Fast Days, Slow Company

by randonerrd

Summary:

Something has to be in the water. All of a sudden, Thomas is clingy like a koala, and on the other end, the Holy Father has chosen late-night excursions to "help" Aldo "practice" city driving to renew his license.

Sure, Aldo may rejoice being laved with so much attention after losing the papacy. He's only human, after all.

However, Vincent's and Thomas' relationship is rapidly cooling, and he finds himself grasping onto both men.

---
Direct sequel to "Raccoons of the Reptile World"!

Notes:

Hello all!

Welcome back! I am projecting MORE feelings onto Aldo yippie! And having Vincent kidnap him again! (consensually).

Writing "Raccoons" was a planned one shot, but I feel like it just opened some floodgates as I was writing it, and here we are. I was interested in seeing an outsider's view on how Vincent reacts differently to the papacy a few months into it.

I'm trying to generally follow the present, but it's not *our* present. I don't think my hurt/comfort fic can give appropriate attention to pertinent issues, so think of it as an amorphous August.

Chapter 1

August 20

Aldo was beginning to get some strange messages from his environment. From God, he was being told to sleep at more reasonable hours and not four am. From the Booker Foundation, he was being scolded to get off his damn high horse and consider genre fiction as literary accomplishments. From Thomas…well…there was something, but he couldn’t quite figure it out. 

 

The North American tour Thomas had been dragged on—alongside the Holy Father and Aldo—had seen the poor man scrambling to reply to emails with the scythe of time zone differences hovering just over his neck. Every night, he had trekked half a meter to Aldo’s hotel room to get late night work done under the watchful eye of a night owl. Truthfully, Aldo had been meaning to relax, but Thomas had just fallen asleep in the middle of work every single night he crawled to Aldo. Which was almost every night, by the way. 

 

Sure, it was endearing. Thomas knew Aldo liked to fuss over things if given the chance, which had then included putting his reading glasses away and neatly filing all relevant papers Thomas had dozed on top of. 

 

Now, without the small distance between hotel rooms and also arriving empty-handed, this habit persisted. There was no pretense of getting shit done. Thomas walked his ass back with Aldo after work, five kilometers from his own flat, and he just stayed. And Aldo always let him. 

 

Hell, even a week after the tour, there was an extra toothbrush set up on the counter, and Thomas had pilfered Aldo’s best bamboo towel for himself.  

 

Tonight had been no different, and after the Holy Father had kicked everyone out of his office at 11:30, Thomas glued himself to Aldo’s side yet again. He looked at him, his bleary eyes slowly drooping shut and his body slouching to one side. Exhaustion was something the famed diplomat would never be able to hide, at least not from Aldo. When they had been forced into daily physical training by a superior long, long ago, Aldo knew the second Thomas was unwillingly tilting his head, he had a maximum of ten more situps before tapping out. He still did it now, even if he hadn’t seen a situp in at least a decade. 

 

“You know, Thomas, you don’t have to stay until closing hours,” Aldo joked, holding a side door open for him. The night air was still warm, and someone had illictly smoked weed nearby. 

 

After about nine-thirty, Thomas became an office houseplant.He would sit quietly in the corner and observe. Vincent was the only person who remembered to feed him as needed, quietly setting tea biscuits on a plush napkin. 

 

“Oh, I know,” his friend replied, just barely lucid enough to take Aldo’s arm. 

 

Perhaps it was a good thing he was being so generous with letting the man stay over; he didn’t want to cut Thomas loose like this. They walked in compainable silence, and Aldo scanned his surroundings to see if he could locate the baby seagulls calling into the night. Right now, it appeared as if apartment buildings were squeaking, alive and begging. Night shift workers were taking out trash to the curb, sometimes letting the bags rest against shiny, parked rental cars. 

 

Aldo chuckled. “I think it’s funny you want to be over so often now. I thought you hated my place.” 

 

“I don’t!” 

 

“You say everything is too short for you,” Aldo said, referencing his most effortfully graceful collection of midcentury modern sofas and armchairs. He had risked bedbugs and axe-murderers on Facebook Marketplace for it! If it wasn’t a rental, he’d likely have dug out a conversation pit for himself and all his sexy clones he’d create to populate said pit. They’d talk about Derrida’s Monolingualism of the Other and how Blue Bottle Coffee had gone downhill, and Philz was the next victim of private equity. 

 

“It’s charming,” Thomas said, delightful even in the blatant way he denied his own true feelings. 

 

When they got home, Thomas swayed aimlessly in the kitchen while Aldo quickly dumped out the grounds from his French press. During his first Conclave, he had been late to check into isolation and had forgotten about his coffee grounds. Returning three days later had greeted him with squirming maggots in papal white, and he frantically ordered new filters from LAtzzzz3.store on Amazon Prime and tossed the old ones. Maybe he had since gotten lead poisoning from the off-brand filters; would explain a lot. 

 

Aldo seized Thomas’ arm and guided him to lay down. “Man, I don’t think you’ll last a shower like this. Just sleep.” 

 

After making sure Thomas was capable of getting out of uniform without keeling over, Aldo excused himself to shower. The fucking bamboo towel, hanging on a hook, stared back at him. It had let itself be scented by Thomas, and now Aldo had to settle for a crusty Target-brand bath towel from 2010. When he stepped into the shower, he noticed yet another aberration: 

 

On the shower floor, nestled between a face wash and a tub of exfoliant, were miniature bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Aldo blinked, and he picked up one of the bottles, holding it in a mere pinch. Never before had Aldo considered what kind of hair products Thomas might gravitate to; he seemed so bare bones that he’d potentially dare using bar soap as shampoo. But this was decent stuff…some of that purple blonde hair crap. 

 

Why? Aldo thought, placing the bottle back in its spot. Which was not its spot! These were not supposed to be here! 

 

He exited the bathroom in a haze, finding only his donut lamp still left glowing. Thomas had since gotten himself comfortable and shut off most of the lights. Aldo’s old laptop—so old and shitty that it needed to be charging at all times—still sat on the other side of the bed, exactly where he had left it in the morning. Aldo gently pushed the computer onto the bedside table, crowding the lamp against the wall. He wasn’t really in the mood to reply to any emails anymore, and he also didn’t want to stare any longer at the Ebay listing for an auction he had just lost. 

 

The space on his mattress where the computer had laid was still warm, and Aldo settled into it. He nearly dislocated his shoulder by reaching for the switch on the donut lamp, and it flickered off with one last pulse of light. The room wasn’t completely dark; it never was. Aldo didn’t believe in darkness. He always slept with the curtains pulled open, hoping the light of dawn would rouse him naturally, but all it had done was just hone his ability to sleep in until noon. But it was now a habit, fully engraved into his bones. 

 

Apparently Thomas had not yet fallen asleep. He turned his body, all without a single crack of the eye, and the blind animal found warmth. Knees, sharp and bony, pressed against Aldo’s thigh, and a hand came to rest on his stomach, barely curled but still relaxed. 

 

Was Thomas running from something, Aldo thought, or was he just moving in? If it were the latter, he’d easily start charging rent. But a habit of fear was not easy to correct. 

 

Aldo whispered prayers into the night, still wide awake, and he aloofly carded through Thomas’ hair. 

 

---

 

Speaking of things not supposed to be here, Aldo strolled into his office the next morning and found a biological grenade sitting on his desk.

 

“What the fuck?” he mouthed, reaching for a brand-new terracotta pot. The plant inside was demure, not yet in bloom, but the sight of the leaves pierced Aldo’s soul. 

 

Goddamn ice plant. He had wandered through clumps of it all throughout the US West Coast just a week ago, and it had come to torment him here. He twisted the pot and found a small stake from a local garden store impaled in moist soil. Lo and behold, he read that he had indeed been tormented with the purple variety of ice plant. On the back, it listed care instructions to simulate the South African desert it came from. Like hell Aldo was taking care of this thing. It also listed a fun fact that the leaves contained hallucinogenic chemicals that could be distilled into a sort of wine. That Aldo wished he had learned earlier.  

 

He set the ice plant down and scanned his desk for an explanation, and sure enough, he found a blue Post-it note next to his keyboard. 

 

Dear Aldo, 

I know it had wrecked havoc on the local environment and caused cliffs to fall. You don’t have to say it again. But it is harmless here, neutralized. I thought it may remind you of home. 

-Vincent

 

If anyone else found a handwritten note from the Pope with friendliness written all over it, Aldo wouldn’t hear the end of it. And yet, he couldn’t bear throwing it away. He folded it and slid it into a random notebook. 

 

Upon folding it, the final sentence and the signature was all that could be seen. 

 

Aldo sighed. Ice plant wasn’t a New York thing; it was a West Coast thing. There were other plants killing New York, and Aldo had to beg many a parishioner to not plant honeysuckle or a Japanese angelica tree. He had only really lived in LA for three years, but he couldn’t protest. Once, it had been a home. 

 

Grimacing, he handled ice plant with care for the first time. Oh, how it stung! He set it in full sun by the windowsill, right next to the overly-drying air conditioning. A false desert. Ice plant would love to stretch its arms and wreath Aldo’s office, but it was forever trapped. Aldo smirked. Vincent knew him oddly well. 

 

Aldo decided to name the plant “Joe.” Nothing personal, obviously. He just liked the name, also obviously. 

 

On the topic of Joe, Aldo calmly picked up his phone to call the Metropolitan Archbishop of Toronto, just to see how their little Quebecois prisoner was faring. Well, apparently. As well as any esteemed prelate now sentenced to busy work can be. Last week, Tremblay had learned how to pronounce Etobicoke correctly, and he was already telling parishioners that the Alpha’s on Queen Street was better than the King Street location. Whatever that meant. At least he wasn’t killing himself while investigations into his finances were still ongoing. 

 

He then had to audit a meeting for a department that he knew nothing about, and he numbly nodded along to whatever insider lingo they were sending around.  He swore they were being difficult just to get Aldo out of their hair. A young bishop was publishing a paper, and Aldo was peer-reviewing, wondering why the poor man cited even the most obvious of sentences. Sabbadin reminded him that he was still waiting to proofread Aldo’s statement about two idiots who had traveled with church funds in a Gucci shopping bag, claiming something about using it for cathedral renovations. The cycle of edits went around seamlessly.

 

And then Aldo had to call a diplomat from Uganda. The business was actually really pressing, about some recently-passed law threatening to spur a mass migration of many vulnerable youths, especially queer youth, but Aldo had made the mistake of getting drunk with the guy a few months ago. So all he wanted to do was to catch up on all the hot goss he had learned. For some reason, he was particularly intrigued in the plight of Aldo’s upstairs neighbor, whose friend had a shit boyfriend who she had invited to every outing. By the time a single policy opinion was exchanged, Aldo had to run to the midafternoon cabinet briefing. 

 

He gingerly pushed open the door to the conference room, seeing all heads turned to the Holy Father, who was busy talking:

 

“I’ve been thinking of romanticizing the workplace. As a self-care practice. Unfortunately, every single blog post I could find about the topic involved buying a Nespresso machine, and I really don’t want to do that–” 

 

Aldo reacted instinctively. “Ew, Nespresso.” 

 

All eyes in the room slammed into him with full force. 

 

Then, Aldo cooly added: “Good afternoon, Your Holiness.” He sat down, hiding reddening cheeks with his hands. 

 

Vincent merely smiled, calm as ever. He seemed just a little giddier than normal, and Aldo recalled Joe the ice plant. Yes, he was waiting for a reaction. Aldo cautiously opened his laptop and kept his face as placid as possible. 

 

“Eminence Bellini, I suppose you have alternatives for the Nespresso?” Vincent said. 

 

Aldo frowned. “I’m not sure if they would be cheaper alternatives. Perhaps a nice gooseneck kettle and an Aeropress to start.” 

 

Sabbadin, now Director for Communications, coughed. “Filter coffee, really? How can you call yourself Italian and deny our espresso culture?” 

 

Aldo’s eyes rolled into his skull. He needed to protest, saying something that a good espresso was frankly everywhere ; it was good filter coffee that was impossible to find. But he turned the other cheek and asked Vincent if he should present his brief first. “It’s unfortunately not brief, though.” 

 

“Then let’s start on the other side of the room.” 

 

Mostly mundane news came from the other offices, except for Sabbadin’s daily rant about some traditionalist tweet that had been republished in the Times. “They’re giving them legitimacy! It’s bad journalism! They cited Bellini’s paper…but then they cited a quote from this other guy he was criticizing! So it’s completely misrepresenting our views and–” 

 

Sometimes Aldo wondered if the ghost of Sabbadin reached into him and wrote his papers for him; from the protective way he was acting, it seemed like they were his own work! He burned at the prospect that he was no longer the lion to his own den. 

 

The room yet again turned to face Aldo as his turn arrived. He gulped, unsure how the frame the series of sweary sentences on his screen into a neat memo. 

 

Why did this keep happening to him? In grad school, his professor had once asked Aldo if he could copy his seemingly-meticulous class notes for a student who had arrived from medical leave, only to figure out Aldo’s notes mainly consisted of calling various medieval theologians “whores” and “bitches.” Well, it had gotten him stellar exam marks… 

 

“Eminence?” Vincent pressed. 

 

“Oh, yes. Sorry. Well, Your Holiness. May I deliver bad news?” 

 

“It is what we’re here for, yes.” 

 

“On that note, then I present to us the issue of Uganda. I know the problem has bypassed the Holy Father until now, but I fear my colleagues in the Inquisition–sorry–the Evangelization of Peoples are worried this will become a larger crisis than expected. So there’s this law, passed not too long ago, and it has led to mass policing of ‘deviant behavior,’ and I’m sure you can guess who this is affecting the most. They’re calling on us to consider sending a call to action to the local clergy. I was on the phone with an informant earlier, but seemingly he wanted to avoid talking about the issue in totality. I…I’m a little at a loss, but perhaps we should organize some committee meetings to discuss?” 

 

Aldo grinned sheepishly at the Pope, hearing Sabbadin’s dejected sigh as if directly into his ear canals. Their masks were slipping, Vincent’s inquisitive gaze tearing them off piece by piece. Aldo had continually failed to get similar issues taken seriously by…literally everyone. Including the late Holy Father, and now there was Vincent, just staring… 

 

Vincent blinked. “Indeed, you’re right. How did I miss this?” He frowned. 

 

“It’s not your job to know everything on in the world,” Aldo offered, knowing this was far too personal for a Cabinet briefing, “that’s our job to let you know.” 

 

The Holy Father smiled. “I appreciate it. Can you email me later? I’ll forward it to the appropriate people.” 

 

Sabbadin cut in: “Your Holiness, I’m sure the secretaries can do the forwarding–” 

 

Now, Vincent was beaming. “From the self-care blog posts about adapting to a new work environment, the top advice was to ‘fall in love’ with communications. I fully intend to try it!” 

 

No one on God’s good earth liked emailing. Aldo was sure the Conclave had sent them a benevolent demon. Sabbadin seemed about ready to exorcise it.

 

“Please, brothers,” said Vincent, “go get a late lunch. I command you.” 

 

---

 

Thomas lingered by Aldo’s desk, now fully in houseplant mode, and stared at Joe the ice plant. 

 

“Is that new?” he asked. 

 

Aldo shrugged. “Some kind of prank, I suppose. I’ll keep it just to kill it when it starts to thrive.” 

 

Before Thomas could peer at his computer screen, Aldo closed the Indoor Ice Plant Care Guide tab on Chrome. 

 

Thomas mused: “Your cruelty knows no bounds.” But he dragged his fingers on the worn wood of the desk, bending down to playfully smile at Aldo. 

 

“I’d never be cruel to you, even if you suddenly became that damned plant.” 

 

Aldo gazed up at Thomas, watching his weary expression. His pupils were dark, despite the multitude of lamps in the office. That look, combined with that smile…Aldo didn’t think he’d seen it before. The overhead light buzzed menacingly. 

 

Tentatively, with all the effort it likely took for Thomas to even think such a thing, his friend said: “But what if it’s for fun?” 

 

Aldo raised an eyebrow. “Being the plant? Never took you for a masochist, Thomas.” 

 

Thomas chuckled, voice low. He dragged a folding chair to the desk, expertly removed from the small storage closet in his office. Of course, he had done it a hundred times now. Eventually, his head dipped to rest against a bare corner of the desk, and his fingers tangled into spare papers drawn up with one of Sabbadin’s fountain pens. 

 

“You do know that Guilio once told me the water in his ink was consecrated?” Aldo said. 

 

“I’m sure he’s joking, dear.” 

 

Aldo clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “One can never know with that man.” 

 

Fucking emails. True to his word, Vincent had forwarded a million relevant emails to a million less-than-relevant people. Aldo clicked through them, answering when he’d be available to meet. A draft to notable African clergy blinked in the corner of his monitor. With a sigh, Aldo realized he had spelled “orange” wrong. 

 

He sipped at his now-cold cup of coffee. A natural roast from the Inmaculada Farms in Colombia. The notable bubblegum flavor note, the very thing that had made the specific roast iconic, had disappeared with the lack of temperature. Only acidic bile remained in the mug. He gulped it down without passion, feeling guilty, as if he ate a Wagyu steak well-done. Thomas’ eyes were ablaze, impossible not to notice even as he was turned away. 

 

“How long will you be working on this?” Thomas asked, his voice now clearly tinged with disappointment. 

 

“I’m sorry. It looks like much longer. Hopefully all of this will be sorted out by the time the recipients wake up.” 

 

“The eternal plight,” Thomas said, reassuring, “I may have to retire soon.” 

 

“Yeah. Don’t collapse like yesterday.” Perhaps Aldo had said that too curtly, because Thomas looked a bit hurt. “You’ll get home safe?” 

 

Thomas grimaced. “I’ll only be divebombed by some gulls. Goodnight?” 

 

Ah. The gull chicks were fledging. Parents were on high alert. “I’ll pray for the permanence of your eyeballs, Thomas. Goodnight.” He offered a smile. 

 

Thomas returned it, serenly. Not like before…which seemed…charged… 

 

And then he left, but not without a glance over the shoulder. The door was left ever so slightly ajar, and Aldo didn’t even notice it until the time came to shut down his computer, two hours later. 

 

Windows dutifully shuttered itself, and papers were hastily stuffed into locked drawers. His work phone—seeing it was time to rest—burrowed away in the folds of his backpack. One by one, the lamps dozed, and Aldo fumbled in semidarkness for his keys. Before he could reach for the door, it was pushed open by a man totally not up to dress code. 

 

“Thank God, Aldo!” said Vincent, breezing into the room, “you’re still here. Oh no…I’ve burdened you.” 

 

“Standard business, Your Holiness,” Aldo said, taking in the frankly ridiculous sight in front of him. 

 

The North American tour had acquainted Aldo with Vincent’s plain hoodie and worn jeans, but he took in straight-leg shorts too big for him, drooping down his waist, and a boxy shirt that was too short to tuck in. When Vincent moved, the hem dragged upwards, revealing a shade of skin lightly lighter than the rest. The papal crop top, Aldo thought mirthfully. Where would one even procure such an item of clothing? 

 

“You are done now?” Vincent’s eyes looked wild in the dark. 

 

“Well yes. I was just about to head on home.” Aldo noticed the recoil of Vincent’s frame, him stepping back towards the door. “Is something wrong, Your Holiness?” 

 

“You think I look like ‘His Holiness’ right now?” Vincent said, his voice more muted than challenging. 

 

Aldo shook his head. Admittedly not. He looked like he had raided a lesbian’s closet. Maybe he had. Who knew where Vincent was getting style inspo in a world of cassocks and habits? 

 

Vincent stepped inwards, a little closer. “I need something, actually.” 

 

“Right…” Aldo paused. “Do you want me to get it for you?” 

 

The look now spreading on the Holy Father’s face was dangerous, akin to the expression he had been greeted with when Vincent had kidnapped Aldo to see some damn turtles. At least there’s no sea turtles in Rome, Aldo figured. Right? Surely not in the Tiber? 

 

“Oh,” said Vincent, “but you don’t have a driver’s license. How unfortunate.” 

 

In his hand, a pair of car keys glinted in the moonlight. 

Notes:

Plants (invasive) Versus Aldo Bellini!

Soon available on PC and iOS! /s

Chapter 2

Notes:

I MADE VINCENT KIDNAP ALDO AGAIN!!!

Been bit of a delay since my first update! I promise I will post more regularly, but I was traveling and otherwise busy, so...

But do not fear! There is more to come and unfortunately more angst...

August 21

 

Deja vu, Aldo thought. I’ve been here before. Yet again, he was a damsel in distress, strapped into the shotgun of a random car, taken prisoner by the goddamn Pope. 

 

“Vincent, this is a prime example of abusing your authority,” he was saying, even as he was adjusting his air conditioning vents and wriggling into his seat.  

 

Aldo didn’t even know where they were going. On one hand, his heart raced at the possibility that Vincent was dying, and he desperately needed some rare medication. On the other hand, he figured there were more wild turtles to see. 

 

This was Rome, not a random river in Long Beach. Vincent’s face was plastered on votive candles everywhere, not to mention that this vehicle—property of the Vatican—was probably tracked from hell to back. Aldo didn’t think that Hello Kitty figurines were permitted in any official vehicle, but perhaps some rule-bending was in place. An insignificant crime compared to whatever this was! 

 

Insanity! 

 

Utter insanity! 

 

Vincent twisted his key into the ignition, and the car hummed to life. “I’ve never driven electric before.” 

 

Aldo squirmed. 

 

At least if the Pope was going to go out and get himself kidnapped, he ought to have at least a modicum of backup? Right? Someone that can hide away and call the cops while Vincent was getting stabbed and everyone else was busy sopping up potential relics from the bleeding man? Aldo grabbed for any such mantras to comfort himself while Vincent rocketed out of the parking garage. 

 

The car was as quick as Vincent’s navigation was fickle, and they soon began to dart between main streets and alleys alike. God, it accelerated so fast, more like it was made for deserted highways rather than inner-city service roads. In the silence of the vehicle, both of their rushed breathing intermingled. The only light came from the uranium glow of the dashboard, and Google Maps with brightness turned all the way down. 

 

Good thing he brought his phone. From what the late Holy Father told Aldo, that work phone had more parental controls than a baby monitor, and he always had a dumb flip phone stuffed in his sock drawer for personal communication. “Sure, they’re probably not listening into my calls,” said the late Holy Father over chess, “but peace of mind.” 

 

Aldo wondered what happened to the damned flip phone. When the apartments had been officially “unsealed” after the Conclave, it had been turned upside down. That phone never reappeared, and Aldo didn’t think Thomas secretly had taken it. Would Thomas have even learned about it? Knowing his late mentor, the man had likely glimpsed the writing on the wall and chucked it out somewhere. Even with the knowledge of oblivion after death, paranoia had still lingered. 

Stop thinking, Aldo chided himself, and he fumbled to turn on the radio. 

 

A news channel started playing in the midst of a sentence, a conversation clearly discussing one of Vincent’s latest press conferences. 

 

Suddenly, Vincent took his eyes off the road. The frantic but triumphant look on his face faded into what Aldo could only call utter resignation, and he twisted the volume down to zero. 

 

Is this psychosis? A breakdown? None of these were emotions Aldo was used to seeing on Vincent’s face. In fact, he wasn’t used to many of his myriad of expressions. Prior to the tour, he and Vincent were nothing. Cold and professional in every interaction, they were friendly only when discussing something that Thomas did, said, or thought. Granted, the perpetually-stilted attitude was mutual; Aldo couldn’t complain, not at all. 

 

“Vincent,” said Aldo, weakly, “where are we going?” 

 

Perhaps Vincent had detected Aldo’s unease. He now gave him an encouraging smile, a far cry from his earlier dejection. “Oh, to a store. A record store. We’re close.” 

 

Aldo squeezed his eyes shut and pinched at his nose. A record store. Downtown. “Your Holiness, I don’t want to insult your intelligence, but I’m sure you can see how dangerous this is! How do you expect to wander a store unnoticed? I can pick it up for you, but the front windows aren’t tinted—” 

 

Vincent grinned. “We won’t be unnoticed. Oh, Aldo, don’t freak out. I can see the panic like…brewing. No, I meant that we’re expected. A friend invited me; it’s just him. He’s doing inventory as we speak.” 

 

All Aldo could do was gape. 

 

Meanwhile, Vincent kept talking: “I shouldn’t have sprung it on you. I’m sorry. I suppose it is pulling rank for no good reason. But I promise you’ll like it. It seems like your kind of place.” 

 

Finally, just finally, Aldo processed it all and sighed. “It’s still risky.” 

 

Vincent pursed his lips. Streetlamps and dingy neon lights cast rainbows on his face, and each red streak conjured images of beheadings. “I think I’m much more impulsive than I like to believe.” 

 

That much was obvious, Aldo thought, but he didn’t voice it. 

 

The car pulled into an empty curb, surrounded by businesses shuttered for the night. On the top floors of buildings, colored lights shone through bedrooms. When Aldo got out, gingerly closing the door behind him, voices from these open windows drifted downwards. He had ended up on a street much like his own, which was never a place he had expected to be joined by Vincent. 

 

Streetlamps gently flickered, urban fireflies. Aldo suddenly realized he had not lived with fireflies in fifteen years. 

 

Vincent rounded the car, stepping over a deflated soccer ball and onto the curb. “It’s just there. Well, it has to be.” 

 

A dark curtain had been tugged over the store display. Aldo breathed a sigh of relief, happy at the prospect that Vincent wouldn’t be spotted through the glass. 

 

Vincent calmly opened the door, setting off a tinny bell. Aldo followed, very very cautiously. This street may be like his own, but he hadn’t actually been on this side of the city. The interior was darkened, but orange-toned lamps—including a lava lamp—dotted the walls and the main counter. Aldo sighed, realizing that Vincent had somehow gleaned his taste for muted and minimalist midcentury design. Perhaps Thomas had complained. 

 

The walls were wood-panelled, and slightly mismatched vintage CD cases and shelves partitioned the small shop. 

 

Footsteps resonated from a staircase, and Aldo looked down to see a young man emerging from the basement. The man’s face split into a wide smile, and he practically leapt up the remaining stairs, bounding to Vincent with outstretched arms. 

 

They clapped hands, and the man somehow manipulated Vincent into a fist bump. Dumbfounded, Aldo observed, seeing how awkward the high-fives and half-hugs were on Vincent’s body. However, in a movement that was wholly fluid, Vincent grabbed the man and pulled him into a tight embrace. 

 

The funny thing about popes was that even a midget pope seemed to float above the crowd on invisible stilts the second they donned the white cassock. They stepped out of the Room of Tears as misty-eyed giants, their new height alien to his own body. Vincent had been no different. Aldo had gotten used to metaphorically gazing up at him, and seeing him face a man of his own height—admittedly quite short—was jarring. He was small, disappearing fully into the other person. When he pulled back, he remained in his more demure state, glittering and happy. 

 

As the two of them exchanged hushed remarks in a foreign language, Aldo was beginning to get the sinking feeling that…friend…may not be quite accurate. Where had this man come from? Had Vincent deliberately brought him along as a third wheel just to prove that nothing fishy was going on, possibly quell some rumors, as if this whole encounter wasn’t fishy enough? No, that was too incharitable of an assumption. Was this a secret to share between the two of them? 

 

To which Aldo could only think: Why me?

 

Aldo had also never seen Vincent take the initiative to actually embrace anyone. He accepted a couple light hugs from Thomas; Aldo had seen it from afar. He visibly struggled to accept the faithful trying to bring him close as they told him their problems and their wishes. Vincent returned from every public gathering a bit dazed and trailing behind his own body. Really, the only time Vincent had been somewhat affectionate with Aldo was the time at the river, when he briefly let his head fall against Aldo’s shoulder. Seconds, even. The man was reserved; God knew Aldo understood. 

 

Realizing that he was letting his neuroticism run wild again, Aldo sharply turned his gaze away and busied himself with looking for interesting CD’s. He pried out a live album from Pink Floyd. Would Thomas want this? Perhaps he already had it. 

 

Suddenly, Vincent was speaking English again. “I brought Aldo. Let’s not leave him hanging.” 

 

Aldo looked up, cheeks burning. “Oh, don’t mind me.” 

 

The man, however, eagerly marched up to Aldo and held out his hand. He introduced himself as Ami, laced with a lush accent. Aldo accepted his rather firm handshake, trying to present a diplomatic smile. 

 

“He’s the Secretary of State,” Vincent said, from behind. 

 

Ami stepped back and gave a low whistle. “Damn.” 

 

“What do you mean ‘damn?” Aldo said, “you have the Holy Father standing right there!” 

 

Cheekily, Ami turned back to Vincent. “Sorry, no offense or anything, but I think it’s easier to make a crowd think you’re good enough than to get one guy to really trust you.” 

 

Out of instinct, Aldo’s eyes widened. But he searched Vincent’s face, and he had already begun to laugh. The tone was light, closer to a bubbling giggle. 

 

“None taken. I think you’re quite right.” Astonishingly, Vincent seemed to have winked in Aldo’s direction. 

 

Stammering, Aldo asked: “So, how do you two know each other?” 

 

“Oh, you know how,” said Vincent, but Ami was already explaining: 

 

“You know when all of you guys were on that balcony? So, I was like watching down here. No one was buying anything, so me and my buddy thought it would be funny if we added the new Pope on Facebook.” 

 

“Funny?” Aldo demanded. 

 

“It was funny.” —Vincent chuckled— “I had completely forgotten about that account. I hadn’t had reliable internet in thirteen years then. I went back in, and I suddenly remembered it, so I rushed to private it. By then, twenty of you people already found me. My mistake, I honored it.” He shrugged. 

 

Right, Aldo had heard that story, and he had been alarmed then. He was no less alarmed now. Dangerous! It seemed highly unlikely that even one person let alone twenty would even give just one flying fuck for the Pope’s best interest. But maybe this was just the influence of Vincent’s predecessor, a man who dropped more and more contacts as the years went by.  

 

Ami laughed. “Us twenty didn’t know each other!” 

 

“It’s great to meet new people,” Vincent assured, “you all seem to have great fun without me!”

 

“Man, it’s crazy we’ve been like five kilometers away and never got to hang out,” said Ami, melancholic.

 

“I admit I was afraid until now. You escape once, though, and this is now less fearful.” Vincent smiled and nodded in Aldo’s direction again. 

 

Aldo stepped back, retreating into the store, even as Ami was inviting them both for tea and lighting a candle. A fucking tomato candle, the scent lush and verdant, somewhat spiced. The perfect replica of tomato vines, growing in a home garden…except there was no actual tomato in the candle. Aldo couldn’t tell why he found it oddly philosophical. Inside the wooden room, surrounded by warm lights like mini suns, it was easy to forget none of them were in a cabin somewhere.

 

He really did feel like an intruder, which was a feeling quite prominent whenever he was around Vincent. Here, it amplified to new levels. He could only liken it to being the other parent during a C-section. All the surgeons would scold him to stand out of the way while they toiled over bringing something precious into the world. He—the colleague only reluctantly hired—stood by and read candle labels while two friends met for the first time. 

 

The flame waltzed in front of his eyes, separating into twins as his gaze unfocused. 

 

“I have to ask where you got that…outfit,” Ami asked Vincent, and the mention of fashion made Aldo emerge from his own head. 

 

“Lost and found. You like it?” When Vincent struck a pose, the hem of the papal crop top rose yet again. 

 

Aldo and Ami both grimaced, and Vincent frowned. 

 

Ami tried to morph his grimace into something encouraging. He fiddled with the lapels of his penny coat and said: “It’s…youthful…” 

 

“Hip,” Aldo offered, and Ami grasped the lifeline. 

 

“Yes, yes. Hip and modern.” 

 

Vincent narrowed his eyes at the two of them, although he couldn’t hide a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Will you ease the sting of that insult with the treasures?” 

 

Ami perked up. “Of course!” He reached underneath the register and took out a stack of three CD’s. The spines of each were graced with a paper obi and Japanese text. 

 

“I couldn’t find Nine Post Cards,” Ami said, “but to make up for it, here’s an actual postcard. And these are the rest of Yoshimura’s work. No more sleepless nights, unlimited warranty on that. I swear.” 

 

Aldo stilled, Ami’s words ringing in his head. Sleepless nights. It was far past two am, but the Holy Father was typically known for rising early, not sleeping late. But this would be the third time Aldo had seen Vincent far from the embrace of his own habits, and he was beginning to wonder…

 

“Thank you,” Vincent said, with sincerity, “it’s too quiet at my place. Very hard to relax.” 

 

“Ain’t you say the walls are thin?”

 

“It’s not as if I typically have neighbors, my friend,” said Vincent, regretfully, “and I would be a terrible neighbor, anyway.” 

 

“Vincent, you were not a terrible neighbor on tour,” Aldo pointed out, which got a look of appreciation from Ami. 

 

“Can you imagine how much people would restrict themselves if they knew I could hear and sometimes see what’s going on? I hold that power over them, there’s nothing to deny. It wouldn’t be fair.” 

 

Ami cocked his head. Gently, he said: “Don’t you think that trust could ever be gained?” 

 

“No.” 

 

---

Coffee grounds breathed a sigh as Aldo poured a thin stream of water—just below its boiling point–into the funnel of his Hario V60. He set the kettle aside and waited long enough to confirm the magic had started, and then he left to dress himself. 

 

Aldo liked to pretend he was neat and also that he respected the holy cloth he wore. But every morning or early afternoon, he retrieved his everyday cassock from the backs of chairs or the bathroom counter. The years had presented him with ample muscle memory to simply fling the thing without earning it any notable wrinkles. 

 

He sat on the bed, watching brewed coffee percolate into his cup through the open door. That still had at least five minutes left to go. 

 

God, his back hurt. He reached behind himself and pressed his thumb into his spine, and a jolt of pain shot through him. His hand dragged to massage his neck, which was also quite sore. He hadn’t slept well at all; in fact, he had woken up in quite the uncomfortable position. It was eleven am, and a lack of meetings did not mean he could sleep all day! At least the pain had roused him, even though the prospect of continuing to sit upright like this was terrifying, to say the least. 

 

With another groan, Aldo got to his feet and fetched new trousers for the day, and when he pulled out his fascia, he narrowed his eyes and peered at it. The silk was off, just a shade wrong from everything else he was wearing. Fuck, he hoped everyone who needed to see him today was colorblind. Or just blind. 

 

This was not his. This sash of red silk was not his specific sash of red silk. 

 

Aldo squeezed his eyes shut, and he raced to chug his coffee. The thin, piping-hot liquid burned his tongue, rendering him unable to taste the bergamot notes of his Peruvian pink bourbon roast. The next sip from his pourover was unbearable; any taste of heat made him recoil. Swearing to himself, Aldo fetched some ice and oat milk and drowned the fruits of his labor. 

 

Thomas. The fascia was Thomas’. His dear friend could not tell a blue from a teal from a periwinkle! Good God. He must’ve found Aldo’s hastily-discarded accessories in the morning and thought they were his own, and Aldo only noticed now, considering he had packed it away in its correct place. 

 

A week, two weeks if Aldo counted nights sharing hotel rooms during the tour. That was all it took for all of his shit to be intermingled with Thomas’. Lord help him. 

 

Aldo’s back ached again as he tied the fascia, and suddenly, he blanched. His own body had betrayed him. The only reason he woke up sore and in some strange position was because that was how Thomas usually trapped him when he passed out. Even in his absence, Aldo was still somehow accommodating his friend. 

 

Friend. 

 

He laughed, doubling over. He laughed and laughed, and his neighbor yelled at him through the bedroom wall for him to “Shut the fuck up!”  

---

“Your Holiness, what is that?” 

 

Startled, Vincent dropped his phone, which had been open to an unknown message log. He instead fumbled for a pen and put it in the inner spine of a dotted notebook. “Oh, Guilio, it’s a bullet journal.” 

 

Aldo noticed Sabbadin holding in an exasperated sigh. 

 

“Right. And may I ask why?” 

 

“I heard it’s a simple and mindful way to collect thoughts. And track life statistics. This page is a sleep tracker!” Vincent held up the spread for all to see. 

 

Considering Sabbadin seemed well-versed in the stationary community, Aldo figured he probably had seen countless failed bullet journal attempts. His colleague balked. 

 

“I know this is forward, Your Holiness, but is it supposed to be incomplete, or did you really get no sleep at least twice this week?” 

 

“It is forward, Eminence,” Vincent insisted. 

 

Sabbadin dipped his head. “Duly noted. Please keep that locked away, because that is prime gossip material. Have you heard from Adeyemi?” 

 

Aldo was about to weep. As he reached out to clutch the corner of the table, he lowered himself into a chair. “What is he up to?” 

 

With a smile, Sabbadin shuffled through the contents of a manila file and said: “He sent me a draft of an open letter, and perhaps others have seen it too? About the situation in Uganda. It’s meant for this archbishop—hold up—and forgive me, Your Holiness, but that man must be possessed! He’s on your side!” 

 

A sheet of paper was pressed into Aldo’s fists, and he unclenched them just to grab it. At the top of the page, he read a line about “Complicit bishops allowing the government to trample over the faithful.” 

 

That usually wasn’t good, but as he read on, it actually looked like Adeyemi had somehow loosened his restrictions on “the gay lifestyle,” and was talking about genuine threats on people’s lives as a result of the new bill. A man possessed, indeed. 

 

Sabbadin chuckled, elated. “Is that guy’s mistress lesbian or something?” 

 

“Do you really think that’s an insightful comment?” Vincent said, coolly. 

 

Only in the awkward silence that followed did Aldo notice the light, ambient mix of synths and marimbas filling the office. The CDs. He tried to pay no attention to it, certainly not mimicking the baffled expression Sabbadin was wearing as he, too, noticed the sound. What he did notice was that it seemingly had an effect. Vincent looked far less tense than the previous meetings Aldo had sat in, although he noted that he should not fall prey to false causation. 

 

Maybe the win with Adeyemi caused the relaxed mood, and the music was a byproduct. But that seemed wrong, especially after last night. 

 

“I wonder why he’s doing this,” Aldo finally said, searching Vincent’s face for a clue. 

 

“I like to think the self-reflection journey I sent him on is working,” Vincent said, triumphant. He brushed his hair out of his face, and Aldo figured he must’ve put some new product in it to get that level of shine. 

 

Unable to help himself, Sabbadin snorted. Vincent happily let that transgression go. 

 

---

Aldo was sitting outside, trying to ignore lost and gawking tourists while checking the sources for his peer review, when Thomas briefly walked by the pond. Aldo glanced up, and he carefully set his computer off his lap and tried to flag his friend down. 

 

Initially, Thomas seemed not to notice him, and he knelt on the concrete lining the pond. He pulled a crushed hibiscus flower out of his pocket, and to the delight of the tourists, offered it to a turtle basking on a rock. 

 

Aldo kept his arm firmly down in his lap now, unwilling to let the goddamn lost tourists see him continue to fail to get Thomas’ attention. Ignoring the Secretary of State? What a dismal image to get sent around. 

 

The little turtle poked its head out of its shell and grasped onto the petals, and that was when Thomas struck. No, he was not offering food out of the goodness of his heart. He was a green heron, using the bait to gain just enough trust to snatch the turtle off its rock. 

 

Gaping, Aldo watched. This menacing side of Thomas was one he kept under wraps, at least not in the view of murmuring outsiders. 

 

When Thomas rose, the turtle now fruitlessly squirming in his hands, he finally faced Aldo and smiled like a little kid. The turtle was now resorting to biting the air. 

 

“Thomas!” Aldo hissed, keeping his voice low, “that was mean!”

 

Considering that Thomas was now standing right beside the bench, Aldo was at eye level with the turtle. He had never really looked in the eyes of a turtle before, until the sea turtles, that is. What a frightened turtle looked like, he didn’t know. 

 

Thomas frowned. “Vincent can do this without bait. They come to him. He reads them spells, and they come.” 

 

The turtle continued to squirm, now more forcefully, and Thomas said: “Aldo, dear, there’s more flowers in my pocket. Can you give him one?” 

 

“Thomas, I think you need professional help,” Aldo joked—although disapprovingly—but he nonetheless snaked his hand into Thomas’ left pocket. 

 

Goddamn. His index and middle fingers gently pried open the red flap of fabric, and the weight of the material pushed down upon his hand as he reached inwards. He nearly jolted as his knuckles brushed against Thomas’ hipbone, still notably bony even under all those layers. Eventually, the rough, aged and calloused, pads of his fingers met a spongy mass. It enveloped him, and he gingerly grasped the stem of a flower. 

 

As he pulled out, he stole a glance to the tourists, who had since attracted the attention of security and were thus not looking at them anymore. 

 

He held the flower out to Thomas before remembering he had to bribe the poor turtle. The creature didn’t hesitate to take the bait, chasing the nectary petals. 

 

“Thomas,” Aldo said, “where did you get the flowers?” 

 

“I picked them in the yard.” 

 

He replied so nonchalantly that Aldo had to laugh, and the tremors of his hand spooked the creature, which retreated into its shell. The fright didn’t last long, and it soon reemerged to finish off the hibiscus. 

 

Thomas tentatively sat down, raising the turtle to his face. “Brave, stupid boy. You know how stupid he is, Aldo? Every day, I do this very trick on him. He never learns, never shrinks away from me. Vincent said you can train them, but I cannot see how.” 

 

The scathing words were spoken with a form of reverence, a curious coexistence. 

 

“Perhaps you think of it wrong. I think you’ve trained him well, and he expects you to lift him,” Aldo said. 

 

Thomas seemed relieved, and he set the turtle in his lap, his grip loosened. “I hope so. That’s the point of all this. Vincent says I must accustom them to being handled, so they’ll cooperate with the vet.” 

 

Aldo thought back to Joe the ice plant. It appeared as if they were in a minimum security prison, and their warden was assigning vulnerable things to take care of to all his inmates. Gently, Aldo reached out to stroke the turtle’s shell, two-fingered. Like an aquarium touch pool. 

 

Many times he had been to the Aquarium of the Pacific, the home of his ultimate favorite touch pool. Surrounded by screaming kids that jarred his brain around in its skull, he would sink into nothingness. His body knelt at the saltwater altar, and his arms would be dunked into the freezing water. Bat rays, guitarfish, and the occasional shark drifted between his arms, sometimes venturing by for a scratch or two. 

 

Perhaps it was the only time Aldo interacted with wildlife without the ripping urge to pose and photograph them. 

 

Not that they were really free in the touch pool. 

 

Once a volunteer at the aquarium told him the vast majority of the animals were in treatment, and they were set for future release or a transfer to a conventional exhibit with more enrichment. Had she been lying to ease his guilt? If not, did they ever miss the touch?

 

“To confirm, you are not picking up turtles for fun?” Aldo said. 

 

“I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there is a little bit of excitement in it all.” 

 

The tourists were now gone, and Aldo could breathe freely. He faced Thomas and said: “I apologize for my brusque behavior last night; I could have finished my work in the morning. I have neglected you.”

 

Clearly taken aback, Thomas replied: “Nonsense! I know you’re more efficient at these later hours. I sometimes do forget the lightness of my workload compared to yours.” 

 

They sat in silence for a while, the turtle in Thomas’ lap now tranquil, and eventually, Aldo smiled and jabbed Thomas in the arm. “I’ll come work in your kitchen. Someone needs to protect you from those menacing gulls.” 

 

Thomas merely smiled. 

 

Aldo piped up: “Oh by the way, you have one of my fascias. This one is yours.” 

 

Thomas frowned. “I do?” 

 

“Look!” Aldo pushed both of theirs together. “They’re the same color! It doesn’t match my cover!” 

 

“Now that you mention it…” Thomas plucked the zuchetto right off Aldo’s head and compared it to the scarlet pooled in his lap. The turtle, thinking it was being served another treat, lunged for it. “That is different. My apologies.” 

 

“It’s quite all right.” 

 

“No, no, Aldo” —Thomas drew the soft fabric in between his fingers— “you should come pick up yours tonight.” 

 

Aldo’s head spun. His gaze was inexplicably glued to silk held taught in Thomas’ hands. His silk, on Aldo. “Of course.” 

 

None of his nights were normal anymore. Not at all. From Thomas especially, but also from Vin— 

 

“Cardinal Bellini!” said Vincent, who had apparently materialized out of nowhere. 

 

Aldo whipped around to meet his gaze, unsure whether to genuflect (which Vincent hated) or scream “It’s not what it looks like!” (suspicious). It didn’t even look like anything suspicious? “Oh, Your Holiness. My apologies. Am I late to something?” 

 

He pressed his fingers into his cheeks, finding them burning very, very hot. Fuck, could he blame sunburn? He clashed terribly with Vincent’s pallid face, who was dabbing at his forehead with his sleeve. 

 

Vincent stepped back, furiously shaking his head. “Not at all. This is on me. May I have a word? We have a…um…update.” 

 

“An update?” Aldo echoed, slowly replacing his cover and stumbling to his feet. “I’ll come right away.” 

 

“Hi, Thomas,” said Vincent in the meantime, “they’re starting to like you!” 

 

Cardinal Bellini but also Thomas. Aldo stifled a sigh. Maybe it was just a slip-up. Sounded plausible enough. 

 

Thomas shook his head. “No, not really, I fear. I’d ask for help, but I don’t want to take up precious time.” 

 

“Of course. Unfortunately this is pressing. Over dinner, maybe?” Vincent gave Thomas a warm smile before waving Aldo over. Still shaken, he followed the Holy Father, who was looking over his shoulder. 

 

The two of them kept a brisk pace between buildings, too fast to even acknowledge the litany of salutes the Guards were giving Vincent on the way. Every now and then, Aldo noticed Vincent stealing glances at his phone…still open to a message log. 

 

Quiet Aldo, he told himself, he’s merely overcorrecting from lack of reliable internet on the job. Exactly as Vincent had told Ami last night. 

 

“Your Holiness, I’d advise you to turn on the setting that always asks for a password whenever you turn over your device. Just in case someone swipes it, I suppose.” 

 

“Thank you,” Vincent said, curtly. 

 

Aldo glanced at the walls. Why bother? He wasn’t a security officer. Vincent could fuck up himself, if he preferred. 

 

But it turned out Aldo was yet again making assumptions. Vincent was not mad about that, he instead was mad about… 

 

“I was actually lingering in the quad earlier, but people had gone off-course? I hunkered down behind a marble pillar.” —Vincent gestured to his white robes— "Camouflage in action.” 

 

“Yes. I’m surprised it was even allowed to happen.” 

 

Vincent’s frown seemed pained. “I regret that I wanted to hide from them. They are the faithful, after all. They would be betrayed to know I was there and didn’t come out.” 

 

“Considering safety risks, it’s a valid concern. It is wise to only greet people if you know it’s safe,” Aldo reassured. 

 

“Safety?” Vincent scoffed. 

 

Aldo pressed, unable to let this slide. “In your earlier work, you must have needed to eschew risk aversion to help your flock. Now, you can do that without exposing yourself. It is not what it once was, I beg you to understand.” 

 

“You’re right. Not as it once was; I am now a simple and petty man.” 

 

Upon reaching his office door, Vincent detoured the conversation: “Aldo, I must ask you one thing, and to not…assume.” 

 

“Anything, Your Holiness,” said Aldo, knowing full well he was prone to great assumptions and could not promise anything. The Conclave let him know as much, that was for sure. 

 

Vincent shut the door behind them, not quite moving to turn on the lights. “Don’t go around telling people about my friendship with Ami. I trust you, but no one will understand if it gets out. And to defend us would be to expose him. Do you understand? Perhaps I’m not clear.” 

 

“Doesn’t matter if I understand or not. I won’t tell. I promise, Your Holiness.” 

 

Satisfied, Vincent nodded, and he flicked on the overhead lights. “Thank you, and also for being there last night. I was…unsure…if our meeting would be friendly in real life. I hope you didn’t feel too left out.” 

 

There were a multitude of things to say: feelings to divulge or warnings to give. Aldo stared at the white of Innocent’s robes, now far less glaring in the brightness of the office. The image of Vincent folded in the arms of a human, a perfect peer even in stature, reappeared in the back of his mind.

 

The Holy Father wandered to his desk, and he folded his hands above the wood. Aldo followed, sinking to his eye level. 

 

“My mother believed in astrology, a little,” said Vincent, wistfully, “I’m a Gemini, and she swore up and down the personality matches. I never saw it. Ami’s a Gemini, too. We’re perfect twins. If some of your brother eminences would hear me now, they’d call me a heretic. I still don’t believe in astrology, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something divine in our meeting.” 

 

Aldo braced himself for a confession. The Late Holy Father had blurted one out before. Something like…He’s my soulmate. Or I love him. Or I know it’s wrong, but this is God’s work; I can’t deny Him. 

 

But instead, Vincent beamed and piped up: “I’ve never had a brother before!!” 

 

Aldo blinked, uncertain relief coursing in his neurons. “Um...that’s wonderful!” 

 

“As a child, I would beg for one. How foolish I was. But all I needed to do was wait, oh some…fifty years!” Vincent looked like a child on Christmas. 

 

It took a while, but a genuine response eventually found Aldo. “I’m happy to hear that. The papacy can be very lonely. To be frank, I don’t think that man cares at all what position you hold. And you seem to share a language?” 

 

“Yes. Dari. We both speak poorly. I never had a formal teacher, and he’s always lived as a migrant in Pakistan. Truly, thank you for listening.” 

 

They sat, sharing wistful smiles and generously-flowing relief for a few moments. The cries of the fledgling gulls filtered in between the shouts of tourists and sputtering engines of motorbikes. The air conditioning fluttered sheer curtains. 

 

Then, Vincent sighed and said: “Unfortunately, we now have work. A delegation from Uganda is coming, and I’d really like us to draft some talking points. Now, if you don’t mind—”

 

---

By the end of the day, Aldo had turned into houseplant mode alongside Thomas, and he promptly blamed the lack of sleep last night…even though he ended up sleeping and waking at standard-fare night owl hours. 

 

He sat in the cantina, wilting towards the cool laminated table. Only his elbows kept him somewhat propped up, and he typed up the last of his meeting notes to send to appropriate papal legates. At least the room buzzed with staff cleaning up and stray priests with late-night coffees. Only this peer pressure was keeping him semi functional. 

 

If he were wilting, then Thomas had already died. He lay, an organic puddle, on the table, and passing sisters gave his body a concerned look before giving an accusatory look to Aldo. The piercing glares got to him, and he slammed his laptop shut and revived Thomas. 

 

Thomas barely managed to lift his head, and his eyes could only open into slits. Did he have pink eye? Poor Thomas kept getting it from his hospital appointments years ago, and the pharmacist had sent him straight to ophthalmology after his fifth refill of antibiotics. Something about those eyes, so beautiful, and yet far too welcoming. 

 

“I am just tired, Aldo,” Thomas reassured when Aldo brought it up, his weight firmly slumped into Aldo’s side as they waited for a car. “I know the sting of conjunctivitis better than a lover.” 

 

“We’re back to kindergarten with all these diseases,” Aldo said, bitterly. He remembered the whooping cough outbreak right before he was due for his booster vaccine. The Holy Father had coughed through homilies for two months, breeding a truly monumental amount of conspiracy theories. Unwilling to let clerical vows come in their way, the PR department started to reproduce asexually to fill their inflated levels of labor demand! Aldo found Father Bo scattered in five different hallways within the same hour, and surely they couldn’t all be the same man. Aldo vividly remembered cajoling Vincent into using this little epidemic to denounce some anti-vaccine rhetoric brewing in small ultra-conservative circles, and he even more vividly remembered making a Kentucky archbishop cry over it. Success? Unsure. 

 

“You were a cute kid, Thomas,” Aldo blurted. 

 

Thomas shook his head, halfway nuzzled into Aldo’s neck. “Nonsense. I was covered in snot from crying all the time.” 

 

After being dropped off at Thomas’ apartment, his friend promptly passed out. As if the mere act of removing his uniform pulled his plug! Not even eleven pm, Aldo thought, but he still drew up the unmade covers to Thomas’ chin and sat down above them. Yes, he had been tired at the office, but that was just work. He now blinked at the wall, wide awake, and with racing thoughts. His fingers itched to browse Adorama or worse…eBay. At least Adorama only had camera stuff. 

 

Aldo had promised Thomas to be more attentive, to not neglect him…which he had done yet again. He ought to know better; Thomas would never ask Aldo to go back early. Even as he drifted off into weariness, it still had been Aldo to call the car to bring him home. Thomas had wanted a drink, no? Some soft conversation and the exchange of lost fascias. And then…maybe…Thomas would ask Aldo to stay. Would he? 

 

He furrowed his brows. Exhale, he told himself. Meanwhile, each of Thomas’ tickled Aldo’s knuckles. How often was it that they were close enough that Aldo could feel his breath, let alone softened in sleep?

 

Considering that Thomas hated having to fold his knees on Aldo’s sofa or walk busy streets, most of their friendship had been spent in this very property, retained throughout Thomas’ Vatican tenure. Thomas loved a good ritual, and moving his belongings two floors down would disrupt his very nature. Therefore, while all of their brother colleagues earned larger and larger spaces, Thomas stayed put. Aldo had taken the opposite extreme; he entirely moved out. The courtesy apartments may be luxurious, but his salary was…not so much. But being alone lent him distance, even if his space was rather small with leaky pipes. 

 

At the very least, pretentious and skittish Curia officials were too afraid of his stripper neighbors and resident stray dogs to bother him at his home. His place had been Sabbadin’s prime strategy headquarters. 

 

It was funny, then, that Aldo had not spent a night alone in almost three weeks. Distances were blending together, just like the strange, spooky new shapes in Thomas’ darkened apartment. But truly, Thomas was a creature of habit, perhaps its very dictionary definition. Thomas had tried his best to turn down travel jobs even when the late Holy Father was still well and touring. Traveling with Vincent had merely jolted Thomas’ habits in a different direction. There was no other reason why he would start moving his little things into Aldo’s room when he previously refused a move down the hall! Poor Thomas. Aldo ought to push him back to where he felt comfortable, just like tonight. 

 

He glanced at the walls again, his heart far too clenched to bear looking down at Thomas’ sleeping form. 

 

I am a grown man. I am not afraid of the dark. Thomas just wasn’t very tidy. He made piles of loosely-related things, and in the stark Vatican silence and the near-absolute darkness, they made creepy shadows. That was all. Hell, if Vincent had to listen to nothing but his own breathing, Aldo understood his midnight scramble for soft, ambient records. If Thomas could be cozy here, then both Aldo and Vincent were twins in being completely incompatible with him.  

 

Aldo did what he always did when things slowed to unbearable levels: flood his senses. Without disturbing Thomas, who lay halfway on his side with the crown of his head brushing against Aldo’s gut, Aldo reached for his work laptop and turned the brightness down. A good hour for busy work, he figured, and he reopened his notes for the peer review. Once he got settled, he reached for his earbuds and set off a podcast about runaways stealing other runaways’ Social Security numbers. The Supreme Court podcast he normally loved had gotten far too depressing recently. Voices rambled in his ear at an artificial speed, and texts he had read a million times filled his screen. Every five minutes, he looked at some vintage camera gear as a distraction for his distraction. 

 

Even so, his thoughts drifted. Thomas had clearly invited him over, as often in the past. Plans made in advance for cool laughs with movies as mere background lighting. Aldo finally glanced down at his sleeping friend. Again, would Thomas have asked Aldo to stay over, or did he need to be on the precipice of unconsciousness to do so? Staying up until the body shuts down, taking the choice entirely out of hand? Not even a chance to ask God to watch over one’s vulnerable body? It was also deeply intriguing that he was seemingly seeking comfort. Aldo had to pull tricks to even learn Thomas had goddamn fucking cancer and was going to treatment alone, slowly losing his own morale. But today…hadn’t he clearly wanted awake time with Aldo, who had rejected it?

 

Maybe…they were just…incompatible. Neither of them would ever be able to fulfill promises to each other.  

 

Thomas’ brows were furrowed, concerned and restless even in slumber. 

 

Aldo’s heart wrenched, not even metaphorically. A sharp pain emanated in his chest, sort of like his lungs had wrung themselves out. 

 

Reluctantly, he returned to his work, hoping to finish up his comments as soon as possible. The more he read the unfinished research paper, the more it began to seem like a window into his soul. 

 

After all was said and done, Aldo pushed all his work aside. Removing all of his external stimulus made all the oppression of his environment flood back in. He shuddered; he ought to let Thomas move in, even if it uprooted the soul that had grown like mold on these very walls. Even if they lived as virginal fuckbuddies: slumbering together and nothing else. Quietly, he ended up cracking open the blinds just a tad, muting the stark blackness. Meanwhile, Thomas stirred a little from the light, and Aldo did not let himself fully lay down before pulling Thomas into his chest, resting his chin atop his head. 

 

“What do you want?” he whispered to no response. 

Notes:

the next chapter will be double the length...oops...

Also yes, the albums referenced in the chapter are actually real, and they're masters of ambient, background music. Highly recommend.

Notes:

Thank you all for reading and/or leaving kudos and comments! Come feed my soul!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Conclaving Around the World