Trinitas

by VillaKulla

Summary:

“You’d like him, you know,” Thomas said.

“I do like him,” Aldo said automatically, twirling the stem of his wine glass, looking into its deep red like it was a scrying mirror.

“I mean as a friend. If you spent more time with him. You have a lot in common.”

“Do we use the same shampoo?” asked Aldo, raising an eyebrow. Thomas gave him a warning look but his mouth was tugging up.

“You’re both stubborn,” he said bluntly.

 

*

Cardinals like Thomas Lawrence and Aldo Bellini know all too well how slowly things move within the walls of the Vatican. But with Vincent Benítez's election cracking their world open, and the new Pope cutting away the old branches to make room for the new, both find that change is flooding in everywhere, mostly within themselves.

 

 

 

And on the vine were three branches. As it budded, its blossoms opened and its clusters ripened into grapes.

Genesis 40:10

 

 

The hand across from him hovered over the knight. It hesitated. Then, almost as if in blessing, it slid across the checkered board, lingering over a pawn.

 

“You don’t want to do that.”

 

Thomas’s eyes flickered up to Aldo’s. His hand retreated towards a rook that hadn’t yet made any advancements. 

 

“You don’t want to do that either,” said Aldo mildly.

 

“Well then, tell me, what do I want to do?” asked Thomas, only a trace of impatience in his voice.

 

“Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime,” Aldo quoted, sitting back and reaching for his wine glass.

 

“And teach a man to play chess, and you torment him for all eternity,” muttered Thomas, peering into the board again. 

 

Aldo’s lips curved around his wine glass, patiently watching the brow across from him, furrowed in concentration. Thomas reached out again, bypassing the rook and going back to the pawn, decisively bringing it forward onto a square, almost as if in spite.

 

Aldo set down his wine glass and plucked his own rook from the board, swapping it with Thomas’s last remaining bishop that had now been left open.

 

“Oh really now,” Thomas said, leaning back, irked.

 

“Your first instinct with the knight was correct,” Aldo said. Thomas’s first instincts usually were. “Your turn again.”

 

Thomas reached for his own glass of wine, taking a sip as he surveyed the board, finally moving his queen into the fray, almost lazily.

 

Aldo glanced at him in annoyance. “You’re moving just to move.”

 

“Your turn again,” quipped Thomas back, taking another sip of wine.

 

Checkmate was in four, eight if Aldo was feeling merciful, which he normally wasn’t, but each had a full glass of wine remaining, the room was warm and the candles on the windowsill were flickering merrily, and Aldo was in no particular hurry this evening. So he magnanimously surrendered a bishop, which Thomas gamely fell for, and Aldo settled back to watch the inevitable unfold.

 

Seven moves later, Thomas was extracting his king, extending it towards Aldo.

 

“Yours, I believe?”

 

“Your faith does you credit,” said Aldo, taking it from his warm palm, lips twisting.

 

“I’m a poor substitute for his late holiness, I know,” Thomas said, watching as Aldo began to pack up the simple, travel chess set.

 

“Well just so long as you know,” joked Aldo. He glanced up from the pieces he was tidying, face smoothing as he saw how tired Thomas looked. 

 

“Oh come now, that wasn’t half bad,” he said generously.

 

“What about the other half?” asked Thomas with a wry slant to his mouth.

 

Aldo snorted and got up to return the chess set to its spot on the shelf, squeezing Thomas’s shoulder as he walked by, the skin warm and surprisingly close through the dark cotton of Thomas’s shirt. Thomas’s cassock was folded neatly on the spare chair in Aldo’s room. The room was rather stuffy, but it was too early in the new year to leave the windows open in the evening, this January being cooler than usual.

 

Carefully replacing the chess set, Aldo lingered for a moment over it, feeling a familiar pang as he thought of the former Holy Father. It was getting easier with time, but every now and then it hit him that they would never sit across from each other again. He did his best to treasure the memories, and keep them alive by still playing. It had been hard at first to reset the board after their last unfinished game, and to play a new one, but Thomas had understood. Thomas was just about the only one he could imagine still using this board with, the only one worthy of sharing these memories with Aldo, in spirit at least, if not quite in style of play.

 

 Aldo settled back into the chair opposite Thomas. Of course Thomas already technically knew how to play chess, he just wasn’t a particular aficionado. Impatient with a drawn out game, he more often than not moved his pieces as his whim took him, merely to see what would happen next, confident he’d deal with the consequences of his impulses. He could have been a good player with more of a long-term strategy, Aldo felt, but regrettably he had little appreciation for the process.

 

The chess was new for them, the weekly tête-à-tête was not. Ever since both had been placed in Rome, a weekly bottle of wine became their go-to, sipped slowly in one of their rooms through the kind of conversation and companionship that Aldo knew was rare and precious to have in the second act of his life. The period where Thomas was often away had been a wrench. Aldo had frequently accompanied him to chemo, all distracting debate and pre-rehearsed wit, only to stumble back into his rooms at the end of the day, praying white-knuckled, harder than he ever had in his life.  

 

They were back to wine these days, and were tentatively adding chess into the mix. Aldo doubted the latter would stick around much longer, but it was hardly of importance. The ritual was Thomas himself.

 

“I got the email you cc’d me on by the way, thank you,” Thomas said, apropos of nothing.

 

“For His Holiness’s tour schedule?”

 

“Yes, I have nothing to add, it seems well in hand.”

 

“Well we’re having another meeting about it next week, if you think of anything,” Aldo said. An international tour was being planned, but such events could take a year, if not more, to prepare. As Secretary of State - again - this was one of Aldo’s biggest responsibilities. The late Holy Father had travelled much less in recent years, and Aldo had nearly forgotten how much there was to coordinate. There was transportation, security, which liturgical themes would be addressed, advance teams sent to local churches on the ground…there was even a church official whose sole job it was to ensure the height of every lectern, so that no visiting Pope would ever seem too diminutive on TV.

 

What must the new Holy Father think of this circus, Aldo wondered, not for the first time, thinking of the firm but unassuming man who’d shown up in Rome with nothing other than a briefcase, a rosary, and the clothes on his back. Vincent Benítez bore the change with remarkable aplomb, but it must be jarring to have dozens of officials advising him on his every move, when the only preparation he’d taken to leave Afghanistan was prayer.

 

Aldo and Thomas discussed the African leg of the tour, which was to include Nigeria. Vincent wanted the former Cardinal Joshua Adeyemi to speak on one of his stops.  Adeyemi had offered to resign all his offices with much more dignity than Aldo had expected of him. But Vincent was clear that he would not begin his papacy by dealing out censure, and anyone who wished to continue serving their office in good faith should be allowed to do so in all absolution. Tremblay had slipped away, tail between his legs, and was now teaching in Lyon, the last Aldo had heard. Adeyemi had returned to Nigeria where he was now serving in a local parish, and working primarily with organizations to help the impoverished elderly crisis in the country. He seemed to have no designs on returning to his previous status in the church, however, there were still some Vatican officials who were worried about Adeyemi’s charisma, and that if he were given a chance to speak publicly, it might show people what they’d missed out on. 

 

Such concerns were absurd to Aldo, and the kind of inconsequential nonsense that distracted them from actual serious matters. He said as much to Thomas now, who dipped his chin in agreement, but then gave him a shrewd look.

 

“But it’s not really Nigeria you’re worried about at all though, is it?”

 

“He still wants to go to Kabul, doesn’t he?” Aldo asked him, and Thomas nodded.

 

“Madness,” Aldo muttered, and then immediately regretted it, intending no disrespect. “I only mean no Pope has ever visited Afghanistan. It’s going to be controversial.”

 

“I don’t think he cares.”

 

“It will be dangerous.”

 

“I know he doesn’t care.”

 

“There are plenty of cities that would be honoured by a visit, why does he have to go there?” Aldo protested.

 

“He says he had to leave behind his favourite pair of socks.”

 

Aldo was torn between the urge to snort or go to his drawer and take an aspirin. He twirled the stem of his wine glass, looking into its deep red like it was a scrying mirror. Thomas watched him, head slightly tilted.

 

“You’d like him, you know,” Thomas said.

 

“I do like him,” Aldo said automatically.

 

“I mean as a friend. If you spent more time with him. You have a lot in common.”

 

“Do we use the same shampoo?” asked Aldo, raising an eyebrow. Thomas gave him a warning look but his mouth was tugging up.

 

“You’re both stubborn,” he said bluntly. “And both think you’re funny.”

 

“I am funny.”

 

“Yes, but he’s funny on purpose.” When Aldo looked up in indignation, Thomas cracked a small smile, giving Aldo’s foot a gentle tap with his own beneath the table. Aldo scoffed and stopped contemplating the remains of his wine to actually drink it.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the new Holy Father. Aldo just couldn’t help himself from feeling on edge around him, even now, a couple months into his pontificate. This was not because he was shy. He was ashamed. He regretted his own blindness to Vincent’s eminent suitability. Even his first welcome to the man had been frosty at best. There had been nothing personal to it, but this secret cardinal was still a wildcard, a complete unknown. And Aldo wasn’t fond of unknowns at the best of times, let alone when they appeared in pectore on the eve of a Conclave. He had also been suitably chastened by Vincent’s address to their brotherhood, mortified by the possibility that his own behaviour had been a part of the pettiness that Vincent had so rightfully called out. Every day he spent as Secretary of State again, he was reminded of his unworthiness of the new Holy Father’s example, and supremely abashed by his own presumption that he could have done better. But they all had crosses to bear, and he would do his duty as diligently as he was able.

 

Aldo set down his empty wine glass, and Thomas seemed to take it as a hint to follow suit, draining his own, and getting to his feet.

 

“It’s late, I should be going.”

 

“Are you staying at the Casa tonight?” Aldo asked him, getting up too, watching Thomas gather up his cassock from the spare chair, tucking it carefully under his arm.

 

“At this rate I should. We have the thing tomorrow, don’t we? I want to be here already.” . As Rome-based cardinals, they had their own grace-and-favour apartments in the Vatican, modest, but nonetheless extremely convenient. 

 

“Eight AM,” Aldo said, trying not to make it a groan as he walked Thomas to the door. 

 

“Don’t be late.”

 

“When am I ever?”

 

Thomas gave a small smile, and leaned in spontaneously to hug Aldo goodnight, Aldo patting his shoulder a few times in return. It wasn’t something they usually did, but neither seemed inclined to take each other for granted these days. They’d been through many trials together, always reaching a detente, and the latest Conclave was no exception. Both were aware this would be the final pontificate they’d share, God willing. But life was fragile and nothing was certain, and neither was willing to risk another rift before being separated by the widest chasm of all. 

 

“Goodnight.”

 

“Goodnight.” 

 

Aldo watched Thomas head down the hall, waving before he turned the corner. Letting the door fall shut, Aldo went back into his room and cleared their empty glasses, placing them on the bureau, the smallest drop of red left quivering at the bottom of each.

***

“If Your Holiness would sign here…here…and once more here…”

 

Thomas watched Vincent’s bent figure scribble across the forms, the looping Innocentius XIV thrilling him as it always did. Vincent’s hair fell across his eyes and he flicked it aside, squinting momentarily at the section of the form requiring his signature. Incredible that he did not need glasses yet, but Thomas knew it was only a matter of time. Their position was one of constant study, whether it was scripture, letters, official forms, or other such crowded documents. Thomas couldn’t even begin to guess how many words he read a day. And the Vatican’s lighting was modest at best. He remembered his first time walking with Aldo through the hallways of the Vatican offices, shortly after his arrival, Aldo staring around the dim corridors quipping “Didn’t Christ say whoever follows me will never walk in darkness? I don’t suppose the electricians got the memo.” 

 

“Thank you, Dean” said Vincent, straightening up and carefully replacing his pen in his breast pocket.

 

“I would have brought these to you,” said Thomas.

 

“I was passing,” said Vincent blithely. He’d appeared in Thomas’s office, knocking politely on the door frame, nearly making Thomas jump. Although he counted himself among the most fortunate of men to have a personal relationship with His Holiness, and enjoyed Vincent’s company as both a friend and superior, it was still hard to get over the surprise of seeing the new Pope in his doorway.

 

“Would you care for a coffee?” Thomas blurted out. Vincent accepted and watched Thomas manage the espresso machine on his desk, filling two tiny cups. He bought the beans at a tiny jewel-box of a cafe just across the Tiber. It was an hour’s walk there and back from his offices, so he justified the expense by rationalizing that he was getting exercise going there. “Getting his steps in”, as some of the Cardinals with those sententious watches called it. The appeal eluded Thomas entirely. How could one be expected to maintain a holy state of mind when even your accessories were reminding you of how many calories you’d burned that day?

 

“It is a pleasure to have good coffee so close,” said Vincent, accepting his cup. “In the Congo we had packages of instant coffee. The powder kind. One package had to last each of us a week. It was hardly stimulating enough for the work we did.”

 

“It’s an indulgence, I know,” said Thomas, embarrassed. Vincent had come up in the church doing real work, important work. Thomas and his cozy office could not have been further removed from the kind of good Vincent did.

 

“On the contrary,” said Vincent, inhaling the rich aroma in pleasure, “one could say that it would be more of a sin to not indulge in something so simple. ‘God didn’t have to create honey, but He did, and we ought to receive it with gratefulness’.”

 

“I won’t argue,” said Thomas, and Vincent smiled at him, taking a sip. “Do you look forward to returning? On this summer’s tour.”

 

“I do,” said Vincent, animation flooding into him the way it always did: all at once with no reserve. It was an almost childish exuberance, and it had a way of spilling over into Thomas as well. “I know some of my brothers are still there. I wish to hear how things have changed, how they have not changed, what is most needed…”

 

They chatted about Vincent’s experiences abroad on mission, how being constantly on his guard became second nature, knowing it was necessary, but how it also made him feel so guilty in the face of the generosity he’d experienced there from those who had so little. He’d found it jarring to be so endangered and yet welcomed at the same time, and was sure the feeling would multiply tenfold  when he returned in the role as Pope.

 

“I wish I could go with you,” Thomas said unthinkingly. Vincent glanced over at him and Thomas nearly blushed. “Not that I’m complaining. There will be plenty for me to do here.”

 

“I wish you could join too,” said Vincent with a smile. “I expect a diplomatic tour will be very different from missionary work. I will need all the help I can get.”

 

“You will have Aldo for that.”

 

“Cardinal Bellini? Of course. He has already suggested several adjustments to the schedule.”

 

“Only several? Then he’s mellowing.”

 

Vincent smiled in recognition.

 

“His knowledge of global policy is astounding. I am very grateful to you for suggesting his reinstatement.”

 

“I am sure he was grateful as well,” said Thomas. Although he had fully supported Vincent’s desire to make changes to the Vatican’s old guard, when asked by Vincent for advice in filling the Secretary of State role, Thomas had honestly told him: ‘you can’t do any better than Aldo’. Therefore the job that Tremblay had once dangled to Aldo was now offered freely.

 

Had Aldo accepted Tremblay’s offer, Thomas knew it would have been solely to perform damage control, and to try to mitigate the dangers of what would have surely been a self-centered Tremblay papacy. Thomas had complete faith that Aldo’s ambitions were never personal. He only ever wanted to perform what he saw as his moral duty. Therefore, however chagrined he’d seemed when he accepted Vincent’s offer, Thomas knew it was so that he could help in the role he knew suited him best, the role in which he could make the biggest difference. And so, in the end, despite the many changes Vincent had already made, Thomas and Aldo saw themselves back in the same roles they’d had for years. Thomas wondered if Aldo also saw this restoration as a second chance for them, a chance to be better, Jesus meeting Zacchaeus the tax collector and telling him “Today salvation has come to this house.”

 

“I know you will have your hands full keeping the Vatican running in my absence,” Vincent said, “but I very much hope you will be able to join for one of the stops.”

 

“I take it Afghanistan will not be one of them after all?” Thomas ventured, and Vincent shook his head.

 

“I have every intention of returning eventually. I came here so abruptly, and I am conscious of many unfinished duties. But to go at this particular moment in time would be pure self-indulgence. Cardinal Bellini was perfectly right to insist the tensions would cause more harm than good at the moment.”

 

“But you still argued with him?”

 

“I sensed he would have been disappointed not to prove me wrong,” Vincent said as innocently as his title, but with a mischievous glimmer at the corner of his mouth. Thomas let out a bark of laughter. Both were still laughing when a knock on the door had them looking up to see Sister Agnes looming in the doorframe, her tiny figure as imposing as ever.

 

“Your Holiness. Eminence.”

 

“Good evening, Sister. Would you care to join us?” Vincent asked in Italian. Sister Agnes smiled at the fluency and yet the charm of his Italian, the language blanketed comfortably in his natural accent, but its roots unabashedly evident.

 

“Thank you, Your Holiness but I must not stay. I only wished to tell you that the reports on the city’s convents are ready for your review.”

 

“Thank you, Sister. Can I come to your office?”

 

“I will bring them to your rooms. Would Your Holiness care for a late dinner while you read?” she asked. “I can speak to the kitchens, they are still open.”

 

She cast an assessing glance over Vincent’s thin frame, as though cataloguing what was presently available in the stores, and what would be the most effective at filling him out.

 

“That is kind of you, Sister, but I will be fine.”

 

She appeared as though she wanted to insist, but thought better of it. “Yes, Holiness. Your Eminence, this arrived for you at reception.”

 

She handed Thomas a sleek package, gave a small dip in both of their directions, and slipped out of the room, doubtless to continue one of the hundreds of other duties she performed on a daily basis here. Thomas remembered how indispensable she’d been in recent years, during the pandemic especially. The Vatican had fared relatively well, as insular as they already were, and Thomas was conscious of the unjustness. It seemed that the biggest challenge he and his brothers had faced during what had been a difficult time for so many was how to livestream mass, and even then, the sisters had to set it up most of the time. 

 

Thomas grasped the wide box, not knowing where to put it. The packaging was a smooth, luxurious black, neatly tied with a single elegant ribbon. The box itself looked more expensive than anything else in the room. He knew exactly what it was, had been counting on its arrival for months, and now that it was here, he was suddenly faced with the reality of what he had to do with it.

 

“A late Christmas present, perhaps?” Vincent asked in interest.

 

“You could say that,” Thomas said. He opened his mouth uselessly and shut it, frazzled. He’d planned to do this with a little more ceremony, perhaps in one of their rooms over more coffee. Instead he extended it awkwardly towards Vincent across his cramped office table. “It’s for you.”

 

Vincent looked between Thomas and the box. He rarely looked surprised, as though he were constantly in on God’s plan and there was nothing in the universe that could rattle him. The arguments of children and the spinning of galaxies all had equal weight in his mind, and, on the outside at least, he seemed to accept any new turn of events with the same composure every time. This was one of the few times Thomas had seen him look absolutely astounded.

 

“This is from you?” he asked, and Thomas nodded, clearing his throat. Vincent set it on the table and slowly pulled the ribbon free, removing the top of the box. His lips parted in surprise.

 

“You said you were not able to bring anything from Kabul when you left, and you’ve been wearing second-hand cassocks ever since the Conclave…” Thomas trailed off, crossing his arms, looking down. Vincent set down his coffee carefully to the side and reached into the box, removing a cassock from the tissue. The fabric was plain but heavy, a rich creamy white material that rippled over his brown fingers as he held it up

 

“None of the papal garments fit you when you arrived, although Sister Agnes seems to be doing her best to fix that,” Thomas joked, avoiding Vincent’s eyes which he could feel searching him. Vincent looked down and reached in again, lifting a deep green stole from the packing. It was not showy, and the design was a simple one, but the gold embroidery seemed to make its entire length shine, a subtle yet eye-catching pattern that glimmered warmly, even in the office’s brassy artificial lighting.

 

“I was going to request a blue one but realized we’re a little late for Advent colours,” Thomas said, knowing that he was still talking and Vincent hadn’t said anything yet, but he couldn’t stop. “I figured you’d probably get a little more wear out of this one.”

 

“You chose these?” Vincent asked, resettling the stole into the box, although his fingers still lingered on its embroidery. Thomas was suddenly keenly aware he’d misstepped. His covert visits to the papal tailor in Rome, his fussing over the fabrics, his blithe disregard for the euros in his own personal account, now all seemed ridiculously extravagant in retrospect. A man who was used to making a packet of instant coffee last a week would no doubt see such a gift as ludicrously improvident, the kind of decadence the last Holy Father had almost militantly tried to do away with. He knew Vincent to have simple tastes and had deliberately avoided some of the flashier options. He’d simply wanted Vincent to have something of his own. He deserved that much.

 

“I’m sorry -” Thomas started to say, but Vincent stepped around the table taking Thomas by the shoulders.

 

“I will wear them with great pride,” Vincent said. “Thank you, Thomas.”

 

“Oh. It’s quite alright. I mean, you’re welcome,” Thomas said, still flustered. Vincent’s eyes crinkled and he stepped in to embrace Thomas for a brief moment before releasing him, going back to the box to run his hands along the fabric once more. Thomas watched his careful ministrations, his skin still buzzing. 

 

“I have nothing to give you,” said Vincent in mild protest.

 

Nothing but my renewed faith, thought Thomas to himself, but he waved it away. “It’s a gift.”

 

“A wonderful gift. This is very kind of you,” Vincent said in a lower voice than his usual. It sounded almost thick to Thomas’s horror, but when Vincent looked back up at him he was smiling. Thomas forced his mouth into a smile too.

 

“Let me know if it needs adjusting,” he blustered, “and I can speak to the tailor. Not now, of course, I know you have reports to get to.”

 

“Indeed,” said Vincent. He replaced the stole carefully onto the cassock and packed them up as gingerly as though they were the original gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

 

“Goodnight, Your Holiness.”

 

“Goodnight, my friend,” said Vincent, smile still lingering as he assessed Thomas. He brushed past him, the rustling of his currently too-long robes wisping over Thomas’s shoes. Thomas’s fingers clenched as though he were about to reach out and keep the Pope in his offices.

 

Thomas only realized then, that in all his inelegant nattering, he hadn’t mentioned that the pattern on the stole was meant to replicate that of a turtle shell. He was suddenly unaccountably relieved he hadn’t.

 

Foolish, he chided himself. He watched Vincent leave, and the moment he turned the corner, Thomas sank into his chair rubbing his forehead, the office lights stinging into him. He felt elated, unsettled, and restless all at once.

***

Vincent made his way through the private corridors that ran through the Sistine Chapel. He was told he would find Cardinal Bellini at the Sistine, yet he was in none of the expected offices. Vincent had simply assumed he would be in the public relations department, and he’d startled more than a few of its workers who’d bolted to their feet at his sudden apparition by their desks. Most of them were busy working out details for the ongoing choir festival. Rome was hosting an international summit for the Catholic Choirs Association, with concerts taking place all over the city. That evening, the Vatican was hosting the welcome concert in the Sistine, which had been on Vincent’s calendar for months. It finally occurred to Vincent that he might find Cardinal Bellini in the chapel itself.  

 

He walked through the antechamber, steps echoing on the marble floor. It was a rare moment of solitude for him. He had been warned that to become Pope was to be set apart, to be isolated by default. Certainly he had experienced this in some material ways, but he was finding moments of true independent reflection to be much thinner on the ground than ever before. Even when he walked alone there were often bodyguards around him. But the Sistine had already been cleared by security for the upcoming ceremonies, and he found it peaceful to peruse it at will.

 

Strange to be back here, the site of his election. He’d only been in the chapel once before the Conclave, and would have counted himself lucky to return after. He never imagined that it would be the place that would reshape his own destiny, Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb, sealing them all for three days before they could face the sun again, newly resurrected. 

 

Following the sounds of the organ he reached the doors to the chapel and stopped. At the organ was Cardinal Bellini, playing with one hand, conducting the choir with the other.

 

It was such an unlikely sight, Vincent stepped back into the shadows to watch. Aldo played well, fingers moving deftly over the upper keyboard, barely glancing at the sheet music set up before him. His other hand traced wide arcs, keeping time as the choir sang along to the hymn. It guided them to the end of the phrase before cutting abruptly, a professional motion that revealed years of experience, not mere improvisation.

 

“Thank you. Yes, thank you. Why am I stopping you?” he asked, turning away from the organ and putting his hands in his lap, peering at the choir behind his spectacles. He seemed to be mainly addressing the boys’ choir, many of the older members being professionals who performed in many other parts of Rome. All were silent.

 

“What does ‘Gaudete’ actually mean?” he asked. “Anybody?”

 

“Rejoice.”

 

“Rejoice!” Aldo echoed thunderously, making the boys jump and giggle. 

 

“This is a song of praise!” he exclaimed, looking around them earnestly, perfectly in his element. “Of celebration! Now do you think I could see a little of that in your faces? Hmmm? Half of you look like you’re making up a shopping list in your head, the other half look like you’re trying to remember where you lost it.”

 

The boys’ giggles turned to laughter as they poked each other.

 

“Now once again, please. Gaudete! Uno, duo, tre …”

 

Vincent listened, a slight smile on his face as they sang the verse again, the boys doing their best to convey the desired holy joy. Some of them now looked as though they were trying to squeeze it out of their pores.

 

“Better. Much better. Now, before we go, I would just like us to do a soundcheck for the Biebl Ave Maria.” There was a flurry of pages being turned. “We’re divided for this one, and I told Edoardo I would check the balance. So could I please get the three soloists out in the aisle…yes, right there, thank you.”

 

Aldo left the organ to take his place by the tape marks on the floor where the conductor’s stand would be.

 

“Now, no need to do the whole thing, I would like us to just run the first angelus verse and refrain, and then we will go straight into the Sanctus as though we’re finishing. Capisce? Good. Enzo, whenever you’re ready. Remember, freely now.”

 

The boy soprano cleared his throat and began to sing the first solo, the words echoing around the space:

 

“Angelus Domini, nuntiavit Mariae. Et concepit de spiritu sancto…”

 

The rest of the choir joined in and Vincent stood stock still in the wings, listening to the sound reverberate around the chapel, the men’s voices providing a foundation like St. Peter’s rock, the echoing replies of the boys taking wing and floating up to the ceiling, flying around the room, a call and response that pierced Vincent to his core. What struck him even more was Cardinal Bellini’s face. Always so gravely calculating in meetings and services, it had smoothed out entirely as he drew the unearthly sounds from the choir, eyes closed as he gently guided them through the crescendos. Choral singing went hand in hand with Catholic tradition, but Vincent couldn’t remember ever hearing any sound at quite this level before. It didn’t even seem humanly possible. The same boys who’d been nudging each other moments before, the aloof professionals distracted by the ceiling, were now moving and inhaling as one single organism, creating something more than the sum of their parts. And Cardinal Bellini, normally so contained, was the one shaping it all, no longer in his head, but gesture and expression in their purest forms. Vincent was not a man especially prone to weeping, but he nonetheless felt his chest ache.

 

The final note hung in the space reverberating. When the silence ceased to ring, the last echo trailing away into ether, Aldo let his arms finally drop. He smiled at them.

 

“Then I heard every creature in heaven and on earth and under the earth and on the sea, and all that is in them, singing: ‘To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb be praise and honour and glory and power, for ever and ever.’”

 

“Amen.”

 

Everyone turned to see who had spoken, and an exclamation broke freely from their lips as Vincent stepped out of the shadows. The younger boys gasped, staring open-mouthed at the Pope who’d been listening to them singing. Even the more jaded older members of the choir who’d performed countless times in his late Holiness’s presence had straightened up, a little star-struck, even if they tried not to show it. Vincent was still a new sight.

 

“That was beautiful,” he told them. He wasn’t even sure the words had registered, the choir still abuzz at his presence.

 

“Your Holiness,” Aldo said, removing his glasses and rubbing the lenses with his fascia, nodding at Vincent. He’d worked up a light sweat from the efforts of his conducting. “I didn’t realize you would be stopping by.”

 

“Nor I, but I am glad I did. I was already greatly looking forward to tonight’s performance, even more so now,” Vincent addressed the choir again. “Incredibile.”

 

“Grazie, Papa! ” blurted out one little boy before he could stop himself, practically vibrating as he stared at Vincent. The rest of the choir chuckled as the boy flushed, effectively breaking the ice.

 

“Alright, that’s a wrap, your call time is at six o’clock. In robes and warming up at six-fifteen. That is six-fifteen sharp,” Aldo said, staring pointedly at a couple of the teenage singers over his glasses. “Scores up here, please.”

 

Vincent waited as the choir filed out. There was a brief crush as many of them stopped to greet him or kiss his ring. Finally the initial excitement subsided, the last chorister shuffled out, and the last music folder was dropped onto the table. Vincent walked over to where Aldo was now rearranging them into a neater pile. He gave Vincent another polite nod and continued organizing hymn books and scores, checking them off in a notebook. He looked back at Vincent who had been staring at him all the while.

 

“Eminence…” 

 

“Yes?”

 

“I had no idea,” was all Vincent could manage.

 

“About what?”

 

“You work with the choir?”

 

“Ah. Well, not officially. Maestro Edoardo is working with the visiting choirs this afternoon in the city. He asked me to perform today’s soundcheck, if I was available. Sometimes I fill in when the Maestro is otherwise occupied.”

 

“That looked like more than simply filling in,” Vincent commented, picking up a stack of hymn books and following Aldo to replace them into the backs of the chairs that had been set up for the concert. “You clearly knew what you were doing.”

 

“Well, I grew up in choir,” said Aldo, seemingly oblivious to Vincent’s awe. “My family was very musical growing up, and I was a choirboy from a very young age. I ended up studying music in university.”

 

“Did you really?”

 

“Masters of Sacred Music, with a focus on the Renaissance,” Aldo rattled off, smiling slightly. “So I’m not actually a real conductor, but if a real conductor is not available, I suppose I’m the next best thing.”

 

“I had no idea,” Vincent repeated. He was still looking forward to the evening’s concert as he’d said, but regretted that it wouldn’t be Aldo directing it. He could have watched that all day.

 

Aldo shrugged.

 

“Well I enjoy it.” 

 

They walked in silence around the chapel, straightening up leftover materials from the soundcheck, Aldo occasionally peeling tape off the floor, or handing an extension cord to Vincent for him to hold while he coiled it back up. That was one thing about Aldo. Most people deferred to Vincent now, rushing to assist him with the slightest task, lest his Holiness even lift so much as a finger. He tried to graciously allow it, but it could get grating. He was amazed he was still allowed to lift his own coffee cup to his lips. Aldo was infallibly respectful towards Vincent, but nor did he ever treat him with kid gloves. One day, further on in his papacy, Vincent would have to tell him how much he appreciated the spot of normalcy amidst the whirlwind of his ascension.

 

As Aldo replaced the last hymnal, he paused. They were beneath the window that had shattered in the explosion, taking out some of the surrounding frescoes with it. The Vatican conservators had done a wonderful job in their restorations, every facet of the ceiling already so well documented. But there were still some spidery cracks through the plaster if you knew where to look for them. Aldo studied them for a moment, and Vincent sat down in one of the chairs. He watched Aldo’s upturned gaze and felt compelled to ask:

 

“Did you never wish to become a ‘real conductor’ as you put it?” 

 

Aldo half-turned to him.

 

“Forgive me. I don’t wish to imply that you should have any regrets. I only mean to say that you clearly have a gift.”

 

Aldo opened his mouth, closing it again. There was the faintest tinge of red on his cheekbones but his face didn’t change.

 

“Regret is part and parcel of this particular lifestyle. But no, not seriously in the end. I enjoy it but it is not my calling.”

 

Vincent nodded. He understood. Aldo seemed to be hesitating.

 

“I almost left the church for music, you know,” he said finally. His posture was casual, but Vincent thought he recognized the tone of confession.

 

“I didn’t,” said Vincent, waiting.

 

“I loved going to church growing up, and always thought it was because of the music. The choirs…the organ…the chanting…it was my favourite part. So in university I focused on that as my career path. I was still doing a minor in theology at the same time, and figured that would be spiritual sustenance enough. But it wasn’t.”

 

“No?”

 

“No,” Aldo said, absently taking a seat next to Vincent, eyes far away. “I finally realized it wasn’t the music I missed, but the church itself. I had underestimated my own longing for holiness. So after my music degree I went back and did my whole schooling again, but this time I packed in every theological course I could to make up for lost time, and then officially joined the seminary. I’m sure many of my friends from music school were shocked, but I had made up my mind.”

 

He shrugged again, a simple gesture for such a significant choice.

 

“They were so inextricably linked to me. Music and the church. To divide them defied all reason. But I think I finally got the balance right.”

 

He glanced over at Vincent with a wry smile.  

 

“I find it hard to separate the practical from the spiritual sometimes. You may have noticed.”

 

“Some would say that is a good thing,” Vincent said. Aldo’s smile twisted unreadably. He seemed discomfited at having shared more than he meant to, at how deftly Vincent had brought his words out of him, although it had not been Vincent’s intention. 

 

They sat for a moment in the chairs looking around the walls. Vincent realized they were sitting not too far from where they’d been seated during the Conclave, Vincent one row behind Aldo. His eyes had often flickered over to the American cardinal during the reading of the votes. His face had been dispassionate as ever, but his mouth tightened whenever he heard his name, as though every vote he accrued caused him relief and trepidation in equal measure. Vincent didn’t know much about the cardinal at the time, other than that he was the longtime hope of the liberals, and was a particular friend of their Dean’s. Vincent briefly wondered how Aldo’s rift between his more pragmatic and holy sides as he’d put it had resolved itself during the final ballot, and then dismissed the thought for its inherent self-centredness.  

 

“Well I certainly would like to learn more about the cardinals, and their hidden talents,” Vincent said breezily. “Is there a jazz band in the catacombs I have yet to learn about?” 

 

Aldo humoured him with a smile.

 

“There are certainly plenty of musicians among us. Thomas plays a little violin.”

 

“Does he?”

 

Aldo seemed to have thawed again, the subject having moved to reliable ground.

 

“He’s not bad. He’d be very good if he practiced more. He keeps saying he intends to, but then again, he says the same thing about chess.”

 

“You play chess?” Vincent asked, suddenly struck with inspiration. 

 

“Yes. Do you?”

 

“Mmm. I would be delighted if we could play together sometime.”

 

Aldo’s face was unreadable. Vincent vaguely recalled someone mentioning Cardinal Bellini’s games with Vincent’s predecessor, and he cursed his own thoughtless spontaneity.

 

 “I’m sorry. I would quite understand if it is a ritual you would prefer to preserve with the late Holy Father. I have no wish to intrude on such memories.”

 

Aldo straightened up.

 

“I’ll look forward to it,” he said simply. “Let me know when it would suit you.”

 

“I will.”

 

“Was there something you wished to speak to me about, Your Holiness?”

 

“There was. But I’m afraid your wonderful music drove whatever it was completely out of my head,” Vincent said. “It will have to wait until chess. Shall I find us a board?”

 

He wasn’t sure, but he thought Aldo seemed to hesitate. But he must have imagined it, because Aldo squared his shoulders, contained as ever.

 

“No need, I already have one.”

 

“Very well. Buona giornata, Eminencia. ”

 

“Buona giornata, Sua Santitá.”

 

Vincent got to his feet and made his way back through the chapel. He stole a glance back at Aldo who was still seated, gazing up at the ceiling. Whatever he found in it, Vincent couldn’t say, as he was simply looking at Aldo, noting that the crease was back in his forehead.

***

26 years earlier

“Cameriere! Un altro giro di vino, per favore! ”

 

“No really, I can’t -”

 

“You are about to be sequestered with over a hundred cardinals, most over the age of sixty, and all of them with their eyes on the glasses next to them judging if their neighbour is drinking too much, too little, or worst of all, too moderately. You know what it’s like. You will have another round with me now.”

 

“Very well, but I guarantee you will be the last one to arrive tomorrow,” Thomas pointed at Aldo. 

 

“Care to make it interesting?” Aldo asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“A wager? That’s not very decorous behaviour for an up-and-coming cardinal about to take part in his second conclave.”

 

“The Bible does not expressly forbid gambling,” Aldo said. “It warns us against love of money, get-rich-quick schemes, but nowhere does it say one cannot bet .”

 

“No, but it does remind us of the importance of discipline and self-control,” Thomas said, leaning aside for the waiter to pour them each another glass of red.

 

“Do I seem out of control?” Aldo asked, picking up his glass, a small smile playing at his lips that Thomas couldn’t help but return.

 

“Never,” he conceded, clinking his glass against Aldo’s and taking a generous swallow.

 

“So what would you wager then?” asked Thomas, leaning forward on his elbows.

 

“How about, whoever arrives later than the other tomorrow…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“...has to sit with that traditionalist fellow at dinner. Tedesco.”

 

Thomas burst out laughing, covering up his mouth to block the wine from spurting out. 

 

“Cardinal Lawrence, you’re a man of the cloth,” Aldo said, eyes twinkling as he passed him a linen napkin, glancing around the bar.

 

Thomas immediately felt guilty for his uncharitable reaction. It was only that…

 

“Did you see that quote he made to the L’Osservatore Romano ?” he asked, leaning in again. Aldo did the same, a mischievous glint in his eye.

 

“Ah yes, about how the Old Testament would have wanted to be written in Latin, if it could have chosen for itself?”

 

“Incredible. Not a hint of self-awareness.”

 

“Did you hear that crony of his the other day? You know, the tall one? Moustache? Not too much under the zucchetto?”

 

“Honestly, Aldo,” Thomas said, covering his mouth again, trying not to laugh.

 

“Well he was ranting in the gathering yesterday - in Latin, mind you - about Latin being the ‘language of the angels’, only he pronounced it as ‘anguilles ’.”

 

“Eels?”

 

“I admitted I too found it a slippery language sometimes. I think it went over his head.”

 

Both collapsed in laughter on the little table, Thomas’s shoulders shaking. He straightened up to see Aldo looking at him in satisfaction.

 

“Well God knows what he says about us,” Thomas said. “I dui inglesi .” As two of the youngest and also most anglophone of their brothers, they had already acquired a nickname from the rest of the Curia for being joined at the hip. Thomas always did his best to circulate and acknowledge more of his peers, but it was always a relief when he found himself next to Aldo again, neither his language nor his personality needing any translation.

 

“I would assume something about us braiding each other’s hair, only -” Aldo gestured vaguely towards his head, and Thomas grinned.

 

“Alright, that’s quite enough slander of our colleagues. Tell me about the Gregorian. How are you settling in?”

 

Aldo launched into a description of his teaching post at the Pontificia Universitá Gregoriana, teaching theological hermeneutics to the students. He taught a full course load of Aquinas to the first years, trinitarian theology to the second years, and patristic anthropology to the third years. He also helped out with the school’s Gregorian choir. Thomas half-listened, mostly just happy to hear the clear enthusiasm in Aldo’s voice. The last time they’d met in Rome, Aldo had told him about the competitive application procedures and how he scarcely hoped he’d get in, but Thomas had had no such doubts. Aldo was probably one of the most knowledgeable people he’d ever met. Any institution would benefit greatly from not just his intellect, but his strong sense of personal ethics. Thomas had felt drawn to him from their very first shared mass, and could scarcely believe his good fortune that the two were now to be neighbours in Rome, and that they could sit and talk like this any night.

 

Both their spirits were high tonight. The election of the next Holy Father was all but assured, a good man who would continue the progressive policies that cardinals like Thomas and Aldo believed in advancing. A Pope for the new millennium. There was some worry over a rising traditionalist faction within the Curia Romana, and they would need a Pope who would continue to stand his ground. Aldo mocked them in trusted company, but Thomas knew that under the acidity lay actual fear. He cared about people. He wasn’t afraid of looking unpopular if it meant defending those who needed it. He would make a good Pope himself one day. 

 

“...but so many tourists on campus. Some genuinely interested, but most there to gawk of course. And then some who are simply oblivious. One stopped me outside and asked if it was a very far walk to the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

 

“You’re joking.”

 

“I told him if he started now, it shouldn’t take him more than a few days.”

 

“Was this one of your fellow countrymen, by any chance?” Thomas teased him.

 

“No, in fact. It was a poor confused Englishman, I’ll have you know.”

 

“That’s strange, my father didn’t tell me he was in town,” Thomas mused, taking a sip of wine. Aldo laughed, but it faded out as he regarded Thomas. His eyes were piercing but his face was gentle.

 

“How is your father doing?” he asked quietly.

 

“Well, you know,” Thomas shrugged, “he doesn’t like to say too much. Doesn’t want me to worry. Treatment slowed it down, but…it was already quite advanced when they found it.”

 

“He’s in my prayers.”

 

Thomas was going to say thank you, but found his throat couldn’t make the words come out. He nodded instead and took another sip of wine, aware he was becoming tipsy, but not bothered enough to stop.

 

“And you? Are you getting the exams yet?”

 

“I’m still a little young for that.”

 

“Not if you’re considered higher risk, you’re not,” Aldo told him sternly. “You have a stronger genetic factor.”

 

“I know, I know,” Thomas tried to wave it away.

 

“There’s a clinic here in Rome, most of the clergy goes there.”

 

“I know ,” Thomas said, regretting his tone immediately. “Sorry.”

 

“No, I’m sorry to harp on,” Aldo said. He gave him a rueful smile. “We just wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

 

Thomas felt Aldo’s hand cover his knee under the table, his palm warm. He smiled at him gratefully. He was suddenly aware that out of their robes, they looked more like they were on a date than anything else. He wondered how many of the other patrons in the bar thought so. Not that Thomas had been on many dates in his life, but he imagined that the good ones went something like this.

 

Thomas knew Aldo was gay, not that he had to say it. He was certainly not the only one in the Curia, although such things generally went politely unsaid. Such ‘persuasions’ carried far less weight in an environment of celibacy, an oddly backwards confirmation that what you do is more important than what you are. It was almost safer to harbour an infatuation when there was absolutely nothing to be done about it, and any desires typically went sublimated into the daily routine. But Thomas knew of more than a few friendships that had reached the kind of intimacy that could only end in heartbreak.

 

Thomas wondered, not for the first time, if Aldo had any such inclinations towards him. The idea was no small thrill. Thomas had liked him a great deal, ever since their first meeting. He liked his severe face but warm eyes, his acerbic wit, and his thoughtful repose. There were those who found him harsh, but Thomas knew he simply didn’t suffer fools. He couldn’t deny that he took a certain amount of pleasure in having been chosen as a favourite by such a discerning character.

 

Their discussion of medicine turned into a broader debate about Christian Science religions, both more or less preaching to the choir on this particular subject, but happy to air their grievances nonetheless. Aldo’s hand slipped off his knee at one point to gesticulate widely. Both were so animated, they didn’t notice that the bar was shutting down until the owner came over apologetically. He held out the bottle of wine they’d already started, suggesting they should take it with them for the road, waving their lire away.

 

“God, I love Italy,” Aldo said as they stepped out into the night air. “Back home you’d have to put this in a paper bag.”

 

“I’m pretty sure we’re supposed to do that here too,” Thomas said.

 

“And break Italy’s unofficial laws of style? It would be an insult to the very architecture around us.”

 

Thomas grinned. “Walk me home, why don’t you? I’m only a poor confused Englishman.”

 

“Well in that case…”

 

They wove through the streets, passing the bottle back and forth between them. Even though it was past midnight, the streets were still busy enough, locals calling out to each other and avoiding the tourists with their disposable cameras. The nighttime revelers started to thin out though, the farther they got from the city center. Thomas stumbled on a cobblestone at one point and Aldo laughed and steadied him, slipping his arm through Thomas’s own. Thomas tightened his elbow, lest Aldo remove it. They kept walking like that, still sharing the wine, chatting about this or that. Thomas paid the words no mind. He was wrapped up in the simple sound of their voices together, their conversation filling the street, and laughter bouncing off the stone walls, the evening air both thick and weightless at the same time.

 

Knowing there was construction around his street, Thomas steered them into an alley with some regret. It was a shortcut and he didn’t want the walk to end, so he tried to slow his pace to make up the difference. Then Aldo stopped altogether, staring keenly at a fairly innocuous patch of brick wall.

 

“We can go back and get you a camera if you like,” Thomas offered, gesturing back down the street with the wine bottle.

 

“You know what Rome doesn’t have?” Aldo asked abruptly. “Wine windows.”

 

“More Florentine, no?”

 

“We may have the wisdom down here, but there’s no question they have more culture.”

 

“We can have culture here,” Thomas said, suddenly gripped by a fey mood. He released Aldo’s arm from his own and strolled leisurely to a wrought-iron gate leading to a community courtyard. Some determined wisteria still clung to the vines that snaked through the alleys. He stepped onto the bottom bar of the gate and swung easily into the garden, feeling like a gawkier Gene Kelly. He beckoned Aldo over, proffering the bottle through the gate.

 

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re all out of clean glasses,” he said, playing up his accent. “Is the bottle okay?”

 

Aldo was watching him with an unreadable smile on his face, eyes obscured behind his spectacles. He strode over, hands in his pockets, stopping at the curved bars of the gate, looking assessingly at Thomas. 

 

“Do you want culture or not?” Thomas asked in his real voice, taking a sip from the bottle as well, pulse thudding recklessly.

 

“From a Brit?” Aldo asked dryly. Thomas grinned and extended one arm through the bars, tipping the bottle to Aldo’s lips. Aldo sputtered and stepped back.

 

“You’re going to spill on me!”

 

“Fine, but then it won’t be a window anymore.” He nudged the gate open again and pulled Aldo through to his side, the two coming face to face. He froze, realizing how close they were. He could have stepped back. He should have stepped back. Instead he reached out again to cup Aldo’s face, tracing Aldo’s ear with his thumb.

 

“Like this, then,” he said quietly, raising the neck of the bottle once more. Aldo’s hand shot out to grip his elbow. Thomas didn’t know if it was to stop him or steady him. He waited. Then Aldo’s grip relaxed and he took a step forward. Thomas placed the mouth of the bottle against Aldo’s parted lips, lifting it gently.

 

The first time Thomas had ever given communion, he could barely stop his hands from shaking at the magnitude of the moment for him. He’d gotten better at it, reciting Agnus Dei in his head to stop the nerves. But there was nothing in his head now, nothing beyond Aldo’s upturned chin, the sluice of wine over his tongue, and he couldn’t help but give in to the slightest tremble.

 

Aldo’s throat rippled as he swallowed the rivulet of wine. Thomas set the bottle down on the stoop, the glass scraping against the stone. A trickle of red wine ran from the corner of Aldo’s mouth like blood. Thomas watched it transfixed. He was still cupping Aldo’s face, and he used his thumb to wipe the trail of wine from Aldo’s lips, Aldo’s gaze not leaving his. His pulse was racing inside him. And then, because he wanted to, and because he thought Aldo wanted to, and mostly because he was so tired of not doing it, he leaned forward and kissed Aldo’s lips.

 

At first he registered just the sweet, oaky, flavour of the wine, an unwanted barrier to the skin beyond. He swiped it away with his tongue, feeling Aldo’s sharp intake of breath, and pressed back in, kissing Aldo properly for several long moments. He pulled back ever so slightly, breathing hard, still cupping Aldo’s face but unable to look at him. And then he felt his chin lifted, caught a glance of Aldo’s heavy-lidded eyes, before Aldo leaned in to kiss him back.

 

It was like his whole body exhaled. Thomas wrapped his arms around Aldo, tilted his head and kissed him hard. He felt Aldo’s arms go around his back, fingers digging into his shoulders and he pulled Aldo in closer, kissing him within an inch of his life, exhilarated that he was getting back as good as he gave. Thomas couldn’t help the shaky breaths he took between each slick press of Aldo’s lips. Christ, he was a good kisser. It had been so long since he’d done this, but he couldn’t remember it ever having felt so comfortable, or thrilling, or right in his life. Aldo’s hand lifted to slide through Thomas’s hair, and Thomas almost wanted to cry.

 

Instead, he ran a hand down Aldo’s face, sliding it into Aldo’s open collar, splaying his fingers over his collarbone. Aldo’s breath caught at that and he leaned into the touch. Thomas took the invitation to slip his hand deeper into Aldo’s collar, gripping the bare skin of Aldo’s shoulder, every part of him on fire. He pulled reluctantly off Aldo’s lips, just to bend down and press them hungrily to his throat.

 

If there was any chance of passing this off as just a kiss, it was obliterated the moment he tasted Aldo’s pulse jump beneath his tongue. He couldn’t help the curse that slipped from his lips, Aldo’s hips spasming into his at the sound. He drew back up, kissing Aldo’s neck, his jaw, his cheek, finding his lips again, and kissing him hard, heated.

 

“Thomas…” Aldo gasped. Something inside Thomas liquified at the sound. He gently nudged Aldo back into a shadowy doorframe, pressing him against the smooth stone, leaning back in, sealing their mouths together again. 

 

He could have stayed like this for hours, letting his hands follow the path of their desires, Aldo’s lips slick and hot against his. Leaves from the garden trailed over their shoulders, wrapping them up in their own private corner of the courtyard. Thomas tightened his arms around Aldo who arched up into him. Thomas pressed in closer, and in his eagerness, his heel knocked the forgotten bottle of wine. It wobbled slightly and they broke off to see if it would tip. It wavered and then resettled on the stoop. 

 

Thomas turned back to Aldo. He was still watching the bottle, eyes cloudy, almost as if spooked. When Thomas reached out to hesitantly turn Aldo’s face back towards him, Aldo’s eyes closed, pained, and his hand flew up to cover Thomas’s.

 

“Thomas.”

 

Aldo’s hand tightened over his. Thomas drew back at once, heat rushing to his face.

 

‘I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.”

 

“I just…”

 

“I know. And I wanted you to. But we can’t.”

 

Thomas lifted his head shamefaced, expecting admonition. He saw only affection, sadness, and the same regret that was already seeping through Thomas himself.

 

“So you never…” Thomas couldn’t say the words. In reality, the vows of celibacy were probably only followed by half of the clergy, although that number became smaller and smaller the higher one rose of course. They’d never talked about it themselves. But with Aldo’s streak of realism, he’d wondered, perhaps hoped…

 

“You never do this?” was all he could clumsily manage.

 

“Not ‘never’,” Aldo conceded, looking away. “But not much. And not recently.” It was much the same for Thomas.

 

“I thought maybe you…” he stopped, not wanting to cast aspersions on Aldo’s character. “That is, some consider it to be an outdated practice.”

 

 “Even so, Thomas, my dear, look where we are.”

 

He gestured up the street. The uppermost spire of St. Peter’s Basilica was visible even in this little Eden of an alley, the tip of the Vatican Obelisk looming before it.

 

He brought his hand back to grasp Thomas’s, almost pleadingly.

 

“We simply can’t.”

 

“I know. I know. Forgive me.” 

 

And then suddenly the reality of his actions came rushing in full force, and he felt like the serpent trying to lead Aldo into temptation, the one person he respected more than anyone else he had been more than willing to ruin…

 

“Forgive me,” he said again, and Aldo shook his head emphatically, taking a step towards him.

 

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said firmly and wrapped his arms around Thomas again, holding him more tenderly than Thomas could have imagined. Thomas almost couldn’t bear it, but he let his head fall to Aldo’s shoulder nonetheless, Aldo stroking his hair, comfortingly, no longer gripping it as he had moments ago. 

 

That he could stand to hold Thomas like this in simple reassurance when Thomas still longed for him almost made him feel worse. Aldo’s temper would have been easier to bear than this underserved kindness. To be held close by Aldo like this was both blessing and penance, and he wanted both. But he finally made himself pull back, for their own good. He couldn’t look Aldo in the eye.

 

“Thomas. There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Aldo insisted in a low voice.

 

“I would feel very ashamed if my own weakness drove away your friendship,” he said bitterly. 

 

“Not just your weakness. And it won’t.”

 

“You don’t think this will make things uncomfortable?”

 

“Oh, well naturally it will,” Aldo said, almost drolly. “But only for a couple of weeks, I’m sure. We’ll say hello politely in the halls, and try to stay in groups where we avoid each other’s eyes, but eventually we’ll have to be alone together, and it will be awkward, and to compensate we’ll either be overly polite or perhaps overly cool with each other. But it will thaw because these things always do, and because we still clearly enjoy being together, we’ll remain friends, this just one moment among many, and destined to fade into a hopefully fond but distant memory.”

 

Thomas stared at him, taking it in. And then despite himself, he let out a tired huff of laughter, even though it wasn’t exactly funny. Ever the pragmatic forecaster. It was like he couldn’t turn it off. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, still feeling rotten but calmer. He couldn't have him, but he knew him. There was something almost comforting about the thought.

 

“Oh, well if you have it all figured out then…”

 

Aldo’s lip quirked too, seemingly relieved. His face was still soft, open, but regaining a hint of its usual acuity, the pieces of him seeming to gather themselves up once more.

 

“Is any part of that objectionable?” he asked.

 

“No. So long as you mean it. About remaining friends,” Thomas asked, knowing how pathetic he sounded, but unable to help it. He had made a great many sacrifices in his life, but to lose Aldo altogether seemed one too far. He would do it though, if he thought for a moment he would try to lead Aldo astray again.

 

“I do. Wholeheartedly.”

 

“Well then.”

 

They stood like that in the alley for a moment, hands still loosely clasped. Thomas squeezed Aldo’s once, and felt a returning squeeze. He let go and caught Aldo’s eye. There was nothing to do but laugh tiredly at the absurdity of it all. He didn’t feel quite so wretched as before, but to say he felt good would be an overstatement. 

 

“I should get home,” he said. 

 

“Yes,” Aldo agreed. “So should I.”

 

Neither moved for a moment. Thomas ached with the longing to run his fingers down Aldo’s face one last time. Finally Aldo stepped away, and hesitated.

 

“Last one there tomorrow has to sit with the Traditionalists.”

 

It took Thomas a minute to make sense of what he was saying. Their silly bet of the evening felt like years ago, and it landed cheaply in the alley between them. But Thomas took it gratefully in the spirit that it was intended.

 

“Can I expect to see you curled up outside the gates at dawn?” he asked.

 

“I suppose some penance would be in order,” Aldo said, and his smile faded abruptly. Whether it was for his gossiping about the other cardinals, their evening’s indulgence, or his near-surrender to temptation, it was not clear. Either way, it felt too close to home. Thomas just wanted to go.

 

“Goodnight then.”

 

“Goodnight.”

 

Thomas moved away first, letting himself out of the courtyard, the gate rustling against the vines. He continued down the alley, unable to look back and watch Aldo walk away. He was already turning the key in his lock when he remembered the rest of the bottle of wine, still half-undrunk and sitting on the stoop, almost like an offering to some deity who hadn’t deemed it good enough. He pushed the image out of his head and went inside, locking the door behind him.

***

“Well, take Corinthians, for example.”

 

“What about it?”

 

Vincent promptly moved a pawn in response, faster than Aldo had expected, giving him no time to think about his argument.

 

“The community was displaying open factionalism,” Aldo said, scanning the board for a new option, finding himself reciting a lecture he’d given his students many times. “Everything from idolatry, prayer over works of charity…”

 

“Very true,” said Vincent, also watching the board, as though looking forward to Aldo’s next move, that glimmering half-smile never leaving his face.

 

“But in the end, Paul had faith in his apostolic mission,” Aldo said. “He didn’t hesitate to exercise his authority as per his judgement.”

 

He decided to retreat with his rook, Vincent immediately bringing his bishop out from the corner in clear pursuit. 

 

“The problem with Corinthians though…” Vincent said, leaning on his elbows, “is that we really only have Paul’s letter. As such, we only have his side of events. And as we know, he did have some struggles with his vision.”

 

Aldo’s lip ticked up, but he was undeterred. “You would like to cross reference his letters with the words of those condemned for pride, deliberate misinterpretation of scripture, abuse within the family structure…”

 

“These were the few,” Vincent said. “The majority of Christian Corinthians may well have been faithful, but naturally it was the sinners that took his focus. The bad behaviour became all that was recorded. This is still true today, on any news channel in the world.”

 

“No doubt,” said Aldo, becoming distracted by the board again. He decided to take Vincent’s bishop, only to have Vincent advance cheerfully towards his Queen. “However…”

 

“And besides, we only have the correspondence in one direction,” Vincent continued, “and much of its authorship is disputed anyways. Women must remain silent? A clear interpolation from a translator who was probably angry at his wife at the time.”

 

“Yes, yes, my point is less about the authorship, and more about the community itself, as a representation of the kind of partisanship we still see,” Aldo said, looking for exit routes.

 

“And my point is that partisanship is in the eye of the beholder,” Vincent said. “As they say, ‘All that I know now is partial’ and…well, it sounds better in Spanish.”

 

“You don’t get to say ‘it sounds better in Spanish’ every time you forget a verse,” Aldo said. Vincent grinned openly. 

 

Having had quite enough of speaking in apostolic metaphors, Aldo looked up plainly. 

 

“They’re probably drafting a stance against your views on women in the church as we speak. Tedesco and the others.”

 

“And I will hear them out.”

 

“Your Holiness…”

 

“Vincent, please. Here, anyway.”

 

“Vincent…”

 

“I will listen to them because they are members of this Curia, but I am in no way bound to agree with them or support their views.”

 

“To hear them out is tacit support.”

 

“Is it?”

 

“It is if they’re wrong,” Aldo burst out inelegantly.

 

“Wrong…” Vincent mused. “An interesting word.”

 

“Oh is it?” Aldo muttered.

 

“I know you’re right. And you know you’re right,” Vincent said, looking up at Aldo with that half-smile again, not at all perturbed. “But the trouble is, they also know they’re right. Hmm?”

 

There was really nothing Aldo could say to that. Some people simply were just plain wrong. However, there was a debate that could carry the world comfortably into the end of days and then some.

 

“But you do agree with me?”

 

“I do.”

 

“Then why do you persist in challenging my every point?”

 

“Because I learn something new every time,” said Vincent standing up. “More tea?”

 

“Yes. Thank you,” said Aldo, resigned. He surveyed the board again while Vincent took their empty cups over to his bureau, switching on the kettle again. Like the former Pope, he too had taken chambers in the Casa Santa Marta, eschewing the grand papal palace to which he was entitled. This was not a particular surprise to Aldo, his Holiness’s humility being one of his most notable traits. But his rooms were a little more comfortable than his predecessor’s, whose show of simplicity Thomas and Aldo had privately agreed to be excessive in and of itself. Vincent led a spartan life, but a few creature comforts had found their way to his room, including a kettle, and fine China tea set that had been a gift from the Mexican Ambassador to the Holy See. It was almost reassuring to see Vincent’s obvious penchant for good coffee and tea on display, a spot of humanity amidst his austere trappings.

 

There was also a modest armchair in the corner flanked by a bookshelf Vincent had wasted no time in filling up with second-hand volumes for his leisure reading. Their languages were as diverse as their contents. Aldo could see the Catechism jammed between The Count of Monte Cristo and Middlemarch. One shelf down, the Quran was leaning against Dan Brown.  It was a motley collection that seemed to be comprised piecemeal of the Vatican library, tattered editions from Rome’s second hand bookstores, glossy airport grabs, and whatever Vincent had been able to borrow after his arrival.

 

Aldo looked to the table where Vincent kept his books that were currently on-the-go, and noticed with a start that Thomas seemed to have lent Vincent some of his John le Carré books. He was a great fan and had the entire collection, a gift from Aldo, for Thomas’s fiftieth birthday. It was strange to see them uprooted from Thomas’s rooms, sitting here in Vincent’s reading nook, places marked. The copy of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy bore the inscription: ‘My dear Thomas, The fiftieth year shall be a Jubilee to you; in it you shall neither sow nor reap what grows of its own accord, nor father the grapes of your untended vine. - Leviticus 25:8-12. In other words, slow down! Happy Birthday, my friend. -  Aldo. It was childish, but Aldo was somewhat relieved to see that one absent from the stack.

 

Aldo turned away from the books, and realized it was perfectly possible to extract himself from the mess he’d gotten himself into on the board. But it had taken him so long to see it, it didn’t feel like much of a victory at this point. He brought his queen forward again as Vincent wandered back to look.

 

“Ah, I see. Is there any point in me continuing in the face of the inevitable?”

 

“Wasn’t that your last homily?” Aldo asked. Vincent huffed out a laugh.

 

“I believe my homily encouraged us to always proceed, but in this case I will gratefully surrender.”

 

He touched Aldo lightly on the shoulder with his fingertips and went to fix their chai. Aldo watched the lines of his back as he added milk and cardamom in the Kabul style, which Aldo had found he enjoyed very much. The candlelight Vincent favoured danced against their cups as Vincent walked back.

 

They sipped their tea in silence for a few moments. Vincent looked back up.

 

“I do understand your concerns. I have to listen to their view. But nor do I have to be intimidated by them.”

 

Aldo believed that. No matter how mysterious Vincent Benítez’s arrival had been, one thing had been abundantly clear from the get-go: His new Holiness didn’t seem intimidated by anything.

 

Chess with Aldo was no exception. They’d been playing together for the better part of a month now. At first, Aldo had gone along with the idea out of politeness, but now he realized he actively looked forward to their evenings. Of course Vincent was busy, constantly pulled in all directions, so there was no official standing date for them to play. Aldo understood, but he couldn’t help from getting testy when he had to wait too long in between matches. Aldo still won most of the time, but Vincent made him work for it. His play was similar to Thomas in some ways, in that it was fast-paced and seemingly impulsive, but Aldo could see there was more intention and style behind the moves.

 

More engaging than the matches themselves, however, were the long discussions they held simultaneously. He regretted that he hadn’t spoken more to the new cardinal when he first arrived. Thomas was always better at that sort of thing. He could see why the two of them had gotten along so quickly. Both were warm and thoughtful, with similar temperaments. Thomas too had caused something of a stir when he’d first entered the Curia. An English Cardinal was exotic enough, the fact that he was handsome beyond belief had immediately pegged him as a potential leader. People couldn’t help it, when faced with something beautiful. Aldo had been perfectly prepared to write him off as the sort of head boy football captain who glided through life and whom Aldo despised on principle. Instead, Thomas had shown himself to be thoughtful, modest, keenly intellectual, and with a dry sense of humour that had felled Aldo like a sapling. They’d been inseparable from their first conversation.

 

Vincent appeared to be very much cut from the same cloth in some ways. But that wasn’t to say there weren’t differences. Vincent was open and gracious, but had no tolerance for an uncharitable view. Aldo adored Thomas, more than any other person living or dead, but he’d had occasion to feel frustrated with what he sometimes perceived as neutrality from his friend, a tendency to keep the peace. Aldo couldn’t see how Thomas could stand to remain diplomatic with even the most willfully obstinate members of their faith, while Thomas would lecture him in return on how Aldo’s contentment to burn bridges was nothing less than self-indulgence and served no one but himself. This had turned into a heated argument once in the late Holy Father’s chambers, years ago, both of them nearly forgetting he was there until he’d cleared his throat. They’d stopped, mortified to be carrying on so in front of the Pope. But the Pope had just smiled and taken both by the shoulder and said ‘’How blessed we are to have two people who care so much about what we do here.’

 

The late Holy Father would have enjoyed these evenings, Aldo thought with a stab of regret, taking a sip of his tea, savouring the spiciness that had begun to grow on him, much like the man who’d brewed it. When he’d first turned up at Vincent’s door with the late Holy Father’s chess set clasped between his hands, he’d just wanted to get it over with. It had nothing to do with Vincent himself. Rather, Aldo was ashamed of himself. He didn’t need any further reminders of how very perfect their Pope was for the role, and how blind he’d been to see it.

 

“Well I’m willing to concede that when I was younger I did know everything,” Aldo said ironically, “but I suppose lately I’m trying to allow more room for…”

 

“Doubt?”

 

“Nuance,” Aldo compromised. “It has been an unexpected few months, to say the least.”

 

Vincent smiled. “You don’t say.”

 

“Alright, it’s not a competition, Your Holiness,” Aldo said, and Vincent laughed outright. He had a good laugh, Aldo thought, when he allowed it to surface. He still often seemed tired, like the weight of the universe was on his shoulders. But there was a fullness to him lately that had not been there on his arrival. That was what three meals a day could do for you, Aldo supposed.

“Not that it was ever really a competition,” Aldo added somewhat self-deprecatingly.

 

Aldo hesitated, and Vincent waited, not saying anything. He never attempted to psychoanalyze Aldo for his thoughts, correctly assuming this would make Aldo bristle. Sensing his being read so easily just made Aldo bristle more, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t effective.

 

“I’d been meaning to confess to you for some time now…a certain amount of embarrassment about my earlier involvement in the elections. Chiefly that I let myself be in the running in the first place,” Aldo made himself say, looking into his tea so he didn’t have to look into Vincent’s thoughtful eyes.

 

“Why?” asked Vincent quietly.

 

“I’ve thought about it, prayed over it, and if I search my heart…it’s true that I didn’t want to be Pope,” Aldo said simply. “I knew I was not the right man, but I believed I was still the best man. I believed that only I was capable of steering the church away from the path I’d predicted. That only I could prevent disaster.”

 

He looked back up into Vincent’s dark eyes.

 

“I thought this was the proper sacrifice on my part, and what the position deserved. But I know now it was pride. To think it all came down to me. Because I knew best.”

 

“In fairness to you,” Vincent said quietly, as he began to reset the pieces on the board, “you usually do.”

 

Aldo sniffed, but wouldn’t let himself off the hook quite so easily. “There were millions who would have benefited from an Adeyemi papacy. And probably Tremblay would have done good in his own way. But I couldn’t risk the chance. There were too many real-world consequences. I seemed to be the most viable alternative. It was a logical ambition as much as a spiritual one. That awareness alone should have been enough to make me withdraw immediately.”

 

“One of the sisters mentioned the ‘real world’ the other day, and her life before the convent,” Vincent said thoughtfully. “I found myself thinking about it all day: what the real world actually means, and if we are so very separate from it here. I saw her point, but one has to wonder: whose world is more real than another’s? And who gets to decide what is real? These are important things to remember. So when you speak of considering the realistic as an obstruction to following your faith, I’m not so sure it’s the black mark you seem to think it is.” 

 

“Perhaps. But it just seems incredible that we serve one God, read one Catechism and yet so many of us have different ideas how to do it,” Aldo said.

 

“I know. Thank goodness, no?” Vincent said with a smile. Aldo was helpless against such genuine warmth.

 

“But I didn’t vote for you,” Aldo blurted out, finally getting to what he really wanted to confess. “I voted for Thomas, even at the end.”

 

“So did I,” said Vincent, not in the least perturbed. 

 

“But I wanted to vote for you,” Aldo said, willing him to understand. “The minute you stood up in that theatre. I saw it. That it should be you. But I still figured - forgive me - that you didn’t have a shot in Hell. It was too fanciful. Thomas was a good choice, but he still felt like the most viable one. It seems I did not have much faith in my brothers to see the same glimpse of fate that I had.”

 

“No?”

 

“I was so focused on the people around me, I clearly ignored the Divine,” Aldo concluded. 

 

To his surprise, Vincent smiled.

 

“My dear Aldo, where else do you suppose the Divine moves but in the people around us?” he asked him with genuine affection. Aldo looked back, the candlelight flickering around them, the true heart of the matter sitting calmly in his chest, waiting to be plucked out.

 

“I wish I had written your name,” Aldo said plainly.

 

“If you hadn’t followed your instincts, you would not be you,” Vincent said decisively. “And we would all be the poorer for it. Myself included.”

 

Aldo didn’t always like being himself. But he pushed the thought aside and tried to take the compliment graciously, although he still raised his eyebrows ever so sardonically at Vincent.

 

“What, all optimists need someone to bring them crashing back down to earth?”

 

“Is that what you would call it?” Vincent asked. “Because if so, I’m finding it a softer landing than expected.”

 

Aldo actually blushed.

 

“One more game?”

 

“You start.”

***

Strange how because of something like celebrity, one piece of art could receive more recognition than another, no matter its merits. Vincent had been to the Louvre once in his life, and nearly suffocated from the throngs of people crowding to get a glimpse of the Mona Lisa. Not convinced he could have the appropriate artistic revelation while being jostled, Vincent had moved aside to study the painting on the opposite wall, Titian’s Man with a Glove. 

 

There was much more space around this one, like someone had thrust a spear into a school of fish, creating a gap in the crowd. Vincent could not see why though. The contrast of colours was just as striking, if not more so than the Mona Lisa. The figure’s expression of calm assessment was every bit as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s, both looking like they were sharing a secret across the room. Neither figure had ever been identified with any certainty. And the single naked hand, with loosely clutched gloves in the other, suggested an action in motion that was almost sensual in its interruption. Vincent found himself drawn to it, oblivious to the minutes ticking by, or the tourists bumping into him to take their drive-by photos. He found it every bit as compelling as its more successful older sister nearby, so why had it not achieved the same mystique? Was it simply because of the Mona Lisa’s historic theft, giving it a boost of notoriety? Was scandal essential to legacy? Or had da Vinci simply led a more glamorous life than Titian?

 

Or maybe it really was just that good of a painting. Because as Vincent had finally made his way to the front of the crowd, he’d found himself unsettled. She gazed through her blurry surroundings, caught between uneven landscapes. But the warring perspectives of the background did not seem to bother her. She stared past Vincent as though her eyes had slipped over him, knew him, recognized him, and moved on. She seemed to know why he was looking at her and it didn’t matter to her at all. He felt almost caught out although he couldn’t say why.

 

Vincent found himself relating to her situation now. There were many cardinals who would have been formidable Popes, men more worthy and holy than himself. But the public would never know about them because they were not the ones with the glamorous title and the surrounding mystique of the role.

 

Walking into the Vatican library, Vincent found himself drawn as ever to the high vaulted ceiling, thinking that it should have been every bit as acclaimed as the Sistine Chapel. But of course this was no mystery, for the sole reason that the ceiling was a mystery to most. The Vatican library was not open to the public. Scholars, historians, and other sanctioned academics were allowed access, even the occasional lucky undergraduate. Of course members of the Vatican could access it as well. But because of this, most visitors would never realize that it was one of the most beautiful buildings in the entire Vatican.

 

Entering the bright, marbled halls was always a relief to Vincent. He felt immediately at peace, as he so often did with books nearby. It seemed an incredible wealth to have access to so many.  The Taliban had cast a long shadow over Kabul’s public libraries and independent bookstores. Most had been effectively purged of any potentially heretic reading material, not that Vincent could have borrowed them without attracting notice to himself anyways. His Dari and Pashto were conversational but he read them poorly, so he found books in those languages difficult. The English sections could be meager, and he could forget about a Spanish section entirely. The idea that he could read, lend, borrow, or buy whatever he chose was practically decadent to him.

 

Further relief came with the familiar sight of Thomas bent over a table tucked away into a corner at the far end of the hall. He was so absorbed in whatever paper he was reading he didn’t seem to notice Vincent until he was standing right over him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He brightened immediately, giving the quiet smile that had so drawn Vincent to him since his arrival.

 

“May I join you?” Vincent asked.

 

“Of course, Your Holiness,” Thomas said, standing up to clear a space for Vincent on the other side of the table.

 

“What are you working on?” Vincent inquired, not recognizing the format of the text Thomas had before him. He’d assumed it was something clerical but this looked far too dense.

 

“Ah,” said Thomas somewhat sheepishly. “You have caught me procrastinating, as it were. It’s one of Cardinal Bellini’s academic papers. I proofread for him on occasion.”

 

“Really? May I?” Vincent asked, reaching out. Noting Thomas’s slight hesitation, he added: “I assume it’s the essay on Saint John Henry Newman and the Magisterium. He showed me the introduction the other week.”

 

Thomas slid the paper over to him, with a mildly surprised expression. Whether it was at Vincent’s interest or Aldo discussing his work with someone else, Vincent couldn’t say.

 

Vincent scanned the first page. Thomas had made very few markings to it. Much of it was what he and Aldo had already debated over chess. He didn’t want to read it yet, he just wanted to see if Aldo had included - 

 

“I see he’s making theological pluralism a main point now,” Vincent said. “I had mentioned my surprise that such an integral part of Newman’s doctrinal development did not feature more.”

 

“Did you? I thought that part was unusually forbearing of him,” Thomas said.

 

“Well it seems that he’s improved upon my original point greatly,” Vincent said, flipping the page once more, and then sliding it back to Thomas, “but I’ll wait until the final draft to tell him so.”

 

Thomas was smiling but still had a faintly quizzical expression as though he wasn’t sure if he was missing something. But he resumed his marking of Aldo’s paper, pen in his mouth as he reviewed it, every so often removing it to make a notation, either with a furrowed brow or a slight smile. Vincent watched him for several moments, unable to identify the pull in his chest at the obvious comfort between the two. His had been a life of constant uprooting, connections intense but brief in nature. He could not think of anyone to whom he could send a paper for editing with the absolute certainty of attentive engagement. It occurred to him that Thomas and Aldo were the only people he might consider for such a thing, but he felt a momentary insecurity, as though his presence and the time he’d been spending with both was an intrusion.

 

These thoughts are not worthy of you, or them , Vincent chided himself. He’d received far more companionship here than he’d ever expected. He resolved to pray on the matter tonight. Thomas eventually put the paper away, taking out his actual work, and it jolted Vincent back into focus. He took a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and set to work. 

 

Correspondence was one of Vincent’s favourite duties so far. He enjoyed replying to personal letters, and though his responses could never be as long as he wished, he meant them all sincerely and hoped that it came across when the recipient opened them.

 

The Pope’s schedule, when in the Vatican, followed the same rhythm most days. Vincent was an early riser and would immediately pray upon waking up. He would then review the day’s homily, then attend Mass, after which he would go to breakfast. He tried his best to join different people every morning for breakfast, so as to avoid the cliques that had been so starkly present during his Conclave. There was then any variety of meet and greets, administrative work followed by a quick lunch, at which point the previous Pope had taken his siesta. Vincent could well understand the need, but he usually preferred to take this time to go to the library and work in silence, finding the high marbled arches, bright frescoes, soft lights, and consistently cool temperature just as restorative as sleep. And it might have been ungenerous of him, but he couldn’t help but appreciate the quiet. His regular presence at the desks drew frequent attention but very little actual interruption, which was likely as much to do with respect for the library’s rules than any respect for him. The only presence that did not disturb him during this time was Thomas’s. Apart from the occasional murmured request for a second pair of eyes on whatever they were each working on, Vincent found they could pass an hour of work across from each other with complete absorption, as they did now. 

 

Eventually Vincent realized he’d been staring at his latest letter for the past five minutes. He caught Thomas looking at him, and gave a small smile.

 

“Writer’s block?” Thomas asked out of the corner of his mouth.

 

“In a sense,” Vincent said. He hesitated, considered for a moment not sharing what he’d been thinking as it seemed too prideful in his mind, but Thomas would understand.

 

“It is simply strange to think of my own writing preserved,” he admitted quietly. “Someone may keep this letter, perhaps pass it onto their children. ‘The time the Pope wrote back to me’. And then, to this family, this letter will serve as their historical representation of me. And any other writing I do may be preserved as well, and that’s what historians will look at when they analyze my pontificate, and they will use it as evidence of its values and direction. It can be…daunting.”

 

Vincent shook his head, tucking a strand of hair back behind his ear.

 

“But I can’t let such thoughts stack up. I try to ignore it when I can. It comes perilously close to ego,” he said.

 

“I think there are those who experience much worse impasses with much less reason to,” Thomas said kindly. “I don’t blame you. But I think you are right to not pay the retrospective too much mind. As long as you are moving towards the future in a direction you can be proud of, I think that’s quite enough to be going on with.”

 

“I hope there is movement,” Vincent said. “I am used to my work for God feeling more active.”

 

“You have lived a very active life,” Thomas agreed. “More than many people here ever will.”

 

Vincent idly traced a design on the paper before him.

 

“People talk of the slums I worked in as ‘Godless’ places, but I found His presence everywhere. It is easy to feel close to God when you bandage a child’s wounds. I find when I am in His house, He doesn’t need to speak quite as loudly.”

 

“Like when you grow up and your parents kick you out of the house to make your own way. You find your path but you still hear their voice in everything you do,” Thomas said. 

 

“Exactly,” Vincent said in surprise, looking up.

 

“My mother reminded me every time I boiled the kettle to turn it away from the cupboards so that the steam wouldn’t warp the wood. I still think of her every time I do it,” Thomas said, a slight smile on his face. Vincent smiled too, and glanced around before leaning in:

 

“Whenever Cardinals Bellini and Tedesco are at each other’s throats, I keep hearing my mother’s voice telling me and my brother: los voy a amarrar si siguen peleando . I will tie you together if you keep fighting.”

 

They both burst out laughing and then looked around furtively. One extremely elderly bishop across the aisle raised a pointed eyebrow, gave a courteous nod, and continued peering at the enormous volume before him, lips moving around the Latin. Vincent and Thomas exchanged sheepish grins and bent down to keep working. 

 

“I do know what you mean though,” Thomas said in a low voice after a while. “I never did as much mission work as I’d have liked. And I found the higher I rose in the church, the more bureaucratic my work became, and it felt like I was serving God less and less. Sometimes God never feels further than when I’m trying to use the photocopy machine.”

 

“But you are serving God,” Vincent protested. “Every paper you read twice, every list you sign, every time you check a name tag to see if it’s spelled correctly…there is grace in every one of the acts, and they all serve God, no matter how small or mundane.”

 

Thomas looked at him with eyes that were both piercing and soft.

 

“And so I’d say the same to you, Your Holiness. Now finish that letter.”

 

Vincent opened his mouth to retort, and then realized how deftly and gently and incontrovertibly he’d been spun around. He smiled and bent his head, taking out a fresh sheet of paper. This letter was to a young woman in Paraguay, who was asking him to pray for her friend in the hospital. Anorexia nervosa, the doctors were saying. He uncapped his pen, letting the Spanish come smoothly. He reread his reply, moved by the young woman’s concern for her friend.

 

“You were ill for a time, were you not?” he asked Thomas. “I don’t mean to pry, I am simply trying to imagine myself in her shoes.”

 

He handed the letter to Thomas who scanned the Spanish, forehead smoothing.

 

“I was,” he said simply. “I was not nearly as involved in the Curia in more recent years. Cancer, as you may know.”

 

“I did,” Vincent said. “But you have made a full recovery, I also heard?”

 

“So they say,” Thomas said. “I’d touch wood, if it didn’t feel somewhat sacrilegious.”

 

Touch..ah, tocar madera ,” said Vincent. “I can’t reprimand you, though. I still threw some water out the window this past New Year’s. I’m very glad to hear things have been going well, though.”

 

“As am I,” Thomas said, eyes far away. “It was a difficult time. I don’t think I realized quite how much until afterwards. In the moment, there was nothing to do but to simply deal with it.”

 

He shook his head slightly. “It’s harrowing to feel that your whole body has turned against you.”

 

“I can imagine,” Vincent said mildly, and Thomas looked up. Vincent gave him a somewhat tongue in cheek smile, and Thomas glanced around before letting out a chastened huff of laughter. 

 

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you could.”

 

Vincent winked at him and then picked up his pen again. He tapped it a few times against his papers.

 

“Is that when you started having difficulty praying?” Vincent asked curiously, and Thomas seemed taken aback.

 

“I hadn’t quite thought about it like that, but I suppose…yes.”

 

He looked at Vincent in surprise but it seemed more directed at himself. He frowned and looked towards the nearest bookshelf as though there was a volume there that would confirm Vincent’s theory.

 

“It seems quite obvious and yet…”

 

“Things often do when we look into the past,” Vincent said. “It is more difficult to find providence in the future.”

 

Thomas was only half-listening, and he glanced back at Vincent.

 

“You are right of course. I’m not saying there were not other factors and concerns in my life that had been building, but that is around when prayer felt further than ever. You must think me very foolish.”

 

“Never,” Vincent said quietly. Thomas was kind and forbearing and wanted to think the best of people, but he was no man’s fool. That had been apparent enough from their very first meeting. 

 

Thomas was watching him again.

 

“I know you to have a much larger capacity for holiness than I do, so I hope you will forgive my impudence,” he began, “but should you ever find yourself feeling far from God in this position, and wish to discuss it…just to say, I have been there and would be happy to listen. I am a mere manager, no shepherd, but if there is any guidance I can offer, it is yours.”

 

He was flushing as though embarrassed to have made the offer, but obviously felt it was important enough to get out.

 

“I am very grateful,” Vincent said quietly, but meaning it with his entire heart.

 

He watched Thomas busy himself with his administrative work, heart swelling at the simple sanctity of such an unassuming sight.

 

“You are no manager,” he said. At Thomas’s questioning look, he smiled.

 

“You are Saint Peter. Upon your rock, God can build his church.”

 

Thomas’s mouth opened for a moment, and then he shut it abruptly. It wavered uncertainly, as though a smile didn’t quite feel ready to form. He cleared his throat and went back to writing, but he reached out and gripped Vincent’s hand for a moment, thumb brushing over Vincent’s papal ring. Vincent would have been perfectly happy to stay like that right through the Eucharistic Adoration, supper, evening prayers, and long after, suspended between these bookshelves, sun filtering in through the high windows onto the table strewn with papers, and Thomas across from him, his shoulders bent so he could grasp Vincent’s hand and work all the while.

 

“Building and carrying the burdens with one hand, holding a sword with the other,” Vincent mused, watching him.

 

“I am not Nehemiah, and you are not a sword,” Thomas said, looking up with a smile.

 

“No, but did Jeremiah not speak of a pen of iron?” Vincent asked, raising his eyebrows and waggling his pen at Thomas. Thomas removed his hand from Vincent’s to cover the snort that escaped him, and Vincent laughed at the ungainly sound. The older cardinal across the aisle swung his head around, scandalized, and Vincent had to turn away, shoulders shaking. 

 

“I’m rapidly using up my credit here,” he said, glancing around to make sure the chief archivist was nowhere near. 

 

“I would bet you my life’s savings that there is not a single person here who would shush you, Your Holiness,” said Thomas, amused.

 

“I think if someone shushed me these days, I would probably kiss them in thanks,” Vincent joked. “I can think of no more succinct lesson in humility.”

 

“Shushing or kissing?” Thomas asked dryly. Vincent grinned outright.

 

“Well as Proverbs says, an honest answer is considered a kiss on the lips,” he said, “such is the value of straightforward treatment.”

 

Thomas still had a smile from their joking playing about his lips, but his eyes softened in concern.

 

“Have you found it very isolating then?” he asked. “I understand taking the office can be a difficult adjustment.”

 

Vincent considered it, and also considered the man across from him who was asking it.

 

“Not as much as I thought. In many ways I have had a lonely life, but I have never felt alone. I expected more solitude than ever when I became Pope. Instead, I’ve found it to be one of the most companionable times of my life.”

 

Thomas smiled at him, tapping his pen against his chin, his eyes knowing.

 

“I suspect that is less to do with the nature of the office, and more to do with the nature of you.” 

 

This time Vincent very nearly reached out to take Thomas’s hand, but Thomas was already pulling it back, checking his wristwatch.

 

“Is it already time for the Eucharist?”

 

“Yes, I must go prepare,” Vincent said. “But would you care to join me this evening?”

 

“Very much, but do you not leave for Florence early tomorrow? It’s a busy trip. This may be your last evening to enjoy yourself.”

 

“It is. That is precisely why I would like you to join me,” Vincent said, and Thomas flushed.

 

“Very well. But please, no chess. Aldo told me you absolutely thrashed him last night. Speaking of succinct lessons in humility.”

 

Vincent smiled. “I’d rather discuss The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

“A much warmer prospect,” he said, and Vincent huffed out a laugh.

 

“ Hasta luego , mi amigo, he said. He squeezed his shoulder and left the library, glancing up and nodding to the ceiling as he did.

***

A chatter in the courtyard below came fluttering up to Aldo’s window, voices rising like the pigeons in the square. He finished his devotions and got to his feet, left knee protesting. It had been a long day, even without Aldo’s constant checking of every clock in the Vatican to see if it was seven yet. The trip coordinators were punctual to the core and always took the evening Roman traffic into account, so Aldo was expecting the papal motorcade any minute.

 

Crossing to the cracked window he glanced down, pain in his knee forgotten as a figure in white came into view, clasping hands with a cardinal - Aldo couldn’t tell which at this angle - greeting him. He then stopped to speak with the sisters who’d come out to help with the entourage’s bags, gently waving them off and beckoning over a couple of the Swiss Guards. Aldo wasn’t sure but he thought he saw one of them smile at whatever Vincent had said. 

 

Aldo leaned back and ran a finger down the blinds, speculatively. If he went to Vincent’s rooms now, he’d be waiting outside the door like a dog. It would take Vincent at least ten minutes to chat with everyone, and he’d certainly stop by Sister Agnes’s office. He’d mentioned something about getting her some new tapes for her aging cassette player. Her office was further along the east wing, so Aldo could add another five minutes for Vincent to detour there. So if Aldo made his way over in about twenty minutes, then he’d at least stand a chance of arriving at Vincent’s quarters after the man himself. Or would his knock come the second Vincent set down his briefcase, as though Aldo had been spying from down the hall, just waiting for him to enter?

 

Oh would you get a grip , he chastised himself. He reluctantly left the window and knelt to resume his prayers. Cheerful conversation from below floated through his window, tickling his ears.

 

Twenty-one minutes later, Aldo was lifting his hand to rap on Vincent’s door. He only had to wait a moment before it was flung open, as though Vincent had been standing by, waiting for his knock.

 

“Aldo,” he beamed. “Come in.”

 

Stepping inside, Aldo saw that Vincent had not yet begun unpacking, his simple black suitcase resting against the foot of the bed, a hanger still swinging in the closet where Vincent had hung up his coat.

 

“I can come back, you must want to settle in. I just wanted -”

 

“Please,” Vincent said, going to the closet door and shutting it. He walked back still smiling, and immediately enfolded Aldo into a hug.

 

“I missed you,” he said simply.

 

“No place like Rome?” Aldo deflected, patting Vincent’s shoulder in surprise, although he couldn’t help the glow he felt at the words. He felt the same way, just a week or no.

 

“How was everything here?” Vincent asked, stepping back, eyes crinkling.

 

“Oh, the usual,” Aldo said. “Did Sister Agnes appreciate the tapes?”

 

“I believe so,” Vincent said, setting up his candles already. He looked around and Aldo passed him the matches from the sideboard. “Although it was a challenge to find a record store that still had tapes.”

 

“It does seem strange that one could probably find…I don’t know…a two-thousand-year-old Etruscan relic in Florence more easily than one can find cassette tapes,” Aldo said.

 

“Precisely,” Vincent said with a laugh, and then tugged at his sleeves. “Do you mind? If I don’t send this out now, I'll forget, and it’s been sweeping up dust all day.”

 

“Oh, please,” Aldo said, gesturing for him to go ahead. He turned to Vincent’s bookshelves to give him a modicum of privacy while Vincent removed his white papal garments, folding each piece carefully.

 

“Actually, do you think you could…?” he heard Vincent ask, and Aldo turned to see Vincent gesturing to the zipper. He nodded and started it for him, the ends of Vincent’s hair tickling his fingers. He slid the zipper down to the small of his back. His fingers brushed the label inside the fabric, and he recognized the tailor as one Thomas preferred. That explained who had suggested the robes upgrade. He stepped away again, returning to the books. He heard Vincent hand the robes off to one of the guards outside, thanking him. When Aldo turned again, Vincent was in his shirt sleeves, collar still in place but somewhat dampened by sweat.

 

“I’m afraid it got warm here while you were gone, and it’s not even Easter yet,” Aldo said. “It looks like we’re in for more record temperatures this summer.”

 

The weather? Really? Only one week, and Aldo was suddenly tongue tied. Vincent didn’t seem to notice.

 

“I thought I was used to the heat, but I don’t usually have so many layers to contend with,” Vincent said, gesturing to himself. “I’m somewhat intimidated by my first real summer in Italy.”

 

“Well, that’s what the gelato is for,” Aldo said. 

 

“Oh, I had some in Florence. It was incredible,” Vincent said.

 

“Yes, do tell me about Florence. I want to hear your impressions. You’re not too tired for a game, are you?”

 

“I was hoping you would ask,” Vincent said, gesturing to their table. Lately Aldo had just started leaving his chess set in Vincent’s room. It made more sense to him. Vincent spun the board around as it was Aldo’s turn to play white, and they began.

 

Vincent was full of animated observations about Florence. Every street was a postcard, every local and tourist belonged in a photoshoot, the espresso bars looked like museums, and the museums looked like palaces. Even the corner store he’d popped into to buy gum could have been on a tourist brochure.

 

“Did you find yourself experiencing any Stendhal Syndrome?” Aldo asked.

 

“Any what syndrome?” asked Vincent, a crease in his brow.

 

“Stendhal Syndrome. An alleged affliction that can plague first time visitors to Florence. Tourists become so affected by the sublime beauty and art all around them that they start experiencing psychosomatic symptoms,” Aldo explained. “The staff at the Santa Maria Nuova hospital are quite used to treating visitors’ dizzy spells after they come out of the museums.”

 

Vincent gazed at him incredulously. He then let out a laugh.

 

“If you have just made that up, please let me live in ignorance, because I quite like the idea.”

 

“Very well,” Aldo said smiling. “So no disorientation?”

 

“No, however I can well understand it. Are you sure these tourists are not simply overcome by beauty and heatstroke?”

 

“There may be some correlation versus causation factors at play,” Aldo admitted.

 

“Well it makes sense. If I were a tourist filling a whole day with walking, eating, museums, and all those wine window tours I saw, I’d probably fall over as well. Oh, speaking of wine windows, I almost forgot -”

 

Vincent got to his feet and Aldo looked up in alarm. But Vincent was going to his suitcase, unzipping it and reaching inside for -

 

“Here. For you.”

 

Aldo took the bottle. The faded label read Chianti Classico and the deep red inside caught the candlelight, almost glowing inside the bottle.

 

“It’s a Florentine kind. Apparently. I know nothing about wine, but the storekeeper assured me it was very good,” Vincent said, watching his reaction.

 

“That’s very kind of you, Vincent,” Aldo said, clearing his throat. He set it carefully beside the board and looked up at Vincent. “Would you care to try some now?”

 

He gestured towards the cups on Vincent’s side table, but Vincent waved his hands in protest.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t drink much. Other than for holy reasons, of course. But I understand you and Cardinal Lawrence like to share a bottle now and again, so perhaps you two…”

 

“Yes, we do,” Aldo said, keeping his tone deliberately neutral, knowing there was no intended implication. “He’ll be delighted.”

 

Worried he sounded too formal, he looked up and smiled, genuinely touched. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

Vincent seemed relieved and sat down again, and they continued their game. They chatted easily, mostly about Florence and the first time Aldo had ever visited. He’d lost two whole days to the Uffizi Galleries, going early each time to see the more famous paintings before they got overcrowded. Vincent shared a similar story from the Louvre. Aldo listened with interest, but couldn’t help noticing that Vincent still seemed distracted. His game was off as well, his moves lacking their usual ebullient flair. Supposing he was tired, Aldo suggested they continue the game another time.

 

“Perhaps,” Vincent agreed, frowning at the board. When he looked up, Aldo was struck by the hesitation in his eyes. Vincent was an incredibly serene person, but he was not what Aldo would have described as ‘subdued’. Now, however, he seemed rather unsure of himself.

 

“Are you quite alright?” Aldo asked. “If you’re not feeling well, I can call -”

 

“I feel fine,” Vincent interrupted, and frowned as though he didn’t quite believe the words. He glanced at the door, and then back to Aldo. Aldo immediately felt as though he was on high alert. He’d felt the same way when Thomas had shown up to his rooms months earlier during the Conclave and had wordlessly handed Aldo a sheaf of papers.

 

“There is something I’d been meaning to tell you,” Vincent said. “I was going to before I left, but then I didn’t find the right moment.” He ran a hand through his hair, some of the silver in it catching the light. “Actually, I could have found the right moment, but perhaps I avoided looking for it.”

 

“The right moment for what?” Aldo asked. He recognized Vincent’s tone well. It was one he’d heard many times before from others, usually preceding the words, ‘forgive me father, for I have sinned’. Vincent said no such thing but rather looked Aldo in the eye and began to tell him of an operation he’d had many years before. 

 

For one horrible moment, Aldo thought that Vincent was sick. He was sick just like Thomas had been, the word ‘cancer’ puncturing a hole in Aldo’s stomach, recovery uncertain until it wasn’t. Or he was sick like when the Holy Father had told him about his heart, and even though Aldo had known what to expect, there’d still been a tearing in his chest, and oh God, it was happening again now with Vincent, he knew it was, but it was too soon, they’d barely had any time…

 

It wasn’t cancer. Nor was it his heart. But what he told Aldo made so little sense, and Aldo was still so stuck on the idea of hospitalization, that his mind was running through all the ovarian diseases he could think of, before he’d even had a chance to process ‘ovaries’.

 

“So you’re not sick, then?” was all he could think of to say, when Vincent finished his story.

 

“No, I am not sick,” Vincent said with a puzzled frown. “But I know there are many who would see it otherwise.”

 

It was finally catching up to Aldo. He was dimly aware of a roaring in his ears, all the implications of what Vincent had just told him starting to rush in, visions of statements, press conferences, questions, paparazzi, picketers, all of which a corner of Aldo’s brain was already counteracting. But compared to Aldo’s absolute relief that Vincent was not going anywhere, such thoughts paled. He felt as though he’d just narrowly avoided an accident on the highway, heart racing.

 

“I don’t…intersex?” Aldo asked bluntly, to be sure he had it right.

 

“Yes,” said Vincent simply. “A rare form, I was told. Externally, at least, there were no signs of anything out of the ordinary, which is why it went undetected for so long. It was only during the operation that they discovered the presence of female organs. Not functional, of course, but nevertheless…unquestionable.”

 

Aldo’s head was spinning. From an intellectual standpoint he was curious. He’d never personally known anyone with the condition before. From a political standpoint there were any number of implications hammering at that particular chamber in his mind. But his heart was still beating too fast to give either aspect much consideration at the moment. He knew his face must have been white.

 

“I have alarmed you,” Vincent said, watching Aldo in thought.

 

“No. At least not in that sense,” Aldo said absently. He glanced up and saw Vincent looking so concerned, he immediately regretted his own preoccupations. It had clearly taken Vincent some courage to share this with him, and he didn’t want him to think he didn’t appreciate that. 

 

“Who else knows?” he asked.

 

“Yourself. Thomas. He figured it out during the Conclave. Most likely Monsignor O’Malley too, although perhaps not all of the details. And the late Holy Father.”

 

“Did he really?” Aldo asked. He looked down at the chess board, the Holy Father’s own, the one Aldo could barely stand to see handled by others, which he now left so trustingly in Vincent’s rooms. They might not have been the same quarters as his predecessor’s, but the board seemed back where it belonged nonetheless. Aldo wasn’t a fanciful person, but the set seemed to know where it was, and had simply been waiting for Aldo to return it. Aldo sent a silent prayer the way of its owner. Eight moves ahead.

 

Aldo got up and walked over to Vincent’s side table, pouring himself a glass of water from the carafe, a badly needed stall to calm himself. He was aware of Vincent’s eyes on his back, and fought to steady his hands.

 

“I can of course give you time,” Vincent said, in a measured voice.

 

“Time for what?” Aldo asked, automatically assuming Vincent was talking about press statements, and other such plans of action.

 

“To decide if you feel you can still have confidence in me,” Vincent said, his tone still even, as though bracing himself to hear otherwise. It twisted Aldo’s stomach to hear it, and for a moment he felt angry, although he was unsure if his anger was directed towards Vincent or himself.

 

“Do not insult me, Your Holiness,” Aldo said quietly, looking down at Vincent’s array, packets of tea arranged neatly next to the cups, an unopened box of Earl Gray because Aldo had once mentioned he hadn’t had it in ages.

 

“Do I?” asked Vincent simply. “You have no concerns, then? None?”

 

“At the moment, my concerns are that you seem to think you can drive me away so easily as that,” Aldo said, a flash of temper escaping him, and looping back at him through Vincent’s dark eyes.

 

“Forgive my English, but I don’t understand, ‘easy’? Which part of anything I’ve said sounded easy?”

 

“No, I…” Aldo removed his glasses, rubbing them in frustration. “I know I must have been a disappointment to you after your election. Everyone there welcoming you, meanwhile my own shame made me aloof. I know this. But I would have hoped you’d have more faith in me by now.”

 

“Of course I do, which is why I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

 

“How have you disappointed me?” Aldo asked incredulously.

 

“Because I have concealed this from you!” Vincent finally burst out, voice as cutting as Aldo had ever heard it. It shocked Aldo to his core. Vincent’s face was ablaze, his mouth quivering as he regarded Aldo, but there was no aggression in it. On the contrary, he seemed completely galvanized, as though expecting attack, not planning to deal it out. 

 

“There has been no concealment,” Aldo said in shock. He put the glass of water down, and took a step towards Vincent.

 

“Of course there has,” Vincent said. “For months now, you have given me your unwavering presence. My secrets are a poor return for your friendship.”

 

“Your secrets are your own, until you choose to bring them into a friendship at your own discretion,” Aldo protested. 

 

“You’re not angry then,” Vincent said.

 

“No!”

 

“So why are we arguing?”

 

“Habit?” Aldo offered. 

 

He looked at Vincent helplessly, and saw Vincent’s face waver again, worried for a moment he’d upset him. But the corners of his mouth tugged up into a smile, and a laugh spilled out, and Aldo felt the relief of it spread to his fingertips.

 

“Good Lord, Vincent,” Aldo said, starting to laugh himself, rubbing his forehead. He looked up, gave Vincent a smile and closed the gap, drawing him in, Vincent’s arms enfolding him immediately. 

 

“Forgive me,” Vincent murmured into Aldo’s shoulder. “I may have been overthinking this while I was away.”

 

“Forgive me for giving you any reason to worry at all,” Aldo said, shaking his head. He then drew back to rest his forehead against Vincent’s. He couldn’t help it. Vincent reached up to cup his face, and Aldo closed his eyes. 

 

They stayed like that in the room for several long moments, until Aldo felt his pulse begin to settle. He could feel Vincent’s breathing slow through his chest. Finally Aldo drew back reluctantly. Vincent stepped back and their gazes fell to the table they’d abandoned.

 

“Well now I know what the wine was for,” Aldo quipped and Vincent snorted. Aldo clasped his shoulder firmly, and they sat down again, catching the other’s eye in amusement.

 

“I wasn’t sure how you would react,” Vincent admitted. “It occurred to me that I had never actually ‘told’ anyone, other than the late Holy Father, which was only my duty. Thomas found out on his own. It is not something I am used to sharing.”

 

“I’m glad you did,” Aldo said. “Although I mean it…you have not concealed anything from me. There is a difference between secrecy and privacy. It is not as though you have lied to me.”

 

It was a subject Aldo felt keenly as a gay man. On the one hand, he was somewhat bitter that his existence necessitated any kind of discretion, a discretion he either adhered to or flouted, usually depending on what would best help him prove a point. But personally, in his own naturally reserved, prideful heart, he resented that anyone should feel entitled to know anything about him at all. 

 

“I know. And normally I would not think anything of the sort. Only I suppose the difference was…I wanted to tell you. And I wasn’t,” Vincent said, looking down. His hand rested by the chess board, papal ring shining unassumingly in the dim lighting. Aldo was struck by such a feeling of affection, he reached out to cover Vincent’s hand with his own. 

 

“I thought you were going to tell me you were sick,” Aldo said, rubbing a hand over his chin.

 

“I am quite well,” Vincent said smiling, now finally seeming to understand the real source of Aldo’s anxiety. Aldo looked down at their locked fingers, Vincent’s papal ring cool against his knuckles. Some practicalities of the matter finally started to seep into his consciousness. He gave Vincent’s hand a squeeze and let go.

 

“So what would you like to do? Concerning your…situation?”

 

Vincent’s lips ticked up as though he were remembering some private joke. “That is what I wanted to ask you about. I wanted your advice.”

 

“Well I suppose it would depend if you want to share the news yourself, or let it be found out on its own,” Aldo said. “Because either way, it will be known eventually.”

 

They discussed options. There were benefits to simply dropping the information into a larger laundry list of Vincent’s medical history after his next physical, nestled matter-of-factly between his height and blood type. A perfectly legitimate condition, and nothing to make a fuss about. But there were also benefits to Vincent sharing the news himself, giving a face to a condition, his sincere nature perhaps winning over any potentially salacious naysayers. But Vincent was almost maddeningly indifferent to how the news would break. 

 

 “The information is only relevant to me for how I could use it to possibly benefit others. It has no other significance, apart from that,” Vincent said, resolute. And wasn’t that just like him.

 

“Well then it will depend entirely on what you prefer,” Aldo said simply. 

 

“You have no opinion?” Vincent asked him. Aldo hesitated. Of course he had opinions. And if it were with someone else or at another time in his life he would have shared them, asked or not. But ultimately…

 

“It has nothing to do with me,” Aldo said. “Whatever you decide, I will support you completely. And you will have the full support of the Curia as well.”

 

“Will I?” Vincent raised an eyebrow at that.

 

“Yes. You will,” Aldo said firmly. Vincent looked amused but didn’t ask how Aldo was going to ensure that. That was probably best, Aldo thought. More plausible deniability for him.

 

They sat in silence, and Vincent seemed so relieved, that Aldo was almost ashamed that Vincent had expected more of a struggle from him. He hoped Vincent no longer held onto the notion, but just in case he still had any doubts…

 

“I have complete faith in you, you know,” Aldo finally said quietly.

 

“Thank you, Aldo,” Vincent finally said. He looked up at Aldo, candlelight flickering in his dark eyes. Aldo just shook his head. There was no need to thank him at all. Vincent hesitated.

 

“You said that I haven’t lied to you, but that is not entirely true,” he said, “I have another confession to make.”

 

“What?” Aldo asked warily, not sure what could possibly top the last one. 

 

“I’ve never actually played chess before.” 

 

When Aldo looked at him uncomprehendingly, he smiled.

 

“When you asked me if I knew how, I…implied that I could. And then I went and taught myself the same night.”

 

“You taught yourself?”

 

“Sister Agnes helped me as well. We practiced for a week before she determined I was passable enough to play with you.”

 

Vincent gave him a shrug, hair brushing over his shoulders.

 

“In this matter at least, I have lied to you. Please forgive me.”

 

Vincent stared at him utterly straight faced, and Aldo’s mouth opened and shut like it was broken. And then Vincent’s lip twitched and Aldo lost it, covering his mouth to stifle the bark of laughter that escaped him, hunched over the table, Vincent watching him with a hand over his mouth, eyes twinkling. He was unbelievable, really.

 

Aldo finally straightened up, wiping his eye behind his glasses, shoulders still shaking in mirth.

 

“Your sins are forgiven. Go in peace.”

 

Vincent grinned at him.

 

“Thanks be to God.”

***

The taxi cab pulled over and Aldo nearly dropped his euros in his haste to exit. The driver tried to wave the money away. It had been a short trip, and he was honoured to have a cardinal in his cab. Sono onorato, Cardinale , he kept repeating. Aldo finally insisted it was a tip and blessed the man in haste, leaving him beaming. He finally got out of the cab and glanced up, locating Thomas’s apartment.

 

Thomas’s actual address had eluded him although it wasn’t that far from the Vatican. It was only a twenty minute walk, which Thomas insisted upon taking as his main exercise. Sometimes Aldo accompanied him when he wasn’t staying at the Casa Santa Marta. But they would take the scenic route through alleyways and gardens. Aldo realized he had no idea how to get there by car until he was in the taxi, driving over the bridge into Rome. In the end he asked the driver to go to the Piazza Navona, and he worked his way backwards, using landmarks.

 

At least he could never forget the apartment number. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want , he thought, as he always did when he buzzed number twenty-three, the most famous psalm.

 

“Chi è?” came Thomas’s voice after a moment through the intercom.

 

“It’s Aldo.”

 

“Aldo? What - come up.”

 

The door buzzed and Aldo ignored the elevator, too impatient to wait, instead taking the stairs. Thomas was already stepping out of his apartment when Aldo reached the landing, a look of concern on his face.

 

“May I come in?” Aldo asked, trying not to think about how just a few short flights had left him out of breath.

 

“Of course,” Thomas said bemused, stepping aside and waving Aldo in. He went to the kitchen and poured Aldo a glass of water from the filter jug which Aldo chugged gratefully. Thomas took it back wordlessly from him, pouring him another.

 

“Is everything alright?” he asked, forehead creasing. 

 

Aldo nodded, looking around the modest apartment. He hadn’t been to Thomas’s own place in a while. Both of them had been so busy with the Conclave and its immediate aftermath, that most nights, more often than not, were spent in rooms at the Vatican. They were available to any cardinal in the city, and it was convenient, especially with all the work a new papacy entailed. But with things finally settling, both had been able to spend more evenings at home. It could be a relief, but Aldo had noticed they both still enjoyed staying within the Vatican these days, even when it wasn’t strictly necessary. 

 

“Would you like a proper drink?” Thomas asked, peering at him. “You seem…”

 

Aldo shook his head. He felt drunk enough already. He suddenly felt overdressed in his cardinal’s vestments next to Thomas, who was in regular clothes, and a heavy cable-knit cardigan. His reading glasses were perched on his head, and Aldo glanced over to the armchair to see a hastily-marked book by the author Rosario Castellanos. Feminist cultural studies seemed a somewhat esoteric choice for Thomas, and Aldo realized without needing to be told, that this was probably a recommendation of Vincent’s. That pulled his thoughts back down to earth and he looked at Thomas frankly.

 

“I was just with His Holiness,” he said.

 

“I see,” Thomas said, face unreadable. “How was his trip?”

 

“He told me,” Aldo said. Thomas blinked, but gave nothing away. Aldo knew Thomas would never reveal anything without being sure of what Aldo did or didn’t know, so he specified:

 

“He told me about the clinic. In Geneva. The one he didn’t end up using.”

 

Thomas’s face smoothed out. “Ah. Yes.”

 

He brushed past Aldo and picked up his abandoned cup of tea, draining it, as though fortifying himself. He turned back to Aldo. 

 

“Yes, he mentioned that he was planning on telling you.”

 

He gestured for Aldo to sit, but Aldo was still too keyed up.

 

“You found out on your own, he said?”

 

“Yes, right after he was elected. Not that I was looking for anything in particular, but I had already asked Ray to make a file on him. The clinic came up. His Holiness filled in the blanks for me. Then we sent up the smoke.”

 

Aldo nodded. Thomas was still eyeing him warily.

 

“I know it must be a shock, but -”

 

“I think it’s perfectly brilliant,” Aldo interrupted.

 

“In what sense?” asked Thomas, like he didn’t quite believe him.

 

Aldo shrugged, waving a hand uselessly.

 

“Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth. Do you not perceive it?” he quoted. Thomas raised a dubious eyebrow,

 

“I do. But this is very new. I will freely admit that I was floored,” he said, hands in his pockets, leaning back against the arm of the sofa. “You’re not worried? About how it will go over?”

 

Aldo’s lips parted. He’d searched his heart for anxiety. Maybe it would come later, maybe it wouldn’t. But for now, he felt dizzy with certainty, like he was floating above the city, every calculating, forecasting instinct he possessed, shattered by utter faith.

 

“I think it’s going to be fine.” 

 

“You do? Because of timing, or because of how we spin it, or -”

 

“Because of him,” Aldo said, looking Thomas in the eye, willing him to feel what he felt. “Because of Vincent.”

 

Thomas looked at him for a long moment, and finally he nodded slowly, a smile creeping up that face Aldo knew so well.

 

“Because of Vincent,” Thomas agreed. And Aldo knew that he understood, of course he did. 

 

Aldo didn’t know what to do with his hands, practically giddy. He lifted a hand helplessly, letting it fall back to his side with a thud.

 

“He was a good choice,” Aldo said, a laugh bubbling up in him at the utter banality of such a statement. Thomas grinned.

 

“Wasn’t he though?”

 

Aldo could feel his laugh starting to spill over and covered his mouth, and Thomas’s grin stretched even further.

 

“And to think he’s already achieved his first miracle.”

 

“What’s that?”

 

“He seems to have made you an optimist.”

 

Aldo stared at him, the teasing spark in his eyes. And then he laughed freely, and Thomas joined in, and they were doubled over there in Thomas’s living room, two senior cardinals acting like altar boys, and it was ridiculous, but Aldo couldn’t stop, every time he caught Thomas’s eye, he started up again. 

 

Finally they straightened up, Aldo removing his glasses to wipe his eyes.

 

“My God. I think I’ll take that drink now, if you don’t mind.”

 

Thomas chuckled and went to his bar, selecting a bottle of red, searching around for something to open it with. His glasses were forgotten on his head, nestled in his receding hairline that was still as neatly combed as he’d kept it thirty years ago. 

 

Aldo watched his motions, and felt struck dumb. He moved without realizing it, walking towards him and taking the bottle out of his hands, putting it back on the bureau. And before Thomas could ask what he was doing, Aldo gently cupped his face, leaned in, and kissed him.

 

It was a short kiss, simply given, but Aldo meant it, and could only hope Thomas felt his sincerity in the press of lips. He pulled back and opened his eyes, letting his hand fall to Thomas’s shoulder. Thomas was looking at him in a daze.

 

“What was that for?” he asked. There was nothing accusatory in his tone, nothing shocked. It was like he really wanted to know, and Aldo only had the truth to give him.

 

“Because I’m glad to share this with you,” he said simply. Thomas’s sweater was rough and heavy under his palm, but his pulse was smooth and strong against Aldo’s fingers.

 

“Share what?” Thomas murmured. Aldo didn’t even know what he meant either. This knowledge? This papacy? This life?

 

“All of it,” Aldo said. “All of it.”

 

Thomas’s eyes searched his. Aldo let him look, standing there in all his soft conviction, unable to take his eyes off Thomas’s. Thomas leaned in the slightest amount, and Aldo did the same. They paused, Thomas’s gaze sliding from Aldo’s eyes to his mouth. Thomas’s lips parted, and Aldo lifted his chin, and suddenly it was like all the air had been sucked out of the room. The traffic outside faded into the distance, replaced by the thudding of Aldo’s pulse in his ears. Thomas’s eyes flicked up to his once more, then back down, then his nose was bumping Aldo’s, and Aldo didn’t even dare breathe. Then slowly Thomas leaned in, lips brushing Aldo’s. 

 

It was just the barest press of lips. And yet Aldo felt as though Thomas had reached into his chest and pulled out his heart. He tilted his chin ever so slightly and Thomas kissed him again, softly, then again, each kiss a glancing touch of skin, almost a question. Aldo answered by meeting Thomas for the next gentle graze of lips, kissing him back. Still, it was a quiet, near reverent thing, poised quivering on the edge, neither willing to break the rhythm, kissing lightly in Thomas’s living room, as though it were the first time for either.

 

Trying not to shudder out of his skin, Aldo brought his hand back up to stroke Thomas’s cheek, keeping him close. The pressure was still light, but more definitive than before. Thomas let out a shaky breath and wound his arms around Aldo, lips still working gently against his, tasting him, feeling him, trying him. It was slow, exploratory, hesitant, and Aldo thought he was going to die. 

 

Aldo lifted his other hand up, tracing the shell of Thomas’s ear. Thomas drew back the smallest amount, eyes finding Aldo’s, a swirling storm, looking for an anchor. Aldo nodded. He drew Thomas back in, Thomas’s eyes falling shut, and they kissed again, more deeply this time. 

 

If Aldo had ever let himself imagine this happening again - and God knew he’d tried not to so many times - he would have pictured it fast, desperate, from so much pent-up want over the years. He never would have imagined it so slow, so careful, yet so deliberate. It was almost ceremonious. Thomas kissed him with so much intent, Aldo felt utterly wrapped up in it, carried along by swift currents that drew him in, kissing him back.

 

Neither spoke. Doing so would have broken the spell. Thomas’s fingers found the zipper on the back of Aldo’s cassock, and he drew it down slowly, methodically. Aldo was sure Thomas could feel him shaking even more beneath it, but he let it fall to the ground, looking at Thomas quietly as he stepped out of its folds. Thomas pulled him back in without a word, closing his mouth over Aldo’s, hands sliding down Aldo’s sides, Aldo arching into the touch of his warm palms. 

 

His hands travelled over Aldo’s ribs, feeling every ridge, coming to rest on Aldo’s hips, as far as they’d made it the last time they’d been here like this. Aldo thought obscurely of a half-finished bottle of wine sitting untouched on an empty doorstep in the middle of Rome. He pushed the image aside and watched it roll away, spilling its contents, intending to drink to the last drop.

 

Aldo lifted his hands to run them through Thomas’s hair, catching on the temples of his glasses. He removed them tenderly, placing them on the bureau, and did the same with his own. He only broke away from Thomas’s lips once, to remove the cross around his neck. He handed it to Thomas who took it carefully, winding up the chain and placing it beside their glasses. If Aldo thought about what they were doing he would freeze, so he didn’t. He stroked Thomas's hair again and kissed him, their lips completely slick by now, the swelling in his chest threatening to burst. Thomas’s arms wound around him again, and he used his position to guide them to his room. 

 

There was a moment beside the bed where they met each other’s eyes in the shadowy room, but at this point it seemed a foregone conclusion. Maybe it had been ever since they’d first met. Thomas pushed Aldo gently onto the mattress, Aldo reaching out to pull him in.

 

It couldn’t have taken long in reality. But time seemed to work differently here, like this, Aldo acutely aware of every button undone, every brush of Thomas’s hands over his skin, every press of lips together, every gesture momentous, nothing too small to miss. There was an eternity in every piece of clothing removed. Thomas’s skin was warm everywhere, and Aldo arched into the feeling of it as Thomas moved slowly above him, Aldo cataloguing every flicker of Thomas’s face, the soft gasp he made when their hips lined up, the shuddering groan as Aldo ran his hands down his back, pulling Thomas down harder as he pressed up against him. Aldo panted in want, and finally gave up trying to keep track of their every movement. It was like lying down in warm rain and trying to count the drops. Instead he let it wash over him, eyes falling shut, chin tilted up, Thomas’s parted lips skimming over his own, his cheek, his jaw, both too far gone to kiss properly anymore. Everything was warm, everything was skin, everything was Thomas, Thomas, Thomas - 

 

Aldo realized he was speaking out loud, and Thomas groaned in response, their foreheads pressed together, his teeth gritted. Aldo reached down to grip them both, and Thomas’s whole body tremored, tensing in a way Aldo felt down to his toes. He held him close, revelling in Thomas’s hands running over him, squeezing his eyes shut as they moved together.

 

Just when their movements reached a reckless peak of urgency Aldo cracked his eyes open to see Thomas staring at him, hair sweaty, eyes glazed, lips swollen. Michelangelo couldn’t hope to match it, Thomas’s eyes a whole Sistine Chapel all their own, alive and splintering from the effort of keeping himself together. Aldo reached up to trace his lips, once, twice, feeling them quiver. His breath hitched, and he pulled Thomas down to kiss him. And then Thomas shuddered above Aldo and it was like the ceiling cracked, light pouring into them, pouring into Aldo. He could almost taste Thomas’s moan on his tongue, and he kissed him through it, hard, present, because no matter where and how Thomas fell, Aldo would be there with him. He closed his eyes, blue and gold exploding behind the lids, and let himself fall too, Thomas’s arms around him cushioning the blow.

 

He must have dozed. He kept seeing marble arches, and light streaming in between them, pale, tremulous, but determined. Like he imagined the first light of Genesis must have been. But maybe the light was coming from him.

 

Eventually Aldo came back to himself, but he didn’t open his eyes right away. He just wanted to breathe in Thomas’s skin where he lay beside him, arms still around Aldo. When he finally opened his eyes to take him in, Thomas looked as shattered as he felt. Both were trembling, slick, and consumed. But somehow, for all of that, it was calm. Aldo dipped his head to kiss Thomas’s shoulder, Thomas’s head turning to him, hair tickling his face. He reached over to stroke Aldo’s jaw, words stuck in his throat as he gazed at Aldo endlessly, the blue in his eyes stitched together again like the sky after a storm. 

 

“I hadn’t realized how like prayer it could be,” he finally said.

 

“Like prayer?” Aldo asked. He was nearly delirious, not sure if he could sleep right this moment or if he’d never been more awake in his life.

 

“Thoughtless…but deliberate…asking for your happiness,” Thomas said, with only the slightest note of bashfulness. Aldo’s chest twisted inside him.

 

“You’ve always had my happiness,” he said quietly. “Always.”

 

They lay together like that, nearly weightless. Aldo felt like he’d been cracked wide open, a chamber agape inside of his chest that was bigger than all of him, bigger than them, bigger than anything on earth that lay outside the space between their bodies. He leaned in to rest his head against Thomas’s shoulder, reveling in every point of contact between their skin. Other than water swiped over a forehead or the tip of a chalice to lips, theirs was not a life of touch, the only bared skin around them made of cold marble, high on its pedestal. He ran a hand across Thomas’s chest, the hairs tickling his fingers, and closed his eyes again.

 

Eventually they needed to rouse themselves, but Aldo pushed lightly on Thomas’s chest, indicating for him to stay in bed. He found his boxers, slipping them on, and went to Thomas’s bathroom to clean off. He brought Thomas back a fresh towel and then wandered barefoot to the living room to get his glasses. They were still next to the bottle of wine he’d taken from Thomas’s hands, which waited on the bureau. He took the bottle and two wine glasses back into the bedroom, holding them up at Thomas who smiled in recognition and moved aside in the bed to let him in.

 

Mildly disconcerted at how natural this felt, Aldo poured out some wine for each of them. Wondering if it would have been absurdly satirical to clink glasses post-coitally, he was spared the decision by Thomas watching the flow of wine with a slight slant to his mouth.

 

“A little easier than a makeshift wine window,” he said idly, but Aldo heard the note of hesitance in his voice. Aldo slid a hand over his thigh.

 

“I’ve always wanted this,” he said, in case Thomas still had doubts. “I wanted to back then. Very much.”

 

“There was a lot to lose back then,” Thomas said softly, looking up at him.

 

“There was a lot to gain as well,” Aldo made himself say, not quite willing to be let off the hook. Thomas leaned into Aldo where he was propped up on the pillows, and Aldo slid an arm around him holding him close, dipping his chin to the top of Thomas’s forehead. 

 

“Or who knows,” he admitted there after a while, Thomas's hair tickling his lips. “We were so young. Maybe we wouldn’t have handled it well twenty-five years ago.”

 

“My knees would have handled it better twenty-five years ago.”

 

It startled a laugh out of Aldo, who grinned against the top of Thomas’s head.

 

“Don’t worry, you’re still the most handsome man in the Curia,” he teased him, and felt Thomas’s answering snort against him. Now it didn’t feel quite so ludicrous to lightly tap their glasses together, and take a drink. Aldo rubbed his knuckles against Thomas’s shoulder, and opened his mouth, hesitating for a moment.

 

“I remember I almost fell over the first time I saw you,” Aldo admitted, a sheepish smile playing at his lips. “Showing up in Rome with one backpack, all tanned and windswept, blue eyes and posh accent. You looked like Lawrence of Arabia without the hubris.” 

 

“Oh God,” Thomas said, covering his mouth, shoulders shaking. “ Lorenzo d’Arabia. I’d completely forgotten about that.” The nickname had been short-lived, once the rest of the Curia had realized that their glamorous-looking new brother didn’t have nearly enough vanity to properly back it up.

 

“That feels like a lifetime ago,” Thomas said, leaning up again to take another sip of wine. His eyes were sleepy but bright as he regarded Aldo. It had indeed been a lifetime they’ve shared. Aldo adjusted his arm around Thomas again, and they drank in comfortable silence.

 

“So you don’t regret any of this, then?” Thomas asked him after a while. Aldo shook his head, the unfurled bloom in his chest clenching a little at the vulnerability in Thomas’s voice.

 

“Thomas, when I turned you down back then, it had nothing to do with my moral scruples, or that it seemed wrong,” he said quietly, ashamed of his past cowardice. “That at least would have been excusable. It was because it seemed dangerous. And I couldn’t face that. Not then. And I’m sorry for it.”

 

“Don’t be,” Thomas said. “You weren’t wrong about the risks.” but Aldo could feel the lines of his body relax somewhat against him.

 

“What about you?” Aldo asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer. But Thomas shook his head.

 

“I don’t feel as though I’ve let down the church,” Thomas said. “Once upon a time, I would be willing to risk my own standing, except…”

 

“Except for Vincent?”

 

Thomas nodded, taking a sip of wine. Aldo watched him assessingly.

 

“Do you love him?”

 

Thomas sputtered on his wine, and looked at Aldo incredulously.

 

“Heavens. What a question to ask someone while you’re in bed with them.”

 

“Well do you?” 

 

Thomas stared at Aldo like he couldn’t believe what he was asking, but Aldo was unperturbed. Thomas let out a mild scoff.

 

“You have an interesting idea of pillow talk, you know that?”

 

“Thomas.”

 

Thomas held his gaze and opened his mouth then closed it, looking down into his wine.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, thumbing the rim.

 

“Of course it does,” Aldo said quietly. “You were drawn to his path the moment you met him. I saw you.”

 

“The misguided infatuation of a foolish old man, nothing more,” Thomas muttered.

 

“Well, if you’re a fool, then I’m the supreme court jester,” Aldo said, leaning back against the pillows. Thomas glanced up at him. His forehead bunched.

 

“You…?”

 

Aldo shrugged as insouciantly as he could.

 

“Believe me, I quite understand the appeal,” he said mildly, but knew there was a flush creeping up his neck.

 

Thomas still stared at him, but the lines in his forehead smoothed out, and a slow smile spread across his face.

 

“I told you you’d like him.”

 

“Yes yes, there’s no need to look so smug,” Aldo said, taking a very dignified sip of wine.

 

“I’m not smug,” Thomas said, still grinning. “Are you serious?”

 

“What?” Aldo said, still trying not to blush, supremely abashed, but also relieved he could give Thomas some solidarity. 

 

“I should have guessed when he said you showed him your latest paper,” Thomas said, gently mocking. “It took you, what, two years to even admit to having a thesis with me?”

 

“ You don’t have a leg to stand on, I know you’re behind those fancy new robes of his,” Aldo countered, pointing at Thomas.

 

Thomas covered his face with hands, and he was such a delightful cross between mortified and pleased with himself that Aldo couldn’t help but laugh at him.

 

‘This might be the most ridiculous conversation we’ve ever had, and that is saying something,” Thomas mumbled from behind his fingers.

 

Aldo quite agreed. They could discuss almost anything, but in all their years of friendship, the topic of attraction and the odd tendrils of it either might have felt in their lives were strictly forbidden territory. It might have been out of respect to their positions, or out of respect towards their own half-sublimated feelings towards each other, but Aldo had a feeling it was mostly the latter. 

 

Thomas set his wine glass on the table and rolled over, leaning his chin on his crossed arms, looking up to where Aldo was propped on the pillows.

 

“It doesn’t mean that I don’t…you know…this…with you…”

 

He gestured at Aldo, who thought he heard a streak of gallantry amidst the incoherence.

 

“Eloquent as ever, Eminence.”

 

Thomas rolled his eyes, but reached out to place a hand on Aldo’s thigh.

 

“You’re not…hurt? By my feelings?”

 

“Towards him?” Aldo asked, and Thomas nodded.

 

Aldo searched within himself. It was a thought he’d been consciously avoiding for some time now, the idea that his friend might have had a more than simply professional devotion towards their new Holy Father. His had been a life of so many chances missed and sacrifices. It should have been a cosmic joke for him to rebuff Thomas’s advances for the sake of his clerical prospects, only for Thomas to then become besotted with the Pope of Rome instead. But lying here next to Thomas, he couldn’t find much room for self-pity. If it were anyone but Vincent, he might feel differently, but like he’d said…he was not exactly one to talk where Vincent was concerned. It was a thought he’d been avoiding in himself as well. But now, somehow he only felt strengthened by the idea of more love to share with Thomas, in whatever form it took. He might not even be here without the looseness Vincent seemed intent on jarring in him. Maybe he was what they’d needed to open up again. Or maybe Aldo was losing his mind. 

 

“I’m not jealous, but you’re very kind. And you? Not that there’d be anything to be jealous of, but…you know…”

 

“Flabbergasted, maybe. Hurt, no,” Thomas said, with a sleepy, affectionate smile up at Aldo. “I’d even go so far as to say I’m delighted.”

 

“Lunacy loves company, is that what they say?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

Thomas rolled back over, staring at the ceiling, foot idly rubbing Aldo’s.

 

“Besides, it’s hard to get too worked up over something impossible anyways.”

 

“I’m starting to redefine such things,” Aldo said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Thomas’s ear. He had never imagined this would actually happen, however plausible it was in theory. Truthfully, he’d always assumed they’d have just stayed two remaining kings on a chessboard, nowhere to move, no way to get close, forever locked in a stalemate. Not this sleepy closeness, Thomas turning his head into Aldo’s hand, closing his eyes at the touch.

 

“You can’t possibly expect…”

 

“I have no expectations whatsoever,” Aldo said. “Merely that I know he adores you. And I can well understand why you would want to focus your attentions on perhaps someone easier.”

 

Thomas’s eyes cracked open in disbelief.

 

“Someone easier, like the Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church?”

 

Aldo opened his mouth, and then shut it, and Thomas burst out laughing at him, shoulders shaking where he lay on the mattress.

 

“My dear Aldo, exactly how high an opinion do you have of your own difficulty?”

 

“Alright, fine,” Aldo muttered, but he was grinning too. Thomas laughed again, and then he was sitting up in a trice, basically straddling Aldo where he sat. He took Aldo’s face between his hands and regarded him, and kissed him very sweetly, very deliberately. Aldo could only melt into it, kissing him back, sparks ricocheting inside of him. Finally Thomas broke away. He looked down at Aldo, eyes full of affection.

 

“This was overdue,” he said quietly, a thumb brushing over Aldo’s cheek.

 

“Is that all it is?” Aldo asked. “Overdue?”

 

One of them had to ask this. Aldo didn’t know if this was a one-time thing, to get it out of their systems, or if it was something that would continue. He had no idea what this was, what it could be, or perhaps, more pertinently, what it couldn’t be.

 

“I don’t know,” Thomas said quietly, resting his face against Aldo’s. They stayed like that, each lost in their own thoughts as Thomas’s watch ticked by, the minutes no longer as immeasurable as they’d seemed before.

 

“What do you want?” Thomas finally asked him. 

 

Aldo didn’t even know how to answer. He wasn’t used to having choices anymore. He’d closed himself to that long ago, shutting a door on any possibility of paths, nebulous and blurring together, leading away from the ordinances built around him. He’d never imagined it would have cracked open again, or if he was even allowed to step outside and try.

 

“Does what we want matter?” he asked tentatively. He wasn’t trying to throw cold water over them. He really meant it. But Thomas’s mouth flickered downwards.

 

“I suppose not.”

 

Thomas leaned away from him, and in a flash Aldo reached out and gripped his arm, pulling Thomas back before him. He felt a coward and a hypocrite. Thomas had once placed himself unguarded before Aldo. And Vincent had opened his soul to him just that evening. How could he look within himself and do any less?

 

He relaxed his grip on Thomas’s wrist, but kept him there, thumb stroking his hand.

 

“I suspect I’m someone who will always have regrets,” he said, more to their hands than to Thomas. “About paths taken, paths not taken, paths that should have been taken…”

 

He looked up at Thomas and spoke plainly.

 

“But none would be so great as to one day leave this world having you think that I don't love you, and that you haven’t been one of the most important people in my unworthy life. Whatever path we end up on.” 

 

“Aldo…”

 

“I mean it, Thomas,” Aldo said. “I don’t want you to worry or…or try to spare my feelings, whatever we decide, or…anything. You ask what I want, and what I want is for you to know that.”

 

He told Thomas this with no agenda, no plan, no motive in how it would turn out. For once he didn’t care about the outcome of his choices, whether telling Thomas this would ward him off or spur him on. The plain truth would suffice. It was holy enough on its own.

 

Thomas took Aldo’s hands in both of his, thumb stroking his knuckles.

 

“I do feel drawn to his path, as you say,” he started, and Aldo nodded. “But I would very much like to be beside you on it.”

 

Aldo let out a breath. The relief was almost palpable. He still didn’t know what he could expect from this, or where it could go. But if he was with Thomas, it would be safe. It always had been. 

 

“Now and forever, my friend.”

 

Thomas’s eyes crinkled deeply. He raised Aldo’s hands to his lips and kissed them both. 

 

“My dear Aldo,” he murmured again. 

 

Aldo positively dissolved into the touch, and he leaned in to kiss Thomas. It started gently, searching, but soon Aldo could feel himself splintering to pieces the longer the kiss went on. He was counting on Thomas to put him back together. Or take him apart. Anything, anything, anything…

 

He took in a sharp breath as Thomas broke the kiss and bent to kiss his neck, holding the back of Thomas’s head in place, arching into the lips against his throat. Aldo stroked his hair desperately, his own lips pressed against Thomas’s temple, murmuring encouragement to him, only half-aware of the words.

 

“Darling,” he heard himself breathe, and could scarcely believe he had, but it was worth it when  Thomas lifted his head, eyes dark, and leaned in to kiss Aldo hard. The mood had spiked in urgency, as both grappled at each other, trying to get closer. Thomas’s hands tugged at the boxers Aldo had put back on, working their way inside, taking a warm grip of him. 

 

“ Christ - Thomas,” Aldo got out, curving into his touch. Thomas stroked him to hardness again, and all Aldo could do was lean into him, muscles both liquified and taut as he let Thomas carry out his will on him. Finally Thomas turned his head, lips by Aldo’s ear.

 

“Lie down,” Thomas instructed him, and Aldo shivered at the low, authoritative note in his voice. 

 

“What for?”

 

He felt Thomas smile.

 

“Because I’m not done praying.”

***

The lights on the stage were blinding. Even standing far off to the side, Thomas felt exposed. Thomas was no stranger to addressing crowds. No one entered the priesthood with a crippling fear of speaking in public. But churches didn’t vary too much from parish to parish, all homelike in their way. And a congregation of familiar faces every week was different to the harsh spotlights of the hall and the anonymous black void beyond them, the small movements of the invisible crowd feeling like a giant organism waiting in the dark.

 

Vincent looked perfectly composed, despite this being his biggest address since he’d first stepped out onto the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica to greet the gathered crowd. Thomas would remember the cheers of the hundred-thousand strong crowd to the end of his days. Before stepping out, Vincent had not shown any obvious nerves, but nor had he shown obvious excitement. He’d been incredibly sober, almost grave in the moments before his appearance. At one point he’d stepped to the side, eyes closed, lips moving in silent prayer. No one had approached him. Finally he’d straightened up and looked around them, a small but warm smile settling over their shoulders, eyes landing on Thomas before his nod that he was ready. 

 

Now, he carried his surroundings well. He barely seemed to notice the cameras in his face, instead addressing the people seated in the Paul VI Audience Hall.  He wore the robes Thomas had given him, the deep green of the stole set off perfectly by the hall’s modern green arches behind him. 

 

He thanked the sisters onstage with him, sharing a little of their personal stories, and what brought them to the church, things most of the general public would never have wondered about. Thomas was ashamed to say he too had scarcely given it a thought in the past, never meaning to take the sisters around them for granted, but aware he probably had. Most of the spectators in the hall would leave with the same conclusion. How things would change remained to be seen, but change started with awareness, and Thomas could think of no one better to introduce the expansion of women’s roles in the Vatican than Vincent. 

 

Finally Vincent stepped back amidst loud applause, giving the audience a considerate nod, but focused mostly on the sisters and women acolytes and lectors onstage with him. He shook their hands, beamed at them, listened to them, and there was no doubt that things would shift from his example alone.

 

Further down the line, Thomas saw Aldo lean in to murmur something to Vincent, who smiled and squeezed his shoulder. Aldo glanced over and found Thomas’s eyes, and Thomas felt a bittersweet pang in his chest. He was sure his attachment must have been obvious on his face, but perhaps not. There’d been rumours about them for years anyway, rumours he’d done nothing to discourage in his youth, the only validation he thought his feelings would ever get.

Eventually the crowd on stage began the migration into the wings. Thomas moved amidst the bustle of people, finding himself pulled in all directions by various dignitaries and officials. He spoke politely to them all but was overwhelmed. He longed to pray. 

 

He nearly pulled up short with the realization, a stone in the river of people around him. In the past few years, prayer had been a routine, duty, refuge, effort, sometimes all at once. But it had been so long since he’d actively looked forward to it. The lights backstage seemed to tremor at his cognizance.

 

Aldo caught up to him in the throng and noticed his distraction, giving him a questioning smile. Thomas smiled back and shook his head, and they continued moving with the crowd, the backs of their hands brushing together.

 

“Nicely done,” Thomas told him. It was some of Aldo’s best writing to date. Thomas knew how much he and Vincent had sweated their preparations.

 

“Well, he did the hard part,” Aldo said self-effacingly. Thomas leaned into the hand Aldo placed on the small of his back, directing him down the steps.

 

“How is he?” Thomas asked in a lower voice. Vincent’s white figure was far ahead of them, cutting a path through the spectators in the hall, all clapping loudly.

 

“Oh, you know,” Aldo said noncommittally as they moved with the crowd. No one listening to them would think anything of the exchange, but Thomas understood. 

 

“Go ahead,” Aldo said, nodding towards Vincent.

 

“Will I see you later?” Thomas asked.

 

“Mmhmm. Let me know how he is.”

 

“I will,” Thomas said. He turned to look at Aldo, who gave him a small smile. 

 

Thomas found himself thinking, as he constantly did, of the last time they’d made love. It had been slow, noses brushing as they’d shared breath, moving together, Aldo’s hands always so tender as they stroked his face, his hair, his hips, only gripping when Thomas had slid into him, his gasp tickling Thomas’s lips, eyes falling closed, lashes wet. Love covers a multitude of sins, Thomas had thought blindly as he moved inside of him, overwhelmed by the feeling, peace and ecstasy blurring together in a way he’d never known, Aldo’s fingers digging into his skin keeping him solidly, blissfully on earth.

 

For days afterwards, Thomas had purple fingerprint bruises circling his hips. He’d traced them endlessly, rhythmically, like they were rosary beads, trying to press them harder to keep them from fading too fast.

That had been weeks ago. They’d both agreed it should be the only time, in a painful but inevitable conversation. It was not the risk to themselves that they couldn’t face, but neither wanted to do anything to hurt Vincent’s papacy. It was too important, and bigger than them. But at least they would always have the memory of it, that brief pocket of time where they’d shared everything they were with each other. Thomas missed it intensely already. He could almost feel his longing blooming beneath his skin every time he looked at Aldo. But they were doing good work, important work, the kind they’d always wanted to do. They had mutual assurance of love, and there were far heavier burdens to carry than that.

 

They had almost reached the exit. Thomas looked around, and briefly tangled his fingers with Aldo as they shared a long look, the rest of the hall fading away. Whatever happened, this was a link they would always share, a cord between them that couldn’t be taken back. And Thomas didn’t want to take it back, not for a moment. He squeezed Aldo’s fingers and stepped away, moving ahead.

 

He caught up to Vincent’s side, walking patiently alongside him as Vincent continued to shake hands with people. When he eventually looked over, Thomas asked:

 

“Would Your Holiness care to walk back to the residences with me?”

 

Vincent nodded gratefully, and Thomas signaled to the waiting cars to go on ahead. They broke away from the crowd, immediately flanked by members of the Swiss Guard as they commenced the short walk back. They didn’t speak at all, leaving the hordes and flashing lights behind them. They reached the back entrance to the residences which were immediately unlocked at their arrival, and they headed into the courtyard. The guards stayed behind, taking up their posts. Rather than go inside immediately, Thomas angled his head towards the gardens, Vincent smiling in agreement. 

 

They walked slowly through the courtyard. Soon it would be full of the sound of cicadas announcing summer. But tonight the gardens were silent save for the occasional call of a nightjar from the trees, or the splash of a turtle slipping into the water. 

 

They reached a stone bench and sat down, still not having exchanged a word. It couldn’t have been more different from the busy audience hall. At last Vincent seemed to exhale, leaning his head on his hands, letting his eyes fall closed. Thomas lifted a hand to gently rub the back of his neck. They stayed like that, Thomas listening to the sounds of the garden, and Vincent’s measured breaths. After a while, Vincent straightened up.

 

“Thank you, my friend,” he said, and Thomas shook his head. 

 

“You did well,” he said. Vincent always did. Few people would know the toll such events took on the Holy Father. He was not a shy man, but large events did not come naturally to him. Thomas was one of the only ones who knew the extent of it, and he was resolved to help him as much as he was able. 

 

“I hope so,” Vincent said to his knees, and Thomas scoffed gently,

 

“I know so.”

 

He let his hand drop from the nape of Vincent’s neck, rubbing his back once, and then putting his hands back in his lap, folded in an unconscious imitation of the prayers he was waiting to complete. Vincent looked over at him, hair swinging lightly with the motion.

 

“I wish you would tell me what’s been troubling you,” he said. 

 

Thomas’s hands tightened where they were clasped. He couldn’t look at Vincent. He regretted he’d given him any reason to worry at all.

 

“It is nothing to bother you with,” he said, willing himself to speak no more of it. Vincent stilled next to him, as though hurt by Thomas’s words.

 

“But you can,” Vincent said. 

 

He needed to stop talking. Thomas looked up to tell him to leave it, but found himself arrested by Vincent’s quiet gaze. The words stuck in his throat.

 

“I can’t,” he said, silently imploring Vincent to look away from him, because if he kept looking at Thomas like that, it would all spill out whether Thomas wanted it to or not.

 

“You help me greatly. I would help you if I could,” Vincent said. 

 

“Even if it hurts you?” Thomas couldn’t stop himself from asking.

 

“Especially if it hurts me,” Vincent said simply. He reached over and took Thomas’s hand, but did not say anything else. He simply waited, his dark eyes showing no judgement, the way they had in this same garden months ago, when Thomas told him - without the slightest plan to - of his difficulties praying. Like that time, the words seemed to come unprompted, because they wanted to. But when the words came, they were not what Thomas was expecting.

 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he choked out. Vincent barely blinked. He nodded for Thomas to go on.

 

“It has been three months since my last confession,” Thomas continued by rote, and then realized he had nowhere to go. To air his thoughts in this form felt tantamount to perjury. He felt as he did when holding up a ballot with his name on it, knowing full well the magnitude of the lie he was about to commit. He shifted on the bench, remembering the bruises that had once dotted his hips.They were their own prayer, and he could not, in all conscience, bring them into this as something to regret when he did not.

 

“Forgive me,” Thomas said, stopping himself.  “I would speak to you as a friend instead.”

 

“Please do.”

 

“I cannot confess my sin to you because…I do not feel I have sinned. At least not against God.”

 

He struggled to find his next words. Finally Vincent took pity on him.

 

“Is this anything to do with Cardinal Bellini?” he asked. Thomas’s head swung over to him, ready to be surprised, but then he realized he wasn’t really. Of course Vincent would know. He saw everything. Vincent gave him an inscrutable smile.

 

“As long as we are speaking as friends, I would say, as your friend, that you have both been distracted all month.”

 

Thomas swallowed. How could he burden Vincent with this? And how could he speak of these things to him without telling Aldo first? But he had already started and found he could not stop.

 

“I have broken my vows,” he said finally, fingers clenching in his lap. “But in another sense, if what Matthew says about sinning in the heart is true, then I have already broken these vows for the better part of thirty years.”

 

He let the words hang in the air, not daring to look Vincent’s way. But Vincent’s words, when they finally came, did not sound particularly shocked.

 

“Do you love him?” he asked plainly, and Thomas thought of Aldo asking him the same thing about Vincent, neither inclined to beat around the bush, preferring to get right to the heart of any matter. They really were very similar, and Thomas felt the fonder of them both for it.

 

“He is the heart’s friend,” Thomas said, still looking down. “I love him dearly. But we both…we both agreed the risks were too great, and that it couldn’t happen again. But it is of no importance. We have been able to go on as before.”

 

Thomas let out a rueful laugh.

 

“We’re quite used to it, I suppose.”

 

“And are you happy with this?” Vincent asked him quietly, forehead bunching in concern.

 

Thomas was about to automatically placate Vincent’s concerns, but found he couldn’t.

 

“Isn’t it more important to seek meaning than to seek happiness?” he asked, believing it, but still knowing it wasn’t an answer. 

 

“Meaning is what we make of it,” Vincent said. He looked off into the garden, at what, Thomas wasn’t sure. No turtles were visible in the falling evening. Vincent seemed deep in thought, watching the trees across the courtyard breathing with the breeze.

 

“Celibacy is a discipline, but it is not a doctrine,” Vincent finally said slowly, but Thomas shook his head. He wouldn’t let Vincent try to convince him of something he and Aldo had already talked themselves out of.

 

“Your Holiness…I am content. We made our choices. To complicate it again would be too great of a risk.”

 

“For yourselves?”

 

“For you ,” Thomas insisted. “We discussed the possibility of our…attachment…being just for us. Nobody’s business but ours, and nothing to do with our vows or the church. But this was wishful thinking, when we both know perfectly well that this would create difficulties for you. We both feel this acutely. If there was even the appearance of impropriety surrounding your papacy…”

 

“Appearance? How things ‘appear’ to be has meant very little to me for quite some time,” Vincent said, raising an eyebrow at him. 

 

“That’s just it,” Thomas said in frustration, leaning in. “Not yet, but soon, you will be under more scrutiny than any Pope before you. You would be embroiled in scandal should there be even a hint of anything else. I would resign before implicating you in anything.”

 

“Would you?” Vincent asked after a moment, the lines of his back rigid again. Thomas faltered, hating that he’d put any tension back into him.

 

“I wouldn’t want to,” he said. “But it would be a disaster for you if we were to continue any involvement, and it somehow got out.”

 

“You don’t think I am the best judge of what I can handle or not?” Vincent asked, standing up, hands folded behind him, looking away, face impassive.

 

“Your pontificate means too much,” Thomas protested. “To both of us. We would not risk your standing for anything.”

 

“I would not see you invoke my status to make yourself miserable, Thomas,” Vincent said, and Thomas was taken aback by the testiness in his voice. But he steeled himself.

 

“I fall on my sword for you, Your Holiness, you don’t fall on it for me. That’s not how this works,” Thomas said firmly, refusing to be intimidated. He hated this, but would have to stand fast. The last time he had tried to resign to a Pope, he had wanted to desperately, even though he knew it came from a place of weakness. This time he wanted nothing less, but if he had to, he could be strong in his convictions.

 

“I will not have two of my cardinals, much less two of my friends, forced away for doing no wrong,” Vincent said sharply, the words slicing Thomas like a whip. “I am not willing to lose either of you. What good am I to anyone else if I can’t protect those dearest to me?”

 

He was almost blazing in his white robes beneath the moonlight, his face carved by fortitude, and Thomas was struck by the sight of him, and the force radiating off of him. He seemed almost invincible, although Thomas knew such thoughts were blasphemous. He was no lamb to the slaughter, but nor was he a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was the true shepherd. The sight of him like this only confirmed Thomas’s unwillingness to damage him.

 

Vincent looked back at Thomas, and some of the light seemed to slip from his eyes, his fiery conviction replaced by uncertainty. A man again, no longer a righteous David. He walked back over to Thomas, seeming to hesitate before reaching out and placing a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Unless you want to leave. With him,” Vincent said, voice soft again. Thomas looked up at him. There was some sadness in his face, but he somehow found a smile in him as he looked down at Thomas, hair falling into his eyes. “Holiness takes many forms. And he who does not know love, does not know God.”

 

Thomas could only guess what the kind words cost him. All he knew for certain was that Vincent would sacrifice his own comfort for their happiness, and Thomas’s affection burned in his chest, his shoulder glowing under Vincent’s palm.

 

“That would be true,” Thomas said quietly, “if there were not love to be found here as well.”

 

Vincent gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Thomas couldn’t believe he was saying this, but he’d already come this far. In for a penny…

 

“I thought for some time that it was not you I loved, but rather the faith you’d restored in me,” he said, looking up at him. “I was wrong.”

 

“Thomas…”

 

“Forgive me,” Thomas said. “I only have the truth for you.”

 

Vincent sat down next to him on the mossy stone bench. They sat in silence, Vincent appearing to be deep in thought.

 

“Does Cardinal Bellini know how you feel?” he finally asked. It wasn’t what Thomas had expected, but he supposed it made sense. He found himself touched by the simple evidence of Vincent’s loyalty to both his friends, before any other concerns for himself.

 

“He does,” Thomas said. He hesitated. Aldo might kill him, but -

 

“Whatever it is that you and Aldo share is for you two to discuss,” Thomas said quietly, “but I believe there is love to be had there as well.”

 

Vincent turned his head towards him slightly, and Thomas glanced around the quiet courtyard, before leaning in.

 

“Do you see why I should not stay?” Thomas asked desperately. “All I’ve thought about is how this might hurt you. My feelings for him, for you…”

 

“You have never once hurt me, and you are not hurting me now,” Vincent said, giving him a small smile. “My envy hurts me, not you.”

 

“Envy of whom?” Thomas asked, thrown.

 

“Of you both,” Vincent said simply.

 

They shared a long look, Vincent’s face as calm as ever but completely unguarded now. There was a pulling and fluttering inside of Thomas, like someone tugging at a thread, two cloths stitching themselves together bit by bit. He hardly dared imagine what he thought Vincent was saying. And if that was what he was saying, the fact that he still would have encouraged Thomas to find his own happiness, forsaking his own…

 

“You mean…”

 

“Do I surprise you?” Vincent asked, lifting an eyebrow. Thomas’s lips tugged up of their own accord.

 

“Constantly.”

 

The lines beside Vincent’s eyes deepened. Thomas felt his chest quake, not sure if he wanted to laugh or shake apart. He had to be dreaming, there was no way they were sitting there having this conversation. But he was not dreaming up the breeze that played at Vincent’s stole, or the gritty stone bench beneath them, or Vincent’s hand that had found his again, clasping it warmly. Thomas shut his eyes, letting himself take in all of it.

 

“Vincent,” he started to say, and Vincent brushed his hand with his thumb, a gesture of confirmation. Thomas made himself look up at him.

 

“Please believe me when I say I did not expect this,” he said pleadingly. “With him…you…”

 

“I did not expect any of this,” Vincent said with a huff of laughter, using his free hand to gesture to the papal courtyard. “I’ve lived my entire life devoid of expectation. Not even knowing if I would survive from one day to the next.”

 

Vincent got up and walked over to the tree behind them. Turning around, he leaned against the trunk, regarding Thomas. And he would know what he was talking about,wouldn’t he: the one man who came to Rome without a strategy, only doing what he felt was right in the moment.

 

“It is a privilege to assume we can plan out every detail of our lives,” he said with an elegant shrug, robes bunching against the tree bark. “We cannot ever truly make plans for ourselves. Only God can do that.”

 

He seemed so sure of it, like he wasn’t saying what Thomas knew in his heart to be impossible. Thomas got up and walked over to him, joining him beneath the tree, the breeze rustling the leaves around them.

 

“Vincent…you must know, I have no presumptions whatsoever,” Thomas said. “I…I am moved, but I don’t know what is to be done. I would not make things complicated for you.”

 

“It’s not so complicated, is it?” Vincent asked. He smiled at the skeptical look on Thomas’s face. “I had the pleasure of arguing about Corinthians early on in my friendship with Aldo. I found myself reading it again the other night. And I kept coming back to one line: And now these three remain: faith, hope and love…”

 

“...but the greatest of these is love,” Thomas finished quietly. 

 

“Precisely,” Vincent said. His eyes were softer than Thomas could bear. Thomas felt his throat close up, and Vincent stepped towards him.

 

“I know what my responsibility is, Thomas,” he said in a low voice. “And there is no one that could make me forget that, not even you or Aldo, as strongly as I feel for you both. But it’s enough for me to know that this love is in me and around me. Nothing would make me happier. Or give my work more meaning.”

 

Thomas nodded, still unable to speak, unable to let himself hope. Vincent leaned in.

 

“Thomas, do you wish to resign?” he asked, voice stripped of the recitative tone it had taken on, completely serious.

 

“I wish to stay,” Thomas said hoarsely. “As long as you’ll have me. Us.”

 

“I would have you both here for my entire papacy if I could,” Vincent said.

 

“The papacy is for life,” Thomas reminded him, heart hammering. 

 

“Well then,” Vincent said, a smile finding its way back onto his face as he regarded Thomas almost shyly, but with complete abandon. He was every bit as simultaneously exposed but also assured as he’d been when they first met. He was elemental. Thomas reached out, lightly grasping the end of Vincent’s stole, the one he’d gifted him, thumbing the smooth fabric. Vincent took another step towards him beneath the tree.

 

Footsteps echoed across the balcony, and Thomas’s head swung around.

 

“What is it?” Vincent asked, but Thomas put a finger to his lips.

 

“Shh,” he said, and Vincent fell silent, as the voice of a Swiss Guard called down into the garden:

 

“ Sua Santità? Sei qui?” 

 

Vincent and Thomas stayed stock still behind the trunk of the tree, obscured by the leaves, until the footsteps faded away again. One of the guards muttered to the other: “Pensavo che stesse guardando di nuovo quelle tartarughe” - I thought he might be looking at those turtles again.

 

Thomas turned back to catch Vincent’s eye, a laugh bubbling up in him. But it faded out as Vincent took another step towards his, eyes very bright, hand tracing Thomas’s cheek. He leaned forward and brushed his mouth against Thomas’s once, in a chaste kiss. Thomas barely had time to process it before Vincent pulled back.

 

“Thank you,” Vincent murmured.

 

“For what?”

 

“For the succinct lesson in humility,” Vincent said, a smile in his voice, and Thomas remembered, stomach swooping. The laugh wanted to surface again, instead turning into a deep blush on his face.

 

“You’re welcome,” he said and cleared his throat, lips nearly buzzing, Vincent’s palm still warm against his face.

 

“Forgive me if I leave you now,” Vincent said. “I have much to pray on.”

 

“Yes,” Thomas agreed, still rather dazed. Vincent seemed to understand, eyes softening.

 

“I’d be lost without my Saint Peter,” Vincent reminded him, thumb stroking his cheek again.

 

“Even if he has some cracks?” Thomas murmured.

 

“Especially then,” Vincent said. Thomas leaned into the press of his hand.

 

“And what does that make Aldo?”

 

Vincent smiled.

 

“I was thinking perhaps the burning bush. God’s truth and His fire. But also His warmth.” 

 

Thomas turned his face and smiled into Vincent’s palm. Perfect.

 

“Goodnight, Your Holiness.”

 

Vincent drew back and left Thomas beneath the tree. Thomas watched him go, his lithe white figure whispering through the garden before being embraced by the night. Elemental. 

 

The stone bench stood empty before him, beckoning to Thomas, and he knew what to do. He would pray for guidance alone. Then he would go to pray with Aldo. And then, if all went well, well…he might pray with Aldo again.

 

He touched his hip, tracing the memory of bruises. He thought of the taste of Vincent’s lips, and their fleeting newness. He thought of Aldo’s warm eyes, as familiar to him as his own. They blurred together staring back at him, and Thomas dug his fingers into his skin, closing his eyes, until he felt a sweet sting bloom. 

 

As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end , he thought to himself. And he carefully got onto his knees beside the bench, clasped his hands together, and bowed his head and prayed.

***

The laptop keys clicked away steadily, punctuated by the occasional whoosh as an email got sent out. The room was pleasantly warm, the windows propped open, moths skittering against the screen, wanting to come in.

 

“Can you show me where this is in the portal?” Thomas asked, squinting at the Vatican Office’s home page.

 

“They showed us how last week, weren’t you at that meeting?”

 

“Yes, but I thought you were listening.”

 

“Oh, and that I’d be willing to do it for you?”

 

“Well are you?”

 

Aldo gave him a look, chewing on the end of his pen. Thomas waited patiently and Aldo relented, smiling slightly around the pen.

 

“Bring it here,” he said, holding out his hand, and Thomas got up, coming around to Aldo’s side of the table as they examined the screen together. 

 

“There. Allegare . It’s the first button.”

 

“I tried that already.”

 

“Try it again,” Aldo said. Thomas reached out to click it. The Vatican’s interoffice portal opened with a list of all the shared documents. Thomas stared at it with a mild look of betrayal.

 

“It didn’t do that for me.”

 

“You didn’t even try it, did you?”

 

“I did, it just clearly likes you better.”

 

“Well, there’s no accounting for taste,” Aldo said, raising an eyebrow at him. Thomas smiled. He hesitated a moment and then bent down, Aldo tilting his chin up to meet him. They kissed slowly, firmly, Aldo’s heart flickering against his chest like the moths outside.

 

They drew back, noses brushing, and Aldo reached up to thumb Thomas’s chin.

 

“Stop distracting me,” he said, with absolutely no conviction behind it.

 

“Or what?” Thomas asked in interest, placing a kiss beside Aldo’s lips.

 

“Or I’ll have you demoted to the media team,” Aldo said, closing his eyes, enjoying the trail of kisses Thomas lay one by one across his jaw. “You’ll be forced to go on the portal every day.”

 

“You can’t do that.”

 

“You are aware that I outrank you, hmm?”

 

“You didn’t outrank me last night,” Thomas murmured against the corner of his mouth. Aldo blushed but he parted his lips, and Thomas leaned in again to kiss him, their teeth bumping from how both were smiling. Eventually they pulled away and leaned in to each other, simply sharing space. Aldo let his face turn into Thomas’s cassock and breathed in. 

 

Moments like this thrilled Aldo beyond measure. A small, deeply entrenched part of him was still wary of getting his hopes up too much. But for every hour they now spent together, every thoughtless kiss they shared, every passing touch that was gradually solidifying into habit, Aldo was becoming more and more convinced that this was actually happening, something they could keep.

 

It had been a few weeks since Thomas had shown up at Aldo’s door in the Casa, gravel on the knees of his cassock, apprehension in his eyes. He seemed wholly swept up, entering Aldo’s rooms as if blown there by an unseen wind. The last thing Aldo had been expecting was for Thomas to sink to his knees, take Aldo’s hand, and confess to Aldo that he’d told Vincent everything. He’d told the Holy Father about them, about what they were and had been and wanted to be, and that if Aldo still wanted this, if he could forgive Thomas his wavering, his lack of sight, and his allowing them to give up before they’d even truly taken the chance, could they please try again?

 

Aldo had removed his hand from Thomas’s, walking over to the window, back ramrod straight as his heart nearly raced out of his chest, caught out like this without any warning. He should have been furious. He wanted to be furious. They had agreed , dammit. They’d decided together in a conversation that had wrenched at them both deeply, however much they were of the same mind. Aldo had already calcified himself against seeing Thomas every day and pretending he didn’t know what it was like to have his gasps against his mouth, to have Thomas’s body clench around his fingers, to bring about that slow, bleary expression of bliss when Aldo kissed the underside of his jaw. Those memories were locked away, frozen in time now, for their own good as well as Vincent’s, and now Thomas wanted Aldo to crack himself open again, like fossilizing himself all over again hadn’t been painful enough on its own? Did he really think Aldo could excavate his own feelings over and over with so much brutal indifference?

 

He’d turned back looking at Thomas still kneeling in supplication, hiding his eyes from Aldo, rubbing the hand from which Aldo had pulled himself free. Once upon a more prideful time, Aldo would have asked him to leave, and never speak of this again. But if this past year had taught him anything, it was how very little his pride was actually worth. In the face of sincerity, pride was the wheat bowing before the thresher. And before Thomas’s simple truth, his honest wish so vulnerably laid out between them, Aldo’s pride might as well have been ashes.

 

They’d disappointed each other before. They might disappoint each other again. But they still always found their way back to each other. That was all anyone could do: find their way. Aldo was no saint. He was just a man, stumbling around in the darkness, and Thomas was a lamp to his feet and a light to his path. He’d made Thomas a promise to be beside him no matter where they ended up, and he intended to keep it. So he walked back towards Thomas, joined him kneeling on the floor, lifted his head, and kissed him.

 

The following days between them had been almost violent in their intensity, a whirlwind of want that was impossible to harness. But in some ways, this thoughtless easy warmth between them now was even more thrilling. Their previous couplings had been laced with desperation, almost like someone was going to snatch it back from them just now that they’d made their choice. But the knowledge that this could happen anytime now, that Thomas could kiss him with no reserve, simply want, was electrifying enough on its own. There was no impending judgement, no time limit, no axe waiting to fall. Just Thomas’s lips against his, and his warm hand in Aldo’s collar.

 

He stilled the storm to a whisper, the waves of the sea were hushed , thought Aldo, kissing him again, as unhurriedly as he pleased.

 

Thomas’s hand slipped further into Aldo’s cassock, folding over his shoulder, and Aldo hummed against Thomas’s lips.

 

“Don’t get too ambitious,” he murmured.

 

“Why not?” Thomas asked, trapping Aldo’s bottom lip between his own, giving it the lightest of nips before kissing it again.

 

“Because I invited Vincent over.”

 

Thomas stilled and drew back the slightest amount, eyes searching Aldo’s.

 

“Did you?”

 

Aldo reached up to trace Thomas’s cheek, trying to smooth out the faint line of worry that had appeared there.

 

“Have you realized that, beyond meetings, we have never actually spent any time together, just us three?” Aldo asked him.

 

“I had,” Thomas admitted, turning his cheek into Aldo’s palm.

 

“Well then, maybe it’s time?” Aldo prompted him.

 

“I know, it’s just…Aldo, this is so strange,” Thomas admitted with a huff of laughter. 

 

“And? Your eyes will see strange sights, and you will say absurd things,” Aldo quoted, and Thomas lifted an eyebrow, lip quirking up.

 

“How are you so calm about this?”

 

“Because I spoke to Vincent last night,” Aldo said, thumbing at Thomas’s bottom lip.

 

“Oh did you?” Thomas murmured, a spark of interest and trepidation in his eyes. “And what did you talk about?”

 

There was a knock at the door. Aldo grinned. 

 

“I think I’ll let you live in suspense. I think that will be good for you.”

 

“Oh really now -”

 

Aldo got up with a one more kiss to Thomas’s lips. He went over to the door, stealing a glance back at Thomas who was nervously smoothing down his hair. Amused, Aldo opened the door, smiling again when he saw Vincent.

 

“Your Holiness.” The title filled the corners of a doorframe while it was open, but it was almost always ‘Vincent’ now when they were by themselves.

 

“I hope it’s a good time,” Vincent said.

 

“It’s perfect, we were just finishing the diocesan reports,” Aldo said, stepping aside to let him in.

 

“Thomas,” Vincent said in surprise. His eyes lit up, but he slid them back to Aldo in question. Aldo hadn’t told him he’d be joining the both of them. For all his teasing of Thomas, he agreed: it was strange. And Aldo didn’t really know how to talk about it. But maybe he should act more instead. He probably talked too much anyways.

 

Vincent stepped into the room, and Thomas stood up, chair scraping.

 

“I’m not intruding, am I?” Vincent asked, looking between them.

 

“You’re not,” Aldo said. “Can I get you some tea?”

 

“Thank you,” Vincent said, looking between them. He seemed pleased at finding them both there, but somewhat caught off guard. It made for a nice change of pace, Aldo thought with a gentle tug of mirth.

 

“Have a seat,” Aldo called out, going to refill the teapot he’d started keeping in his rooms at the Casa. Thomas moved to get Vincent the spare chair that Aldo mostly used for piling clothes. It was getting a hell of an upgrade from laundry chair to ‘papal throne’.

 

Aldo returned to the table to see Vincent and Thomas seated next to each other, exchanging smiling glances, but not speaking. They looked like teenagers on their first date. It gave Aldo a pleasant tangle of emotions. Warmth at their obvious affection, protective of them despite how little either needed it, gratitude he got to share in it in some small way…plus, it was also extremely entertaining.

 

“Did you tell him about the tour update?” Aldo asked, coming back to the table, first pouring out a cup for Vincent, and then freshening up his and Thomas’s cups. He took a seat across from Vincent, Thomas having moved between them.

 

“Oh, yes, Mexico is confirmed now,” Vincent said to Thomas. “It will be the last stop.”

 

“Oh good, I was going to ask if you had settled that,” Thomas said, looking between Vincent and Aldo.

 

“We’ll be finishing in my hometown,” Vincent said, with obvious pleasure. It made Aldo glad he had gone the extra mile to arrange it. It was more remotely located than the Vatican travel offices were used to, and with much less infrastructure in place to support a papal visit. But Aldo had told them to figure it out, and they’d been resigned, realizing that any objections would get nowhere.

 

“I was hoping you both might like to join me for that leg,” Vincent said. He’d said it casually, but he was turning his teacup in circles, the only sign of preoccupation. 

 

“Really? Will that work?” Thomas asked. It was customary for the Secretary of State to accompany the Pope on most international tours, but the Vatican could be cagey about letting the Dean attend as well, not wanting to risk three senior members of the Curia being abroad at once, should there be any security risks.

 

“It should,” Vincent said, looking at Aldo like he had all the answers. Aldo couldn’t say he minded.

 

“I’ll be closing up shop in Bogotá beforehand. So if Thomas were to fly out and fill in for me in Mexico, I could join later in an unofficial capacity, and there would be a loophole in the travel insurance for us all to be there at once,” Aldo explained. 

 

Thomas looked hesitant but hopeful at the same time, still looking between them.

 

“If they’ll let me, then of course I would love to join,” he said.

 

“I’m fairly certain your boss will agree,” Vincent said with a slight smile, and Thomas huffed out a laugh.

 

“So what’s it like? Your hometown?” Thomas asked. Vincent lit up and began to chatter about the town he was from, how the coast wasn’t visible but you could still smell the sea, how the colourful houses were nestled at the foot of the mountain, all the paths dotted with agave and yucca plants, the dogs running around everywhere, and his favourite church which he would have to show them, how the ceiling looked like a jewelry box, throwing colours over the pews when the sun shone…

 

Aldo snuck a glance at Thomas who he could tell was not actually listening to the words, staring instead at the animation in Vincent’s face, eyes soft. The coil of emotion in Aldo’s chest pulsed pleasantly, the strings still tangled up within him, but he didn’t have much interest in separating the strands, not when they were woven together so warmly. He gently knocked Thomas’s foot beneath the table with his own. Thomas stole a glance at him, eyes crinkling. 

 

“I brought this, by the way,” Vincent said, extracting the travel chess set from his pocket, placing it on the table. “We didn’t finish our game last night, but I don’t know if that’s something Thomas would be interested in watching…”

 

“Actually, I’d very much like to see this,” Thomas said, raising his eyebrows

 

“You might learn something,” Aldo said dryly, and Thomas dug his toe into Aldo’s ankle in response. Vincent opened up the board.

 

“I promise I’ll put all the pieces back properly,” Vincent said to Aldo, eyes sparkling.

 

“I promise you you will too,” Aldo returned mildly, raising an eyebrow. Thomas looked back and forth between them like they were a tennis match. Aldo thought he recognized the look in Thomas’s eyes at their sparring. It was the same look he got when Aldo walked towards him, unbuttoning his collar.

 

“I finished Death on the Nile, by the way,” Vincent said to Thomas, as he and Aldo set up the board.

 

“Oh, not you too,” Aldo groaned.

 

“What?”

 

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to hear about Agatha Christie over the years,” Aldo said. “And somehow she always seems to have one more book. It’s like there’s a loophole in her publishing history, where just when you think you’ve reached the end, somehow another one exists -”

 

“She’s very good,” Vincent interrupted, before Aldo could get into his flow. “Thomas, when you read it, did you think that the nail polish would contain the ink?”

 

“I don’t actually remember, but I did have suspicions about the fake leg injury -”

 

Aldo watched them debate these nonsensical clichés, bewildered. John le Carré he was willing to allow, but as for this sewing circle he was now witnessing…

 

“And then there were two,” he said in resignation. Thomas grinned but Vincent swung back to Aldo.

 

“What’s wrong with Agatha Christie?”

 

“Nothing, only that they’re all the same! How much juice can you possibly get out of them? You have a doctorate in canon law, you have actual life skills,” Aldo said, pointing between them, Thomas scoffing and Vincent covering his wrist with a laugh, “and I can’t see how you have the patience for the same formula over and over -”

 

“Well it’s a good thing you don’t have to follow rituals in your line of work, isn’t it?” Vincent deadpanned. And with that, he brought his rook out firmly, the move he’d been planning since the night before.

 

Aldo leaned forward on his elbows, immediately shifting focus. He’d been hoping that option wouldn’t occur to Vincent overnight, but he should have known better. He moved a pawn, his best option under the circumstances, but Vincent promptly took it with his bishop.

 

“Well this is a great start,” Aldo muttered, leaning back and rubbing his chin.

 

“Wine?” Thomas asked him, already looking entertained.

 

“Please,” Aldo said, still ruminating on his options.

 

“I’ll get some,” Vincent said, standing up. “He might be like that for a while.”

 

“If you’re trying to intimidate me…” Then Aldo looked up suddenly, struck with inspiration. “Vincent, I still have the Florence bottle here. I’d been saving it.”

 

Vincent looked over at him with a soft smile, which Aldo returned. He’d mentioned he only wanted to break into it for a special occasion. This had to count.

 

“You won’t have any?” Thomas asked, looking at the two glasses Vincent set out. Vincent shook his head, hair swinging, as he removed the cork.

 

“I won’t drink, but I’d be very pleased if you both did.”

 

He placed a glass before each of them and began to pour out the wine, and suddenly the mood shifted. Aldo and Thomas caught each other’s eye, as the wine pulsed steadily into the glasses, the only movement in the room, everything else suspended. There was something almost ceremonious about the way Vincent handed them each their glass, holding them as solemnly as a communion chalice. Aldo wondered for a moment if Vincent might tip the glasses to their lips himself, and a bolt of fire streaked through his chest at the very idea. 

 

A bead of wine was rolling down the bowl of Aldo’s glass. Vincent put a finger to the curve to catch it, tracing it back up the sides. Rather than let it fall to his white papal garments, he touched the droplet of wine to his own lips to taste. He smiled and sat back down, glancing between Aldo and Thomas.

 

“Where were we?” he asked.

 

Aldo cleared his throat and examined the board. If he looked anything like Thomas did right now, he was probably flushing profusely, but he kept his face schooled. He reached out, hand hovering over his last remaining bishop.

 

“Are you certain?” Vincent asked him, raising an eyebrow.

 

Aldo looked over Thomas who met his eyes, the same question reflected in them. Aldo couldn’t help his smile.

 

“Rarely,” he said. And he moved the bishop nonetheless, Vincent smiling in approval. Thomas settled back to watch, taking a sip of wine, his foot back against Aldo's. The little white moths outside continued to flit against the screen, for as long as the lights stayed on.

Finis.