out friction. He wriggles a hand down under the covers and pulls his boxers down, exposing his cock further to the satin fabric of the pillowcase. (Vincent has never needed such luxuries, but one of the Sisters insisted upon this item because, according to her, “your hair is one of your biggest assets, so you need to protect it.”)

The pressure is good, solid and consistent, making tension coil low in Vincent’s hips. When he comes, he’s going to come hard, and he knows it. 

Vincent wouldn’t waste time. He couldn’t, if this were to take place one room over in the apostolic palace. Too long and they’d get caught. There is something of a thrill to that idea, but only in a vague, abstract sort of way. Vincent knows that any relationship he has that isn’t platonic is destined to be one of cloak and dagger. That’s fine with him, as long as he has it at all. As long as he has it with Thomas…

The room would warm up quickly with the effort of their joining. Kisses would be exchanged, lazy soft kisses that would land on cheek-apples and mouth-corners. Vincent would line himself up with Lawrence’s cock and just sink down, heavy with the weight of himself, sighing in relief at finally being filled up. It would be a race, after that; not enough time to luxuriate in the feeling but enough time to convey to Thomas what Vincent really needs.

Fuck me, fuck me, chíngame…

Lawrence raising his eyebrow, placing his hands on Vincent’s hips and helping him along, pushing him up and down ever so slightly even as Vincent rocks forward and back. Aren’t you really fucking yourself? Lawrence asks, and God, if Vincent ever heard his beloved swear…

Vincent knows he must look ridiculous right now, humping one pillow and hiding his face in another. But there’s nothing else to be done, is there? He can hear Lawrence puttering around in his room, getting ready for the day, and it makes his heart swell so much it’s near bursting. There’s no other place for the love in his body to go except his cock. He wants the man in the room next door. He wants him, scars and fluffy hair and blue eyes and horrible self-loathing tendencies and all, he wants to ride him until he’s drenched in sweat and the headboard’s hitting the wall with a steady thumpthumpthump and Lawrence is panting, begging, saying please, dearest, let go, I want to see, I want to see you, and Vincent would, he’d be very good, very obedient - and afterwards they’d lie together, still joined, panting, laughing at the absurdity of it all, the gift God has given them, to be married, to become one flesh -

Vincent’s orgasm hits him suddenly, stealing his breath away. He pushes his face further into the pillow and stifles a cry, hips twitching erratically. He pants for breath, sticking his tongue out, stupid with ecstasy and lust. All of his higher instincts disappear, leaving him with primal, base desires, appropriate considering how he’s whimpering like a wounded animal.

I’m made to be fucked, that’s what I’m good for, that’s what I’m meant to do, a toy for sex and love and worship, use me, take me, fuck me, please, please, please!

Warm release covers the pillow, briefly making the way wet and slick. With the last of his energy Vincent fucks up into the little gap in between the pillow and his body, his cock twitching with each thrust. His eyelids flutter shut. Vincent tenses, and then relaxes, freed from the vivid heat of his fantasy. 

Ohh, yes. It’s so good he can feel it in his teeth. 

He’ll have to wash the pillowcase himself. That’s - that’s fine. That’s a future Vincent problem. 

The warm glow of endorphins is tempting to misinterpret. Vincent knows that the euphoria he’s experiencing is merely a chemical reaction and shouldn’t be understood as God’s approval of his actions, but… it certainly feels that way sometimes. It certainly begs the question, if God installed this exact chemical reaction, perhaps... He pictures that for a moment before the guilt kicks in.

Vincent rises once the stickiness between his legs gets too uncomfortable. He strips himself of his boxers, and then the pillow of its pillowcase. He inspects the rest of the bed to make sure there isn’t any more evidence of what he’s done. Then he makes his way to the bathroom.

A quick wash of the items. Luckily none of the Sisters who do his laundry have asked any questions so far. He showers, saying his morning prayers as he goes. He may have to confess to his actions at some point. Even if God does not mind the occasional moment of self-abuse, He likely minds when it delays Vincent’s morning prayers. 

He likely also minds when the self-abuse arises from feelings for one’s (male, celibate) friend. But if Vincent thinks about that for too long he will have a miserable day, so he ignores it. He will take part in the sacrament of confession later in the week; that will be as fine a time as any to interrogate his own wrongdoings.

It just felt so good. Like a gift. A pleasure that costs nothing, hurts no one, can be done again and again, arises out of love…

Perhaps he will have to look further into canon law about it. There may be unexplored nuances to discover.

Vincent dresses and makes his way into the kitchen. Lawrence is already at the stove, dressed in plainclothes and cooking eggs in a pan.

“Good morning,” he says cheerfully. Vincent swallows and steps forward, drawn in by the scent of butter and the droplets of water still clinging to Lawrence’s hair.

“Good morning,” Vincent answers shyly. He thinks of his earlier activities and tries not to blush. 

“I figured I’d make you breakfast for a change.” Lawrence takes the eggs off the stove and gives them a few more stirs for good measure. They both know Lawrence can’t cook much but he can make enough meals to feed himself, eggs and toast being one of them. 

“You’re up so early,” Vincent says. “Was your leg hurting you?” 

Lawrence shrugs. “A little.” 

Probably a lot, then. “Be sure to rest, later.” 

Lawrence smiles and rolls his eyes. “Of course, dearest. Fetch me two plates, would you?” 

Vincent obeys, and then takes a moment to admire his beloved’s face. “You shaved today,” he observes. 

“I did.” Lawrence divides up the scramble and doles out each part onto the plates, before grabbing two pieces of toast out of the toaster. “Did I miss a spot? You’re staring.” 

Caught, though the consequences are small. Vincent maintains a serene expression. “No. I’m just considering the pros and cons of bearded Thomas versus smooth Thomas.” 

A glimmer appears in Lawrence’s eye. Vincent gets the feeling he’s about to be given another seed that will inevitably grow into a fantasy. 

“Do you prefer a clean-shaven man, Holiness?” Lawrence asks, in that mellow, rich voice that Vincent adores.

Vincent’s toes curl in his socks. He feels heat rush through his body. Lawrence does this constantly. If Vincent weren’t so besotted with him, he’d probably strangle him. 

Then again, there is some comfort in the fact that Lawrence doesn’t shy away from the occasional flirtatious gesture. Maybe it means that he’s comfortable with Vincent’s feelings, secure enough in their friendship to know that Vincent would never take things the wrong way. Or maybe it’s a sign of the unsteady thing between them, the acknowledgement that Lawrence likes it when Vincent is close to him. 

Still. If Lawrence wants to play the game then Vincent is happy to counter. 

“It depends,” Vincent answers, “on whether I am looking, or touching.” 

Vincent takes a second to drink in Lawrence’s utterly shocked face before he grabs his plate and sits down at the table to eat. 

It’s going to be a good day. 

— 

“I’m going to tear that laptop out of your hands,” Vincent warns. 

“I’d like to see you try,” Lawrence says, his glasses reflecting the light off of the screen. He’s made himself comfortable on the right side of his new bed, leaving more than enough room for Vincent to perch on the other side amidst various notebooks and dog-eared detective novels. 

“You should be resting.” 

“Okay, first,” Lawrence finally looks up from his laptop. “You’ve said that so many times at this point it doesn’t even sound like a sentence. Second, if you’ll apply those keen observational skills of yours, you’ll notice I am resting, Holy Father. I’m in bed and everything.” 

Vincent bites back a whine in his throat. He knows that people recover in different ways, but he can’t help but feel that every bit of energy Lawrence is spending on paperwork could be put towards helping him heal faster. “How’s your leg?” He asks instead of arguing the point further. 

Lawrence tilts his head back and forth. “It’s alright,” he says. “The pain’s manageable.”

“Manageable?” Vincent repeats.

“I have good days and bad days. Today is so-so.” 

That’s Lawrence-speak for I’m in agony, but I’m not going to admit to it. Vincent sighs. Maybe later tonight he can convince him to use the ice pack again. They could put on some soothing music, pretend Lawrence is at a new-age spa…

A knock sounds at the door. Shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits. It’s Ray.

Vincent pats Lawrence’s leg - his good leg - and rises to answer the door. 

Ray is in plainclothes this time of night. He holds up a dark oak-colored cane and a small green package. “I come bearing gifts!” He says cheerfully.

Vincent smiles and welcomes Ray in, walking him to Lawrence’s bedroom. Technically it’s the library, but with a few adjustments a cozy atmosphere has been created for the Dean of the College of Cardinals. 

Lawrence finally closes his laptop, greeting Ray with a smile. “Oh, you have it,” he observes.

Ray nods and hands him the cane. “Fished it out of storage, just for you. Cait found it useful, towards the end.”

Vincent leans over to look at where Lawrence is admiring the wood of the instrument. He remembers a picture of a blonde woman on Ray’s desk, and a mention of an illness that took her life. He can’t remember what it was, though, only that Ray still looked heartbroken when he talked about it. 

A priest with a lover in his past. It’s a rarity, but it happens. 

A priest with a lover in his future - now that’s impossible. 

“Thank you, Ray,” Lawrence says. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. 

“I have one more treat,” Ray says, presenting the green package. “This one is from Sister Winifred. She says she’s recovering well, by the way. I caught her in the cafeteria earlier.” 

“I really should get her a coffee or something, now that we have so much in common...” Lawrence rips open the paper, revealing a small box of neatly sorted chocolates. “Oh, how nice!”

Lawrence turns the box to reveal a neatly categorized set of finely decorated chocolates, each painted to look like the planets of the solar system.

“She says she’s no doctor,” Ray continues, “but that she feels better whenever she eats chocolate, so they should help with your recovery.” 

“That’s brilliant,” Lawrence replies. “I’ll have to thank her personally.” 

Vincent swallows down the instinctual twinge of jealousy that rises up inside him whenever Lawrence receives attention from a woman. He’s not possessive, of course; it’s just an occupational hazard when your job is loving Thomas. “I didn’t know you liked chocolate so much,” Vincent muses. “I’ve never seen you eat it.” 

“He doesn’t,” Ray says. “He just likes to hoard it, like a dragon.” 

Lawrence rolls his eyes. “I have you to eat it for me, Monsignor,” he points out.

Ray smiles, a faint blush tinging his cheeks. “Perks of the vocation, I suppose.” 

Vincent realizes he’s forgotten his manners. “Ray, would you stay for a cup of tea?” he asks. “Lawrence and I would love to host you for a bit.” Anything to keep him from staring at that screen, ruining his eyesight. 

“Oh, I’d be honored, your Holiness, but I’m afraid I have plans,” Ray replies.

“What are you up to this evening?” Lawrence asks. 

“Cardinal Sabbadin is in town,” Ray explains. “He and Cardinal Bellini and I were hoping to go out and…” he trails off.

Vincent raises his eyebrows. Ray looks at him sheepishly.

“We’re not in a confessional booth, Ray,” Vincent assures him.

“We were hoping to get very drunk,” Ray concludes finally. “Actually, Thomas, we were going to invite you, but from the looks of it…” Ray glances at Lawrence’s legs.

“I’ll have to take a rain check on that one,” Lawrence says, “but I appreciate the thought.”

Ray nods, clearly disappointed but understanding. His gaze turns to Vincent.

“Holy Father, I…” 

Vincent shakes his head, ready to avoid any awkwardness. “I appreciate the thought as well, Monsignor,” he responds. This happens sometimes. People make plans around him, semi-aware of his presence, but by the time they think to invite him, they remember he can’t actually go anywhere. “I hope you have a good time.” 

Lawrence blinks and shifts where he’s sitting between the two men. “Actually…” He looks up at Ray. “Ray, why don’t you take the Holy Father with you?”

Ray blinks. He tilts his head, borzoi-like in his movements. “Could you come with us?” He asks Vincent. “We’d love to have you.” 

Vincent opens his mouth and closes it, suddenly unprepared to answer. “I mean, technically I could,” he says, “but I don’t know if Georg or my other bodyguards would approve…” 

“You haven’t needed their approval before,” Lawrence points out. Ray furrows his eyebrows, confused. Vincent leans down to meet Lawrence’s eye.

“Yes, but…” Vincent bites his lip. Even as excitement begins to bubble up inside him, fear rises up, too. “Do you think it’s safe?”

Lawrence shrugs. “I don’t think anything’s safe anymore,” he admits. “But I’ll tell you that I’ve been inside this apartment for less than a month and I’ve got worse cabin fever than anybody. You told me once this place wasn’t a prison. Is it just me, or has it been feeling that way since I got hurt?”

Vincent feels a pang of guilt reverberate inside him. Perhaps he’s been overprotective. “No, I know what you mean.” 

“So escape it for a little while. You’ll have an old man to take care of when you return, I promise you.” Lawrence offers a smile. 

Vincent takes a deep breath. He thinks of the streets of Rome, of the sound of his shoes on pavement, of the low hum of strangers’ conversations.

God, he misses it. 

He thinks of the penance Lawrence gave him days earlier, during Vincent’s frantic, frustrated confession of self-abuse. Be kind to yourself. 

“Okay,” Vincent agrees. “Okay.”

He stands up straight, meeting Ray’s confused expression.

“I’ll join you,” Vincent says. “I’ll just need a few minutes to get changed.” 

“Okay,” Ray replies, still confused. “But how are you -?” 

“Vincent’s like Clark Kent,” Lawrence answers. “He’s got a secret identity.” 

“It’s hardly a secret,” Vincent corrects. “People just don’t notice me when I’m not wearing white.” 

“Speaking of clothes,” Lawrence says, “I don’t want you wearing the black cassock. You’re too famous now, people will put two and two together the moment they see you’re a priest. Put on something else.” 

“Like what?” Vincent asks. 

“Regular trousers should work,” Ray says, now understanding the plan. “If you put your hair up and wear your glasses, that’ll help, too.” 

“And a t-shirt,” Lawrence adds. “Wear the grubby one Katherine gave me, on the top shelf.” 

“It’s not grubby,” Vincent argues, going over to Lawrence’s closet and pulling open the door. “It’s distressed.” 

“The nineties were a long time ago, dearest,” Lawrence says. “I think my chances of getting recruited into a ska band are slim to none.” 

Vincent rolls his eyes. “Old man,” he mutters, unbuttoning the shirt he’s wearing halfway and pulling it over his head. As he changes, he’s mildly aware that the two men behind him are the only two people in the world who know the secret of his condition. Unlike St. Thomas, they have no need to inquire further about the scar on his side. 

Vincent finishes putting on his “disguise” and nods at Ray so they can get going. “Thank you,” he tells Lawrence. 

“Don’t thank me, I haven’t done anything,” Lawrence replies. “I’m the one who’s been keeping you locked up in here this whole time.” 

It’s the job that keeps me locked up, Vincent thinks. When I’m with you I’m free. “Still,” he says. “Next time, you’ll come with us?” 

“Definitely.” Lawrence nods. “Now go, before you have to come back at sunrise.” 

Vincent grins and reaches over, squeezing Lawrence’s hand before he follows Ray out of the apartment.

“You know,” Ray says as they begin to sneak out of the palace, “I could have lent you some clothes for your disguise.”

“I know,” Vincent replies. “But I’ve always wanted to steal this shirt.”

—

It turns out that once the cassocks are dispensed with, three priests in plainclothes and a scruffy guy in a ponytail and a No Doubt t-shirt don’t arouse any suspicion on the moonlit streets of Rome. Ray and Sabbadin drag the quietly conversing Aldo and Vincent from bar to bar, gradually getting more drunk as the night goes on. Aldo stops himself after a few glasses of wine, and Vincent doesn’t partake at all, but after an hour and a half outside of the Vatican everyone feels a little looser, a little more willing to show a side of themselves they usually keep hidden under zucchettos and fascias. The little outing is a good reminder for Vincent that even if he is burdened by the loneliness that every Pope likely experiences within the apostolic palace, he does have friends. 

Late into the night Ray and Sabbadin discover a karaoke bar, brightly lit in a hidden-away corner between a Chinese restaurant (Vincent didn’t know Rome even had such eateries) and a barbershop that, Vincent is informed, once sent Aldo a flyer in the mail. Ray expresses his usual apprehension about entering such an establishment with the Holy Father in tow, but Sabbadin reassures the group that as long as the lights are low and Vincent keeps his head down, it should be fine. 

Vincent hasn’t done karaoke since he visited his cousins in the Philippines decades ago. He is not about to perform now, not when every Italian citizen has a phone in their back pocket and a secret desire to go viral. But that shouldn’t stop Ray or Guilio or Aldo from taking up the microphone - a sentiment he makes clear as he sits back in a dark corner of the bar with his cranberry and soda. 

“I’ll join you,” Aldo says, sitting next to him. There’s a strange tone in his voice. 

Amidst the disco ball and the lights and the words flashing on the wall opposite the projector, Vincent can almost forget the worries and concerns of his job. He stares at the bubbles in his soda and allows himself a moment of peace. Yes, he is the Pope, yes, he’s in love, yes, he has a multitude of responsibilities at any given moment, but all of that is far away just for tonight. Here, with extremely loud pop music ringing in his ears, Vincent feels close to God in a different way than he usually does at Mass or during his prayers. 

Is this how most people find divinity? He might have to do more research. 

“Holy Father?” Aldo asks. Vincent shakes himself out of his reverie and looks over at his friend. 

“Yes?”

“How are you doing?” 

“I’m fine,” Vincent asks automatically.

“No, I mean… how are you holding up?” 

Ah. “I… I’d say I’m faring about as well as possible.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I’m really not the one everyone should be concerned about.” 

“You think I should be asking Thomas these questions,” Aldo responds. 

“I think acting as though I am the center of the universe has its issues,” Vincent replies. 

“The shooter was aiming at you. That must have affected you.” 

“Of course,” Vincent says, “but I am more concerned with how the members of my staff were affected. How are you? How are the other cardinals holding up? Ray wasn’t there, but I imagine seeing it on television was still somewhat distressing.” 

“I’m doing alright,” Aldo says. “I’ll admit I get a little skittish around crowds, but… I’m managing. We’re all managing. I think everyone’s doing okay.” 

Vincent looks over at the stage, where Ray and Cardinal Sabbadin have stumbled up to the microphones, swaying a little in their drunkenness. 

“My boss got shot a couple of months ago and nearly died!” Ray says into the mic. Beside him, Sabbadin nearly collapses in a fit of hysterical giggles. “So, uh, this one goes out to him!”

Vincent and Aldo glance at each each other as the music begins to play and both men begin to sing off-tune, their voices amplified through the speakers. 

“You think I'm pretty without any makeup on, you think I'm funny when I tell the punch line wrong…”

Aldo shrugs. “Okay, maybe we’re not doing okay. But we’re keeping our heads above water.”

Vincent leans in. “Lawrence is my real concern.” 

Aldo nods. “I’ve been talking to him. We go on walks together.” 

“I’ve seen you outside. I’m glad you’re taking care of him.” 

“He’s my best friend,” Aldo says simply. “He’s my brother.” 

Vincent looks down at his hands. “He has… a sort of resilience that I envy deeply. During the conclave, he took care of all of us when he himself was most affected by the mess we made.” 

“You hardly contributed to that,” Aldo points out. The light is very low, but Vincent would bet he’s blushing. 

“Still, I feel somewhat responsible. I know my presence was unexpected. But he cared for me anyway.” Vincent smiles. “There are pieces of Christ’s vision for humanity in all of us, but Lawrence’s tendency to care for others… it is a quality I greatly admire. He is like a mother duck, and we are all his beloved chicks.” 

Aldo chuckles, and then takes a long sip of his drink. He glances away, and then back at Vincent. “You’re very liberal with your affection for Thomas.” 

“I suppose I am,” Vincent agrees. 

“Very liberal.” 

Vincent freezes. The tone in Aldo’s voice is unmistakable. When he looks up, his suspicions are confirmed by the look in Aldo’s eyes - sympathetic, but sure. 

Vincent’s first instinct is to deny it. The character of Pope Innocent is remarkably easy to slip into when Vincent feels threatened. How dare you accuse the Pope of harboring inappropriate feelings. Don’t you know that’s tantamount to treason? 

But it is exhausting to pretend, especially in front of people he loves. Vincent has to pretend every day that he doesn’t love Lawrence, that his feelings are entirely platonic. Can’t he drop the act, just once? 

“Am I that obvious?” He asks.

Aldo closes his eyes for a moment. He leans back in his chair. “Not to those who don’t know you,” he says. “But within the Curia… there’s something of a rumor going around.” 

Vincent looks over once again at Ray and Sabbadin, who are now belting out an enthusiastic rendition of Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.

“Gossip is a sin,” Vincent says.

“So is homosexuality,” Aldo points out. “According to the Church.”

"No..." 

"Homosexual acts, then," Aldo corrects himself. "Let's not split hairs."

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “Would it make you less nervous if I were in love with a woman?”

Aldo huffs out a cheerless laugh. “And have the possibility of a papal love child swimming around in my nightmares? No thank you. At least this way the issue is contained to two people, and two people only.” 

Vincent sighs. “And the issue is?” 

“Holy Father - Vincent,” Aldo corrects himself, “you and Thomas… you can’t have a secret relationship within the walls of the Vatican. As your advisor in the Curia, I have to tell you that secrets like these could bring down a Church along with a pontiff. The scandal itself would be - it would threaten the integrity of everything we believe. The hypocrisy alone could cause a schism. It would be one thing if you were two bishops or even two cardinals, but - you’re the Pope.” 

The two men glance over at the nearby bartender. She doesn’t even look up from her phone.

“I think you are overestimating the level of scandal it would cause,” Vincent says. 

“I think you are underestimating how mind-boggling of a headline The Pope’s Secret Lover would be.” 

Vincent considers this for a moment, and then shakes his head as if to clear it. “Either way, you misunderstand the situation. Cardinal Lawrence doesn’t reciprocate my feelings.”

Aldo blinks. Then he frowns, confused. “He - what?” 

“There is no relationship between us. We are simply friends, and he is aware of my feelings, but that is all it is. I have not made any advances towards him, and he… he has been nothing but cordial towards me.” 

Aldo stares at him. “I don’t - I don’t understand. You’re saying there’s no - you haven’t been, you know, sneaking around and…?”

Vincent sits up straight. What exactly has Aldo been imagining? “No. There has been nothing like that.” 

“That…” Aldo shakes his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Vincent doesn’t know how to respond to that. “How so?” 

“Thomas…” Aldo wiggles a little bit in his chair. “Thomas adores you. He thinks you’re clever, funny, kind… I mean, I’m sure you are all those things but the way he talks about you… he said you’re the answer to all his prayers.” 

Vincent swallows. He feels dizzy hearing all of this from Aldo, who knows Lawrence better than anyone. “I - I appreciate that he feels that way,” he says. 

“He really doesn’t reciprocate?” Aldo asks. 

Vincent is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. It seems he’s not the only one who gets mixed signals from Lawrence. If only the man was as easy to decipher as smoke from a chimney! “No, my brother Cardinal. Thomas is a friend to both of us.” He offers a small smile. “Perhaps he sees me as a brother, like how he sees you.” 

Aldo frowns. “I guess.” He doesn’t sound satisfied. “I just… I don’t know, I thought… it’s not like either of you would be the first to have an affair in the Vatican… anyways. I guess it doesn’t matter.” 

Vincent feels a veil of awkwardness cover them both. He stirs his drink with his straw, watching the ice cubes melt. “Aldo,” he says. “There isn’t anything to worry about. Nothing has happened between Cardinal Lawrence and myself.” 

“I believe you,” Aldo replies.

“Then why do you still sound upset?” 

Aldo scratches his cheek. “I don’t know. I’m - I pride myself on the accuracy of my observations. To hear that I’m so off-target… I guess I’m just - what was it you called me? ‘Brilliant but neurotic’?’” 

Vincent’s eyes widen. “I said that to Lawrence long before I knew you properly,” he defends. 

“And you hit the nail right on the head. I guess I’m just thinking - I want you two to be happy. And if a relationship were a way to guarantee that…I’m terrified of the potential consequences, of course, but I assumed… I mean, there’s a certain beauty in the breaking of tradition, just as there is in keeping it - I just - I thought - I was prepared to think - if you two were together…” Aldo twists his ring around his finger. “Who would I or anyone else be to get in the way of God’s will?” 

Vincent feels his heart squeeze at such a sentiment. “Cardinal Bellini, you are a romantic!” 

Aldo laughs, a short bark. “Maybe. Maybe I’ve gone soft in my old age.” His gaze softens. “Are you okay? Just being his friend? I know you have no other choice, but… if it’s causing tension…” Aldo looks down at his drink. “If it’s pushing you two apart…” he trails off, biting his lip, consumed in some memory Vincent is not privy to. 

“I accept whatever Thomas wants to give me,” Vincent responds. “It is a privilege to be his friend. I think we can agree on that, yes?” 

“Absolutely.” Aldo closes his eyes as if making a silent prayer, then turns around in his seat to face the small stage. “Uh, do you think these guys might be ready to go?” 

Vincent looks over at his monsignor and cardinal. They’re leaning on each other to keep from falling over at this point, slurring their way through Iris by the Goo Goo Dolls. An excellent choice of song in Vincent’s opinion, but at this moment is being butchered by the two men’s drunkenness. 

“I think it’s best if we exit the premises,” Vincent agrees. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to sing one before we go?” Aldo asks, grinning.

“No, thank you,” Vincent replies, fishing some euro coins out of his pocket and placing them down on the counter. “The Off-Key Pontiff just isn’t scandalous enough of a headline for me.”

Chapter Text

Lord Jesus Christ,

I know you are the most holy and just within the universe, both human and divine, so I come to you in my hour of need asking for advice and counsel. 

I am trying to fulfill your second highest commandment, which is to love my neighbor as myself. In this case I’m trying to love a man who hurt someone I love deeply. 

Lord, please help me view Michael Spencer as a full human being, with thoughts, feelings, and desires, as misguided as they may be. 

Please help me remember that Michael Spencer was once a child, with a baby blanket or a teddy bear, something that he needed to keep safe when he wasn’t around his mother. He was a little boy, who felt scared, and missed home, and cried when he was hurt. He was, and is, a human being deserving of basic respect.

Help me remember that Michael Spencer was raised in the Church, and wants to improve the Church and its teachings. We share a common goal, though I disagree with his policies, ideas and intents entirely. 

Help me remember that Michael Spencer and I have both been hurt by the structures of society that uphold unrealistic standards for men. He was likely pushed to be more of a man than he could be, by which I mean he could only be enough by hurting the women around him. I, too, have been told I am not enough of a man. In that sense, we were wounded by the same sword. Fascism makes our bodies into mere clay, tools to be aimed at those different than us. I have to resist where he couldn’t. I will not be violent. I will not wish death upon him the way he did upon me. 

Help me remember that any man can be redeemed, that every man is imbued with a certain amount of rights derived from their dignity as a person. Michael Spencer should not die for his crimes, nor should he suffer unnecessarily. He should be punished as is necessary to help him realize what he did wrong, and he should be given the opportunity to confess and do penance so as to be forgiven for his sins. In the same way, allow me the room to confess my own sins and be forgiven. I know I am not perfect. I know my views on your teachings are unorthodox. I hope I am doing right by you, Lord. 

Help me remember that Michael Spencer has every right to refuse a meeting with me. But please encourage him to reconsider. I do not mean him harm. I only wish to tell him I forgive him, and that I want to help him find his way back to a peaceful and loving home with Christ. 

Please help me remember that amidst my doubt there should be certainty, and amidst certainty there should be doubt. I don’t claim to understand all of You, Lord. But I want to. I know you exist between certainties. I choose to live there, too. 

Mary, mother of God, I come to you asking to intercede on my behalf. If you could, would you pray for my beloved Thomas Lawrence? As John the Beloved was to your son, I believe he is just as dear to me, if you’ll pardon the blasphemy. He is one of your son’s most devoted servants. He hurts and tries to hide it from me. Sometimes I see him with red eyes, like he’s been crying. His pain is private, I understand, but I still want to help him. Help me be a good friend. Help me be a good advisor. Help me be a good Christian, that I aid him when he is sick, clothe him when he is naked, give him water when he is thirsty, and food when he is hungry. As he did for me, back when we first met. 

I continue to believe in the goodness of the Church and the teachings laid out in the scriptures and through tradition. I seek only to love, worship, and glorify you, Lord. I revere you, Mary, mother of God, and ask that you watch over me with the same care you gave to your son. 

I do all these things in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, amen.

P.S. also Jesus if you could make it so I can see snow this Christmas season that would be lovely. Amen. 

—

BANG.

“There are rumors that when you were working at a field hospital in the Congo, you personally approved of abortions as a potential treatment for those who had been victims of genocidal sexual violence. Are those rumors true, and do you advocate for abortion as an acceptable remedy in cases of rape or incest?”

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Holy Father?”

BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG -

“Vincent?” 

Vincent blinks and shakes his head, pulling himself out of his trance. He doesn’t know how long he’s been focusing on the sound of the construction workers’ tools outside, but judging by Lawrence’s expression, it’s been too long to pretend he isn’t distracted. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” He asks. 

“There are rumors that when you were working at a field hospital in the Congo, you personally approved of abortions as -”

“Those rumors are unfounded,” Vincent says dismissively. He tries to keep eye contact with Lawrence, but the midday light is shining directly on his pectoral cross and it’s forcing Vincent’s gaze to Thomas’s chest, right where his scar is covered by several layers of fabric. 

BANG. BANG. BANG. 

“You’re going to need to give the reporter more than that,” Lawrence says. “They won’t be satisfied with a simple denial. I know you don’t like to talk about your stance on abortion, but if you could just open up a little about what you did in the Congo -”

“Do you really think reporters are going to ask me about those days?” Vincent asks. He leans back in his chair. They have been preparing for potential interviews for over an hour now, and Lawrence has not once given him a question Vincent feels comfortable answering. At the beginning of the day the North American tour seemed exciting; now it has begun to feel more like an extended interrogation session, or perhaps the interview he never underwent for the job of the papacy. “All I did then was help women and children who had been brutalized. I did not fight in the war. I was on no one’s side. I had a parish, I served them. What more do people want?”

“They want to know if you broke your vows in the name of helping people,” Lawrence replies. “Which, believe it or not, I can understand. Vincent, if these questions are too difficult for you -” 

“They’re not,” Vincent cuts him off. “I just don’t think my conduct in the places I have served should be judged by people who refuse to give aid there themselves. We know these questions are not asked in good faith, so why do I have to pretend they are? I don't see how anything we are trying to do is served by this idiotic pretense.” 

BANG. BANG. BANG. Vincent wonders what exactly the construction workers outside are working on. Repairs to the apostolic palace, maybe? A new gate for extra security? Whatever it is, must they be so loud as they work on it? 

Lawrence doesn’t appear to be affected by the noise. He’s leaning forward in his chair, broad shoulders hunched over as he looks down at his notes. Practice was his idea, of course. Despite having a year of the papacy under his fascia, Vincent still gets nervous when confronted with news cameras and reporters. It’s one thing to talk to people who genuinely want to have a theological debate with you; it’s another to answer questions in your second language from people who seem to want you to misspeak. Lawrence has taken to the role of dogged reporter with the same level of competence and vigor that he does to everything, which would be good, except on days like today, when Vincent can’t focus despite all his best efforts. 

“Still, we should work on a better answer,” Lawrence says gently. “Do you want to do that now or later?” 

Vincent sighs. “I did not approve of abortions as a medical treatment when I served my ministry in the Congo,” he says. I may have looked the other way when they were done, and God will judge me for that. “I did what the Church teaches all followers of Christ to do, which is provide a safe and welcoming environment in which women can bear children. Let’s move on to the next question, please.” 

Lawrence doesn’t seem satisfied with the answer, but he turns over a page in his notes. The light glints off of his glasses; Vincent can’t see his eyes. 

“Would you like to talk about women as deacons, or homosexuality?” 

Vincent leans back in his seat on the couch. He crosses his arms. “Homosexuality,” he says flatly.

“Tell me your thoughts on it.” 

“I haven’t tried it but I’ve heard good reviews.” 

Lawrence takes off his glasses, folding them up and setting them on the coffee table between them. “Holy Father, if you’re not going to take this seriously -”

“I am taking this seriously! There is nothing else for me to say on the topic of homosexuality that I have not already said. If I continue to pontificate on it, it will only encourage people to ask me more about it. It is not that I have not said enough, it is that people do not like my answer.” 

“They don’t like your answer because it’s not a definite one,” Lawrence argues. “You are, in public, neither wholly accepting nor wholly condemning.”

“Much like the Church,” Vincent replies. “But if you insist, Thomas, I will happily go out and declare that the so-called issues of homosexuality, divorce, and premarital sex are mere pecadillos when compared to the magnitude of immorality stemming from war, hunger, environmental pollution, racism, parental neglect -” 

“Alright, okay, okay.” Lawrence holds up a hand to stop him. “Holy Father, can I say something and have it be taken without judgment?” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re in a bit of a mood today.” 

Vincent rolls his eyes. Outside, the pounding of the workers’ tools pauses for a moment. Vincent drinks in the blessed few seconds of silence before the din begins again. 

His eyes flicker to Lawrence’s bad leg. “No cane today,” he observes. 

“You’re changing the subject. Did you sleep poorly?” 

I dreamt about your coffin again. Do you know that when we are both buried, we will likely be hundreds of miles away from each other? I have never stepped foot in England. 

“I could have used another hour or two. Can we please finish?” 

Lawrence skims over the rest of his notes, flipping over page after page. “I suppose half of these questions aren’t even useful,” he admits. “The American reporters will only want to talk about one thing, anyway.”

Vincent nods. The shooting. As though it even needed to be said. As though Vincent hasn’t thought about it multiple times every day for the past two months. He doesn’t know when one is supposed to “get over” that sort of thing. He’s spoken with other priests, those who have worked with victims of gun violence, but his situation is somewhat unique and thus no piece of advice fits him quite right. Thousands of people have weapons pointed at them every day all around the world, but an assassination attempt is different than a random crime, if only in terms of press coverage. The cassock Vincent wore that day will be in a museum somewhere soon, still stained brown with Lawrence’s blood on it. 

“How are you recovering after the attack?” Lawrence asks. 

“Very well, thank you,” Vincent answers automatically. “I was not physically harmed in the incident.” 

“You shouldn’t call it an incident,” Lawrence points out. “And even if you weren’t physically harmed, you were put in grave danger.” 

You stepped in front of me. You nearly died. You expect me to shed tears over a few nightmares while you had to relearn how to walk? “I am recovering very well, thanks to an excellent medical staff and the will of God.” 

“You were also injured in an attack on the Sistine Chapel, a bombing during the conclave that resulted in your election in 2024. Are you concerned that the Church is facing a new wave of radical extremism, one that it may not be prepared for?”

Vincent thinks for a moment. “The Church has always faced resistance. No matter what we are teaching, there are those who are going to claim we are leading people down the wrong path. As always, I follow the words of Christ. My primary purpose is not to attack others as a political leader, but to talk to people and find common ground. The people St. Paul spoke to in the Bible - the Ephesians, the Sadducees - these people did not agree with each other on everything. Some of them expressed great anger towards the Church’s teachings. Where the real work must be done is not on the battlefield but in rooms where people are conversing. I will admit, though, it is not easy - I know there are people who think the work I am doing is that of the devil. To them I say that all I am offering is compassion and communication. I have seen the effects of war. I do not wish to replicate them with whatever power I may possess.” 

Lawrence looks thoughtful. “You’ve said you don’t believe in the devil.” 

Vincent tilts his head. “A reporter is not going to ask me about that.” 

“I’m asking you.” 

Vincent shifts, rolling his shoulders back. “No, I don’t,” he says. “Not in the sense that he is a literal person, or a serpent or a horned creature. I believe God gave men free will. Evil is not a person with a body. It is the sin inside us that we strive to wipe out through Christ’s mercy and forgiveness. When we are tempted to do wrong, to act without love, without God in our hearts - that is the devil incarnate.” 

Lawrence nods. “That’s very well said, Holy Father.” 

“It is not a satisfying answer for many, but it is what I believe.” 

For a moment Vincent feels himself relax. This is where he is the most comfortable in his life, exchanging his thoughts on the nature of the world with his beloved. Lawrence’s eyes are a balm on his soul, crystal blue and curious, so curious, a quality that Vincent so admires he even allows questions into his most private thoughts. It isn’t so bad, really, that Lawrence repeatedly asks him about his feelings if it means he is a subject of Lawrence’s fascination -

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Pain blooms around Vincent’s temples, the headache he’s been trying to stave off for nearly an hour finally coming to fruition. It’s matched by a tightness in his throat, a telltale sign of anxiety. Perhaps some of it shows on his face because Lawrence’s expression fills with concern.

“Holy Father, are you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Vincent replies. “Just - let’s finish this up, please.” 

Lawrence sits up straight. “After Pope John Paul the Second was shot, he met with his attacker and spoke with him for some time. You have expressed an interest in meeting with your attacker, Michael Spencer.” 

Vincent nods. He ignores his heart rate beginning to pick up inside him. “Yes.” 

“What would you like to say to him?” 

Vincent swallows. “I would like to let him know I forgive him,” he says. “And that I understand he is in a great deal of pain. I have no wish to add to that pain. I just want to talk with him privately.” 

Lawrence nods. Vincent watches his face for a reaction, but finds none.

What do you think? Do you want to meet with him? Do you want to forgive him? Do you think me a terrible person because I want to forgive him? Should I hold a grudge? He nearly took the one thing I hold most precious in the world besides the love of Christ. Am I a coward for even considering forgiveness? 

Lawrence says nothing. He leans back in his chair. “He has a large following online. Millions of dollars have been raised for his defense fund.” 

Vincent blinks. The incessant sound of the construction workers is making it nearly impossible for him to think. “What?” 

“Online, on social media. There are people who champion his cause, who say that you are leading the Church towards sin, and that the only way to return it to a holy state is for your ideology to be eliminated.” 

The anxiety in Vincent’s throat has moved up into his face, making his mouth and tongue tingle uncomfortably. “I don’t - I don’t go on social media,” he says, shaking his head. The noise outside makes his head throb. Lawrence is glancing away, so Vincent has to shift to meet his eye. 

“You’ll be expected to know about this. It’s important that you have a response.”

It’s difficult to parse out the question. Millions of dollars in a defense fund? The man shot Lawrence in broad daylight. Vincent saw it. What could he be defending? 

I have to beg and scrape to get enough money to build a hospital in Kabul and there are people who are donating money to a madman with a gun? He shot hot metal into the kindest person I know and they are rewarding him for it?

“I don’t - the reactions people have had to this event have been examined by the media, there is no need for me to -” 

“These are Catholics donating their money, Holy Father. They see you as illegitimate. Do you have anything to say to them in particular?” 

BANG. BANG. BANG. 

The band holding Lawrence’s pectoral cross runs diagonal right over where the wound was. The blood had spread outward, coating Vincent’s fingers, his hands, his cassock, it seemed it would have covered the world had Vincent not kept his hands over Lawrence’s heart - 

“Vincent, they’ll want an answer for this.” 

“They want an answer to the people who approve of your death? Your body in the ground?” Vincent asks. He can barely speak over the pain in his head. “That sort of thinking requires a conversation?” 

“It is the world we’re living in, so, yes. I’m sorry.” Lawrence is trying to meet Vincent’s eye but now it’s Vincent’s turn to look away. “If you want to take a break -”

Vincent shakes his head and rubs a hand over his face. “I want - I want to make something clear,” he says abruptly. “People - people are under the impression that the Church is somehow passive, and unaware of the challenges it faces. This is not true. The men who attack the Church - who support acts of violence against innocent people - will know in time the consequences of what they’ve done.” 

Lawrence narrows his eyes, confused. “You just said that Catholicism is a religion of compassion.” 

“Christ spoke of peace, but he also spoke of great change. ‘Do not think that I came to bring peace to the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.’ He knew that there would be conflict and division as a result of his message despite that message being one of serenity. He knew that we as true followers of Christ would need to prepare.” 

“True followers?” 

“Yes!” ¡Paren ese pinche ruido! “Yes, true followers! There are over a billion people behind me every time I speak, and half of them are women. Do you think any true Christian will simply stand there and take it as men abuse the words of Christ to progress their own goals? Vengeance is mine, says the Lord. If the people who want to rip apart human bodies do not face consequences here in this world, they will certainly face them in the next. I guarantee it.” 

Lawrence’s face has turned slightly gray in color. “That sounds like a threat, Vincent.” 

Vincent looks away. His head hurts. “It’s not. I am simply stating scripture.” 

“Yes, but to those who don’t understand -” 

Must I cater to every person who chooses not to understand? “I need to get some air.” Vincent stands, moving to run a hand through his hair and then remembering not to knock his zucchetto off his head. “We will finish this some other time.” 

“Vincent -” 

Vincent ignores Thomas, moving past him and stepping out into the hall. 

All the work I have tried to do and they would rather kill the man I love than pick up a Bible - 

“Vincent!” Lawrence calls after him. “Holy Father, we need to talk about this -” 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Vincent needs to get away from the relentless noise. He just needs a moment of quiet, away from the gunshots, away from the sight of Lawrence’s eyes, his chest, soaked with blood, covering the world -

“Vincent!” Suddenly Lawrence has caught up to him, pulling him by the hand into a nearby closet. Vincent barely has time to think or breathe before he’s backed up against the door, the world suddenly small and quiet and composed of no more than towers of printer paper and Lawrence’s blue eyes. “Vincent, you’re scaring me.” 

Vincent swallows and wills himself to take a deep breath. Lawrence raises a hand and Vincent almost flinches, but it’s only to turn on the light. 

There’s no more banging, just the sound of their breathing. 

Lawrence’s chest rises and falls. Vincent is almost close enough to touch. He can keep time with the shifting of Lawrence’s body, the way his weight moves from one leg to the other.

The throbbing in Vincent’s head slowly subsides. 

Lawrence is very close to him. He’s solid, too. Vincent feels very much like a rabbit, hidden under summer-warm earth, safe from predators.

“Vincent,” Lawrence murmurs, “are you okay?” 

Vincent sways a little on his feet. “I - the noise, that hammering,” he explains. 

“Of course,” Thomas replies. “I should’ve noticed earlier.” 

Tears spring up in the corner of Vincent’s eyes. He squeezes them shut and stops them from falling. God, give me strength. 

“I didn’t mean it as a threat,” Vincent clarifies. “I just - I didn’t mean it as a threat.” 

“I know that,” Lawrence reassures him. He’s not touching Vincent; there’s enough space between them that he’s holding Vincent in place without trapping him. 

“I only meant…” Vincent swallows. “The person who hurt you should face consequences for his actions.” 

“And he will,” Lawrence responds. “But the Vincent I know isn’t focused on revenge, in this world or the next. He knows God’s forgiveness is what’s most important.” 

Vincent nods. He lets Lawrence’s words wash over him like sea foam. “The real war is inside us,” he whispers. 

“It’s one we can win together.” Lawrence’s gaze is gentle. 

They stand there for a few more minutes, listening to each other breathe while the light above them hums and flickers. 

“You’re going to do fine in front of the reporters,” Lawrence says once Vincent has returned to his normal state of calm. “Just as long as you don’t provoke them.” 

“I won’t make any promises,” Vincent jokes. “I have to keep you on your toes.” 

“Me and the Press Office of the Holy See.” 

“Them too.” 

Vincent can smell Lawrence from this close. He smells lovely - clean cotton and sage. [[OK!]]

“How are you not… terrified of the world, now?” Vincent asks. 

“Are you?” Lawrence replies. “Terrified?” 

“Sometimes, yes,” Vincent admits. “More than I used to be.” 

“I don’t know why I’m not,” Lawrence says. “I just know I have more to do here, and I need to focus to do it. So I can’t be afraid.” 

Vincent reaches up and places a hand on Lawrence’s chest. He closes his eyes, taking in the man’s heartbeat. Lawrence doesn’t say anything, just lets him concentrate. 

“You’re right here,” Vincent whispers. “And you’re not afraid.” 

“Not when you’re with me,” Lawrence responds. 

That will have to be enough, at least for now. God’s mercy and Lawrence’s beating heart. 

When they exit the closet, Vincent knows their faces are red. There could be absolutely zero tension between them and it still would have been an intimate moment. That’s how all moments are with Lawrence these days. They could be discussing the weather and blood would rush to Vincent’s cheeks. 

People say Vincent is the peaceful Pope, the calm Pope. But it is Lawrence who would have better fit the title. 

Lawrence lingers near him, checking to make sure he’s okay. “We’ll try more interview questions tomorrow,” he says quietly. “But perhaps at home, instead? It’ll be a little quieter there.” 

Vincent nods. “Thank you.” 

Neither of them realize how close they are to each other until Archbishop Wozniak stops halfway down the hall, forcing the two of them to look up and jerk apart as if they’ve done something wrong. 

Wozniak blinks, frozen in place. He takes in the sight of the two of them, faces flushed, Lawrence’s hand still on the doorknob of the closet. 

Vincent sighs. Another one for the rumor mill, he thinks. 

At this rate, he wouldn’t be surprised if the American reporters asked him about his relationship with Lawrence, too. There’s nothing to tell, of course. But when has that mattered? 

—

Vincent Benítez has always loved Christ. But he has not always loved being a Christian.

As a child, the rituals and ceremonies of the Liturgy fascinated Vincent, but there were parts of the Mass where he, like any other child his age, felt restless. While the priest of the local parish was a good man, he wrote extremely long homilies, and by the time he was finished speaking at the front of the un-air conditioned church Vincent’s mind had often drifted onto thoughts of getting to read books at home or playing outside with his friends after Mass was over. He sometimes missed the meaning of the readings, and squirmed in embarrassment when his mother questioned him later. At age 8 he asked his mother if he could stay home while the rest of his family went to Mass. His mother gave a very strong no and sat next to him in the pew from then on, nudging him every time it looked as though he wasn’t paying attention. Gradually, Vincent learned the lessons of the Bible, and even appreciated his priest’s interpretations. But for a time he was likely one of many many children across the world who spent their time at Mass counting down the minutes until it ended. 

After high school Vincent went straight to seminary. He enjoyed his time there, but felt that he wanted a little bit more of the secular world before closing himself off to a life in the clergy. So he requested a year of leave from his archdiocese and got a job working at a homeless shelter in New York. There he encouraged those struggling with addiction to join needle exchange programs and took care of those who had been cast out of society because of circumstances both in and out of their control, often people who were suffering from serious mental health issues. 

It was hard work but Vincent relished the challenge, feeling as though he was closest to God when working amongst the suffering. In his spare time he took theology classes at CUNY. He made friends there, mostly college students near his age who thought his accent was cute and his ponytail was very punk-rock. They came from all backgrounds and believed in more than just the Catholicism Vincent was surrounded by as a youth. One of his friends, Marnie, took him to services at her synagogue. Another classmate of his, Ali, introduced him to the imam at his mosque. And still others showed him coalitions and organizations that welcomed progressives, gay people, feminists, socialists, and even anarchists into their fold, none of which were religious but all of which held that the dignity of personhood was to be a top priority within their community. Vincent didn’t stray from his practice of going to Mass every Saturday evening nor did he consider renouncing Christ’s divinity, but he did consider that perhaps the way he was taught to worship was not the only way. 

The years in the Congo made him question his faith more seriously. Seeing the breadth of the suffering amongst people who ultimately shared more in common than they chose to believe made Vincent question why God made man the way he is at all. As Vincent assisted nurses and doctors with the management of field hospitals constantly running out of supplies and manpower, the same question that enters every man’s mind at some point ran through his head like a runaway train: If God is as loving and kind as I was taught to believe, why does he allow such horrible things to happen to his children?

Vincent examined the concept of sin, and the ways humans contribute to their own destruction. Still, he did not find all the answers, and does not claim to have them now, having made peace with the mystery of God’s will. But looking back he can still remember the anguish inside him, especially as reports of years of sexual abuse within the church came from overseas. Even in places promised to be pure and clean, the moral rot inside humanity festered. 

From the Congo Vincent traveled to Baghdad, where he prayed over those who had lost their lives in a conflict started by people who would never set foot on a battlefield. Lines of the dead, Christian and Muslim, haunted Vincent’s dreams, and continue to do so. During that time Vincent began to feel an intense frustration with Christianity, specifically a Western, Americanized form of Christianity that focused more on strength and protection rather than love and understanding. Vincent had no use for that concept. It would be years later before the sin was articulated for him: certainty. As the sun blazed down on the ruins of a bombed out church in Iraq, Vincent felt the consequences of so much certainty. 

He thinks of all these memories as his tour of North America reaches New York. Upon entering the city, Vincent is greeted by thousands of admirers, but what catches his eye are the protestors. Some of their signs call for reform within the Church; others call for it to be demolished. Still other protestors shout that women are not incubators, that gay people should be welcomed, that Christ decried material wealth, and thus the Church should dispense with its own. 

What would happen if I stopped the car right now and told those people I agree with them on more than they’d think? 

Vincent watches as the protestors pass by. He knows what would happen. It would cause a scandal, and it would not make lasting change. Vincent is a powerful voice, yes, but progress cannot be done alone, nor can it be done quickly - at least inside the Vatican. 

Still, Vincent should reach out and connect whenever possible. In fact he hopes to do just that during his trip to New York. Celebrating Mass in Madison Square Garden will be wonderful, yes, but Vincent privately thinks his interview with Stephen Colbert will be more effective. He wants to reach young people, outsiders, those who might not know what real Christian values are. 

Plus, he’s been told Mr. Colbert is very funny, and has a live band on his set. 

Lawrence is as always a vital companion throughout the entire visit. Every spare moment he points out landmarks and sites that gained some importance to him during his time in New York, which, unbeknownst to Vincent, was the same time he was in New York so many years ago. Vincent delights in thinking they may have passed each other on the street like two ships in the night. Would Lawrence have liked Vincent back then? He probably would’ve seen him as a kid, a student rather than a priest in his own right. Of course, Vincent likely wouldn’t have minded that. The image of Lawrence as a professor is alluring. As much as Vincent is his superior and his guide, he will always feel a little bit like Lawrence is his mentor. (He’s fine with this - he has far more scandalous feelings towards his Dean to get upset over admiring his age and wisdom.) 

In the afternoon on the final day of the trip Vincent arrives at the television studio and greets nearly every member of Mr. Colbert’s staff, including the man himself. 

“We’ve never interviewed a guest like you before,” Colbert says. 

“I certainly hope not,” Vincent replies. “If there are other Popes out there I’d like to know about them.” 

That earns him a laugh, which makes him blush (what a handsome and charismatic man Mr. Colbert is! He must make everyone feel so welcome), which makes the crew running the rehearsal adjust the lighting on the stage. Vincent resists the urge to retreat back into his own shyness. His performance as Pope is just as important as his work as a servant of God, he reminds himself. Or, better stated, they are one and the same. He is a spokesperson for Christ; sometimes that means putting on a little makeup and sitting in front of a camera. 

The rehearsal goes well; Vincent is told to wait until his portion of the show in a small room with a cup of thin American coffee. His attendant, a young woman named Gracie, looks at him with wide eyes, like she’s seeing a ghost. 

“Hello,” Vincent says. He glances at his bodyguard just outside the door. Sometimes he wishes he could go without them, to make himself less intimidating. But he knows very well now that they are necessary. 

“Hello,” Gracie replies. She’s fumbling with something on her jean jacket, a fraying patch with pink, white, and blue stripes. Vincent recognizes it as the transgender pride flag. He can see a tattoo with similar colors peeking out from underneath her sleeve, under her wrist. 

“It must be exciting, working in a place like this,” Vincent says, just to fill the silence. He can feel the tension from her across the room.  

“It - it has its perks.” Gracie looks down at her feet. A nervous smile covers her face. She pulls her sleeve down to cover her tattoo. “I mean, I’m - I’m in a room with the - the Pope. I wish I could - could call my mother!” 

Vincent chuckles, and tries not to wince at the anxiety in her voice. Is he really so terrifying? Yes, of course he has not explicitly accepted transgender people’s way of life on behalf of the Church, but he is only one man, what could he do? At all times he is constrained by the time given to him in any given day and the willingness of the Curia to hear him out.

(Is that just cowardice? Maybe. Usually when a thought like that appears in his head in the Late Holy Father’s voice, the answer is meant to be obvious. But the Late Holy Father made little movement on this matter, too, so he is of no help here. 

Coward, the Late Holy Father says in his head, sounding disappointed.)   

A minute passes. Then another. On a screen in the corner of the room, Mr. Colbert makes a joke about the American president’s wife. 

“I’m - I’m sorry your, uh, Cardinal got shot,” Gracie says. 

Vincent inhales, then exhales. “Thank you,” he says. “He’s doing alright, now.” He wonders where Lawrence is at the moment. Probably being dragged around by Judith, Vincent’s social media manager. 

“That’s good.” 

More silence. Gracie shuffles her feet and pecks at her cell phone. 

A man wearing a headset stops by the door. “Sixty seconds, then we move backstage,” he says to both of them. 

Vincent and Gracie both nod. 

Vincent is beginning to wonder if perhaps he should have asked for a copy of the questions Mr. Colbert is planning on asking when Gracie suddenly says, “The man who shot at you really hated women.” 

Vincent stiffens automatically. Outside the door, his bodyguard moves his head, listening closer. 

“He did,” Vincent replies evenly. “He did not understand that God grants all his children a certain dignity.” Mr. Colbert did a longer interview earlier in the day focusing more specifically on the dignity of personhood - did Gracie work on it? Does she understand how firmly Vincent believes in the principle?

“If - if you believe in God’s love, in - in a person’s dignity, you have to protect women, right?” 

Vincent could say, I’m trying to protect all of God’s children. But he doesn’t. Instead he says, “Yes, I do.” 

“That means all of us.” Gracie lifts her head to look him in the eye. “No one should be left out.” 

Vincent nods. “I understand.” 

A voice crackles through a small speaker in the wall. “Thirty seconds,” the voice says. 

“I prayed for your friend,” Gracie says. Her eyes are the same piercing blue as Lawrence’s. “Would he do the same for me?” 

Vincent doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely,” he replies. 

Gracie stares at him, her eyes searching more than his face, then nods. “Good luck, Holy Father.” 

Vincent smiles. “Thank you.” 

Gracie gestures for him to follow her down the hall to the backstage area. The laughter from the crowd grows into a roar. Vincent thinks of stepping onto the balcony in St. Peter’s square. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Colbert says, “it is the honor of my life to introduce to you Pope Innocent the Sixteenth! Pope Innocent, everybody!” 

Vincent steps out into the limelight and waves, smiling, as he has done countless times before.

The interview goes well; Colbert makes Vincent feel comfortable immediately, and does not stray into territory Vincent would find blasphemous or overly mocking of the Church’s traditions. He allows himself to be on the receiving end of the requisite jokes about his hair and Converse shoes, and even manages to get in a joke of his own about the last time Colbert confessed his sins. But eventually the interview turns serious, and Vincent remembers why the majority of Americans know him beyond his status as a religious and political leader.

“A few months back,” Colbert says, looking down at his cards, “you made headlines around the world when your friend, Cardinal Thomas Lawrence, took a bullet for you as you were walking down the streets of Rome - a terrible tragedy, truly, it was - it was shocking - but he recovered! A horrifying act of terror, I prayed for you, as did millions of Americans, I’m sure - but here you are, standing at his bedside, both of you alive and well…” 

The crowd applauds loudly as Colbert presents a picture of Vincent and Lawrence, smiling at the camera inside Lawrence’s hospital room. The image is too small for anyone except Vincent to notice, but Vincent can see that his own eyes were red from crying on that day. 

“Tell me, Holy Father, what was it like, after the assassination attempt? I don’t want to pry, but - how did you feel after something like that? Angry? Scared?” 

Vincent looks down in his lap and thinks of his time waiting in the hospital. He thinks about how helpless he felt, how alone. A voice calling out into the silence, waiting for Lawrence to answer, knowing he may never call back. 

“It was… a very dark time for me,” he says, “while Cardinal Lawrence was in surgery. I thought I was going to lose a very dear friend of mine.” The word friend doesn’t feel tired or small on his lips as he expected it would; Lawrence is still Vincent’s friend and will be before he is anything else, be it secret-keeper, advisor, or beloved. 

The audience has gone quiet. Vincent wonders if his own sisters will be watching in Veracruz, if Lawrence’s sister will watch in Los Angeles, if Rosario, his wife never to be, will see Vincent in a clip on Facebook. Maybe she’ll send the video to her son. 

Colbert leans in, his brows furrowed in sympathy.

“I speak of him not just because he did a very kind thing for me…” Vincent continues. He tilts his head down, looking at his hands gathered in his lap. 

“I’d say more than a kind thing,” Colbert says gently. “He saved your life.” 

“Yes, but it’s about more than that.” What Lawrence has done for Vincent goes beyond his actions during the shooting. He could have ignored Vincent during the conclave, letting him sit to the side, an alien amongst his brothers. He could have bullied or intimidated Vincent into voting for Tremblay, or Bellini, or some other Cardinal they both knew was not worthy of the papacy. He could have exposed the secret of Vincent’s condition as soon as he found out about it. And he could have left as soon as Vincent was coronated, retiring to live in a monastery somewhere, leaving Vincent to handle a billion entangled believers alone. 

He did none of those things. He counseled Vincent. He offered him wisdom and guidance. More than that, he showed him affection and care. He loved him, Vincent, a priest from a far off land with decidedly unorthodox views. He continues to love Vincent, despite Vincent’s flaws. Despite Vincent’s heart beating faster every time Lawrence enters a room. 

There are so many people who pass by each other every day without acknowledging the other’s presence. Even more will talk to coworkers, colleagues, acquaintances, and total strangers without recognizing their dignity, their rights as a human being and child of God. Lawrence stepped forward and took on the burden of protecting another person, to the point of risking his own life. The enormity of the action takes Vincent’s breath away months later. He thinks he may never fully comprehend such a miracle. It is not just an act of kindness. It is a fulfillment of Christ’s most important commandment. 

“In his willingness to sacrifice himself, in his quickness to put his body in front of mine…” Vincent swallows. “I see shades of the sacrifice upon which my beliefs are built.” 

Colbert leans over and takes Vincent’s hand. His touch is warm and comforting. 

Tears are welling up in Vincent’s eyes. He welcomes them. May his love spill out over his cheeks, so that everyone can see. He has no desire to hide behind Pope Innocent; let the world see Vincent, whole and human, happy and sad at the same time. 

“It has filled me with a depth of gratitude…” Vincent goes on, “I did not know I was capable of. He has shown me that the real connections between people are not born of privilege, or of happenstance, but by reaching through the struggle.” 

Did Christ feel what Vincent is feeling now, when Simon of Cyrene helped him carry the cross? Did he look upon Veronica with the same awe, when she wiped the blood and sweat from his face? 

Lawrence said that Vincent helped him regain his faith. But the strength of Vincent’s faith has expanded immeasurably because of Lawrence. 

“I thought I knew what friendship was, before. What it meant to love my neighbor.” Vincent takes a deep breath. “I see now it is a more vibrant picture than I could ever have imagined.” 

Vincent closes his eyes and for a moment returns to his dream, where Lawrence held him in his arms.

Hold out, dearest. 

Vincent raises his head and sees beyond the stage lights, where people are waiting upon his next words. He knows the audience is likely full of young people, people like Gracie, who see him as the spokesman for a Church that often does not practice the tolerance it preaches. He also knows that across the country and around the world, there are people who value his faith for all the wrong reasons. He makes sure to convey his next statement with as much sincerity as possible. 

“I think we should all follow his example,” Vincent says. “I think we should all be willing to sacrifice our comfort for each other.” 

He uses the word comfort very deliberately. By now Vincent knows there is a danger in comfort, in complacency. It is easy for a person to become too comfortable in their beliefs, the way popes of Vincent’s past became comfortable sitting behind the walls of the Vatican. To escape, to slip out of one’s bubble and interact with other people - that is the real challenge. 

“It does not need to be because of your religion. It can simply be because you care for your fellow human, someone in your orbit.” 

He might get in trouble with Cardinal Tedesco and his cohort for that last sentence. He doesn’t care. He has seen some of the greatest applications of God’s teachings in the most devout Muslims, the most orthodox Jews, the most skeptical atheists. The Catholic Church is the one true Church, of course, but did St. Paul not speak to all of his brothers and sisters? 

He turns back to Mr. Colbert. “That is the lesson I hope everyone takes away from this tragedy. It is a lesson I will hold with me until the day I die.” 

There’s one more moment of perfect silence in the large studio. Then the crowd bursts into wild applause. This is a little strange for Vincent, whose monologues don’t usually get followed up by cheering and whooping. 

Colbert taps his cards on his desk. He looks a little misty-eyed himself. “That is a - a wonderful takeaway, Holy Father. I feel like I’ve been to Mass already!” 

Vincent chuckles. “Then what more can I say except, ‘Go in peace’?” 

“Thank you, your Holiness.” Colbert shakes Vincent’s hand and then turns towards the cameras. “His Holiness, the Pope, everybody! Pope Innocent!” 

The crowd jumps to its feet, giving Vincent another round of applause. Vincent smiles bashfully and tries to hide the color in his cheeks. He hopes his message got through to someone. To anyone.

Vincent wishes he could say goodbye to every member of the staff and thank them for being so friendly (and for not making fun of his hair too much), but after a few more photos with Colbert and his producer he is guided downstairs and back to his car. 

Lawrence is already in the seat across from him. Vincent smiles at Judith, his social media manager, and leans in to talk to Thomas. 

“Did you see what I said?” He asks. “I got to talk about you!” 

Lawrence looks up at him. His mouth is a hard line. His eyes are a cold, steely blue. 

“I did,” he says curtly. 

Oh, no. It seems the good Dean did not enjoy being the center of attention. But Vincent can’t bring himself to care. Thomas is his absolute favorite and Vincent will take every opportunity to lavish praise upon him, thank you very much. Besides, Lawrence can never stay angry at him for very long. The rest of the activities of the evening will no doubt calm him.

Still, the ride home at the end of the night is quiet. Vincent points out the big fluffy snowflakes that fall in a whirlwind around their car, and taps Lawrence on the shoulder to point out an interesting landmark near their hotel, but he gets little response from the man. 

What could Lawrence possibly be so angry about? Vincent wonders. This is more than just shyness. Did I say something wrong? Is he worried I made him look too close to me? He has no need to worry about that. His actions were heroic, yes, but he didn’t step in front of me because of our relationship. He stepped in front of me because he’s a good person, simple as that.

In the hotel elevator, Judith’s phone pings. She looks down at her phone and raises her eyebrows. 

“What is it?” Lawrence asks. For a moment, Vincent gets the same feeling of dread whenever someone tells him to turn on the news. Did something terrible happen somewhere while he was laughing on television? 

“The President,” Judith responds. “He was watching the show.” 

Vincent allows himself to relax. Ah. Him. That’s all. 

Despite the man’s famously bad temper and more than passing fascistic tendencies, Vincent is not intimidated by the President of the United States. He is cruel, yes, and day after day Vincent witnesses through screens and newspapers the actions of his authoritarian government, but the man himself is of little concern. If anything, his offensive personality and caustic behavior is refreshing. For far too long Vincent has walked through the ruins of cities leveled to the ground on the orders of men who smile and call themselves kind and faithful Christians. This current vicious little man, well, the inside matches the outside. 

Vincent knows the power of American imperialism. He has seen it in the graves of friends and neighbors, Christian and otherwise. Still, he knows that God gives no preference to any one country, certainly not America. The verse that Christians champion is clear: for God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. The world. Not a country, not a race, not a religious sect or political group. Christ’s love is total and complete. Therefore Vincent feels safe in his beliefs and in his body. 

Besides, he could raise a hand, and over a billion would follow him. Empires and kingdoms have fallen, yet the Church and papacy persist. The man in the White House will disappear someday, hopefully soon, and Vincent will remain. And when he goes, another will take his place, until the day of Christ’s return. 

He was worried for a moment that something had actually happened. But it seems that all that’s occurred is that Vincent is the latest target of the President’s ire on some social media platform. Thank heavens everything is okay! 

Vincent is about to let the topic fall from his mind until he sees Lawrence’s face. 

Anger. Embarrassment. Worry. 

It is the same look Lawrence had on the tarmac, months ago, when Vincent wrapped his arms around him. 

Vincent sighs. ¡A veces es como Lawrence podría ahogarse en un vaso de agua!

The group splinters off, leaving Vincent and Lawrence alone. Vincent heads towards his room, feeling Lawrence’s eyes hot on the back of his neck. He has a key card to Vincent’s room, of course. Vincent insisted, just in case either one of them has nightmares. 

For a wild moment his imagination gets the best of him, and he wonders if perhaps he’s interpreted his friend’s behavior all wrong, and the moment they enter the confines of his hotel room Lawrence will pin him against the wall and kiss him, telling him how much he appreciated Vincent’s praise. 

Unlikely. Lawrence takes compliments like a child takes medicine. It seems Vincent’s encomium is particularly hard to swallow. 

As soon as the door clicks shut Vincent turns around and meets his friend’s eye. “You are angry with me,” he says, “though I cannot imagine why.” 

Lawrence shrinks a little bit but holds his gaze steady, eyes blazing. “You spoke about me on television,” he accuses. 

Sí, ¿y qué pasa con eso? “I wasn’t aware you were my secret to keep,” Vincent replies. Is the mere fact of Lawrence’s friendship with Vincent to be as taboo as Vincent’s love for him? 

“You said things about me - you - you cried, you shed tears in front of all those people -”

Vincent blinks in confusion. “Do you want me to be ashamed of it?” He asks. He has seen Lawrence cry before, in fact in front of hundreds of thousands of people. His homily at the funeral of the late Holy Father had been deeply moving; the sight of the then-stranger’s tears nearly made Vincent cry himself, watching the event from his phone in a hospital tent in Kabul. 

“I want you to acknowledge the danger of it!” Lawrence exclaims, raising his voice at Vincent for the first time since  before the Room of Tears. “To be so publicly vulnerable - to open yourself up to criticism -” 

“So what if I am seen as vulnerable?” Vincent argues. “I am human -”

Lawrence cuts him off. “You will be seen as weak!”

Vincent raises his eyebrows in shock at Lawrence’s tone but his scolding continues. 

“You will be seen as a frail leader of a frail Church, one that is incapable of handling acts of terror and tragedy with anything more than tears and platitudes! The President of the United States is -”

Is that what this is about? The cowardly little man who lashes out at everything he does not understand, including the sight of a human sharing his feelings with the world? He is not worthy of Lawrence’s concern, much less his fear. The man is a bully and a tyrant but he isn’t scarier than the business end of a gun, or a car bomb, or an unknown knock at the door. Or the drone of a hospital monitor… “I do not care about him,” Vincent scoffs. The man’s rhetoric and policies may be dangerous but his insults are no threat. What could he say? That Vincent has the heart of a woman? The irony would be comical. 

“I do!” Lawrence insists. There’s a spark of panic in his eyes, a neediness that throws Vincent off guard despite the ridiculousness of his argument. “Do you know how many people would rather see you dead than in your office? Do you know what happens when a man like that chooses you as his target? His men take initiative, they come out of the woodwork, and they set their sights on you! Look what they did to their own Capitol! And his followers are not limited by politics, or for that matter, the rule of law, man-made or divine.” 

Vincent admires Lawrence’s eagerness to protect him but it is not necessary. “I can take care of myself,” he proclaims, tilting his chin up. 

Lawrence fires back immediately. “You nearly couldn’t before.” 

The breath is sucked out of Vincent’s lungs. He stands there, stupid, while his mind reels at the comeback. No, he nearly couldn’t. He would have been dead on the ground had Lawrence not stepped in front of him. 

It’s terrifying enough of a thought to make Vincent momentarily question whether he is in the right. Perhaps he should be afraid of the consequences of his own rhetoric. Maybe he’s been living for so long with a target on his back he’s forgotten his own frailty.

That could be true. But then Vincent remembers who he is talking to. Lawrence is not a politician or a campaign manager. He doesn’t think of the papacy as yet another office for a head of state. He acknowledges it for what it is - a position for God’s messenger on Earth. His stubbornness here is related to his own image, not Vincent’s. 

“This isn’t about how I cried,” Vincent says slowly. “This is about how I cried for you.” 

Lawrence doesn’t waver under Vincent’s gaze. “You shouldn’t have said the words,” he chastises. “You didn’t need to say all that.” 

The same spark of defiance that lit Vincent up from the inside over a year ago flares up again, fiercely burning away whatever doubt he had. This is just like when Lawrence demanded that Vincent simply stop loving him. It was preposterous then and it’s preposterous now. Vincent cannot turn his feelings on and off at will. No one can. It is human nature to feel, and thus  everyone has, from Adam to Abraham to Moses to Jesus to Vincent. The words needed to be said, so Vincent said them. All he did was praise his friend! Really, this is silly. 

“Thomas,” Vincent says with an exasperated laugh, “how can you possibly take issue with what I said? I had nothing but praise for you -“ 

“I don’t deserve it!” Lawrence exclaims loudly. 

Vincent feels like he’s been dunked in freezing cold water. He opens his mouth to argue but Lawrence cuts him off. 

“I don’t deserve any of that praise, certainly not for my actions to be compared with that of Christ’s -“ 

Well, that’s just not fair. People are supposed to follow Christ’s example. It’s a basic tenet of belief in Him, so much so that What Would Jesus Do adorns the wrists of Christians and Christian-adjacents around the world. Why worship Him otherwise? Simply because He is divine? Vincent would not worship an apathetic God, or a cruel God, or a petty God. Nor would Lawrence. Christ is King because he is good, and vice versa, in a loop that goes on and on forever. It’s the job of every Christian to follow Him, as men and women have since His birth. 

“Christ is in all of us,” Vincent says firmly. “In every sacrifice we make.” 

“I didn’t sacrifice anything!” Lawrence insists. “All I did was step in front of you! What should I have done? Simply let the man shoot you? Let you die?” 

Sweet, naive Thomas, Vincent thinks bitterly. What a mindset, to believe that everyone is as kind and generous as you are. How many people watched as mothers and children died in the Congo? How many people stood by while the Taliban smothered its cities in authoritarianism? 

“Yes!” Vincent shouts, completely fed up with the discussion. “People do it every day, when faced with death, or discomfort, or even inconvenience! They see a man hurt, a child starving, a woman in pain, and they think nothing of it! They keep walking! They refuse to risk anything, they think of themselves first and foremost! But you didn’t! Don’t you think that makes a difference? Don’t you think that matters?” 

Lawrence’s expression shifts slightly, showing that perhaps Vincent has gotten through to him. The fact that it has taken this long is absurd. Lawrence’s self-loathing is by far his least attractive quality. Aldo and Ray may tolerate it, having grown used to Lawrence’s self-deprecating charm, but Vincent knows better. Self-hate is not humility. It is the belief that somehow you know better than God what you are made of. It’s prideful, and a sin, though few would label it as such. Vincent calls it as he sees it. To recognize one’s virtues is to see a glimpse of heaven. 

Lawrence is wonderful and Vincent will love him until the day he dies, but sometimes it is unbelievably difficult to do so! Forget loving an imperfect Church, what work is loving an imperfect man? 

“Listen to me,” Vincent says, his heart pounding in his chest. “You need to learn to accept the love that is given to you. Not because I am the Pope, not because I believe you should reciprocate my feelings, and certainly not because you feel obligated to do so. But because it is being freely given to you, from me, because you are my friend.” 

The man who held his hands in the Room of Tears. Who accepted the truth of his condition in less than an hour. Who has made Vincent a kinder, smarter, happier person. 

“You are unimaginably kind, and clever, and caring, and I know for a fact that were I your worst enemy you still would have jumped in front of me that day, because that is who you are as a person. I have known that since the day you woke me in Sister Agnes’ office. That’s why I cried for you, Tómas.” Vincent runs a hand through his hair and lets his hand fall to his waist with a thud. “And before you ask, I am still in love with you. Even though you are being impossible!” 

God help me. 

Vincent waits for Lawrence to say something, to say he understands or that he’s sorry for making such a fuss, but his beloved says nothing. Vincent throws up his hands and decides there is nothing more to be said. 

“I am going to bed,” Vincent says. “I do not care if the President calls me a snowflake. We will discuss this more at some other time.”

Lawrence needs to know he can be loved, can be desired, can be cherished. He can deny Vincent’s lust all he likes, but denying his friendship is where Vincent draws the line. 

He turns away and lets Lawrence leave without another word. Then the door clicks shut and Vincent is alone. 

He sighs. He rubs a hand over his face. He checks his watch. There’s still an hour or two before he has to go to bed. 

At first he tries to read one of the books he packed, a collection of essays Aldo had recommended to him some months ago, but he finds himself stuck reading the same page over and over again without actually taking in the information. So he attempts to pray, starting first by reading through a section from Proverbs, but then he gets caught on the sticky note he was using as a bookmark, a lavender-colored slip of paper with the words buy more chocolates for Ray scribbled on it in Lawrence’s handwriting. The mundane loveliness of it makes frustrated tears well up in Vincent’s eyes, so he switches to his rosary, saying the words automatically until he’s almost swaying to the rhythm of it. It calms him down somewhat, but with each Hail Mary the memory of Thomas’s angry, fearful expression reverberates in his mind. 

They have never fought before, not since the conclave. Vincent doesn’t even consider that a fight; he actually looks upon the discussion with fondness. But this time was different. Vincent was so eager to declare his love for his friend that he pushed him beyond what he could bear. Lawrence should be willing to accept praise, but Vincent cannot expect him to change his nature. He will always be humble. And who wouldn’t be, when confronted with the effusive language of the Pope? If Lawrence said such things about Vincent, he would likely blush and act bashful. He wouldn’t deny the words so vehemently, but…

Vincent sighs. Maybe he is in the right after all. But how can he mend what’s been broken, then? Sticking to one’s beliefs is all well and good when it comes to matters of faith or ideology; it’s not the best practice for maintaining a healthy relationship. Marriages are based on compromise, after all. He should be better…

Vincent’s heart flies up into his throat. He stops at the last bead in his rosary. 

You’re not married to him. Stop acting like it.

That small, delicate shift in their dynamic that started months ago has likely ended. Lawrence’s soft admission that he liked when Vincent was close to him is almost certainly a relic of the past. Their discussions of marriage will become nothing more than thought exercises, questions of discipline and doctrine like any number of talks Vincent has had with the other members of the Curia. Lawrence will remain his friend, surely, but Vincent has made his affections too clear. He is once again too much for those around him. 

What a depressing thought. 

Vincent sighs. He says his final prayer and places his rosary back in his satchel, next to the plane ticket out of Kabul (a souvenir of his old life) and the small beaded lizard Alma’s youngest daughter made him the last time he visited her, over a decade ago.

He lies down in bed and stares at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. It occurs to him, lying in the darkness, that he has only slept one room away from Lawrence for a few months, yet he can feel the absence of his friend on the other side of the wall. 

In the morning, Vincent lets himself be herded around by various members of his staff without enthusiasm. He’s grateful it’s the last leg of the trip; all he has to do today is take a train to Washington D.C. and meet with the Speaker of the U.S House of Representatives. The man is not Catholic, but will likely welcome him all the same. People like the Pope. There’s something to be said for standing for peace and harmony; the details of how Vincent advocates for such virtues can often be left at the door. 

That’s all Vincent was doing when he talked about Lawrence on television. He just wanted people to know compassion and love is real and present and possible to emulate. 

Vincent boards the train and meets with every one of the conductors and attendants who wish to see him, including an extremely shy cafe attendant named Amber who offers him every American candy known to man. After discussing the rest of his schedule with two members of his staff, Vincent tries to content himself with looking out the window and admiring the landscape as it rushes by.

He’s not sulking. He’s not. He’s just having a bad day, that’s all. 

An hour passes. Vincent can feel Lawrence’s eyes on him from the other side of the train car. 

Come over and talk to me. I am not too proud to apologize. You are still wrong but that doesn’t matter. Let’s be friends.

As if hearing him, Lawrence walks over and sits down, not across but next to Vincent, his body warm and solid against his shoulder. 

Vincent turns to look at him. Lawrence is, as always, unbelievably beautiful. Today his hair is perfectly combed under his zucchetto. His cassock is neat and clean. His pectoral cross glimmers in the light as he moves. 

He doesn’t look angry. That’s good. 

Lawrence covers Vincent’s hand with his own. The touch is so gentle that Vincent thinks of the rabbit from months ago, curled up in Lawrence’s arms. A skittish animal made calm instantly. 

“I’m sorry,” Lawrence says. “I was very rude last night. I should have thanked you for your words.” 

Vincent’s heart melts. Tómas just needed a little time, that’s all. Thank God. “What changed your mind?” He asks.

Lawrence tilts his head slightly, a half-shrug. “I was going to be very angry with you,” he explains, “but then I remembered. You said you’d never try to make me uncomfortable.” 

Vincent lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Yes, yes, of course. It’s all for Lawrence. Vincent is glad his beloved knows that. 

He turns his palm up so they can hold hands properly, fully aware that he’s asking for more physical affection than Lawrence may be comfortable showing. But Lawrence clasps his hand firmly, smiling. 

The trip to D.C. goes smoothly. Lawrence is by Vincent’s side the whole time. 

—

Veracruz greets Vincent as if he is the prodigal son returned. All around the city there are banners and signs welcoming him home. Vincent goes nowhere without someone offering him a drink, a sweet, a handshake or a smile. The city has not changed too much since the last time Vincent was there, nearly a decade ago; as he is driven towards the historic center of the city to visit the Cathedral of Veracruz Vincent feels a weight lift off his shoulders. Wars have come and gone and Vincent has been elected Pope but there are still the same people selling fruit and hot meals on sidewalks and street corners, the same cafes advertising free wifi and stores renting bikes to tourists. The port has its usual smattering of ships and the beaches are dotted with the usual sunbathers and kite-flyers. Vincent is surrounded by a crowd wherever he goes, but above the fray he’s able to take in the clear blue sky, a cool familiar color that reminds Vincent of Lawrence’s eyes. 

His cheeks hurt from smiling. They take a trip to the neighborhood where Vincent grew up and he gets the opportunity to point out to Lawrence every landmark and site that colored his childhood, from his elementary school (still standing, and proudly boasting a sign welcoming Papa Inocente, class of 1981) to the bakery his father owned (now under new management but still selling marranitos, gingerbread cookies shaped like pigs - always Vincent’s favorite.)

“I didn’t know your father owned a bakery,” Lawrence says, strolling down the street alongside Vincent. A small gaggle of reporters follow them, eager to see Vincent’s reactions to reminders of his childhood. 

“Oh, yes, for many years. I worked there sometimes, when I was in high school.” 

“Really?” Lawrence raises his eyebrows. “So you know how to bake?” 

“Oh, no,” Vincent chuckles. “I know how to sweep the floor and work a cash register.” 

From the bakery they stop by Vincent’s childhood home, luckily now owned by an older couple who are happy to let the Pope stand in their backyard for a few minutes, reminiscing on summers spent spraying his sisters with the garden hose and springs spent studying scripture under the mango tree. The sameness of the land, even as it’s been modified by the current homeowners, makes Vincent’s heart squeeze in his chest. 

Finally the reporters disperse, and Vincent is taken on a short car ride to his sister’s house, where Carmen, Alma, Carmen’s daughter Ximena, Ximena’s baby Lorenzo, and Vincent’s abuela Apolonia are waiting for him. His bodyguards stay outside, drinking iced tea and eating chips and guacamole on the porch, while Lawrence and Vincent go inside.

“I missed you,” Carmen says, wrapping her arms around Vincent’s waist and squeezing him tight. She kisses him on the cheek and then pulls away, looking him up and down. “You are too skinny, Vicente. Isn’t he too skinny, Alma?”

Alma nods and goes in for her hug. “They are not feeding you at the Vatican,” she declares. “I will make you something.” 

“That really isn’t necessary,” Vincent says. “And we may want to switch to English for Cardinal Lawrence’s benefit.” 

Alma and Carmen immediately switch their attention to Lawrence. “So you are the man who saved my brother,” Carmen says. 

Lawrence immediately turns red. “I mean, I was just doing what any person would have -”

Carmen rushes forward and pulls Lawrence into a hug. He blinks in surprise, and then awkwardly pats Carmen on the shoulder. 

She looks up at him with tears in her eyes. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Lawrence smiles nervously and glances at Vincent. “I - erm. Of course.” He clears his throat. “And - you don’t need to speak English for my benefit. I understand more than I can speak.” 

“Oh, we can practice our English for you,” Carmen replies. “Welcome home.”

Lawrence inhales shakily and doesn’t say anything. Vincent can’t help but smile at the contrast between the two. Carmen is… Carmen, and Lawrence is very British. 

Carmen gives Lawrence a once-over. “Oh, you are too skinny also.” She pats him on the shoulder. “Alma, do we have any more rice in the fridge?” 

“I can fry it up with the leftover chicken,” Alma says. She gestures to Lawrence. “Please, please, come in.”

Vincent and Lawrence make their way to the living room, where Ximena is nursing her baby in an armchair. Her eyes widen when she sees them. “Tío Vincent!” she exclaims. 

Vincent grins and leans down to kiss her cheek. “Te ves hermosa,” he says. “How have you been?” 

“I’ve been good, all things considered.” She smiles down at the infant between them. “This guy’s not so bad, it turns out. When he’s not crying he’s actually kind of cute.”

Vincent looks at his grandnephew’s moonlike face. Lorenzo has impossibly long eyelashes. “He is perfect,” Vincent declares. “I’m sorry I could not come to his baptism.”

“You were pretty busy,” Ximena says good-naturedly. Her attention shifts to Lawrence, who has been hovering in the doorway. “And you were pretty busy too, Cardinal - ?” 

“Lawrence,” Lawrence replies. “But - Thomas is fine.” 

“You did a pretty nice thing for me and my family,” Ximena says. “I’d get up and shake your hand but I’m kind of holding precious cargo right now.” 

“Please, continue,” Lawrence says, holding up his hands. “You have a beautiful baby.” 

“Give me a few more minutes and I’ll get up to greet you properly,” Ximena replies. “I don’t want you to think I normally introduce myself to priests with my boob out.” 

Lawrence turns red again and averts his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. “I - I honestly hadn’t noticed,” he says. 

“Do you know where Abuela is?” Vincent asks. 

“Upstairs,” Ximena responds. “She was sleeping. But now that you’re here she probably -” 

She’s cut off by a motorized sound coming from the hallway. Vincent recognizes it as the stair lift. 

He turns to Lawrence. “You’ll like my grandmother,” he tells him. “She’s very… unique.” 

“You said she’s a hundred and three.” 

“She is! We think so, anyway. Her name is Apolonia. She doesn’t speak much English. And might not recognize me, but that’s okay.” 

Lawrence raises his eyebrows. “Does she have dementia?” 

“She has good days and bad days.” 

At that moment Vincent’s teeny tiny grandmother is wheeled into the room, wearing a garishly pink blouse and a skirt that goes down to her ankles. She stares blankly at the floor after being positioned in a corner and mumbles something to Alma that might be a gracias. Then she peers up at Vincent suspiciously. 

Vincent crouches down to meet her eye. “Hello, Abuelita,” he says gently.

“Do you remember me?” 

For a moment there is silence. Vincent braces for a moment of pain. It’s okay if she doesn’t remember him, but he was looking forward to talking with her. She hasn’t seen him since before he was elected. 

His grandmother blinks, and then licks her lips. “Vicente?” She asks in a small scratchy voice. 

Vincent nods encouragingly. “Yes, Abuela, it’s me.” 

“Pareces una novia.” You look like a bride. 

Vincent blinks, and then barks out a laugh, caught off guard. “I suppose I do,” he agrees. “I’m still getting used to the uniform.” 

“They made you the Pope?” His Abuela asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“They did,” Vincent replies. 

“That’s why you don’t see me anymore.” 

Vincent feels a pang of guilt. “I’m here now, Abue. Do you want to meet my friend Lawrence?” 

“Claro,” his Abuela says.

Lawrence nervously steps forward. “It’s good to meet you, Doña Apolonia,” he says in Spanish.

Doña Apolonia lifts a tiny wrinkled hand for Lawrence to shake. “So handsome,” she says bluntly. “You are a priest?” 

Lawrence opens his mouth but no sound comes out. Instead he just stares with extremely wide eyes. Vincent snickers. 

“I thought the same thing,” he confesses. Lawrence glances at him ruefully. 

“Hola! Padres! Come get food!” Alma calls from the kitchen. 

They sit around and eat bowls of fried rice while Alma and Carmen pepper Lawrence with questions. They talk to Vincent, too, but honestly it’s refreshing to not be the center of attention for once. Vincent may be the Pope, yes, but to Alma and Carmen, he’s just their kid brother. To Ximena, he’s just the uncle that brought her gifts from afar whenever he visited. And to his Abuela - well, he’ll always be a precocious toddler in her eyes. 

“You saw our old house?” Alma asks. “It still has the mango tree.” 

“I did,” Lawrence replies. 

“Vincent used to sit out under there for hours,” Carmen recalls. “He held Mass for all of our stuffed animals.” 

“If we wanted them back we had to listen to his homilies,” Alma says. She smiles at Vincent. “He was always going to be a priest, I think.” 

“Not necessarily,” Carmen says. “Girls were always following him around in high school, remember? Oh, Señora Benítez, could Vincent stay over for dinner tonight? He’s been helping me with my homework…” 

“It wasn’t like that,” Vincent insists, embarrassed. “I just had a lot of friends, that’s all.” 

“There was that one girl,” Alma points out. “God, what was her name, V?” 

“Rosario,” Vincent responds. He can see a question arise on Lawrence’s face, quickly filed away for some other time. 

“It never seemed to be quite right with you two, though,” Carmen says. 

“Vicente never liked girls that much,” Vincent’s grandmother says, placing her hands in her lap. “He loved the boys more. Always followed the older ones around.”

Everyone freezes momentarily. Vincent steals a glance at Lawrence, who meets his eye and then looks down at where his forearm is touching Vincent’s. 

Vincent pulls away, embarrassed. Something about the blunt, no-nonsense way his grandmother speaks makes his sexuality seem obvious, almost garish, like the Curia elected a drag queen to be Pope as a prank. He has always loved people in the same stumbling, boundless way he fell in love with Lawrence, but his family has normally ignored it. Alma and Carmen never commented on it when he was younger; they certainly said nothing when Vincent decided to enter the seminary. 

His grandmother’s gaze is soft and nostalgic, clearly unaware that she’s said anything controversial. 

He looks up at Carmen, desperate for her to change the subject. 

She comes to his rescue immediately. “Thomas, why don’t you tell us a little about where you grew up?” 

Thomas dutifully tells them about his childhood in Northern England, and about his own sister and her children. Then Alma asks about his work in the Curia, and what exactly he and Vincent do all day. Suddenly the conversation turns to Lawrence’s writing, and then his work as Vincent’s advisor, and then his love for detective novels. Lawrence shyly regales his audience with stories of his Vatican adventures with Vincent; the four women listen to him intently, all charmed by his intelligence and wit. Lawrence jokes with Alma and soothes Carmen when she asks about whether Vincent is in any further danger. He talks to Vincent’s grandmother in awkward, formal Spanish, but makes his respect clear towards her, asking about what Vincent’s mother was like. 

Ximena listens quietly, rocking her baby boy back and forth. Eventually the child gets fussy and starts to whine, pulling on her shirt. 

“I’m sorry, let me just - where’d I put his pacifier, I have it somewhere -“ 

“I can take him,” Vincent and Lawrence say at the same time. 

To Vincent’s surprise, Ximena hands the child over to Lawrence, who gathers him up in his arms.

Lawrence rocks Lorenzo back and forth with the movements of someone who’s done this about a million times before. Lorenzo curls up against Lawrence’s chest, relaxing immediately. 

“Wow,” Ximena says, having retrieved the pacifier. “You’re a natural.” 

“He is a Father,” Carmen quips. 

“Good with children,” Vincent’s Abuela says. “Pity he’s a priest.” 

Lawrence chuckles and grins at Vincent. Vincent swallows and returns the smile shakily. Seeing Lawrence with a baby is doing weird things to his insides he’d rather not interrogate. 

The evening gradually concludes, and finally Vincent has to bid his loved ones goodbye for now. Alma insists on giving both Vincent and Lawrence tupperwares of leftover fried rice. She actually tries to give them more food than that because “you’re both too skinny, please, Mom would be horrified”, but Vincent declines repeatedly. 

Ximena and Carmen hug Lawrence goodbye as if he were an old friend. “Please come back soon,” Carmen says. “We’d love to have you. I can see why Vincent adores you.” 

“You’re like peas in a pod,” Alma says. 

“Como su novio,” Vincent’s Abuela says. Like his bride. 

Everyone turns to look at her. She shrugs her shoulders. 

“His cassock,” she says, gesturing at Lawrence. “His is black, Vicente’s is white.”

Carmen nods slowly and then turns back to Lawrence. “Like I said,” she continues. “You’re welcome back any time.” 

The car ride home is quiet, with both men focusing on the brilliant sunset that paints the water along the shore. They arrive at the hotel, and this time Vincent follows Lawrence to his room, thankful that there’s no argument to be had. 

But once they’re settled on the balcony and Vincent can feel the evening breeze run through his hair, he notices that Lawrence is blinking away tears in his eyes. 

“What’s wrong, tesoro?” He asks. 

“Nothing, nothing, it’s…” Lawrence shakes his head. He’s rid himself of his cassock and zucchetto and it makes him look so much more vulnerable than usual. “Your - your family was very nice to me.” 

“You’re easy to be nice to,” Vincent replies. He’s just glad Lawrence had no chance to see Vincent’s embarrassment like Vincent did. 

“I suppose, but -“ Lawrence huffs out a laugh, wiping away the moisture at his cheek. “I just… when I met you, I thought… there must be no one else on Earth who sees me the way you do.” 

Vincent tilts his head. “What do you mean?” 

“Vincent, you wanted me to be Pope. For whatever reason, amongst all the people in the Sistine Chapel, you thought I was the most - I don’t know, holy or clever or kind or interesting. And - and I was, I was shocked, because people - people think I’m alright, Aldo loves me, and Katherine loves me, yes, but sometimes when you look at me it’s like - it’s like I’m more than just, just the manager. Just the melancholy priest from Suffolk. It feels like - like I’m something special.” 

Vincent takes a deep breath. “You are special,” he says. 

“And - and I thought, that’s wonderful, that’s, that’s lovely, that someone could see me that way, but of course it’s like - you’re already so - so you, so wonderful and sweet, and you know so much about yourself, I figured that it was just - you being yourself, some, some divine spark inside you, but today you - getting to meet your family and seeing - seeing where it all came from - and they like me too, I think, and it just - it felt like home.” 

Vincent thinks the look in Lawrence’s eyes might be the death of him. There’s so much love there, so much open affection, that if Vincent took a picture and showed it on television the meaning would be a thousand times clearer than Vincent’s words days before. 

Vincent steps forward. “They love you,” he says quietly. “Because they know you’re a good person. You show it in everything you do.” 

Lawrence doesn’t move away when Vincent steps into his personal space. Vincent knows his next words could come off as an advance, but he trusts Lawrence enough to accept the sentiment anyway. 

“They could be your family too, you know. I know you have Katherine, you have the Curia, the priesthood… but if you wanted - they could be yours, too.” 

Lawrence inches closer, swaying a little, his body dangerously close. “And you?” He asks. 

Vincent is surprised Lawrence needs to ask. “I’m already yours. You should know that by now.” 

Lawrence pauses for a moment, and then takes Vincent’s hand, lifting it to his lips. He kisses Vincent’s ring, and then moves slightly so his lips brush over Vincent’s fingers. His touch is reverent, open, worshipful. Vincent can’t help but claim all of it for himself and none for the papacy. 

“Thank you for today,” Lawrence whispers, achingly sincere.

Vincent can only look at his beloved in awe. “Any time,” he replies.

Lawrence steps back and wishes him goodnight, leaving the light of the sunset and disappearing into the hotel. 

His kiss lingers on Vincent’s hand the entire night. 

Chapter Text

“Ray,” Vincent asks, “is the Museum closed to the public today?” 

“Uh, I think so,” Ray says. He’s sorting through a large pile of paperwork, placing some files back in his desk and others in the recycling bin beside his feet. “Why?” 

“Just curious. There are no tourists out,” Vincent replies. He stretches out a little on the comfortable couch that takes up nearly half of Ray’s office. “I suppose that’s normal for today. Everyone’s at home with their families.” 

“Mm.” 

“Ray,” Vincent says seriously. “I’m in a very rare situation.” 

“Oh?” Ray replies, glancing up. 

“I have absolutely nothing to do.” 

Ray smiles and turns to click something on his computer. “I had an inkling from the fact that you’re sitting on my couch, Holy Father.” 

“I already celebrated Mass. I filmed the New Year’s message weeks ago. Christmas has come and gone. It’s too early to prepare for the Feast of the Epiphany. Every state leader is in their own country with their family. My calendar is completely empty.” 

“Didn’t you say you had a thing with Cardinal Lawrence later?” 

“That’s in the evening. I need to fill the time until then.”

“You could always help me go through these old papers,” Ray teases. 

“Do you need help?” Vincent sits up. 

“No.” Ray settles his hands on his desk. “When was the last time you had free time, Holy Father?” 

Vincent thinks for a moment. “Last Easter?” 

“Long enough ago that anyone else would be dying for a break.” 

“I’m not ungrateful about it! I just don’t have anything to do,” Vincent says. “I wrote next week’s homily, I went over all my mail, I mended some clothes, I ate lunch, I watched it turn midnight in Australia…” 

“So you’re bored.” 

“A little.” Vincent watches the light flicker off one of the lenses of Ray’s glasses. “It’s a new feeling.” 

“This is why priests should be able to marry,” Ray muses. He lifts his head and clicks on something on his computer. 

“How do you figure?” Vincent asks.

“Because if you were married you could go bother your wife,” Ray jokes. “That’s what I did whenever I was bored.” 

Vincent glances at the picture frame to the left of Ray’s computer. He can’t see the picture, but he knows the image well - Caitríona O’Malley, grinning up at the camera, holding a butterfly on the tip of her finger. 

“Wouldn’t I be annoying her?” Vincent asks, grinning. 

“That’s what spouses are meant to do. You’d know this if you were married.” 

“I had no idea you felt so strongly about it, Monsignor.” Vincent rests his chin in his hand. “Actually, I don’t think we’ve ever talked about your views on celibacy.” 

“They’re the same as my views on marriage,” Ray replies. “Celibacy is a lovely discipline, if you desire it. If it outstrips your desire for anything else. But if you’re fighting against it day and night - why burden yourself unnecessarily?” 

“A priest could leave the Church,” Vincent offers. “He could get married, become a father.” 

“That’s true, but…” Ray bites the inside of his cheek. “I can only speak for myself.” 

“That’s all I’m asking you to do.” 

Ray thinks for a moment. “I’ve been married, and I’ve been a priest. For me… I don’t think I’d be as whole of a person if I didn’t have both of those experiences. Being married to Caitriona and being married to God… it changed me.”

Vincent nods. “I understand.” 

Ray makes a hm noise and takes his glasses off, cleaning them with the fabric of his fascia. “Of course, if you were married, you likely wouldn’t have any free time anyway.” 

“Why not?” 

“Your children would need you for something, I’m sure.” Ray’s eyes twinkle with mirth. “I can see it now, a whole gaggle of them pulling at your sleeve.” 

Vincent feels warm with the image; it could never happen but the thought is pleasant. “You never had children,” he observes. 

Ray sighs, nodding. He takes a sip of coffee from the World’s Coolest Uncle mug on his desk. “No, it never happened for Cait and I,” he agrees. “By the time we took it seriously, she was already sick… we enjoyed the process of trying, though.” 

Vincent blushes, suddenly struck with the image of his soft-spoken bespectacled friend trying for a baby. “Raymond O’Malley,” he says, scandalized. 

Ray chuckles, his own cheeks burning pink. “Get your head out of the gutter, Holy Father. Yes, I was a married man, once upon a time.” 

Vincent pauses. “Do you miss it?” 

Ray shakes his head. “I don’t mind the vow of celibacy. I miss Cait, though. Every day. She was my best friend.” 

Vincent nods. 

Ray closes a file with a satisfying thud and looks Vincent dead in the eye. “Go do something, Holy Father. Before you’re subjected to my whole life story.” 

Vincent doesn’t think that would be so bad, but he recognizes that Ray wants to get enough work done to enjoy his evening. “Alright,” he agrees. “You said the museum is closed?” 

“To tourists, yes. To you? I think they’d let you in.” 

“Being the Pope has benefits,” Vincent admits, standing up. “I think I’ll do some sketching.” 

“Have fun,” Ray says, turning back to his paperwork. “Be back before dark.” 

The walk to the Vatican museum is a pleasant one. It’s freezing, sure, but Vincent rarely gets to traverse the walkways of the Vatican without causing a scene. Once he arrives at the entrance, he greets the two security guards standing outside drinking cups of coffee. He learns their names are Salvatore and Cosimo, and that Cosimo’s wife is due to have a baby in a little over a week. He blesses them both (Cosimo especially) and they let him into the museum without even asking for his key card. 

“We trust you,” Salvatore says. 

“We also know where to find you if you break anything,” Cosimo jokes. 

Inside the museum, Vincent allows himself to get a little lost in the labyrinth of hallways and rooms covered in gold leaf and delicately painted frescos. He takes in as much as he can, his footsteps echoing on the marble floor as he passes sculptures and artifacts from ancient history. In the Hall of Animals he observes the small statues as they chase and poke at each other, following a goose’s gaze to the fox next to it, and then to the unicorn after that. From there he wanders to the Octagonal Court and lingers, staring up at the statue of Perseus holding Medusa’s head. Then he moves past the Chiaramoni Museum and enters the Borgia Apartments. 

Vincent marvels at the intricate designs on the walls of every room. Every scene seems to invite him into a small world full of richly colored fabrics and pale faces with clever eyes. He recognizes the lives of the saints in one room - St. Elizabeth, St. Antonio Abbot and St. Paul of Thebes, St. Susanna, and St. Sebastian. The last fresco is particularly striking; St. Sebastian’s eyes look up towards heaven the same way Vincent’s eyes look up at the painting. 

He wanders around some more before ending up in the Round Room, where he’s surrounded by statues on all sides. It takes him a little while to find the right subject, but eventually he settles on the towering form of a Roman warrior, a tall muscular figure whose body is only partially covered by fabric loosely draped around his waist. His left arm is raised, holding up a long scepter. Vincent looks closer at the statue’s face and takes note of the crown of leaves adorning the man’s head, the loose curls framing his face, the way his mouth is carved into a permanent pout. 

Such broad shoulders, Vincent thinks. So much authority in one pose. 

The sign near the statue explains that the figure is Antinous, the lover of the Roman emperor Hadrian. Vincent has to search far, far back in his memory, but he can recall a college class where he learned about Antinous, if only in passing. A favorite of the emperor, the story went that Antinous drowned himself believing his sacrifice would restore the very ill Hadrian’s health. After his death Hadrian was so consumed with grief that he declared Antinous to be a god. 

Vincent looks back up at the face of the statue. I know a god who sacrificed himself, he thinks. But he wears a crown of thorns, not leaves. 

Vincent is no emperor. But if his beloved were to die unexpectedly, he’d probably do something dramatic. Maybe not deification, but… a statue wouldn’t hurt. 

The shape of Antinous’ body seems easy enough to draw, though Vincent doubts he’ll be able to get his features right. Still, he sits down on a nearby bench and opens his notebook, sliding the pencil out from its little sleeve. 

Time ceases to exist for a little while; the museum is so quiet that it feels like Vincent is the only person in the world except for the ghosts of the men depicted on each side of him. He sketches out a quick model of the statue’s shape, then begins to draw an outline of the body. Vincent knows he’s no artist, but he enjoys the occasional burst of creativity. The opportunity to make something beautiful should never be squandered, in his opinion. By admiring the human form, one is showing appreciation for God’s handiwork. 

Vincent adjusts so he’s sitting cross-legged on the bench and leans down to better draw the statue’s face. It’s not an entirely accurate depiction - the nose is too big, the lips too thin, the eyes too wide - but Vincent doesn’t mind. His notebook is private; if someone wants to critique his work, it’ll be because he asked for their opinion. 

He’s almost done drawing the long line of Antinous’ scepter when a voice makes him jump. 

“Holy Father?” The voice calls, echoing down the hall. 

Vincent jerks his head up and closes his notebook, worrying for a moment that he’s going to get in trouble. Then he remembers he hasn’t done anything wrong, and also that he’s the Pope. “Who is it?” He asks. “I’m sorry, I don’t have my glasses.” 

The figure comes closer and reveals himself in the afternoon light. “Archbishop Wozniak, your Holiness.” 

Vincent visibly relaxes and smiles as his colleague walks over to him. “Janusz! I’m surprised to see you here.” 

“Not as surprised as I am, Holy Father.” The perpetually anxious Archbishop gives an uneasy smile. 

“But it’s lovely to see you. Did you charm the security guards, too?” 

Wozniak shakes his head. “I know another entrance.” 

Vincent grins. “Another secret from the late Holy Father?” He knows there are dozens of secret passages within the Vatican; he hasn’t found them all yet and Wozniak won’t tell him. 

“One of many.” Wozniak looks down at his feet and then up at the domed ceiling. “I like to come here when it’s closed. Less noise, more room to think.” 

“I agree.” 

Wozniak glances at the notebook on Vincent’s lap. “Writing another encyclical?” He jokes. 

“No, I’m just sketching.” Vincent shrugs and holds up his notebook. 

“I didn’t know you were an artist, Holiness.” 

“Oh, it’s nothing like that. Just some fun.” Vincent remembers his manners. “Please, come sit, keep me company for a little while.” He pats the seat next to him.

Wozniak furrows his brow in worry. “Are you sure?” He asks. “I don’t want to bother you while you’re… drawing.” 

“I am very sure, so long as I’m not bothering you.” 

Wozniak accepts this and sits down on the bench next to Vincent. The two of them sit in companionable silence for a moment before Wozniak speaks. 

“Can I see what you’re sketching?”

Vincent swallows down his shyness. “Of course.” He passes over his notebook, opening it to the correct page. 

Wozniak looks over Vincent’s drawing and then up at the statue it’s based on. “Antinous,” he observes. “Interesting. I would’ve thought you’d go for Hercules.” 

Vincent looks at the bronze statue to the left of Antinous. “I suppose I could have. But his pose is so… casual.” 

“Mm.” Janusz looks down at the sketch again. He lifts the notebook, squinting at the lines and then returning his eye to the statue. “You know,” he says, “I do see it, a little bit. Mostly in the mouth and the shoulders.” 

“See what?” Vincent asks. 

“The face. You’ve drawn him with the same features as Cardinal Lawrence.” 

Vincent inhales sharply, his eyebrows flying into his hair. He looks over to see the sketch again. 

Oh, Dios me ayude. Janusz is right. Rather than create a convincing copy of the statue’s face, Vincent has filled in his own choice of features, ones which happen to adorn the face of his Dean. It’s a blatant display of his own preferences, done entirely subconsciously. 

Vincent takes the notebook and closes it, suddenly embarrassed. Wozniak watches him fidget with gentle eyes. 

“It’s fine, you know.” 

Vincent meets his eye again. “The drawing?” 

“No. I mean your affection towards him.”

Vincent closes his eyes. First Aldo, now Wozniak… he hasn’t been careful enough. Before he knows it the press will pick up that something’s different about the way he treats Thomas, and all hell will break loose. 

“It’s not - it’s not what you think,” he tries weakly. 

“All I think is that you love him, and you want him near you. The rest I don’t need to speculate about. That’s between you and him.” Wozniak’s eyes are clear and kind. 

“I appreciate that.” Vincent isn’t sure if anything in his life is private anymore, but it’s nice to think so. “I’m not - we’re not… you don’t need to worry about a scandal.” 

Wozniak tilts his head. “A scandal in the press or in the Vatican?”

Vincent frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, if you told me you were resigning to run away with him…” The archbishop purses his lips together. “I would be very disappointed. But if you stayed at your post and bent the rules a little bit… I think the people around you would understand. Most of them, anyway.” 

Vincent blinks, trying to comprehend Janusz’s words. He hasn’t really considered other people’s involvement in a potential relationship between himself and Lawrence, except for an idle thought that Aldo should be the first to know about it were it ever to occur. But surely, surely there would be people who understand… “You think my advisors would accept that their Pope has fallen in love?” 

“It wouldn’t be the first time a pontiff has had an unorthodox relationship,” Wozniak says, brown eyes hinting at his meaning.

Vincent stares at him, gears turning in his head. Of course Archbishop Wozniak was close with the Late Holy Father, he was the man’s personal companion for many years, but - but Vincent never thought that - that they were…

“You two were…?” Vincent is so shocked he doesn’t even have the words. 

Janusz tilts his head one way, then the other. “It wasn’t a scandal. We just enjoyed each other’s company.” 

Vincent can’t decide if that’s a euphemism or not. He decides not to speculate, granting the same space to Janusz that the archbishop has granted to him. “How did you manage it?” 

“We kept to ourselves, mostly, and accepted what we were able to give each other.” Wozniak looks down at his hands, a shadow running over his face. “Sometimes it was very little. But if we had pretended nothing was there we would have made ourselves miserable.” 

Vincent can certainly sympathize with that. “And the rest of the staff kept it quiet? They just looked the other way?” 

“Holy Father, you know the people who work in our little city. They all want to adhere to the Church’s teachings - but they recognize people’s humanity. The friends around you know that God’s will isn’t uniform. It’s made for each person.” 

Vincent thinks of the various people who have helped him remain close to Lawrence, even after all they’ve been through. Ray, Aldo, Sister Agnes. Even Tedesco sympathized with Vincent’s anguish, though he didn’t know the cause of it. If Vincent is truly as obvious about his feelings for Lawrence as Wozniak seems to imply, then perhaps some things are being kept away from prying eyes and a gossip-hungry press. 

The realization makes something loosen in Vincent’s chest. He feels like he can breathe better than he has in months. 

He leans over and lays his hand on top of Janusz’s, squeezing lightly. “It must have been awful when he passed. I’m sorry I didn’t say more to you.” 

Janusz smiles, his expression heavy with grief. “He was a wonderful man and a true servant of Christ. He was also very special to me - as Cardinal Lawrence is to you, I’m sure.” 

Vincent removes his hand and rubs the back of his neck. “Yes, he is.” 

He glances back up at the massive statue towering over them; Antinous’ profile is sharp and commanding even from a distance. 

“I’m glad everyone else understands, at least a little bit,” Vincent says. “But what I really want is for him to understand. Completely.”

“He does,” Wozniak says. “He’s just getting there at his own pace.” 

“How long do I have to be patient?” Vincent asks.

Wozniak gives him a rare look of amusement. “Not as long as you’d think. It just takes some getting used to. It’s a shock, at first. Realizing it.” 

“Realizing the Pope has desires?”

“Realizing you’re desirable,” Janusz replies. “That you’re worthy of love.” 

Vincent takes this in. He thinks of the first time he revealed his feelings to Thomas. You can’t have feelings for me. Like it was absurd. 

Vincent nods. “Thank you, Janusz. Your advice has been extremely helpful to me.” 

Wozniak opens his mouth to respond, but is interrupted by the loud buzzing of Vincent’s phone in his pocket. 

Vincent sighs and takes the infernal contraption out of his pocket, intending to silence it. A text flashes on his screen. 

Finished work. We can go see the thing now if you want. — Fr. Thomas Lawrence

“Oh, it got late in the day,” Vincent whispers. He looks up at Wozniak. “I’m sorry, my friend, I’m afraid I have to go.” 

Wozniak nods serenely, monklike in his movements. “Tell Thomas I say hello.” 

Vincent didn’t even show him the text. “I will,” he promises. He packs up his things and takes one last look at Antinous. “It was nice to talk with you,” he says to Wozniak.

“Likewise, your Holiness,” Janusz replies. “Be sure to share your sketch with Cardinal Lawrence. I think he’ll take it as a compliment.” 

Vincent gives the archbishop a disbelieving look and exits the Round Room.

—

As Vincent makes his way to the Vatican Grottoes, a heavy rain begins to fall, sending sharp ice-cold drops down onto his face and neck. He pulls his coat tighter around himself and walks as quickly as possible, taking a back route to St. Peter’s Basilica. 

Lawrence is waiting for him at the entrance to the tombs, his hair damp from the downpour. Vincent immediately feels warmer upon seeing him. “Good afternoon, Holy Father,” Lawrence says.

“Happy New Year’s Eve,” Vincent replies, running a hand through his soaked hair. “I missed you today.” 

“I missed you, too.” 

“How was the Council?” Vincent asks. 

“Protective of the Church’s assets, as usual,” Lawrence replies. “They had plenty of spreadsheets and data tables prepared to tell me all the ways we could be spending less money.” 

“Did you suggest my idea of giving all the Church’s wealth to the poor and letting me work out of the Popemobile?” 

“You know, I did, and they weren’t very amenable to that solution.” Lawrence chuckles and opens the door to the lower level of the Basilica. “After you, your Holiness.” 

Vincent gives Lawrence a wry look and enters the Grottoes, letting the heavy door shut behind them. It’s quiet, with only one other person at the far end of the hall quietly praying. Vincent’s wearing his dark coat today and Lawrence is bundled up in his own scarf and jacket; the gentleman doesn’t even look towards them. 

Vincent passes the tombs of past popes one by one, all illuminated in soft yellow light. Some are extremely ornate; others a simple marble slab with the name of the pontiff carved into it. It’s strange to think that Vincent is one of these men, a fellow spokesman for Christ. The lids of the sarcophagi display stern pale faces; men from Italy, one Poland, one from Germany. Most of them are older, with lines on their faces. 

What do these men think of me? Vincent wonders. Am I doing a good job?

On and on they go, past the Mexican chapel of Our Lady of Guadalupe and the tomb of Pius XI, past the archeological rooms and the gallery of Clement VIII, until they reach a tiny corner near the tomb of Paul VI.

In the middle of the curved hideaway sits a large marble slab underneath a relief of Christ healing the blind man. To either side sits two potted plants with drooping leaves. The marble slab is unmarked, completely clean, waiting for someone to carve INNOCENTIUS into it. 

“They put the finishing touches on it last week,” Lawrence says, just to fill the air between them. 

Vincent nods, saying nothing.

“Do you like it?” Lawrence asks.

Vincent takes a deep breath. “It is not how I expected to be buried,” he admits. 

“What did you think, before?” 

Vincent shrugs. “A pine box. A cross with some stones. Or if they could not identify me, directly in the earth, facing Mecca.” He thinks back to the IED that killed a group of men near his parish in Baghdad over a decade ago - two of the bodies were left so destroyed by fire and shrapnel that the families were unable to tell which was which.

“I hope this isn’t too morbid for you,” Lawrence says. 

“It’s not too bad,” Vincent replies. “I don’t plan on dying any time soon, but it will happen eventually.” He sighs. “It does make one feel a little claustrophobic, though.” 

“The spirit will be free,” Lawrence reassures him. “This spot - this is for everyone else. So they can come and remember you.” 

The corners of Vincent’s mouth turn up. “That’s a nice thought.”

“And this way Christians a century from now will still know you, and what you did for the Church.”

Vincent twists the Fisherman’s ring on his finger. “Do you think they’ll know, a hundred years from now?”

“Know what?” 

“About my condition.” Vincent turns to look at Lawrence.

Lawrence raises his eyebrows. “I don’t know,” he says sincerely. “I don’t know how they’re able to tell these things. Is that something you’re worried about?” 

Vincent shrugs. “I won’t be there by then. Maybe they will say I was never legitimate. Maybe they will see me as a fascination.” 

“Maybe by then it won’t matter any more than your having brown eyes or black hair,” Lawrence points out. “For centuries people saw lefthandedness as aberrant - now no one looks at my hands twice when I write.

Vincent likes that idea. (He can also prove Lawrence wrong as to the fascination of his hands.) “What do you think of it?” He gestures towards the marble. 

“Well… I don’t like thinking of your funeral,” Lawrence admits. “But it’s a beautiful resting place. Very peaceful. Amongst your fellow pontiffs, which is good. I just - I don’t know. I’m grateful I’m never going to see you put into the ground.” 

Lawrence looks at his feet, evidently embarrassed. Vincent wants to comfort him, but he knows there is no real way to make the thought easier. Besides, he too recoils from the thought of Thomas’s death; he imagines he will be devastated, even if his beloved lives to be over a hundred years old. 

“Thank you for coming with me,” Vincent says. “I don’t think I would have wanted to see it alone.” 

“Of course,” Lawrence replies.

“Shall we walk around a bit?” Vincent asks. 

Lawrence nods. They stroll around at a leisurely pace, stopping every once in a while to admire a relic or sarcophagus. 

“How was your day?” Lawrence asks. 

“It was good,” Vincent replies. “I went to the museums and sketched a little, I spent some time in Ray’s office… he teased me a bit for being so bored.” 

“Oh?” 

“He said if I were married I could bother my wife.” 

Lawrence tilts his head back, considering this. “Is this how Ray O’Malley changes Church doctrine?”

Vincent hums in amusement. “Maybe. I do love to annoy the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith.” 

Lawrence pauses and stops at the tomb of John Paul I. “Hm.” 

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “What is it?” 

“You want to be married,” Lawrence says quietly.

Vincent stiffens automatically. “I do,” he says slowly. “Under specific circumstances.”

“You’re not interested in becoming Rome’s most eligible bachelor.”

“No.” Vincent wonders where exactly this conversation is going. Once again they are talking about his feelings for Lawrence without fully acknowledging them. “No, I… my wish for a marriage is very specific.”

“I know.” 

Vincent closes his eyes. Lawrence’s voice is devastatingly gentle. If Vincent didn’t know any better he’d mistake his friend’s respect for his desires with a feeling that he shares them. 

“I’m just selfish that way,” Vincent says. “I want too much.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Lawrence counters. “It’s natural to want companionship. But do you think all priests should be able to marry?” 

Vincent exhales slowly. “Maybe. Probably. I don’t think my feelings would be justified, otherwise.” He nods to himself, the idea solidifying in his mind. “Anglicans, Baptists, Evangelicals, Jews, Muslims… their religious leaders all marry. St. Peter was married. Nowhere in the Bible does it say a priest must be unmarried, or even celibate.” He scratches his nose. “Maybe that is a radical position.”     

“I don’t think anyone would consider your position to be that radical. Some even say it’s necessary for the survival of the Church.” 

Vincent nods, taking this in. He can relax a little knowing that they’re having an intellectual discussion, rather than a personal one. “That’s true.” 

“Do you want to push for clerical marriage?” Lawrence asks. 

Vincent blinks. “I don’t think the Curia would support it. Cardinal Tedesco would throw a fit, for one.” 

“Sure, but you could get the ball rolling. Write an encyclical, talk to people, plant seeds for it.” 

Vincent weighs the prospect of spending most of his political power with the possibility that he could change the culture of the Church for the better. “I could,” he agrees. “I will have to think about it.” 

The two of them loop around the far end of the hallway, moving back the way they came. Vincent’s elbow occasionally brushes against Lawrence’s arm. 

“Of course,” Lawrence says, “there is one other way you could do it.” 

“Oh?” Vincent asks. 

“You could make an infallible declaration.” 

Vincent stops and turns to face Lawrence. “What do you mean?” 

“Your Holiness…” Lawrence swallows. “You are infallible, when it comes to Church teachings. You could clarify Scripture on the subject, if you really interpret it to mean that priests should be allowed to marry. No one would be able to deny it then.” Lawrence looks Vincent directly in the eye. “You do have that authority.” 

Vincent stares. Lawrence has never brought up the concept of papal infallibility before. People rarely do; despite it being part of Catholic dogma, the concept generally goes unacknowledged, mostly because it’s never been well defined. According to canon law, the Pope’s pronouncements on the teachings of Christ are preserved from error, so long as he speaks “ex cathedra,” or from the chair. People assume this means Catholics believe the Pope is never wrong, but that isn’t true at all. It means that the Pope’s understanding of faith and morals is passed down to him from Christ directly. 

Vincent supposedly has the power to define the Church’s teachings. If he wanted to, he could make an infallible declaration tomorrow. 

But he won’t. 

“I cannot do that,” Vincent says, shaking his head. “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be right.” 

Lawrence’s brow furrows in confusion. “Why not?” He asks. 

“I do not think I am infallible,” Vincent replies simply. 

Lawrence’s mouth twists. “You don’t?” 

“No. I think I have a good understanding of God’s instructions, but I don’t believe I’m any better at interpreting Scripture than any other Cardinal, bishop, or priest. I am just a human being, Thomas. I have no reason to think I can never be wrong, in any situation.” 

Lawrence frowns. He licks his lips, looking for a good response. “You believe you were chosen by God to be Pope.” 

“I do,” Vincent agrees. “But not because I have a special connection to Him. I don’t hear His voice more clearly when I pray than any other person. I have doubts; I question things. Perhaps if a miracle happened, if an angel appeared to me in a dream, maybe… but nothing like that has ever occurred to me. I would hate to proclaim as fact something I know is only my opinion.”

Lawrence is quiet for a moment. “I suppose it wouldn’t matter that you honestly believe your position is correct.” 

“That would be enough for me to advocate for a policy, but not declare it as doctrine unilaterally,” Vincent explains. “The Church’s dogma is created through collaboration and communal understanding, not through the command of one man. To act as though I am the only one who has a say… that would be wrong. And to do so when I believe that infallibility is a power given to me by men, and not by God… that would be dishonesty of the highest level. I would be sinning greatly by proclaiming myself as God’s true messenger, above others.” 

Lawrence doesn’t hide his disappointment. Vincent wonders how long he’s been thinking about this. “But… if you really believe that priests should be allowed to marry, that you should be allowed to marry…” 

“I believe a lot of things,” Vincent says. “I believe that homosexual acts are not a sin, that gender cannot be understood as a question of one label or another, that birth control is no more of a hindrance to God’s will than surgery is to a terminal illness. 

I believe that an atheist has as much of a chance to enter heaven as I do, that modesty and chastity are virtues meaning more than just the clothes you wear or the people you touch, that women should be able to lead in the Church and in the home if they so desire… I believe all these things, but I do not want those ideas to be made into doctrine with the swish of a pen. 

If that were the case they could be dismantled the moment I am put into the ground. The changes I want to see in the Church must come from the hearts and minds of Catholics all around the world; for that to happen I must do the harder work of persuading them. I have the truth in my heart; but I am not so bold as to claim I don’t have doubt as well. As Pope Innocent I am very powerful; but I am not the Church. Not alone, anyway.” 

Lawrence takes this all in with an unreadable look on his face. He slows his steps and eventually stops; Vincent realizes they’re back in front of his own tomb.

The silence is uneasy between them. Perhaps Vincent’s tone was too harsh.

“I’ve disappointed you,” Vincent observes. “I’m sorry, mi tesoro.” 

Lawrence shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. You are probably right anyway. It was just a thought.” Lawrence rubs the back of his neck. “It’s just… difficult, sometimes.” 

“That the Church moves so slowly?” Vincent says. “I agree; it can be maddening.” 

“No, it’s more that…” Lawrence struggles to find the words. “Sometimes it feels as though there are two people inside you - Vincent and Innocent. They both have different desires, and different ways of thinking. And when those interests clash with each other, it’s hard to reconcile them - to see you as both the man who wants so freely and the man who acts so carefully. Sometimes it’s frustrating. You’re not just the man who sneaks out at night to give money to the poor; you’re also the man on the balcony, leading millions in prayer.” 

Vincent swallows the sting of Lawrence’s words. He knows his position is precarious but he tries not to think about it; it’s painful to think that his method of governing has strained his relationship with his friend in any way. But he can’t change it, not now. “I wish it were easier,” he admits. “Sometimes I wish I had never been elected, had never come to Rome in the first place. But Innocent is who I am now, just as much as I am Vincent. It may seem like I am two people, but really it is just two sides of the same person. I have to consider the needs of the Church as well as my own.” 

Lawrence stares at the potted plant to the right of Vincent’s grave. “I know,” he says, in the same resigned tone as before.

Is this one of the reasons he cannot see me as a suitor? Vincent thinks. Am I too far away from him in his eyes? Too much of a pope, not enough of a man? Would loving me be like loving a shadow, something close that cannot be touched?

It’s a painful thought. It’s also oddly comforting, the idea that Lawrence would reject him not because of a lack of feeling, but because of his position. Still, the same result would occur; they could never be together. Vincent is Innocent and Innocent is Vincent. If Lawrence does not accept him as such, then there would always be distance between them. 

“What do you believe?” Vincent asks. Suddenly he’s desperate for some sort of reassurance. He may be pope but he doesn’t want to be on a pedestal. If Lawrence sees him as something fundamentally different from what he is, then that’s a problem. 

“I believe…” Lawrence takes a deep breath and places his hands behind his back. “I believe…” he trails off.

Vincent waits, anxiety building in his chest. Lawrence is clearly choosing his words carefully.

“When my father died,” he says suddenly, “he wanted to be cremated. And after that was done, the instruction was that we should bury the ashes immediately.” 

Vincent nods. “That’s the requirement,” he acknowledges. 

“Yes, but… as much as Dad was a Catholic, and he was very devout - he really didn’t like the idea of being put in the ground. He didn’t want to be in one place like that. And he told us this, you know, before the end… So what Katherine did, is she took the ashes, and she went to Edinburgh, and spread them near the house where he grew up, and then when she was in Dublin she spread a little where he met my mother, and when she met me in New York we spread the rest along the water where we were all together for the last time, Mum and Dad and Katherine and me. And it felt like a good way to let him go. It didn’t feel like desecrating a body. This way, he was…” 

“Where he was happy,” Vincent finishes. 

“I’m telling you this because - because if things go right, we will both live for a while yet,” Lawrence continues, “but I will leave this earth before you do. So when I die - Vincent -”

Vincent had turned away, unable to face the thought. He turns back reluctantly, meeting Thomas’s cool blue eyes. 

“When I die, you can take my ashes, and you can put a little of them in England, and a little of them in New York, and a little of them in Veracruz -”

A knot forms in Vincent’s throat. He wills himself not to cry.

“- and a little of them here, in this room, next to the tomb of Pope Innocent the Sixteenth. And that way when your time comes you’ll know that we will be next to each other, the bodies of two Christian, human, fallible men.” 

Vincent nods. He’s completely at a loss for words. He doesn’t think they’ve invented anything in English or Spanish or Latin to describe what he’s feeling. 

“Is that alright with you?” Lawrence asks. He’s smiling, eyes shining in the candlelight. 

“Yes,” Vincent replies. It comes out like a sob. “Yes, I would like that very much.” 

Perhaps love has made Vincent selfish in some aspects. But here, underneath the basilica, surrounded by pontiffs and patriarchs, he has enough.

—

“Is there time left to call this entire thing off?” Vincent asks.

Sister Winifred looks up from where she’s piping whipped cream onto an extremely large tray of tres leches cake. “No,” she says simply. Then she corrects herself. “No, Holy Father.”

Vincent pouts, moving out of the way so another Sister can carry two enormous pitchers of lemonade out of the kitchen into the courtyard. “It’s entirely my right. I didn’t ask for a birthday celebration.” 

“You are the Pope, Holy Father,” Sister Agnes says. She’s placing thin slices of cucumber onto squares of cream cheese covered bread. “You don’t have to ask for things.” 

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “My prayers for peace and tranquility throughout the world?” He asks.

“Have been heard both by God the Father and myself,” Sister Agnes replies. “And I assure you we are both working as hard as possible on the task. In the meantime, however, I see no issue with throwing you a small party in recognition of your remaining alive for yet another year.” 

“It deserves recognition,” Sister Winifred says. “Considering everything that’s happened.” 

Vincent twists his mouth and thinks of the scar hidden underneath the Sister’s sleeve. She’s right; he’s being obstinate for no reason. 

“Thank you for all of this,” he says apologetically. “I should be more grateful. I just don’t like knowing I’m getting older.” 

Sister Agnes’ lips quirk up in sympathy. “No one does, Holy Father,” she says. “It just means you’re human. Come, help me with the sandwiches.” 

The celebration turns out to be quite sweet. Vincent tells his obligatory joke about being afraid of losing his hair, and Lawrence delivers a toast that makes Vincent sound like a hero from a fairy tale rather than an old man who still gets lost in the papal gardens on occasion. Then sandwiches and cake are served, and Vincent has a chance to thank the members of his staff individually. 

He’s caught up in a conversation with Ray when he spots a familiar figure off by the turtle pond. Without Aldo present for company (the Secretary of State is in Venice, no doubt arguing with Tedesco) Lawrence looks rather lonely, sitting at a table with an untouched slice of cake. 

Ray catches Vincent staring and smiles amicably. “Go to him,” he says. “We can talk more later.” 

Vincent frowns. “I don’t want to seem antisocial,” he says. 

“You’re not,” Ray replies. “It’s your birthday, Holy Father. Go spend time with Thomas. He loves you.” 

Vincent reaches over and touches Ray’s shoulder in thanks before walking over to his friend. It’s a beautiful day out, and the sunshine is making Lawrence’s hair look more golden than brown. 

“Observing our friends?” Vincent asks, nodding at the turtles. 

Lawrence smiles, eyes twinkling. “I love them,” he replies. “They’re so clever.”

Vincent recalls the words from their first moments alone together. He remembers tumbling into bed afterwards, wondering if Lawrence was truly going to leave the Vatican and join an order. The thought had made him sad, even at the time; he had been so kind to Vincent that before Vincent closed his eyes that night he even had the wild thought of inviting Lawrence to come work in Kabul for a month or two, just to see if that would help him reconnect with God. Of course, Vincent didn’t return to Kabul himself, but sometimes he wonders what might have been, had the papacy gone to someone else. 

“I could say the same of you,” Vincent points out. 

“And how is that?” 

Vincent gestures to the rest of the party, all friends and colleagues who respect and admire Vincent partially because Lawrence vouched for him so early in his papacy. “Look at everything you’ve done for me,” he says. 

“I’d say you did that yourself, Holy Father,” Lawrence replies, modest as always. “You were elected, chosen by divine mandate.” 

Maybe so, but would I have made it two days without your guidance? Your friendship? I could have just as easily locked myself in the apostolic palace and prayed for a reason to resign. Or worse, I could have been forced out, because whomever came to me in the Room of Tears did not accept my condition. “Well, you helped,” Vincent argues. “You voted for me. Unless there’s something else you’d like to confess?”

Lawrence smirks at the joke. “I did vote for you, Vincent. I would do it again, too. I would vote for you three times.” 

Vincent shivers at the blatant display of Lawrence’s faith in him. “I voted for you five times,” he counters. And I still think I was right.

Lawrence rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Modesty is a virtue, dearest,” he chides. 

Vincent resists the urge to scoff. As though he could ever be modest in his admiration of Cardinal Thomas Lawrence! 

“Not when it comes to championing you,” he replies. He may not be able to sing about his love from the top of St. Peter’s Basilica but he maintains the right to praise his friend’s character. 

Lawrence looks down, bashful. Vincent follows his gaze and sees that the slice of cake sitting between them is still untouched, the dusting of cinnamon on top of it undisturbed. 

“You don’t like tres leches?” Vincent asks. He knows the treat isn’t the same as a traditional cake, but he assumed everyone would find the flavor pleasant enough. 

“Hm?” Lawrence looks up, eyes wide. “No, I like it, I just… wasn’t planning on eating it.” 

Vincent frowns automatically. Why does his beloved do this? He has no need to restrict his eating so much. He’s not overweight, and even if he were, as long as he was healthy Vincent would see no reason for concern. In all likelihood this is just another expression of Lawrence’s distrust of pleasure, as if suffering is somehow an inherently holier experience than happiness. 

“If you like it,” Vincent suggests gently, “you should try it.” 

There’s a shift in Lawrence’s eyes. Perhaps Vincent has actually gotten through to him. He opens his mouth to reply but then a breeze flows between them, lifting the tablecloth and sending the fork skittering into the grass. 

“I’ll get that,” Vincent says at the same time Lawrence says the same. 

Lawrence gives Vincent a wry look. “And have the Holy Father get grass stains on his cassock? No, thank you.” 

Before Vincent can make some remark about wanting play clothes like a child, Lawrence ducks down and disappears underneath the table, searching for the lost fork. Vincent tries to look casual as he leans back slightly to admire his beloved’s rear end. 

Lawrence shifts a little and then, hidden by the tablecloth, says, “Do you mend your own trousers?” 

“Maybe,” Vincent replies, biting back a grin. “I am still allowed to do some things myself.” He thinks he did a very good job with his trousers, actually. His mother taught him well. 

Lawrence doesn’t reply. Instead Vincent suddenly feels a feather-light touch around his ankle, brushing against his skin. 

Oh, God in heaven, have mercy on me.

Lawrence is touching him. Privately, intimately. Somewhere no one else sees or takes notice of. 

Suddenly Vincent is very aware that he has a body. He has legs, and hips, and thighs, all of which Lawrence could touch from his position on his knees. Would he want that? Would he be curious about the hair on Vincent’s legs, the soft skin on the inside of his knee, the place where his thigh meets his pelvis? 

Thomas has such a keen eye, such a willingness to reach out and touch when someone needs reassurance or grounding. Does desire ever enter his thoughts? Does he know that every inch of Vincent’s skin is his to map, to examine, to kiss or lick or bite, if that is what he wants? 

Lawrence’s fingers retreat from Vincent’s ankle within seconds but Vincent can feel the touch throughout his whole body. He wants to tell Lawrence he could move his hands higher, if he wanted. He could spend the whole afternoon underneath Vincent’s cassock, exploring, satisfying his curiosity. He could even undo all of Vincent’s neat little stitches, so long as he undid all of Vincent’s buttons, too. 

He needs to get a hold of himself. Imaginings like this are par for the course these days but a public courtyard, among dozens of people who are technically his employees, is no place to expand upon them. 

Lawrence rises to his feet and sets the fork down on the table. Vincent stares at him and hopes his thoughts aren’t written all over his face. 

“Everything alright?” Lawrence asks. Vincent doesn’t respond initially, too captivated by the stars in Lawrence’s eyes from the sunshine. 

“Everything is fine,” he says once his brain catches up to him. “That fork will be dirty from the ground. Let me get you another one.” 

His whole body feels warm and loose as he walks over to the refreshment table. He can feel Lawrence’s eyes on him, ever-observant. 

Do you like my figure? Do I stand out to you? If we met years ago, would I have caught your eye?

Vincent returns to Lawrence with a fresh fork and a small glass of water. He drinks the water greedily, hoping for something to cool his feverish skin. The water is refreshing but a shot of tequila would do better. He rarely drinks, but he could use a drink now. He thinks of the night before he set off for seminary, when his mother threw a little party in the backyard and invited all the neighborhood boys and girls. Vincent was just out of high school, then, wild and full of excitement underneath the string lights and the night sky. He was always a shy boy, but that night he danced with every girl who asked, and embraced every boy with fingertips cold from sweaty bottles of Coca-cola. He feels like dancing now, caught under Lawrence’s gaze. 

Vincent licks his lips and leans in, ready to command. “Eat,” he tells Lawrence, “or I’ll have to feed it to you.” 

Lawrence smiles, and then obediently takes the fork and eats a small bit of cake, his tongue sneaking out to get a runaway crumb. 

Something inside Vincent roars with triumph. It feels good to give an order, not with the authority of the papacy but with the power and trust of being Lawrence’s friend and confidant. Lawrence values his judgment; he knows Vincent would never steer him the wrong way. Vincent pushed in favor of a small bit of happiness, and Lawrence obeyed, pliant and willing. It’s a dance they’ve done before, every time Lawrence has agreed to a nap in Vincent’s office or allowed Vincent to tempt him with a late night snack before bed, but rarely is Vincent given such obvious deference. Lawrence loves Vincent, so fiercely, apparently, that his need for self-sacrifice is outweighed by his eagerness to please. 

Vincent watches another sugary bite disappear into Lawrence’s mouth. He wonders if he could convince Lawrence to let him choose more of his meals, not out of a need to cede control (God forbid anyone try to rein in Lawrence’s independence; he may call himself a trained dog but he is a free one), but because he trusts Vincent to plan these things out for him. Vincent shivers at the idea. He can see himself telling Lawrence at breakfast, murmuring in his ear. A splash of cream in your coffee, and jam on your toast - tonight I’ll cook, something with shrimp, probably, and fruit for dessert - I’ll save the mango pit for you, you can have as much as you’d like. 

Vincent licks his lips and watches Lawrence’s eyelashes rest against his cheek. When he’s truly enjoying something he closes his eyes - listening to a well-sung hymn, in a cool breeze. Now is no different. Is it hard for him to face his own desires? If he were given enough of what he wanted, would he whimper? Cry out?

Vincent has no use for the luxuries of the papacy, but here, now, in his own mind, he can see where the finer things in life serve a function. Lawrence would be shy at first but if Vincent offered him fine silks and linens he wouldn’t be able to resist reaching out and touching. Perhaps Vincent can convince him to add a little more to his choir dress, a bit of lace or a higher quality fabric. Something that’s pleasant to the touch, that feels good to put on every day - and take off every night. 

It wouldn’t be enough, of course - what Vincent truly wants is to see Lawrence in white, standing on a balcony, waving to an adoring crowd. Or perhaps that’s not it, either, and what Vincent wants is to see Lawrence in a cozy home somewhere, in Mexico or Britain or the Italian countryside, happily married, greeting Vincent with a smile when he returns home from work. 

What do you need me to do? Vincent would ask. Sure, he’d be tired from work but Lawrence’s presence would perk him up as always. 

Be close to me, Lawrence would say. I like it when you’re close to me.

Vincent would be a generous husband. Lawrence need never fear a barren bedroom or a cold marriage. Every inch of his skin would be mapped and kissed and worshipped, until Lawrence (covered in sweat, shaking, panting for air) would have no choice but to beg for more, to ask Vincent to just fuck him already, do something, quit leaving him on edge when he knows Vincent loves him, wants him, needs him.

Vincent can see himself settled in between Lawrence’s legs, his mouth full of cock, his body vibrating with excitement. Would Lawrence cover his face in embarrassment? Would he thrust up, unable to control the movement of his hips? Would he worry that Vincent wasn’t enjoying himself? Vincent could fix that, Vincent could make his feelings clear - he could climb on top and push his own hard cock into Lawrence’s mouth, showing him just how much his tesoro affects him while his cock is in Vincent’s mouth. Vincent doesn’t know if such a position is common during sex, or if he’s just invented it in his head, but it sounds like a wonderful way to spend an afternoon. 

Vincent curls his hands into fists over his thighs. His heart races, beating loudly in his ears. Lawrence doesn’t notice, finishing the confection and setting the fork down on his plate. 

So good for me, Vincent thinks. I love you. I love you. Take all of me, please. Eat me up like that little piece of cake. 

No wonder Christ comes in the form of bread and wine. To be consumed is to be adored, down to the last bite.

Forget tequila. Vincent’s desire could not be quenched by holy water. 

“How was it?” Vincent asks. 

Lawrence wipes his mouth neatly with a napkin. “Delicious,” he replies. 

“Am I a good provider for you?” Vincent asks, desperate for a treat of his own. 

Lawrence smiles slyly, like they’re sharing a secret joke. “Excellent,” he replies. “You always give me the best.” 

Vincent struggles to keep his breathing steady. His trousers are uncomfortably tight. It’s a good thing he’s wearing his cassock. 

He needs to do something before he passes out, or grabs Lawrence and kisses him, or makes this little celebration way more memorable than it should be. 

“Excuse me,” he says quietly. “I’ll - I’ll be back in a little while, okay?” 

Lawrence doesn’t appear to have noticed any change in Vincent’s demeanor. He looks at Vincent with the same innocence in his eyes that always lends Vincent a layer of guilt over his arousal. It’s not fair. Vincent can’t help it. 

“Okay,” Lawrence says. “Come back soon.” 

Vincent’s heart swells; he feels lightheaded with happiness. “I will.” 

He keeps his head down as he makes his way back inside the Casa Santa Marta, grateful that everyone around him is giving him a moment of privacy. He just needs to calm down, and then he can return to being Innocent. He just needs a minute to himself.

The bathroom is quiet and thankfully free of people when Vincent enters it. He steadies himself with both arms against the sink furthest from the door, then turns on the faucet and splashes some cold water on his face. 

He can’t imagine what Lawrence would say if he knew much of an effect he had. He wouldn’t be disgusted, hopefully, but he would likely think his friend was being overdramatic. 

A fantasy unfolds in Vincent’s mind, tethered to the image of Lawrence’s teasing smile, the one he reserves for private jokes. 

You’re so sensitive, he’d say, his arm curling around Vincent’s hip, pulling him close. I don’t have to do much at all to get you on edge. How are you going to stand it when we make love? You’ll be a mess before I even get my fingers inside you.

Vincent looks up and stares wide-eyed at his reflection in the mirror. He barely recognizes himself. His cheeks are flushed red, sun-kissed and full of passion. His pupils are dilated, his gaze inky-black and restless. He runs a hand through his hair to fix it and has to catch his zucchetto before it falls, placing it back on his head haphazardly. 

It’s embarrassing how obvious his arousal is. But worst of all is the pressure between his legs, the needy twitching of his cock with his heartbeat, cheerfully demanding attention. 

No. He will not touch himself. Not here, not now, not in a public bathroom where anyone could see - 

Voices come close to the bathroom door, then fade away. Spooked, Vincent hurries into one of the stalls, locking the door and leaning up against the barrier, terrified he’s going to be spotted with an erection under his cassock. 

Just stop thinking about it. Calm down. Don’t be sinful. 

The defiant, hungry voice inside Vincent argues instantly, swallowing up any shame he has left. It’s not a sin, he thinks. It’s good, it’s right for me to love him, I’m just - I just need somewhere for it to go, I just need to tell him, show him, I just need a moment - 

Vincent groans and runs a hand over his face. He can’t go back outside and face the rest of the party like this. But he can’t stop his heart from racing, his breath from coming in short gasps, his mind from replaying the image of Lawrence’s smile at him over and over again. 

I like it when you’re close to me. 

I would vote for you three times.

You always give me the best. 

Oh, fuck it. 

Vincent pulls his cassock up around his hips and fumbles with the button and zipper of his trousers, pushing down the waistband of his boxers and finally, finally pulling his cock out. It’s obscene to even look at, the swollen heated bit of flesh sitting heavy in his hand, but Vincent can’t bring himself to care about that now. What’s rushing through him is relief, cool release running through his veins at getting any sort of stimulation. He closes his hand into a fist around his cock and pumps, slowly, careful not to make a sound. 

Part of Vincent understands why sexual desire is so forbidden, so taboo in so many religions - including his own. It feels good to touch himself, to know his body, to know what he likes, what makes him sweat, shiver, ache for more. There’s an element of autonomy to it, a power in being able to produce such a feeling all by yourself. And to be able to do it to someone else? To know that you could drive someone mad with want just by talking to them, asking them what they like, and touching them the right way? Of course such an act could be seen as a threat, even if it were done by two consenting adults. Those who would use the Church’s power to oppress rather than liberate would find no stronger weapon against them than the intimacy of two people. 

But Vincent knows better. He knows he was made in God’s image - his eyes, his hands, and yes, his cock. He knows the only reason he’s even able to feel honey-sweet pleasure between his legs is because God made him able to feel it. It is a matter of joy, the same way it’s a matter of joy to feel rain on his skin, or taste a piece of cake, or smell Lawrence’s shampoo - 

Vincent bites back a whine and feels precome slip over his fingers, making the way slick and easy. He knows he shouldn’t draw it out, but he’s so hard, and it feels like a waste to not admire the length of himself, the way his cock disappears into his grip. 

Lawrence’s hands, fumbling around his waist, wrapping around his cock, his voice low and gentle in Vincent’s ear -

Pushing him back onto a bed, crawling on top of him, covering him, enveloping him, covering him in warm, lazy kisses, unafraid of Vincent’s body, wanting to become one with him, one marriage, one flesh - 

Spreading his legs, letting Vincent lead, claiming exhaustion in his old age only because he’s too embarrassed to admit he wants to be fucked, filled to the brim - and that’s fine, Vincent will happily oblige, pushing inside - warm and tight - 

Vincent spreads his legs a little wider and balances his hand against the metal wall between stalls. He grits his teeth against his own sensitivity and moves his hand up, choosing instead to thrust up rather than move his arm. Vaguely he recognizes that someone else has entered the restroom; he’ll have to be especially quiet.

He wishes he had more access to himself. If he could, he’d squeeze at his thighs, pinch his nipples. He doesn’t want to be caught but he cannot deny the adrenaline running through him is giving him one hell of a rush. 

His fingers move carefully up and down the underside of his cock, fevered flesh meeting fevered flesh. He opens his mouth and pants for air, lightheaded, dizzy with want. A soft sound escapes him when he squeezes the base of his cock - he worries briefly he might’ve alerted somebody to his presence, but nothing happens. 

Stay quiet! He reminds himself. He thinks of Lawrence’s warning from ages ago, the last time his desire got the better of him: you are many wonderful things, Holy Father, but subtle isn’t one of them. 

Vincent’s not sure he could be quiet in Lawrence’s arms. He’d want to make his ecstasy clear, testify to his relationship. Maybe Lawrence would have to hold a hand over his mouth, snarl a threat into his ear, punishing and cruel like in Vincent’s dreams: if you make another sound I’ll have to end this. You don’t want that, do you? I know I’m your good boy but you have to be good for me, too. 

Vincent can be good. He can be good, he can be so good - 

More precome leaks from the head of his cock and slides over his fingers, making his grip slippery and wet. He speeds up his strokes, finding a short, choppy rhythm that moves in time with his breathing. His cock pulses and twitches in his hand, making a feedback loop that only drives him higher and higher. 

If Lawrence were with me, Vincent thinks, I could make him see. I could show him that it’s not my fault, that he’s changed me, that I’m only so desperate because of love, because I love him, because I love God through him, and he would understand, just like in the Room of Tears, he’d know it would be more of a sin to deny God’s will than to submit to the overwhelming force of desire - he’d - he’d say he knows, he feels the same way - he wants it, too - the blinding glow of love - strange and new and foreign to him but nevertheless, he has it - he has it - he has me - 

Oh, yes, yes, yes - 

Vincent tips over the edge almost gracefully, his cock thickening and then twitching repeatedly, pushing thick pulses of cum over his hand and wrist. He shudders and moans quietly, unable to be totally silent. His body tenses reflexively, and then relaxes, forcing him to sag against the wall. Vincent swallows, and wishes for what must be the millionth time that the scent of Lawrence’s seed filled his senses rather than his own. 

Okay. Breathe. Focus. 

Vincent struggles to keep his legs from giving out but manages to lean over and tear off a sizable amount of toilet paper from the dispenser so he can clean himself up. He does so, flushes the evidence down the toilet, and then loosens his grip on his cassock, tucking his blessedly softening cock back into his trousers. Then he zips up and buttons himself back up with shaking hands. 

No guilt washes over him. No shame creeps through his veins. There’s no space for it. He had a need, and he satisfied it, using the body God gave him. Perhaps fulfilling one of the body's highest purposes. God made the human arms exactly the right length for this, and equipped humans with dextrous, powerful hands.

Vincent exits the bathroom stall, still hearing a roaring in his ears. He washes his hands thoroughly and glances at his watch, wondering if Lawrence is still outside, waiting for him. He’ll have to go and see. It might be torture to face the man who just inspired him to masturbate in a public bathroom, but it would be worse to avoid him. From Lawrence’s perspective, literally nothing out of the ordinary has happened.  

When he returns to the courtyard he finds it’s mostly empty, except for the few Sisters folding up tables and picking up the occasional stray napkin. He asks after Lawrence; the Sisters tell him the Dean wandered off somewhere, probably intent on carrying on with the rest of his duties for the day. That makes sense. Vincent nods and heads off to do the same. 

The rest of the day continues without incident; Vincent returns to his office and meets with several of his advisors, all of whom give him very good advice that he dutifully writes down in his notebook despite thinking almost exclusively about Lawrence’s mouth wrapped around a fork. Then he answers some emails, and spends some time praying to Jesus to give him patience and strength in his next year of life. Finally he stops by Sister Agnes’ office and thanks her once again for the celebration, emphasizing his appreciation of the Sisters’ culinary skills. 

When he returns to his apartment Lawrence is in the kitchen, picking at a bowl of green grapes and reading a novel. He looks up at Vincent with wide eyes and a tinge of pink in his cheeks. Vincent smiles; his beloved got a touch of a sunbeam, it seems. 

“I’m sorry I missed you earlier today,” Vincent apologizes. “I just got a bit - overwhelmed, you know. By the heat.” 

Lawrence’s lips part. He hesitates, then nods. “I - completely understand,” he replies. 

“Did you have a good rest of your day?” 

Lawrence nods. He looks a little strange - not quite tense, but almost anticipatory. “I did,” he replies. “I got work done and now - now I’m here.” 

Vincent nods. He reminds himself that any awkwardness in the room is entirely manufactured by his own brain. “Good. Well - I’ll be in my room, if - if you need me.” 

Lawrence nods. His eyes travel over Vincent’s face, and then suddenly dip downwards, over his chest and torso. Vincent doesn’t know what he’s looking for. 

“Okay.” 

Vincent heads towards his bedroom, ready to rid himself of his cassock and underclothes, which have been uncomfortable ever since his moment of exertion earlier that day. 

“Um - dearest?” Lawrence calls behind him. 

Vincent turns. “Yes?” For a moment he wonders if something about himself gives away what he’s done. 

“After you get ready for bed, do you - do you want to sit with me for a little bit?” Lawrence asks. “Just - keep me company?” 

Vincent relaxes. “Claro que sí,” he replies. 

He showers and changes quickly, slipping into his pajamas and relishing the cool air on his skin. Then he returns to the kitchen. 

Lawrence’s gaze is still a little wide-eyed when Vincent returns to his side. 

“What is it?” Vincent asks. “You’re looking at me funny.” 

Lawrence shakes his head. “It’s nothing, I just - we’ve spent over two years together, do you know that?” 

Vincent smiles. “Yes, I do. I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I have.” 

Lawrence shivers, so minutely Vincent almost doesn’t catch it. “I have,” he replies. 

“I hope I haven’t bored you yet,” Vincent teases. 

“You?” Lawrence huffs out a laugh. “Never.”

Vincent leans over and grabs a grape from the bowl by Lawrence’s elbow. “Tell me what you’re reading,” he says. 

Lawrence takes a deep breath and then launches into a vivid description of the dimestore detective novel he’s reading, his cheeks pink with excitement. As he talks, one of his hands moves animatedly in the air. The other rests on the table, inching closer and closer to Vincent’s hand, until their fingertips are just barely touching. 

Vincent thinks of the brush of Lawrence’s fingers against his ankle, and his own heavy touch against his skin in the restroom. He doesn’t move his hand away, but keeps it close, savoring the connection.