Chapter 1: prudence
Chapter Text
prudence
The thing is there is usually some semblance of a plan when a new Pope is named. He will have allies, people he trusts, ideas, agendas. There will be a shape to the new ministry, perhaps a radically different one from the last papacy.
Aldo knows Tedesco almost certainly had a job in mind for each of his sympathisers and would perhaps have been obliged to shove Adeyemi in somewhere after their late in the day alliance was forged. Perhaps Tedesco can comfort himself with the fact that he need not pretend he wishes to honour any of his eleventh hour promises. The point is, every one of the candidates would have had some semblance of how the Vatican would look under their papacy.
Innocent XVI does not. He has no plan, other than to love all people, bestow grace, absolve sins and serve God, and whilst that is laudable, being pope means he wields massive global political power. He will be asked his opinion on everything, from terrorism to veganism, and all else in between.
“It’s a very big job at hand: you’re head of a country as well as the entire Catholic world, your holiness.” Thomas says, in his gentle voice.
These words would hit a normal man like a sledgehammer.
Innocent merely tips his head to one side slightly, like a bird, or like he is listening to something no one else can hear. Then he smiles at Thomas, like the sun at daybreak.
“Well, we must get to work, then.”
***
In the quiet of his private office chambers, the pope pauses to digest what Aldo has just said to him.
“It is my understanding that the previous Holy Father loved and trusted his appointees. I believe it would make sense for you to carry on in your role.” Innocent has a slight frown on his face, an expression which does not sit comfortably on him.
Aldo inclines his head.
“I would be happy to remain as Secretary of State during this period of uncertainty, your holiness, but I believe the conclave brought to light certain truths about my popularity amongst the curia.” Aldo tries to deliver these words with detachment, but he can’t deny the reality still stings him.
“Perhaps they all just thought you make an excellent Secretary of State. I certainly do.” Innocent replies, his customary warm smile returning to his face.
Ah, Aldo thinks, he believes I’m looking for reassurance.
In the weeks since the papal inauguration there has been a certain amount of jostling for position, some of it quite unseemly given the age and rank of some of the men trying to get themselves noticed by Innocent. When the pope had initially suggested everyone simply carry on as before, at least until he was settled, it didn’t have quite the effect Innocent had probably intended- rather than putting people’s minds at rest, in the permanently rumbling rumour mill of the Vatican, most were taking it to mean that that no-one’s position was truly secure.
Well, Aldo thinks, one position was truly secure.
Then he chides himself for his unworthy thoughts. Just because it disquiets him that the Dean of the College of Cardinals has scarcely been more than an arm’s length away from the pope since the end of the conclave means nothing untoward, it shows no favouritism, just that Thomas is exceptionally good at his job.
And because of that he has been exceptionally busy, and Aldo should not begrudge having moved further down the list of his friend’s priorities.
He tells himself that, but he doesn’t believe it.
Aldo drags himself back to the conversation at hand.
“That’s very kind of you to say, your holiness.”
“I have asked you to call me Vincent, Aldo.” The pope says, with another of his bright smiles. He knows exactly how to wrongfoot Aldo without really trying, if that is even what he’s trying to do. For all that Aldo likes the new holy father, he doesn’t quite understand him yet.
Aldo forces himself to smile back.
“Yes, well. I suppose I’m old fashioned and set in my ways- another reason why it might be advisable for you to bring fresh blood to the role of Secretary of State.”
The pope regards Aldo with his warm, dark, inscrutable stare for a moment. Aldo forces himself not to fidget.
“If there is one thing you cannot be accused of it is being old fashioned. You have worked tirelessly to modernise the Church. I have been reading some of your articles, Thomas recommended them to me, they are excellent. The principles and changes you outline are what the Church needs.”
The praise warms him, as it is meant to, but Aldo knows how his vanity has brought him very low of late.
“Thank you, your- Vincent. And I don’t wish to argue with you, I simply- I feel I’m not the correct person to see these changes through.” Aldo admits.
The pope frowns. “Why not?”
Aldo almost smiles at the bluntness of this question. This Holy Father says what he means and asks what he wishes to know, and Aldo loves him for it. In many ways, it makes it easier to get the words out. Innocent isn’t expecting him to be a silver-tongued politician at this moment, just a man, being honest.
“I have failed to live up to my own values. I cannot hold others to a moral standard which I simply cannot achieve. I stand by what I have written, I’m just not the right person to implement any of it.” Aldo says.
“Perhaps you have lost confidence in yourself.” Innocent says, meeting Aldo’s gaze levelly. “But maybe it is more than that?”
Aldo takes a moment, wonders just how honest he should be. There is the self-doubt, that chasm between the man he is and who he wants to be, which seems to get wider every day he sits paralysed, unsure how to improve, or if the only way to make anything right is to remove himself from a position of influence altogether. His awful judgement in backing Tremblay during the conclave, his inability to shed the barbs he still carries to his pride, his shame over how he lashed out in anger towards those around him.
And yet, that isn’t what he wishes to confess to the pope.
‘I am desperately in love with Thomas Lawrence’ he thinks about saying, out loud, for the first time in his life.
But he doesn’t want Innocent to get the wrong idea, he wouldn’t be leaving his role because of his love for Thomas- he has loved Thomas since he met Thomas, he has desired Thomas for just as long, he is the fixed point in Aldo’s life as all else changes. He is not ashamed of this love, he has never expected reciprocity, he has never spoken a word of it to Thomas. He has done everything in his power to shield Thomas from the truth of it.
Only one person on earth had ever known of Aldo’s feelings for Thomas and he is dead and deep below St Peter’s Basilica, keeping his many secrets in the silence of his tomb.
‘I am desperately in love with Thomas Lawrence, and I will never deserve him’ is an utterly stupid thing to say out loud, worthy of a soap opera, but it is true. They have both devoted themselves to a life where shared romantic love is denied to them, and even if they hadn’t Aldo is certain he would not be Thomas’s choice. But now he barely feels worthy of being Thomas’s friend, because he cannot stand by and watch as Thomas falls for someone else.
It is very easy to miss, if you aren’t looking for it, and Aldo wasn’t, except that he always pays attention to everything Thomas does. A habit of over forty years doesn’t go away overnight, so over the past few weeks Aldo has noticed Thomas’s steadily growing ardour for the pope.
It can’t be anything else-when they aren’t talking, softly, intimately, Thomas is watching Innocent like he’s worried he might disappear if he looks away. Innocent only has to tap Thomas lightly on the arm and Thomas’s full attention is on him. They grow ever closer, and Aldo really wishes he could warn Thomas to be more cautious, to be less open with his smiles and his joy. But they aren’t young men in the seminary anymore, where Aldo’s ridiculous one-sided passion for Thomas was misinterpreted as something dangerous blossoming between the two of them. Aldo’s interference would not be appreciated in the slightest.
‘I am desperately in love with Thomas Lawrence, and he is in love with you’- well, he can’t say that aloud. Far too many secrets in one sentence- or perhaps not. Who knows what Innocent knows about him, what he sees when he watches Aldo interact with Thomas.
And perhaps it is not a secret between them that Thomas loves the pope. Perhaps when they retire for the evening Thomas follows the pope to his apartment where they can lock the door, be truly alone, where Vincent can kiss Thomas’s smile-
This is why Aldo has to escape his home of nearly two decades. He is thinking blasphemous thoughts almost every minute of the day- yes, he can write all the articles he wants on how homosexuality is not sinful, how priests should be allowed to love and to marry- it still isn’t the doctrine of the church, and to imagine the pope abandoning his vow of chastity is shameful at best. Just because Aldo would does not mean that Thomas or Vincent would be as weak.
“I am tired.” Aldo admits, because that is true. He is tired-of himself and his unworthy thoughts.
The pope’s eyebrows rise in surprise, before his face is clouded with concern.
“You are not ill?”
Aldo shakes his head. “No, it isn’t that. I just- I fear my drive has deserted me.”
The pope nods.
“I understand, when a battle is won, and the adrenaline has worn off you can find yourself very weary.”
Aldo can’t bring himself to agree with that, knowing that the pope has been in actual war zones, and he is just having a teenaged crisis fifty years too late. ‘The boy I like likes another boy and I can’t handle it’ does not exactly match up to fleeing whilst your church is being mortar bombed, in the grand scheme of things.
“You mentioned your desire to leave Vatican life- a short trip away might help to clarify your feelings, yes?” The pope suggests.
“I- yes.” Aldo agrees, because any reprieve from his current situation is one he will happily take.
The pope smiles.
“When you return we can discuss your future further. I do not wish you to make a hasty decision because of grief- you must miss him very much.”
For a confusing moment, Aldo thinks Innocent is speaking of Thomas, then he remembers it is scant weeks since they lost the holy father. A fresh wave of shame washes over him- he has barely spared a thought for his old friend of late.
“I have felt lost since his passing.” Aldo says.
The pope tips his head slightly, that little bird like affectation, which never fails to bring a smile to Thomas’s lips.
“I believe you are not the only one.”
***
Two days later and Aldo has drawn up a small itinerary for approval- he has suggested he will attend a special mass for the life of the previous holy father in Dublin, a reconciliation meeting in London for victims of historic abuse within the church and then on to Paris, for an interfaith discussion about collective religious responses to extremism. It isn’t as much as he would normally aim to do in a weeklong trip, but the pope had suggested he try and find time to relax a little.
He sits up a little in his desk chair, his back and neck complaining at being hunched over viewing various work calendars and airline websites on his computer screen. It is midafternoon and he is feeling fatigued- not an unusual state for him in recent months. He stands, stretches out his spine and decides that what he needs is caffeine. His mind conjures an image of the little coffee shop just outside of Vatican City, and figures that the walk will do him good.
As he leaves his office he walks almost straight into Thomas.
“Oh, hello.” Thomas says, frowning slightly as he straightens his armful of folders. He’s wearing his reading glasses, which he isn’t supposed to do when he’s walking about, as they make him misjudge where things are, such as steps, potted plants, the edge of tables and, apparently, Aldo himself.
Aldo smiles at him.
“I was just heading out for coffee.” he says.
“Oh, has your machine stopped working?” Thomas asks.
“No, I just felt like a walk. It could be a nice day outside and I want to find out. I feel like we’re still cooped up, I almost forget that we aren’t.”
Thomas smiles. “Well, perhaps I’ll join you.”
Aldo blinks in surprise. It’s not that he thinks that Thomas has been actively avoiding him, but he certainly hasn’t sought out Aldo’s company in weeks. The last time they were alone together was before the end of the conclave.
Thomas takes in Aldo’s expression.
“Sorry, that was rather presumptuous.” he says, his expression dimming.
“No, no, of course you can join me I just- you’ve been so busy.” he gestures awkwardly to the files in Thomas’s arms.
Thomas looks down at them like he is carrying a basket of snakes.
“This is all the Tremblay business, I’m to hand it over to the accountants. Fortunately, I don’t have to go through all of it with a fine toothcomb, you know my head for numbers. I can drop it off on the way?”
So, they head off together out into the city where, in their casual day to day wear, they are taken for just another pair of priests in Rome. They order cappuccino and sit outside, the weak wintry sunshine attempting to make a break for it between thick banks of white and grey clouds.
Thomas sips his drink and rubs at the place on the bridge of his nose where his glasses rest. He seems weary in a way that Aldo can heavily relate to.
“How’ve you been?” Aldo asks.
Thomas looks confused. “Fine? We saw each other yesterday.”
“Not to talk to.”
Thomas’s confusion deepens. “We talked yesterday- about the holy father’s trip to Japan.”
“That was three days ago.” Aldo says and hopes he doesn’t sound petulant.
“Was it? Heavens.” Thomas takes another sip of coffee. “Well, apparently, I’ve lost all track of time, but other than that I’ve been fine.”
“You’re sure?” Aldo presses.
Thomas pauses, his mouth slightly open, like he’s about to say something. Then he purses his lips and shakes his head, like he’s dispelling a thought.
“Yes, absolutely fine. The adjustment period is going rather well, I think, even if it is-” Thomas pauses again, his sentence stuttering out, and Aldo is a little disquieted by the fact his most eloquent friend can’t come up with a word.
“Completely exhausting?” Aldo suggests
Thomas lets out an almost laugh. “Yes. But- enlightening as well. Exhilarating, even.”
Aldo spoons foam off the top of his drink, to give himself something else to do, other than look at the beatific expression on Thomas’s face.
“I’m glad.” Aldo says, and thinks if he were a better person, it would be true.
“And how about you?” Thomas says, leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He used to sit the exact same way when they chatted together in the seminary, and it forces a sudden pain in Aldo’s chest.
“Oh, fine. I might be going away for a while.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, just a week or so- a trip to a few cities, reassuring a few of our allies that the holy father is everything we’ve prayed for.” Aldo says.
Thomas smiles into his coffee cup. “He certainly is.”
Aldo sips his coffee- the milk is burnt, and the coffee is bitterer than it should be. Or perhaps the drink is fine and it is just him, gone sour.
***
The holy father is holding one of his turtles, grinning at Aldo like he’s just told a joke.
“I thought you were dead.” Aldo says. They are standing in a small corner of what Aldo knows is the Giardini Vaticani, but it somehow looks exactly like his grandparent’s tiny vegetable garden in their backyard, back home.
“Ah, well, Aldo, if you think something then it is definitely the truth of the matter.” the holy father says. The turtle in his hands waggles its legs, and the holy father crouches to set it amongst Aldo’s grandmother’s zucchini patch.
“We put you in a tomb, it would’ve been a bit of an oversight.” Aldo points out.
“True enough, true enough.” The holy father holds out his arms and Aldo goes to him, embraces his old friend.
“I miss you.” Aldo says.
“You miss your old life.” the holy father says, but it isn’t an admonishment.
Aldo’s grandparent’s garden melts away and they are playing chess in the Sistine Chapel, the floor around them littered with turtles.
The holy father tuts, looking at the board. “Defensive as always, Aldo.”
“How am I supposed to play any other way? Inviting chaos was always your move.”
The holy father laughs. “I remember the day I asked for the turtles. I thought the vein in your forehead would burst.”
“We had to do separate paperwork for every single one of them, and vet checks, and quarantining- stop laughing!”
“But you still did it. Brought them from my home for me.” the holy father says, taking Aldo’s knight from the board. It isn’t as if Aldo can remember where his pieces are, because he has realised this is a dream.
“Of course. You asked for so little.”
“And you ask for nothing.” the holy father says, and when Aldo looks up from the swirling confusion of the chessboard, he looks sad.
“I have everything I want.” Aldo says.
The holy father gets to his feet, much too quickly for a man of his age, especially one who is dead, and swipes the board aside.
He leans over, and Aldo has never feared the holy father, but he is now seized by terror at his sudden anger, the fierce look on his face which he had never once worn in life.
“Liar.” the holy father hisses.
***
Aldo’s trip is approved, and the Vatican secretaries get to work, far better at booking things using frustratingly tiny dropdown menus and bafflingly hidden buttons than Aldo would ever be. He gets on well with his trusty laptop and the only time he has turned his mobile phone off in the last twenty-five years was for his mother’s funeral, but some things remain beyond him.
He walks with the pope, through the gardens, after all the tourists have left.
“You are sure you are not doing too much? I hope this trip will leave you time for reflection.” Innocent says.
“Valuable work will help me reflect. I feel closer to God when I am being useful.” Aldo assures him.
Innocent looks at him, one of his shrewd, penetrating gazes. “Have you felt distant from God?”
Aldo sighs. “I’ve felt distant from everything.”
His last few nights have been plagued with insomnia- he gets perhaps three hours altogether. He cannot remember the dreams he has, which is perhaps for the best as the last one he recalls was the deeply unsettling vision of the holy father, furious with him. As such, his daytime hours have passed him by in a bit of a fog, he’s unable to focus on anything. His eyes feel gritty when he tries to read, his head pounds when he looks at a screen for any period of time, and he’s irritable in meetings.
“That isn’t good.” The pope says.
Despite himself, Aldo laughs. “No, it isn’t.”
“Do you wish to talk about it?”
Aldo waves a hand. “Oh it’s- it’s self-indulgent nonsense.”
He cannot countenance saying ‘I have upsetting dreams, and my best friend doesn’t like me as much as he used to’ out loud. He is regressing, these are the concerns of a seventh grader, not a fully grown man.
“So? Indulge yourself.” Innocent says, as if it is that simple. He sits down at the edge of one of the fountains, dipping his fingers into the water.
“It- I’m not sure that I can.” Aldo admits.
Innocent smiles, shaking droplets of water off his hand. “You do not know me well enough yet to confide in me.”
“No, Holy Father, it isn’t that-” Aldo hastens to reassure him.
“But it is, and that is perfectly fine. I will not drag you to the confessional, Aldo. Perhaps it would be easier to speak with someone closer to you? Thomas, maybe?” The pope’s voice is gentle.
“Ah- no. I don’t think Thomas wants to hear my problems.” Aldo says, fatigue making him incautious with his words.
Innocent frowns a little. “No? I hear you are very old, very good friends.”
We were, Aldo thinks, until I betrayed his belief in me.
Aldo sits down next to the pope.
“Sometimes that makes it harder to talk to someone.”
The pope hums, a noise of agreement or dissent, Aldo doesn’t know. He doesn’t know this man, really, he can’t read him as he had been able to read the holy father. Or, thought he’d been able to read the holy father, at any rate.
He turns his attention to the man next to him, tries to see him as Thomas does. Yes, he’s certainly handsome- dozens of articles about ‘the hot pope’ have been circulating online and in print. His icons are in every shop window in Rome, Aldo has seen trendy schoolchildren enthusiastically buying devotional pictures of him, when only the most pious of students would’ve bothered with previous popes. And Aldo gets it, a relatively young pope with a full head of hair, soulful dark eyes and a nice figure is more appealing than the endless parade of elderly men who have gone before him.
Other than that, there is a stillness about him, a feature of holy people which Aldo has always admired and wished for himself. Try as he might, he has never been one who can consider the lilies and how they grow without worrying about climate change.
This pope is also very eager to please, in surprising ways. He is not interested in soothing ruffled feathers amongst the more conservative members of the curia, but he was nervous about meeting the choristers. Fortunately, he didn’t try to make any ingratiating jokes about Pokémon or pop music, but spoke to them as adults, thus assuring their loyalty and continued awe.
So, this pope is beautiful, thoughtful and endearing- all traits which Aldo has admired in Thomas. Perhaps that is why Thomas loves him; he has found someone who matches him.
The pope dips his hand into the water again and pauses.
“Should people be throwing coins into this fountain?” He asks.
Aldo peers into the water and sees what the pope is looking at- dozens of coins, mostly small change, have been dropped into the water.
“Not really, but you can’t stop them. We put up signs but-” Aldo shrugs. “Perhaps they couldn’t get close enough to the Trevi and thought ‘this will do’ for their wish.”
The pope smiles. “Maybe they think this is automatically holy water.”
“I think there is an argument that it is. But you could bless it now, just to be sure.” Aldo says.
The pope quirks an eyebrow at Aldo and then makes the sign of the cross in the air with his free hand.
“In the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit, please do not poison our turtles.”
"Amen." Aldo says, solemnly.
They are still laughing a little when Thomas comes across them, his brow lightly furrowed.
“I don’t mean to interrupt, but you have a call with the Archbishop of Rio de Janeiro, your holiness.”
The pope stands, wiping his hand carelessly on his trousers “Ah, yes. I had almost forgotten, thank you. I will speak with you again soon, Aldo.”
“Of course.” Aldo says, getting to his feet as well.
The pope takes Aldo’s hand in his, one of them still chill and slightly damp from the fountain.
“I hope you find the comfort you are looking for and know that you deserve it, whatever form it takes.” he says, his expression open and sincere.
Alarmingly, Aldo feels suddenly close to tears, his eyes pricking.
He swallows heavily and nods, squeezing the pope’s hands with his own.
“Yes. Thank you.” he manages to get out.
The pope squeezes back and then lets go, heading off to his meeting. Aldo turns towards the fountain, which has gone rather blurry. He wraps his arms around himself, and even through his wool coat he can feel the chill of early evening.
“Aldo?” Thomas asks.
Aldo half turns, surprised. He had assumed that Thomas would follow the pope. Instead, he is walking towards Aldo, his face a mask of concern.
“Are you alright?” Thomas asks, stopping just in front of Aldo.
“Yes.” Aldo says, much too quickly.
Thomas’s lips twitch, an expression of annoyance, quickly supressed but Aldo has seen it.
“I’m- naval gazing, at best, Thomas. Really, I’m fine. Nothing a sleeping tablet won’t fix if I get desperate.”
“You aren’t sleeping?”
Thomas’s voice is sharp and loud, the water making his words echo back to them.
“I’m fine. Just adjusting.”
Thomas regards him, his face very serious.
Aldo holds a hand up. “I probably just need to cut out caffeine in the afternoons, don’t fret.”
“You’ve seen a doctor?” Thomas presses.
“I have a check-up next month, if the problem persists, I’ll tell them.”
“You can’t not sleep for a month, Aldo!” Thomas says, volume rising again.
“I am getting some sleep, don’t catastrophise.”
Thomas won’t stop looking at him, like he’s trying to read Aldo’s thoughts. Time was he wouldn’t have needed to; they used to tell each other everything, be perfectly in sync- but that is all in the past.
“There’s something you aren’t telling me.” Thomas says, eventually.
Aldo sighs, weariness overtaking him once again.
“What is it you want to know?” He asks.
Thomas looks taken aback- he has never been good at hiding his feelings, or he’s never seen the point in it. The result is the same, hurt is all over his face.
“Sorry, that was rude-”
“Aldo, what is wrong?” Thomas reaches out, to take Aldo’s arm, possibly even his hand and Aldo can’t allow that, not now. He steps back slightly, and Thomas’s expression becomes even more aggrieved, his hand paused in midair.
“I’m just tired, Thomas.” The same thing he had told the pope earlier in the week, but he hopes Thomas might hear something more in his words.
Thomas looks at him, searchingly, and lets his arm drop.
“You do look a bit drained.” Thomas admits.
Gee, thanks, Aldo thinks.
“Is- are you sure travelling is a good idea?” Thomas asks.
“A change is as good as a rest.” Aldo says, and they both know he hates empty aphorisms, but Thomas lets it go, with just a slight frown.
“Lent will be upon us very soon, are you sure you don’t want to just take some leave? You have plenty.” Thomas says.
“Checking up on me?” Aldo asks, slightly amused.
“I don’t need to; you never take a day off.” Thomas counters.
“I’ll be fine- I’ve been trying to stick to a routine in the evenings. You can join me in prayer, if you’d like?” Aldo says. It isn’t quite a lie, he has been praying for guidance every evening, but it’s still rather early for that.
Thomas hesitates. “I should- Vincent- the Holy Father- will want to discuss the meeting with the Brazilians-”
The pope needs Thomas, Vincent needs Thomas. It’s honestly a bit of a relief to know that Thomas doesn’t call him ‘holy father’ in private.
Also waves a hand.
“Yeah, of course.”
“You could come too?” Thomas suggests.
“Oh, I think the last thing anyone wants is me lurking in the background.” Aldo says. “I’ll see you later.”
He takes off, a little quicker than he would normally walk, heading towards the basilica. Thomas could catch him if he really wants to, his stride is longer than Aldo’s and he used to slow it so they could walk at the same pace.
But he doesn’t follow.
***
His flight isn’t until midday, but he still rises early, as is his routine. After morning prayers he does his yoga poses, which ease his muscles, but not as much as a still elusive full night’s sleep would.
Praying in the vastness of St Peter’s every evening for the last week has been a nice indulgence- familiarity has meant that he has taken the building, as awe-inspiring as it is, for granted. As he has slowly come to accept his journey will take him away from the Vatican- to where he still isn’t sure- he’s looking at everything with heightened interest. He wants to remember all this beauty, created for the glory of God.
But when he turns in for the night he is either restless or plagued by his dreams. The holy father is sometimes in them, but he won’t talk to Aldo now, he just sits at his desk, eternally signing mysterious decrees. He dreams of his family, viewing him from behind panes of glass, and he realises that he is in a coffin, displayed like a holy relic, his lips sealed with wax, his limbs held in place with wire. He dreams that he is in the Garden of Gethsemane, and this time the soldiers are wearing the uniforms of the Mussolini’s army, and he cannot find the saviour to warn him.
He doesn’t dream of Thomas. It is as if his unconscious mind won’t offer him the comfort of his old dreams, as guilty as they would often make him feel. At least when he showers, he doesn’t have to deal with any lingering arousal.
He dresses simply for travel- plain black with a dog collar. He knows some cardinals like to wear full dress, complete with pellegrina whilst on planes, which is their business, but Aldo hates negotiating public bathrooms wearing any kind of cape.
He has already packed for his week away, a medium sized suitcase full of his clothes and toiletries, a spare pair of shoes, a few books from his never-ending reading list. His carry on is a black leather case which is big enough for his laptop, the book he is currently reading- a new biography of Óscar Romero which he still hasn’t decided whether or not is actually awful or if he is just too tired to give it the attention it needs- his passport and travel documents, his phone and his cigarettes.
Aldo had given up smoking the honest way in the 90s- using willpower and vast amounts of that dreadful gum- but he can’t deny that even in his head, he is still between cigarettes, still wants to smoke after a meal, or during his breaks from emails.
And yes, it is awful for his health and is a terrible habit and bad for the environment, but he still found himself asking for several packets of Marlboro Reds at the edicola when he was picking up his newspapers the day before. The man at the till hadn’t even raised an eyebrow, a priest smoking is hardly cause for interest, particularly in Italy. But Aldo had felt like a kid who was intending to smoke behind the bleachers- something he’d never done in real life, of course.
He eats breakfast, puts on his coat and then heads down to wait outside for the car which will take him to the airport. It is still hours until his flight, but he prefers to get to Fiumicino early and not be rushed.
He lights a cigarette and leans against the wall on the quiet street as he smokes, looking up at the high buildings surrounding him. The magnificent dome of St Peter’s, stark against the clear blue sky, which never fails to make him feel like an ant. It is a bright morning after a night of rain, and the streets glisten in the golden light, as the city wakes up. He can hear the traffic getting louder, people calling to each other as they head to work or school. The thought of real life cheers him. He will miss Rome.
He's halfway through his cigarette when he hears someone approaching, pulling their own suitcase. He turns his head and realises with alarm that it is Thomas who is heading down the pavement towards him.
He throws the cigarette, underarm, into the road, hoping that Thomas is far enough away not to register the movement.
“Good morning, Aldo.” Thomas calls.
Along with his suitcase he is also carrying his ancient brown satchel- which he has had at least since his seminary days, if not longer. He is also dressed simply for travel, on his feet he wears a pair of battered leather walking boots- Thomas is a big believer in walking everywhere, if he can.
“Good morning.” Aldo replies, taking Thomas in as he trundles down the street.
He looks happier than he has in a while, but Thomas likes travel. Maybe the pope is sending him somewhere on a train, Thomas’s favourite form of transport. He has always said it reminded him of his schooldays, travelling down from his family home in Northumberland to North Yorkshire and back again, navigating the vast stations of Newcastle and York by himself. When Aldo had been the same age as Thomas, his mother would barely let him play in the yard by himself, let alone get several trains.
Thomas comes to a stop in front of Aldo, parking his suitcase.
“It’s a lovely morning.” he says, and then he frowns, slightly. “Has someone been smoking?”
“We’re in Italy, Thomas, everyone has been smoking. So, where are you off to?” Aldo asks, hoping to distract him from the still smouldering cigarette in the middle of the road, which only could have been thrown by Aldo.
Thomas looks at him and pauses for a second.
“I’m coming with you, Aldo.” He says, as if Aldo is being deliberately obtuse.
“To the airport?” Aldo asks, nonsensically. He hardly needs chaperoning to the airport, and why on earth would Thomas have packed his bags just for that.
“No, Aldo- to Dublin, and London, and Paris. Why do you think I was cc’d into all of the travel emails?”
Aldo hadn’t noticed that Thomas had been cc’d into all of the travel emails. He’d barely noticed the emails, beyond the links to his flight details, passes and itinerary, his brain has been in such a sleep deprived sludge.
“I- Just thought that might be the new protocol?” He lies.
Thomas’s frown returns in full force, but Aldo is saved from having to reply by the beep of a horn. His- their – car is here.
“Well,” Aldo says, forcing himself to smile even though his heart is pounding, feeling far too full of blood and panic to be healthy, or survivable- “the more the merrier!”
The driver gets out of the car, full of apologies for being perhaps thirty seconds late, and helps them get their bags into the trunk. When they take their seats in the back Thomas leans over, and touches Aldo on the knee. It is a casual touch, and Aldo should not feel like his entire body is being pinned down by the light contact of Thomas’s hand.
“Aldo, I’m sorry if this has blindsided you, I just felt that you might want some support on this trip-”
“No, of course, you have every right to come. I’m glad you’re coming.” He makes himself smile at Thomas again. He wishes he weren’t lying.
He’ll have time later to panic about his scuppered plans to collect himself and heal his broken heart, far away from Thomas. Right now, he just has to hope Thomas does not notice his cigarettes as they go through security.
Chapter 2: temperance
Summary:
This chapter contains references to two minor characters with dementia.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
temperance
The flight to Dublin is a quick one, and the baggage claim is remarkably efficient. A man in a long black coat is waiting for them at the terminal, holding a sign bearing the words ‘Cardinal Bellini Lawrence’, like a double-barrelled surname from Aldo’s wildest fantasies.
“That’s us.” Thomas says, smiling at the driver.
The driver nods at them. “Your Eminences, welcome to Dublin.”
“Thank you.” he and Thomas say in unison.
The trip has been fine so far, Aldo had attempted to doze on the plane, but sleep had alluded him as usual- too many people too close and Thomas, right beside him. Thomas, for his part, had no problem dropping off, his thumb still marking the page in his book as his breathing had deepened and levelled out. Aldo had sternly told himself that he was not permitted to stare at his friend for three hours and instead forced himself to read more of his book- which he was starting to think actually was very badly written, from a perspective he does not agree with, on a subject he is incredibly knowledgeable about- a trifecta of literary sins. He had started composing a scathing review of it in his head and was a couple of paragraphs in by the time the plane began its descent.
He was saved from having to touch Thomas to wake him by a toddler a few rows back crying out, presumably at the change in air pressure causing her ears to pop. Either that or she’d looked out of the window and gotten a look at the rain filled grey skies. Thomas had jolted awake, glanced around and then given Aldo a sheepish look.
“I never manage to sleep on planes.” Thomas had said, scratching his jaw.
“Count your blessings.” Aldo had replied and pretended not to notice when Thomas’s gaze clouded with sympathy.
A light drizzle is beginning to fall on Drumcondra as they pull up at the Archbishop’s House. They are greeted by the archbishop’s staff- he is at the cathedral, overseeing last minute preparations for the memorial mass, but will be joining them for afternoon tea soon.
They are shown their rooms, which are comfortable and simply decorated. Aldo’s has a large sash window overlooking the garden, and Thomas is just next door, which means Aldo’s chances of sneaking a cigarette out of said window are practically nil.
Aldo hangs the clothes he intends to wear up in the wardrobe and places his toiletries in the ensuite- there is no point fully unpacking as they will be heading to London the day after tomorrow. He sits down on the bed, assessing its firmness, and hopes he can sleep here, away from the Vatican. He doesn’t relish the thought of more travel feeling this fatigued. The drone of the plane engine has left his head buzzing uncomfortably.
There’s a knock on the door, and when Aldo says ‘come in’, it is, of course, Thomas.
“I was going to go down to the drawing room-how are you feeling?” Thomas asks.
“Yes, I’m fine, sorry-” Aldo gets to his feet, and follows Thomas downstairs in silence.
There was a time that they would speak to each other constantly, to the point where they would be shushed in libraries, to the point where their closeness worried the priests around them to the point of intervention. Now they are constantly having the same exchange of ‘how are you/I’m fine’ like they are rehearsing for a dull play about the decline of a relationship.
Aldo has heard many grim confessions on the subject of marital breakdown- petty cruelties, vile words uttered, actual violence. He has spirited women away to shelters, giving them money from his own wallet to pay the cab and tipped off the police anonymously about the actions of dozens of men - if it is sinful then he’ll make his justifications to God himself in the next world.
He is a staunch supporter of divorce, but it doesn’t mean that some of the conversations he’s had, sitting on his side of the grille, haven’t just made him sad. Stories not of anger and hate, but of apathy. He is haunted by many, but at this moment he is reminded of a man, speaking of his wife of twenty years, a lost sort of pain colouring his words.
“It’s like we’re strangers at a bus stop or something- we go through the motions, but I don’t know how to speak to her no more. And I don’t think she wants to speak to me at all, Father.”
He had urged that man to make an effort, to try and reconnect with his wife. Thomas is not his husband, and soon they will be far away from each other, but he doesn’t want Thomas’s memories of him to be tarnished by the bore he fears he is becoming.
Aldo clears his throat.
“I’m reading a truly awful book.” he says as they take their seats in the drawing room.
Thomas turns to him, looking faintly amused. He has heard Aldo acerbic assessments of other people’s writings many times, and he can usually keep Thomas entertained by tearing something to pieces.
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes, it’s practically unreadable, the premise is reassessing the life of St Óscar Romero from a modern conservative viewpoint.”
Thomas lets out a laugh.
“Why would anyone want to do that?”
“I have no idea, I don’t think the author has even tried to explain why he’s writing it.” Aldo leans back in his armchair, ready for a proper discussion.
“Perhaps he’s working for a conservative press with an agenda- I suppose if you’re being paid enough, you can just say anything whether you believe in it or not.” Thomas says.
Aldo holds back a wince, Thomas’s words hitting a little too close to home, whether he meant them too or not. It isn’t as if Aldo would have ever accepted money from Tremblay, but he was willing to compromise his beliefs to keep the liberal powerbase within the Vatican, so perhaps Aldo has no business critiquing anyone else’s motivations.
“I suppose that’s true.” Aldo says, feeling suddenly deflated.
A nun comes in at that moment with a pot of tea on a tray- the Irish, Aldo has been told on his many visits here, are the true drinkers of tea, the British are just pretenders- and Thomas thanks her and pours for them both, adding just the right amount of milk to Aldo’s to make it drinkable. He has learnt that it is no use to tell anyone this side of France that you don’t really drink the stuff, they will just keep offering it to you until you give in. He learnt to tolerate in the seminary, even if it isn’t his favourite form of ingesting caffeine.
“So- what are the arguments put forth that the martyred figurehead of a form of liberation theology may secretly have wanted continuity and not radical change?” Thomas asks, sitting back in his chair with his saucer balanced on his knee.
Aldo isn’t sure how to navigate this conversation now his potential hypocrisy could be exposed. However, he’s saved, for want of a better word, from having to continue it because Thomas’s phone begins to vibrate.
“Sorry,” Thomas says, putting his cup on the coffee table with a clatter, “it’s Ray, I told him to ring if he ran into any trouble-”
“Of course.” Aldo says.
Thomas leaves the room, speaking in a hushed rapid tone to Monsignor O’Malley. Aldo is left alone with his tea and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. He checks his emails but there is nothing immediately pressing- nothing he feels like he can handle, anyway. He finds himself staring listlessly at a statuette of the Child of Prague, whose eerie painted eyes seem to be staring back at him from its place on a side table.
He’s not sure how much time has passed when Ciarán Flynn, Archbishop of Dublin, enters the room.
“Aldo! It’s so wonderful to see you!” he booms. He’s an imposing figure, six foot two with a linebacker’s shoulders, and thick silver hair and beard. He’s a little older than Aldo, but he has the vitality of a man half his age. Aldo has known him for nearly twenty years and he’s very fond of him, even if he can be rather- a lot.
“Hello Ciarán.” Aldo says, getting to his feet and returning the hug he finds himself engulfed in.
“Ah, but isn’t it terrible to have lost him, and so suddenly! Did you have any idea, was he ill?” the archbishop asks when he releases Aldo.
“He- was showing some signs of slowing down, but nothing unusual for a man of his age.” Aldo says. It’s the truth- although he has no idea what the holy father knew of his own health. Only since his death have they all learned how many secrets the holy father kept even from those supposed to be his closest friends.
Ciarán nods. “That is sometimes the way. And what of the new pope? It was a bloody shock I can tell you now- Archbishop of Kabul, of all places! What’s he like?”
“He’s- wonderful, he truly is.” Aldo says.
Ciarán smiles. “Coming from you that is a big reassurance. We were worried there would be a swing to the right, you know.”
Aldo nearly laughs at that, he thinks about telling Ciarán the horrors of the conclave, when he feared everything they had worked towards would be crushed by either Tedesco or Adeyemi. But then he would have to admit how badly he’d lost his nerve and almost bungled the entire thing, how Thomas had come to him with indisputable proof that Tremblay was unworthy and still he believed he was picking the safer path.
He just nods and takes a swallow of his cooling tea. “Yes, I think we were all afraid of that.”
“So, tell me everything about him!” Ciarán says, more of a demand than a request.
“Well- you’d probably be better at asking Thomas- they’re very close.” Aldo hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s suggesting something is going on between Thomas and the pope. Or that he’s wildly jealous, if that is the case.
“Oh, really?” Ciarán says, and its at that moment Thomas chooses to return, looking harried.
“Thomas! Welcome, welcome!” Ciarán opens his arms and pulls Thomas in for a hug. Thomas endures the accompanying thumps to his back with his usual grace.
“Sorry, Ciarán, Aldo- minor crisis averted.” he says, sliding his phone into his pocket.
“Hah- well, we’re happy to have you visiting at all, Thomas- I hear you are the pope’s right-hand man!” Ciarán says, utterly guilelessly.
“Oh- I wouldn’t say that.” Thomas says. He picks up his tea and takes a sip, frowning.
“Really? Aldo says you and the pope are very close.” Ciarán says, smiling, and nodding towards Aldo, who wishes he could be anywhere else in the world.
“Does he?” Thomas says, turning to face Aldo.
“Well- there’s no denying you’re the one closest to him. He turns to you for advice.” Aldo points out. He wishes he’d just kept his mouth shut.
“He seeks guidance from all of us.” Thomas points out.
“I know that- I wasn’t implying it was a bad thing, Thomas. You’re the natural choice for his closest advisor, given your role and proven trustworthiness.” Aldo says.
Thomas’s gaze becomes perceptibly sharper at Aldo’s words.
“What do you mean?” He asks. Aldo can’t help but wonder why Thomas is so guarded.
“I mean- you navigated a very difficult conclave with skill and were a steadfast leader for us all throughout. You did an excellent job in awful circumstances.” Aldo says, hoping he doesn’t sound as defensive as he feels.
Thomas pauses for a moment, clearly a bit surprised at Aldo’s effusiveness. Quite why, Aldo isn’t sure, he’s always quick to praise Thomas.
“Oh- thank you.” Thomas says, going slightly pink.
“No one could have done it better, Thomas- heaven only knows I would have fallen to pieces with even a tenth of the responsibilities placed upon your head.” Aldo says.
Thomas looks at Aldo and then at his teacup, but he makes no protest- Thomas has seen how weak a leader Aldo can be.
“So, it was a difficult conclave, then? We all thought it was quite quick, all things considered. Although I suppose when there’s bombs going off outside, you’d have been wanting to get on with it.” Ciarán pipes up.
“It did bring a certain clarity to proceedings.” Thomas says.
“And you ended up choosing the secret cardinal- why, it’s like something out of a book. Everyone’s fascinated with him, you know, and I’m no better- we all want to get to know him! Any chance of a visit to Ireland in the near future?” Ciarán asks, his eyes bright with hope.
Thomas smiles. “I’m certain he will pencil one in- we’re sorting out a tour of East Asia first, but I’m certain within the next year or so he’ll visit you.”
“Oh, how wonderful! Everyone will be so excited, you know we love a good parade- should I ask for some more tea? I bet that’s gone cold-” Ciarán bounces to his feet and is out of the room before either Thomas or Aldo can say anything.
“You better get the pope to Ireland toot sweet, then, he’ll be texting everyone in the diocese group chat immediately.” Aldo says, sotto voce.
“I don’t think he’ll bother with a group chat- I think he’s gone to light a beacon.” Thomas says.
Aldo lets out an amused snort.
“The dedicated papal visit beacon.”
“Would you be surprised if he had one?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised but I would be envious.” Aldo replies.
Thomas laughs and then takes a sip of his tea.
“He is right, this is cold.” he says, with a grimace, before continuing to take another swallow from his cup.
Aldo’s heart swells with affection. He doesn’t know how not to love this man, even now when it would surely only hurt the both of them if Thomas ever found out.
“It was very kind of you to say I handled the management of the conclave well.” Thomas says, quietly, after he’s put his empty cup down.
“It’s the truth.” Aldo replies, simply.
Thomas looks like he wants to say something more, but Ciarán is bustling back in, with more nuns and more tea, and the moment is lost.
***
Aldo is sitting in the chapel at the Hospital de la Divina Providencia, completely unable to move or warn anyone of what is about to happen. St Óscar Romero, who is not yet a saint, but will commence his journey to becoming one in mere moments, is giving his final sermon. He is beseeching true Christians not to blindly follow orders of unjust rulers, but to follow God.
“You can’t do anything here, you know.” The holy father says, touching Aldo on the shoulder. “Look at him.”
Aldo does, and he sees that the saint already has his halo, a beautiful disc of pure, heavenly light illuminates his head, filling the small room with its radiant glare, nearly blinding Aldo. There is nothing to be done, even as Aldo hears the squeal of tires outside as Romero walks to the altar. He still wants to cry out, to warn him to get down, but he can’t. His voice is trapped in his throat.
The holy father takes Aldo’s hand, and the chapel disappears. They are in the pope’s rooms, sitting either side of his desk.
“A fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” The holy father says, borrowing a phrase from Aldo’s grandfather’s lexicon, apt because he has also borrowed Aldo’s nonno’s face.
“You knew I’d never be pope.” Aldo says, his voice bitter.
“Very few people ever are.” the holy father says, and he pats the pockets of his beige suit to locate his Camels.
“Why did you push me so hard?” he asks, and his voice is whiny, like that of a teenager.
“Did I?” The pope with nonno’s face asks. He lights a cigarette and inhales and blows a perfect smoke ring into the air.
“You told me when I was thirteen that I should be a priest-”
“I think you’re confusing me with someone else.” The holy father resolves into himself, the cigarette in his hand becoming a pen. He starts signing more of his decrees, looking down at his desk and not at Aldo.
“I’m going crazy.” Aldo says.
The pope shrugs. “Who is sane?”
He drops a form into his outbox and moves on to the next one.
“Please- please talk to me.” Aldo begs.
The pope pauses for a second.
“Why would I want to do that?” he asks, coldly.
***
The next day dawns grey and cold. The weather forecast on Aldo’s phone tells him that there will be sleet later, which seems fitting weather for a memorial mass.
He does his stretches, showers, shaves, moisturises and stares at the old man with purple eyebags in the mirror as he brushes his teeth. He had gotten slightly more sleep last night, but his dreams had been awful. He resolves to stop reading the Romero book and perhaps go for something lighter- he has a new history of the Borgias he has been meaning to read for a while in his suitcase.
He pours himself a large black coffee in the dining room and is eating a slice of wholemeal toast when Thomas walks in. His cheeks are still flushed from the heat of his shower, and he makes a beeline for the coffee pot.
“Morning, Aldo, did you sleep well?” Thomas calls, as he inspects the breakfast spread, and goes on to select a few sausages and some scrambled eggs.
“Yeah, you?” Aldo is not going to get into how he had a nightmare where he failed to thwart an assassination which took place over forty years ago, and then he dreamt both his grandfather and the holy father secretly hated him. It’s a bit much for breakfast.
“Yes, although I have already had several emails from Ray this morning. The new papacy has made him a little- skittish.” Thomas pulls a face as he sits down next to Aldo.
Aldo takes a sip of his coffee.
“I’m amazed anyone was willing to spare you for this trip.”
Thomas takes a bite of his food and chews before answering.
“Yes, well, I was sceptical when the pope suggested it, but he felt that both our presences would be good for this trip, particularly the reconciliation meeting in London- he wants everyone to know he’s taking the issues seriously.” he explains.
The coffee in Aldo’s stomach is quickly turning to acid.
“So- it was the holy father’s idea that you accompany me? Not yours?”
Thomas barely pauses in eating.
“Yes, he thought it’d be a good idea, and I agreed.”
Aldo takes another bite of his toast, but it is like ashes in his mouth. For some reason he had imagined that Thomas had wanted to come with him, that Thomas had been the one to propose it.
It shouldn’t change anything- the outcome is the same. Thomas is here, with him, and will be for the next few days. And yet the knowledge that he was essentially told to travel with Aldo, that he didn’t choose it- that it is, in fact, encroaching on his busy schedule and taking away time that could be spent with the pope- these facts are difficult to digest.
“I see.” Aldo says, because he’s been quiet for too long.
Thomas turns to him, clearly about to enquire about his change of mood, when Ciarán walks in. He is followed by two other priests- a young man who Aldo does not recognise and Canon Michael O’Leary, who is in his eighties and is leaning heavily on the young man’s arm.
“Good morning!” Ciarán calls, as he heads for the bacon.
“You sit down here, Reverend Canon, and I’ll get you some breakfast.” the young priest says, leading the canon to a chair.
Aldo stands up quickly to pull the chair out for the old man, and the priest smiles. They slowly make their way over, as Michael is unsteady on his feet.
“Thank you, your eminence.” he says, as they get the elderly man into his seat.
“Just Aldo is fine.” Aldo says.
“I’m Anthony Aiden Murphy- its wonderful to meet you- and you, Eminence Lawrence.”
Thomas smiles and nods at the young priest- just a boy really. Aldo doubts he could grow a full beard.
“The pleasure is all ours.” Aldo says, with a smile of his own. The boy turns beet red, clashing rather violently with his auburn hair, and hurries off to grab some food.
He turns to Michael, who is looking up at him with a slight frown on his face.
“And its lovely to see you again, Michael.” he says.
“Aldo Bellini!” Michael says, suddenly. “What a lovely surprise.”
The old man takes Aldo’s hand in his own shaky ones.
“You must tell me how everyone is, young man,- how is the holy father?” Michael asks.
“He’s very well, Michael.” Aldo says.
Michael smiles. “Of course he is, I believe he’ll outlast us all!”
Aldo glances over at Thomas, who frowns back at him, concerned.
Aldo turns his attention back to Michael and squeezes his limp fingers.
“I’m sure he will. Why don’t you tell me about how your garden is doing?” Aldo suggests.
The old man’s face lights up, and the fogginess lifts from his expression, as he tells Aldo all about planting fresh spring bulbs in the house’s flower beds. Aldo cuts up Michael’s breakfast for him when Anthony brings it over to the table and keeps him talking about how his borders will look come Easter, when the daffodils and hyacinths will be in full bloom. Michael eats with the careful concentration of a man in the early stages of dementia, still conscious of keeping his body and clothing neat.
Aldo recalls the last time he went to visit his eldest brother. Giovanni was much older- already a father at nineteen, making Aldo an uncle when he was born. He’d worn a leather jacket and was an electrician by trade and Aldo had thought he was the coolest man in the world when he was growing up. He still remembers the first time he ever sat on the pillion of Gio’s motorbike, clutching hold of his big brother for dear life.
In the home, Gio hadn’t known him- he wasn’t frightened or upset by Aldo’s presence, just faintly baffled. That was until Aldo had gotten up to leave, kissing Gio on the cheek, when his brother had suddenly grabbed his sleeve.
“Hey, Father? My baby brother, Al, is training to be a priest, can you believe it?” He’d said, his tone bright, his face open.
He sees no point in needlessly distressing Michael with the news that the pope he’s talking about has been dead for months, just as he hadn’t seen any point in informing Gio that his baby brother was a cardinal. The world is a frightening enough place when you have dementia without people contradicting the fundamentals of your reality for no good reason.
They finish up breakfast, and Anthony takes Michael for a walk around the gardens before the bad weather sets in.
“I’m sorry,” Ciarán says, as they make their way into the drawing room, “I forget just how much Michael has slipped, some days he’s mostly all there.”
“It’s fine.” Aldo says. “My brother has Alzheimer’s, he’s much farther along than Michael, these things happen.”
“He’ll be fine at the mass, mind. He likes the routine of it.” Ciarán says, as if Aldo had expressed some kind of concern. The archbishop excuses himself to go and finalise everything for the service, leaving Aldo and Thomas alone.
Thomas is quiet, watching Aldo with a difficult to read expression on his face.
“What?” Aldo asks.
Thomas shakes his head a little.
“I- you were very good with Michael.”
Aldo snorts into his third mug of coffee of the day, which he has brought with him from breakfast.
“Did you expect me to tell him the holy father was dead?”
“No- no, of course not.”
“I’m not such a pragmatist that I’d needlessly upset an elderly man who has only ever been kind to me.” Aldo says.
“I wasn’t saying that you would.” Thomas replies, sharply.
They eye each other for a moment, Aldo still unsure if he’s being praised or criticised. Thomas drops his gaze first.
“We never got back to talking about your awful book.” Thomas says after a few minutes of uneasy silence.
Aldo supresses a shiver, unsettling memories of his dream floating into his conscious mind.
“I’ve given up on it.” He says.
Thomas gives him a tentative smile. “That bad?”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
***
About halfway through the mass for the life of the holy father, it hits Aldo that his friend is actually gone. One second, he is listening to Ciarán giving his sermon on the value of a life well lived and the next he realises that whilst he might be haunted by the shade of his dear friend in his dreams, he will never actually see him again.
‘Delayed reaction is normal with grief’ Aldo’s therapist had said to him. That was a decade and a half ago, when his mother had died, and he hadn’t been able to cry for three months. The truth was he’d been so encompassed by guilt- over not visiting enough, not calling enough, not being enough of a son to her- that he almost felt he wasn’t allowed to grieve.
Sitting next Thomas in the warm light of St Mary’s Pro-Cathedral, he realises that he has done much the same thing with the holy father, pushed his grief to one side because he’s not sure he’s worthy of truly feeling it. His hands tighten on his order of service, where the holy father beams out at him from a picture taken decades ago.
He’d noticed the holy father’s breathing was more laboured, even when sitting down, hadn’t he? And he’d noticed that the holy father had taken longer making his moves during their games of chess- which had become less frequent because he often took to his bed earlier. Aldo had simply corrected the holy father’s spelling and grammar when he’d received a slightly muddled email or memo- English was not the holy father’s first language, nor his second. Aldo had actively ignored his friend’s decline and then had been shocked when he died.
The rest of the service passes in a blur, but Aldo could probably get through a mass blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back at this point. He keeps it together when they return to the Archbishop’s House, with a large number of the Catholic great and good of Dublin, who all want to tell him how sorry they are. The consolations almost immediately morph into questions about the new pope. Aldo makes eye contact with Thomas across the room and from the look on his face he’s having the exact same conversation as Aldo, over and over. Perhaps they should get t-shirts made saying ‘The new pope is not going to repeal Vatican II’.
Eventually everyone leaves, and they eat a quiet dinner- Ciarán is happy with how the mass went, Aldo and Thomas congratulate him on a job well done. Thomas and Ciarán get into a conversation about a complex piece of ecumenical law and Aldo lets their talk wash over him.
“Are you alright, Aldo?” Thomas asks. Aldo realises he’s been staring into space again, too focused on the effort of keeping himself together to really think about anything else.
“Yes, I- well, I have a slight headache, actually. I think I might skip dessert and head up to bed? I’m sorry Ciarán, I think the day has caught up with me.” Aldo says.
“Of course,” Ciarán says, smiling affably, “you’ve got to travel again tomorrow. And besides, I’m sure you’ll be back here again soon enough, with the Holy Father.”
Aldo can only give him a weak smile. He’s not about to mention that this will be his last trip in his role of Secretary of State, and he’s certainly not saying it in front of Thomas. Thomas, who tries to make eye contact with him as he gets up, but Aldo deftly avoids it.
He slips up to his room, not even bothering to risk going outside for a smoke- last night he’d had to crouch behind a wall to avoid discovery by two novices, God knows what he would have done if they had noticed him there, hiding. Tonight the forecasted sleet is slapping against the windowpanes, the wind howling down the chimneys, he doubts he’d even be able to get a cigarette lit.
He changes into his nightwear in the ensuite and then sits down on the toilet lid and finally lets himself cry. For the dead holy father, for his dead mother, for Michael and his brother, already leaving their lives before their deaths. He cries for himself, as selfish as that is.
Afterwards he blows his nose and washes his face. He doesn’t feel better, necessarily, but he doesn’t feel worse, which he will take as a net gain. Just as he’s about to get into bed to read for an hour before brushing his teeth and saying his prayers, he hears a knock at the door.
When he opens it, just a touch, he sees Thomas standing there with a mug in his hand.
“I know you aren’t ill, but I thought-” he holds the mug out. “It’s lemon and honey. I know you can’t stand tea, really and it’s much too late for coffee.”
Aldo takes the proffered mug.
“Thank you.” He says, and when he speaks his voice is strangely hoarse.
Thomas quirks a smile.
“It will ease your throat, at least-” he peers at Aldo in the low light of the hallway and then he frowns. “Aldo, have you been-”
“It’s- just a headache, like I said. Thank you for the drink.”
“You know you can always talk to me, Aldo, if there is something that is troubling you.” Thomas says, reaching out and putting his hand on Aldo’s shoulder.
Aldo is torn between the temptation to lean into the warmth he doesn’t deserve, or knock Thomas’s hand away, which Thomas does not deserve. Thomas also doesn’t deserve to be kept at arm’s length, like he has done something wrong- the fault here is all Aldo’s, always has been.
“I suppose it just hit me today, how much everything has changed.” Aldo says.
Thomas nods, squeezing Aldo’s shoulder.
“It has rather, in a way that neither of us was anticipating.” He gives Aldo an uncertain little smile. “I thought- things would be quite different from how they actually are.”
Aldo’s stomach drops. He supposes they were going to have this conversation eventually, where Thomas would tell Aldo of his unexpected love for the pope, perhaps even his joy in its reciprocation. He is, after all, Thomas’s best friend, and from Thomas’s perspective they share all their secrets with each other.
If they are going to do this, they shouldn’t do it in a corridor, where any amount of people could be lurking, listening.
“Do you want to come in so we can talk?” Aldo asks, stepping back from the doorway.
Thomas smiles then, so brightly Aldo must grip his mug tighter to avoid dropping it.
“Yes, I would love to-”
Just as he takes a step over the threshold, Thomas’s cell phone starts to ring.
“Sorry- of all the times-” he fishes the phone out of his pocket and winces slightly at the caller ID, suddenly looking torn. “It’s the pope.”
“Take it, it’s fine.” Aldo says.
Thomas looks uncertain. “I can tell him we’re in the middle of something and I’ll call him back?”
“He needs you, Thomas.” Aldo says, simply.
Thomas gives Aldo another of his searching looks. Perhaps he put too much emphasis on the word ‘needs’, and he has revealed that he already knows what Thomas was surely trying to tell him.
Either way, Thomas swipes to answer, giving Aldo an apologetic smile.
“Vincent- sorry, I- oh?” He pauses, frowning, taking in whatever the pope is telling him. “No, but I can get my laptop, it’ll be easier for me to read it, just a second-” He pulls the phone away from his ear.
“Sorry, he wants to talk about the Lenten message, we want it to be proofread by tomorrow.”
Aldo waves a hand. “Of course, no problem.”
Thomas’s shoulders sag. “But you wanted to talk.”
“We can talk whenever, your work is actually important, Thomas.” Aldo says.
Thomas looks uncertain, so Aldo makes his mind up for him.
“Look, I’m going to get into bed and read. And I’ll drink my drink, don’t worry.” He makes himself smile, reassuringly.
Thomas doesn’t look like he wants to leave it there, but he nods.
“Goodnight, then.” He says, stepping back out of the room.
“Goodnight.” Aldo replies, as Thomas retreats down the hallway to his own room, already in the midst of his conversation with the pope. Aldo can’t help feeling some relief as he shuts the door- he has had a reprieve from what will be one of the most painful conversations of his life.
Aldo gets into bed and sips his drink. It is very pleasant-sharp, fragrant wedges of lemon cut through the cloying sweetness of the honey, and they do ease his throat, which feels rather raw from the crying. It is exactly what he needs.
He is exceptionally lucky to have Thomas in his life, in whatever capacity. He hasn’t lost him, really, because he never had him in the first place. His love for Thomas has always been his burden to bear, but it has always brought with it a level of happiness, which Aldo has enjoyed for years.
He tells himself, as he reads several chapters of Rodrigo Borgia’s rise to power, that some people do not get so much joy in their lifetimes.
He tells himself that it is enough.
***
It is Twelfth Night in the court of this most unholy pope, and as such, the revelry is in full swing. The musicians play and women dance and Lucrezia watches all of it, seated near her father, with a look of boredom on her beautiful, haughty face. Alexander VI sits with his mistress at his side, observing the celebrations, no doubt taking note of which priest is slipping off with which prostitute in his calculating and awful brain.
“Not interested in the dancing girls, Aldo?” Thomas asks, smiling.
Thomas is perhaps twenty-six in this dream, his hair a little overlong. He is wearing tennis shoes and light denim jeans, along with a grey t-shirt from some Catholic youth event, the slogan faded from many washes. His cheeks are pink from the warmth of the well stoked fires, and perhaps from the wine in his pewter goblet. He is so beautiful Aldo feels he might cry.
“You know I’m not.” Aldo says.
Thomas laughs and cups Aldo’s face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together.
“Of course I know.” He whispers, his breath warm and shockingly intimate on Aldo’s lips.
Aldo feels his heart leap into his throat- this is his chance. His only chance.
“We should leave.” He says to Thomas, when Thomas breaks their contact to refill Aldo’s own goblet.
“Oh, no, we can’t do that- he’s coming here, you know.” Thomas says, putting the bottle back down.
“Who?” Aldo asks.
But Thomas isn’t listening, his attention is caught by a man coming into the room- dressed in beautiful robes of pure white. The room falls silent as the man takes centre stage.
“Who let you in here?” Alexander demands, furiously. His attire looks grubby and unkempt compared with that of this new pope. In fact, the whole room has taken on a distinctively sordid tint, the true rot showing through all the celebratory gilding.
“He did.” The new pope says, turning to Thomas with a smile which would melt the stoniest of hearts. He holds out his hand to Thomas, who rises to his feet. Thomas is completely captivated as he walks to the new pope, heedless of Aldo reaching out to try and grab him back.
The pope takes Thomas’s hand, and they smile at each other, completely engrossed, even as Alexander’s court jeer at them. The noise of the dissenters doesn’t touch them at all.
Aldo realises he is witnessing a marriage, as Thomas stands before the pope, returning the look of adoration that is being bestowed upon him.
He will not cry out to stop this, but he cannot see them kiss, will not let himself. He stands up, heading for the door but he is stopped by rough hands, grabbing at his clothes, holding him fast. And of course, it is Cesare standing above him, holding the dagger, grinning as he plunges it into Aldo’s beating heart.
***
Michael finds him in the garden, after breakfast, just as Aldo is finishing his cigarette. The sun is out, but it is bitterly cold, frost dusting the grass.
“Oh, good morning, your eminence!” Michael says when he spots him.
“It’s just Aldo, Michael.” He says, walking over to offer Michael his arm. He suspects Michael isn’t really supposed to be in the garden by himself, especially when it’s freezing.
“Ah?” Michael asks, peering at him through his rheumy eyes. “Oh- Aldo Bellini, yes.”
“Checking on your snowdrops?” Aldo asks as they walk towards the white clumps in the flowerbeds.
“Yes! You know I’ve planted over a dozen varieties over the years? No one every believes me, they just see a snowdrop and think they are all the same!” Michael says.
“They’re quite beautiful.” Aldo has never had time to garden, save for a few houseplants in his office which are looked after far more diligently by Aldo’s secretaries than by him. His grandmother was a green thumb, though, and Aldo remembers afternoons spent helping her as a child, sinking his hands into warm soil, picking beans and cutting herbs for dinner. Perhaps he’ll garden in his retirement.
Michael smiles at him.
“I love all flowers, but snowdrops popping up after a long winter- there’s nothing better. Little symbols of hope.”
Aldo smiles and nods, intending to move them on, but Michael’s grip on his arm tightens, and when Aldo looks at him, his expression is very grave.
“There is always hope, my boy. Even if it is buried underground. Remember that.” His voice is strong, and he sounds like the priest Aldo first remembers meeting, decades ago.
It is possible that Michael is merely remembering a long-ago sermon, but he is also looking at Aldo and taking in the bags under his eyes, the weariness which even three cups of coffee before 10am cannot alleviate. Aldo doesn’t know if he is ever going to have an unbroken night’s sleep again.
“Thank you.” Aldo says patting Michael’s hand. He is grateful for the old man’s concern.
They take a turn around the garden, Michael is relieved that the crocus shoots have not been killed by the frost, and then they go back inside, where they are both grateful for the warmth of the drawing room. Anthony Aiden Murphy is suddenly upon them with yet another cup of tea.
“I wasn’t sure how you liked it, your eminence.” He says, as he hands Aldo his cup, once again going pink in the face.
“This is perfect, Anthony, thank you.” Aldo lies.
Thomas joins them and Aldo cannot look at him without wanting to die of embarrassment- his dreams have taken on a melodrama incredibly unbecoming of a man of his age.
“Is that Thomas Lawrence?” Michael asks.
“It is, indeed, Michael.” Thomas says with a smile, taking the old man’s hands.
“Why, you’ve lost your hair!” Michael exclaims.
Thomas laughs. “Haven’t we all.”
Michael frowns. “But you- you were just here a few months ago with the holy father, for the Rising centenary.”
Thomas glances at Aldo in mild alarm, as Michael is talking about an event which happened nearly ten years ago.
“Yes- yes well. I just have unfortunate genes, I suppose.” Thomas says.
They are saved from having to further explain by Ciarán popping in to say goodbye, and then the car to take them back to Dublin airport turning up. Aldo gets to surreptitiously put his cup of undrunk tea down with a feeling of triumph.
In the car Thomas turns to him.
“Michael really is getting bad, isn’t he?”
Aldo sighs.
“I think it’s worse for us, because we are remembering how things were, how sharp he once was.”
“And you think its better just to keep him in the dark?” Thomas asks.
“Rather than tell him something upsetting which he will only forget in a few hours? Yes, I do.” Aldo says, his tone a little harsher than he means it to be, thanks to another night of disturbed dreams.
“The truth can hurt, Thomas.”
“I know that.” Thomas replies, his tone equally brusque.
They are silent for the rest of the ride.
Notes:
you know when you're having the dream about the person you love getting married in front of you and then cesare borgia stabs you :( relatable queen aldo bellini
Hope all of you who partake in such things were suitably shriven and ashed. I have given up chocolate for Lent, I am God's strongest soldier (worst thing He ever did was make it so supermarkets started selling creme eggs ten minutes after Christmas).
Leave a comment if you liked it!
Chapter 3: justice
Notes:
This chapter contains non graphic references to systematic child abuse within the Catholic church.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
justice
Heathrow is one of Aldo’s least favourite airports in the entire world. Huge, oddly humid and very hostile to humanity, the only good thing about it is the express train which gets you away from it. By the time he and Thomas board the train (fifteen minutes from the airport to central London, praise be to all the saints) they are talking again. Thomas has extended a few olive branches which Aldo does not deserve, in the form of a takeaway coffee, a Cadbury’s chocolate bar and an apparent desire to dredge up some old memories.
“Do you remember that teashop we used to go to, off Kensington High Street? I wonder if it’s still there.” Thomas says, with a smile, his eyes bright.
Aldo remembers it, chintzy wallpaper and doilies everywhere, the waitresses wearing frilly aprons- incredibly dated even for the 1980s. He had assured all of his family and friends back in the states that England didn’t actually look anything like how the movies depicted it, and then Thomas had dragged him to eat something called a toasted teacake in a place that was straight out of a Miss Marple film. The coffee was terrible, but the teacakes were good, and the company was excellent.
“We could go and look for it, if you want.” Aldo suggests. He’s feeling slightly better for the chocolate bar, he knows he hasn’t been eating enough lately, and a man of his age cannot run on caffeine alone.
Thomas looks wistful. “We could- but I think it would make me sad to find out it isn’t there, you know?”
“Or discover that someone has converted it into a soulless vape shop.” Aldo says.
Thomas lets out a laugh whilst grimacing. “That would be truly dreadful. Probably best to leave it, then.”
“There are always other teashops.” Aldo says.
Thomas smiles at him then, the one which warms his eyes. “Yes, but none of them will be the one where we used to while away the hours.”
Aldo is saved from having to reply to that because the train is pulling into Paddington, and they have to gather their bags. They decide to get a taxi to Westminster- they are both used to the tube, but that means they are both aware of how unfun it is to travel on with luggage, even at off-peak times. And, because they are in England, it is raining, and neither of them fancy doing the walk from Victoria to Francis Street in the wet.
“Do you ever think about those times?” Thomas asks, once they are ensconced in the back of the black cab.
“Hm?” Aldo asks, stalling for time. He knows exactly what Thomas is talking about. He’s hardly about to admit how much he dwells on the past.
“When we first met- when we were studying, I mean.” Thomas says.
“I think about how my back hurt less and I had hair.” Aldo replies, flippantly.
Thomas pushes on, ignoring the comment.
“You remember how we used to talk a lot, how we got in trouble for it?”
Aldo glances out of the window on his side of the car, at the traffic trundling by, at the huge wrought iron fences which encircle Hyde Park. He wishes he were outside in the rain, instead of being trapped in a taxi. He wishes it were forty years ago, and he had managed to talk some sense into himself about the young man he kept following around.
“Yes, Thomas, I remember.” Aldo says and hopes he doesn’t sound as begrudging as he feels. It is one of the pivotal moments of his life, being warned off showing how much he loved Thomas Lawrence, above all others.
Thomas clears his throat and carries on, his tone a little more stilted than his usual smooth speech.
“I wasn’t thinking about the future at that time, and I imagine you weren’t either- beyond getting through the course and then being allocated a parish- or perhaps leaving the seminary altogether-”
That gets Aldo’s attention.
“You thought about leaving?” he asks, head whipping round so fast that he almost collides with Thomas, who is sitting a little closer to him than Aldo had imagined.
Thomas looks a little taken aback. “Well- yes. I thought- I mean you also had doubts, I thought you thought about leaving as well-, didn’t you?”
Aldo stares at him, mind racing. He had worried, back in the early days, about whether he would make a good enough priest, about whether he would make his family proud, about whether he could be truly himself and serve God correctly- but the thought of simply leaving had never occurred to him. He had a path to follow, he had made sacrifices, he had given up on many, many dreams. To abandon all of that was out of the question- the way had been shown to him, and he would see it through.
“No.” Aldo says, shaking his head almost involuntarily, his body automatically making his denial even more vehement, “No, I never did.”
Thomas is utterly silent, gazing back at Aldo. He’s gone slightly pale.
“Really? You never once thought about it?” he asks, his voice quiet.
“Really.” Aldo replies, his voice firm.
“Oh.” Thomas says, shortly, his voice a huff of air. He sinks back in his car seat, his hands on his knees. He stares straight ahead, seemingly at a loss for words.
Aldo has no idea what to make of Thomas’s abrupt change in mood- that’s more his own style, of late.
“Is that really such a surprise to you?” Aldo asks.
Thomas glances at him, and then away again, this time it is him choosing to watch London pass by the window.
“Yes, actually- apparently I was labouring under a misapprehension.” Thomas replies.
“That I would leave the priesthood?” Aldo presses.
“Well, we weren’t actually priests then.” Thomas says, in a slightly petulant undertone.
Aldo lets out a disbelieving noise.
“We were on the path! We were already following the rules of a priestly life- I’d travelled across the ocean to study-why would I have left?” Aldo asks.
Thomas turns back to him, an oddly frustrated look on his face, as if Aldo is deliberately missing something. It feels rather unfair- Thomas is the one who has dropped a significant bombshell, not him.
After a few moments of silence, Thomas lets out a sigh.
“It doesn’t matter.” he says, and his tone is decidedly flat.
“Well, it obviously does-” Aldo begins, but Thomas cuts him off uncharacteristically irritated.
“No-” Thomas glances at Aldo, and then away again. Aldo watches him as he visibly tries to calm himself down, taking in a shallow, slow breath. “No, it really doesn’t. Just leave it, Aldo.”
Aldo does not want to leave it, not when Thomas is so obviously distressed, but he suspects now is not the best time to push it. Months ago he wouldn’t thought twice about pressing, but now he fears of breaking their tenuous accord. He fears he does not know Thomas half as well as he thought he did.
They lapse into an uncomfortable silence, made even worse as they are driving through familiar territory- streets they have walked together many times in their lives. The area around Westminster Cathedral is one they both know well, and as the cab turns onto Francis Street the nostalgia is so intense Aldo feels a sudden lump in his throat. He almost feels that if he looks hard enough, he might spot the ghosts of two much younger men, ambling through the streets, their arms occasionally brushing.
They clamber out of the cab after paying the exorbitant fare, onto the pavements which are slick with rain, the air thick with petrol fumes. Thomas turns to him and from the expression on his face he is about to apologise for his bizarre outburst, but then his gaze is caught by something over Aldo’s shoulder.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” he says under his breath. “That’s all today needs.”
Aldo turns, in time to see Archbishop Colin Griffin making his way down the steps of Wiseman House, smiling broadly at the pair of them.
“Aldo! Thomas, how wonderful to see you both!” he calls as he makes his way over.
“Hello, Colin,” Aldo says, accepting the hug, feeling baffled by Thomas all over again.
They have known Colin for years, he’s roughly their age, and he has always been a staunch supporter of the liberal wing of the Church- he has helped co-ordinate the reconciliation meeting. His diocese is in the north of England, so it really is good of him to travel so far to be present- Aldo cannot think why Thomas might have taken a dislike to him.
Colin lets him go and then hugs Thomas, who pats him on the back and disengages as quickly as possible.
“So-how’s tricks?” Colin asks, an affable smile on his blandly pleasant face.
“Can we tell you inside, in the dry?” Thomas asks, a bit peevishly.
Colin rolls his eyes, apologetically. “Sorry, of course, you’re used to that lovely Roman weather, aren’t you?”
They make their way into Wiseman House, a four-storey mid-Victorian red bricked building owned by the Church which has rooms for visiting clergy to stay in. Colin leads them through to a little sitting room, just beyond the entrance hall, and Aldo has a sense of deja vu as a nun comes in with a tray full of tea things.
Colin takes the lone armchair, leaving Thomas and Aldo to sit together on the slightly-too-small sofa. Their knees bump together every time one of them breathes. He wonders when he’ll be permitted to sneak away to smoke.
“So- exciting times, hey?” Colin says, taking a sip of his tea.
“Certainly are.” Aldo says, when Thomas stays mute.
“So- I hear the new pope is something of a wildcard.” Colin says.
“Who has said that?” Thomas asks, an edge in his voice.
“I think that’s a pretty fair assessment, Thomas, we didn’t even know he existed until the day the conclave commenced.” Aldo points out.
Colin nods. “Must have been a shock- what’s he like?”
“He’s wonderful.” Aldo says, giving Colin a smile. “We made the right choice. But of course, we would have to say that.”
Colin laughs, a slightly braying nasal sound.
“Very true, very true. So, you both like him?” Colin asks.
“Of course.” Thomas says, and then doesn’t elaborate any further, taking a sip of tea instead.
Aldo nearly elbows Thomas in the side, but he doesn’t want to draw Colin’s attention to his off-handedness, if he hasn’t noticed it on his own.
“Pope Innocent is genuinely what we’ve prayed for, Colin. He intends to carry on the holy father’s- sorry, the former holy father’s- legacy.” Aldo says.
A beat passes, and Colin smiles at him, softly. “We all thought it would be you, you know.”
Aldo feels Thomas’s body stiffen next to him.
“Yes, well.” Aldo says, looking down into his teacup. “I’m glad it wasn’t.” he says, quietly.
He knows Colin isn’t intentionally twisting a knife, hardly anyone knows of Aldo’s horrendous failure to navigate the politics of the conclave. Of course, Thomas knows, all too well.
Colin frowns a little, leaning forward in his seat.
“Really? But I was under the impression that-”
“Colin, why don’t you tell us what we can expect from this meeting tomorrow.” Thomas says, in a voice which brooks no argument.
“Um- well,” Colin begins, slightly flustered, probably by the strength of Thomas’s glare, “we’ll travel to the hotel- we agreed it would be better to meet in a neutral space rather than somewhere that the Church owns, and then we’ll hear some victim impact statements, and then we’ll have the reconciliation talk. And then there will be sandwiches.”
“And then there will be sandwiches.” Thomas repeats. “I suppose we are in England.”
The conversation drifts on, rather stiltedly, until Colin makes a show of looking at his watch.
“I have to get on- one of the charitable groups is having a meeting I said I’d drop in on-”
It is an excuse, and quite an obvious one, but they are all happy to pretend it isn’t.
They are shown up to their rooms which are near identical to the ones they had in Ireland- ecclesiastical accommodation is the same all over the world: drab paintwork, dark wooden bedframe, plain white bed linens, a crucifix or two.
Once again Aldo retrieves only the following day’s clothes and his washbag from his case. He sits on his bed for a moment and lets himself take a few deep breaths.
He is conscious that his failure to secure the papacy is a disappointment to some- and a great source of gossip to many. Colin really hadn’t meant to give offence- the apologetic look he’d given Aldo as he’d left the room told Aldo as much- but he’s sure that isn’t the last time he’ll have to deal with it. And it’s vapid and ridiculous to care so much about his reputation- he is a cardinal, for God’s sake, he should be above such things.
He can hear Thomas murmuring through the wall- presumably to someone on the other end of a phone call and not himself. Aldo wonders, again, why Thomas would’ve bothered to come on this trip when he clearly has so much to do back in Rome.
It hits him then- the narrowly avoided incident downstairs must have been Thomas’s reason. He had been the one to step in to stop Colin’s questions, whilst Aldo had floundered. Has he become a liability, a potential embarrassment? He used to have such a deft political touch, he never used to stumble over his words or admit his failures in public. Now he’s stumbling, lost- and Thomas can tell.
Another reason why he should move on, before he’s pushed. With Innocent they have a great chance- a young, dynamic pope who can shine through the dark, shady corners of the church, who will drag it into the light. He needs advisors who aren’t going to second guess themselves, too self-absorbed to act.
Aldo slips out of his room and down the stairs. Outside he dodges down a side street before he lights up, huddling in a doorway which is already littered with cigarette butts. He can’t say he feels better after he has finished smoking, but at least he isn’t back in his room, pressing a glass to the wall.
He walks to the cathedral, its great Byzantine tower rising up high above him like a middle finger in the heart of the capitol of this historically Protestant country. Inside the austere dark brick only makes the contrast of the fine veined marble columns, the bright mosaics and the elegant vault of the high alter all the more starkly beautiful.
He prays over his beads for a short time, in the Blessed Sacrament Chapel. He lights a candle for the holy father, and another for his family-he would light one for every Bellini he has lost over the years, but he doesn’t want to start a fire. Above him there is a statue of a golden pelican, plucking at her breast, opening wounds for blood to spill forth to feed her children- a symbol of Christ the Redeemer sacrificing himself for the world, a lesson that we must all sacrifice ourselves for others, in whatever way we are called to do so. It is a symbol Aldo has always loved and chosen for himself; the love and sacrifice of God compared directly with the love and earthly and bodily sacrifice for the flock.
Pelicans don’t actually pierce their skin to feed their young- it was a misinterpretation of animal behaviour, perhaps, or a way to explain the redness of their beaks. Totally without merit, a story told to children to pacify their questions.
He gazes up at the pelican and wonders how many other falsehoods he has shaped his life around.
***
Aldo has just turned back onto Francis Street when his phone buzzes in his coat pocket.
‘Where are you? I went to your room, but I can’t find you.’
Thomas always uses the correct grammar, even in texts.
‘just at the cathedral, nearly back’ Aldo replies, typing quickly with one thumb.
On the steps he runs into Colin again.
“Aldo- I’m glad I caught you, I’m so sorry if I spoke out of turn, earlier.” Colin’s face is a picture of contrition.
Aldo smiles and knows it must look tight.
“It really is fine, Colin.”
They enter the building together, Colin still trying to apologise for his faux pas.
“Really, though, Aldo, I wouldn’t want you to be upset with me-”
Aldo places a hand on Colin’s arm.
“I’m not, Colin, but perhaps we shouldn’t speak more of this.” He says.
Colin nods, dropping his eyes and smiling, abashed.
“Sorry, I tend to go overboard when I’m worried I’ve given offence.”
Aldo squeezes his arm, reassuringly.
“It’s a nice trait to have.”
Colin glances up, about to say something else, but then Thomas is coming through from the sitting room, frowning at them both.
“There you are.” Thomas says, a bit like a schoolteacher who has been looking for a wayward student.
“Here I am.” Aldo agrees, dropping his hand from Colin’s arm. Thomas watches the motion, still frowning.
“We’re going to that diocese dinner in half an hour, at a restaurant in Pimlico, will you be ready?” Thomas asks.
Aldo bites back a joke about how his favourite dress is at the drycleaners- for someone reason Thomas’s face is still like thunder.
“Yeah, of course, I’ll just go and freshen up.” Aldo says.
“Is it alright if I travel with you both?” Colin asks. “The archbishop’s car is already full.”
“Of course.” Aldo replies. Thomas nods, somewhat grudgingly.
Fifteen minutes later they are in a cab, heading for the restaurant. Thomas’s mood hasn’t improved, and it hits Aldo that he’s probably missing the pope. He remembers those early days in London, eager to get back to Thomas and irritated by anything which got in the way. And now he is the thing which is in the way. Thomas is having to spend his days minding Aldo rather than being at Vincent’s side.
Colin tries to draw Thomas out on the subject of cricket, asking him about England’s prospects for the next Ashes series. Thomas, who loves cricket with a passion second only to his love for God, shrugs.
“Depends on the team we get. And how the pitches are. And the weather, the light, what side of bed everyone gets out of in the morning- cricket isn’t a thing which can be predicted.” Thomas says.
Aldo wants to point out that Thomas’s little apartment back home is littered with dozens of thick yellow books entitled ‘Wisden Cricketer’s Almanack’, which would strongly imply you can predict cricket, at least if you’re well enough informed. But then Aldo remembers he is the one who is stealing precious hours from Thomas which he would rather be spending with his beloved, so he keeps his mouth shut.
Dinner is a loud affair in a very good Italian restaurant, run by actual Italians. Their party is made up of a dozen priests of varying rank, and they’ve been placed at a long table. He is seated next to Colin, and far away from Thomas, which he hopes will improve his mood somewhat. They drink wine, eat excellent pasta, talk, laugh, argue good-naturedly. These are his friends and allies, and none of them bring up the fact that they are surprised that Aldo is not pope. Perhaps Colin has pre-warned everyone.
After dinner they walk back to Francis Street, a small clump of church men on a short pilgrimage. It has been a diverting couple of hours, and Aldo is grateful for it. Once back at Wiseman House, they decide to call it a night- some are staying at Wiseman House because they are visiting for the conference, others have to get back to their parishes across London. Colin is staying on the floor above Thomas and Aldo, and he bids them goodnight on the stairs. Aldo returns the sentiment, and Thomas just nods at the man.
“OK, I have to ask,” Aldo says, when he and Thomas are alone and walking to their rooms, “why do you dislike Colin so much?”
Thomas stops and stares at Aldo.
“You mean- you don’t remember what he tried to do to you?” Thomas sounds scandalised, his voice low.
Aldo frowns, utterly confused.
“No? Could you remind me?”
Thomas, if anything, looks more shocked.
“Well, we can’t talk about it out here.”
Thomas opens his bedroom door and ushers Aldo inside, shutting the door behind them.
“Do you want to check the room for bugs?” Aldo asks, pulling out Thomas’s desk chair and sitting down.
Thomas sits on the end of his bed and folds his arms, unamused.
“I can’t believe you’ve forgotten. It wasn’t even that long ago.” Thomas says.
That works something free in Aldo’s brain, something half buried under the scattered papers of his memory. A night, about twelve years ago, when he was in London, working on something together with Colin- some project about LGBT+ integration within the church. They had shared a bottle of wine and a long conversation where they had each admitted that they considered themselves to be part of the community. Later, once the wine and the work were done, Colin had suggested that perhaps they might spend the night together. Aldo had turned him down and nothing had come of it.
“You don’t mean- oh, Thomas, come on. You can’t possibly be mad about that!” Aldo says.
Thomas has gone slightly red in the face- his fair skin always shows his emotions beautifully, as do his eyes, which right now are full of consternation.
“He tried to- defile you.” Thomas says.
Aldo bites his lip, to keep from laughing. Thomas looks so sincerely angry over absolutely nothing.
“Thomas- a grown man asking another grown man if he wants to have sex isn’t a crime- or a defilement or whatever other Dickensian terms you want to throw at it.” Aldo says.
Thomas looks mulish.
“You said he tried your door, after you’d gone to bed and locked him out.”
Aldo sighs. He had forgotten how bothered by that detail Thomas had been the first time Aldo had relayed this story. He’d thought that Thomas would have been amused by it, but yes, now Aldo remembers, he acted as though Colin had tried to kick his bedroom door down.
“I suppose he thought I might have changed my mind.” Aldo says.
“He thought that you decided to reverse your vow of chastity in half an hour? That you just needed to brush your teeth and suddenly you’d want – that?” Thomas asks, disbelievingly.
Aldo shrugs.
“Plenty of us aren’t chaste, Thomas, you know that.”
“Yes, well- he should have known better than to try it on with you.” Thomas says.
Aldo blinks. Something about the surety in Thomas’s tone hurts him, the implication- that Aldo is not and could never be a sexual being- cuts at him. Yes, there are men within the church who have sex with other men, but Thomas thinks Aldo would never be among them.
“And why is that?” He can’t keep the sharpness from his voice.
Thomas looks taken aback.
“Well, you take your vows very seriously.” Thomas says.
Aldo lets out a little laugh, a strange bitter sound.
“Yeah, I guess.” He says.
It’s Thomas’s turn to look confused.
“Why are you taking offence at that?”
“I’m not.” Aldo insists.
Thomas shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling, towards God, for strength. He gets to his feet, after a moment, and starts pacing.
“I can’t say two words to you lately, Aldo, without you getting -” Thomas cuts himself off, looking away.
The tension in the room feels like a tiger, prowling about in the dangerous silence.
“Upset?” Aldo suggests, poking the tiger with a sharpened stick.
Thomas snorts a humourless laugh.
“That’s right, upset, as if you’re the one who has any right-” Thomas cuts himself off again.
Aldo can feel his face flushing, a sudden, horrible realisation hitting him. His ribs feel tight.
“You- you’re still mad at me, aren’t you?” Aldo asks.
Thomas glances at him, then away, as if he’s suddenly fascinated with the beige carpet. Aldo strives to stop his voice from shaking.
“You are. You’re still at me mad about the conclave, about Tremblay-”
At the mention of that man’s name, the dam bursts.
“All of this was supposed to mean something! The years of sacrifice, all the work we did- and you just gave up.” Thomas isn’t yelling, but his voice is a strong, steady wave of disappointment.
Aldo’s eyes fill, shame welling within him.
“It still means something, the right person is on the papal throne, Thomas-”
“I know that- I just wish you had at least tried, Aldo.” Thomas says, almost kindly, again, like a schoolteacher chastising a student who normally behaves.
Aldo could try and defend his past self, the desperation, the fear that Tedesco would win and swipe away all the progress the holy father had achieved with vicious, vengeful glee. He could explain that he was exhausted and wounded when Tremblay had come to him, offering a way out, albeit an imperfect one. He could even try to justify why he had told Thomas to take the evidence of Tremblay’s simony and hide it, because he didn’t want the conclave to be tainted by something so base and terrible as the truth, but-
“What does it matter?” Aldo asks, his voice raw.
He meets Thomas’s gaze, fiercely, through his tears.
“No, seriously, why does it matter, Thomas? I’m sorry I didn’t live up to some imaginary version of me who lives in your brain, I’m sorry I let you down. But you have Vincent now, so what on earth do you need me for?”
God, he hates himself in that moment, sounding like a spurned husband when he is nothing of the sort. Throwing the pope’s name at Thomas like he’s a lover he’s found in their non-existent marital bed.
Thomas stares at him, puzzled. The only sound in the room for a moment is Aldo breathing deeply, trying not to cry.
“Vincent isn’t- he’s not a replacement for you, Aldo.” Thomas says, so gently. It’s like a punch in the face.
“Oh, believe me, I know that.” Aldo replies, wiping at his eyes, where tears have sprung despite his best efforts.
Thomas frowns at him, worriedly.
“I didn’t mean to have this conversation like this.” Thomas says, his voice still quiet.
Aldo shakes his head.
“No, I know you didn’t. And I’ve made it all about me, haven’t I?” Thomas’s joy at having finally fallen in love and all Aldo can do is cry because it isn’t him.
Thomas looks confused, once again.
“But it is about you.” He insists.
“Is it?” Aldo asks.
Thomas drops his gaze.
“Of course it is.” He says, quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
Oh.
- jesusfuckingchristinheaven-
Thomas knows.
Thomas knows Aldo loves him- has always loved him. Thomas has, presumably, pitied Aldo, indulged him in friendship, been kind to him- all the while knowing how Aldo feels for him, what Aldo feels for him. And now he has found love, and he wished to tell Aldo carefully, gently, the truth.
It’s so kind.
It’s so humiliating.
“Oh.” Aldo says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. His mind had been racing a few seconds ago, and now it’s just static. His life has unravelled in less than a minute.
“Aldo-” Thomas begins, but Aldo shakes his head.
“I can’t do this right now.” He says, getting to his feet. Thomas tries to stop him on his way to the door, a hand on his arm.
“Aldo, please, we need to talk about this.” Thomas says, his lovely, tender voice beseeching.
“Yes,” Aldo says, and then he lets out another bitter laugh, “but we both know I lack courage.”
Thomas drops Aldo’s arm at that, and Aldo flees.
***
“You’re in love with Thomas Lawrence, aren’t you?” The holy father says, not really like a question and more like a statement.
Aldo blinks, taking a second to allow what the holy father has said to sink in. He had said it so casually, as if he was remarking something about the weather.
“Yes.” Aldo says, after a moment. There is no point prevaricating.
“Hm.” The holy father exhales, and moves his bishop, taking Aldo’s knight, a move Aldo hadn’t seen coming, and in hindsight, should have done.
“And does he feel the same?” The holy father asks.
Aldo’s moves are all in disarray now. He thinks of tipping his queen over and calling it, but the holy father hates it when he does that. He will have his rout.
“No.” Aldo says, because there is no point lying to the holy father, or himself, about it.
Thomas loves him, yes, as he loves all his brothers in Christ, but he does not love Aldo as Aldo loves him, there is no lust in his heart, no longing for his body, to be close to him and no one else.
The holy father harrumphs.
“Really?” He asks.
Aldo sighs. He half-heartedly moves a rook, which gets him nowhere.
“I’m quite sure he doesn’t.” Aldo says.
“Ah, well, Aldo, if you think something then it is definitely the truth of the matter.” The holy father says. His next move is checkmate.
“Good game.” Aldo says, reaching out over the chessboard to shake the holy father’s hand, as they always do after a match.
The holy father takes his hand, smiling.
“It is the same old problem, Aldo, with you. Always on the defensive and never making any bold gambits of your own.” The holy father says.
Aldo shrugs, unoffended because it’s true.
“I’m just not that kind of player.”
The holy father laughs at that, even though Aldo hasn’t said anything funny.
“I wonder if you will ever change, my friend.” The holy father says, his eyes twinkling.
***
Aldo pushes through his morning routine and tries not to dwell on anything. Yoga, shower, shave, brush teeth, dress- don’t think, don’t think, don’t think. The strange dream, which was not a dream but a memory, pushes through his mental blocks. It is both disquieting and comforting to remember that game of chess with the holy father, that conversation they’d had about Aldo’s love for Thomas. To remember the holy father as he really was, wise, somewhat cryptic but always warm in his manner, not the strange, unknowable man who keeps appearing in his nightmares. He hadn’t slept well, but at least he hadn’t awoken, sweating and terrified for once.
Downstairs he eats breakfast, drinks coffee and doesn’t run away when Thomas enters the dining room.
“Good morning.” He says, not lifting his eyes from the email he is reading on his phone.
“Aldo-” Thomas begins, but if Aldo couldn’t do The Conversation last night, it certainly isn’t going to happen this morning.
“We need to be away within the hour, you better eat something.” He says.
After a moment of hesitation, Thomas does as he’s told and by the time he’s back at the table with toast and tea, Colin and a few other priests have made their way into the room. There isn’t time for Aldo to slink away to smoke, more’s the pity.
The hotel where the conference is being held isn’t far away, near Victoria Station, so they opt to walk. The sky is a bright grey sheet, not a hint of sun hinting through the thick grey cloud, but it has stopped raining. Aldo contrives to put distance between himself and Thomas in the small gaggle of clergymen.
The conference is a relatively low-key affair- everyone is seated behind tables in a square so everyone can hear and see everyone else. There are eight representatives from the church, fifteen victims, each of which have brought a loved one for support. There are also two mediators, there to make sure nothing gets out of hand.
They sit and listen to harrowing story after harrowing story, not just of monstrous abuse committed by priests, but of the damage done to the victim’s lives beyond it. One man, holding his husband’s hand as he stood and read his account, talked of how it took him decades to come to terms with his own sexuality because of what he had suffered. A woman talked of how she vomited when she learned the man who had hurt her as a child was still a priest and had merely been moved from parish to parish whenever one of his ‘indiscretions’ was uncovered.
Aldo’s heart aches for them all, he finds himself on the verge of tears many times throughout the morning- caused by both sadness and anger. It is indefensible, all of it. He has campaigned for years for ever priest’s work history to be made public, for every diocese or parish to publish why a man has taken a job elsewhere. In any other career accounting for your time is perfectly normal.
After the victim statements are over, Colin gives a speech- it’s the usual spiel about learning lessons, leaving no stone uncovered- words Aldo has said himself, at meetings like this. Today though it rubs Aldo the wrong way. Many of the men mentioned by the victims are already dead, only one reported that their tormentor had gone to prison for what he had done. How does that help the man who had said he wished to return to church to worship, but the scent of incense triggered him too badly?
He thinks of the holy father, saying he never makes gambits. He thinks of the tears in Thomas’s eyes, that night during the conclave, when Aldo showed his cowardly nature, his unworthiness. He thinks of the resignation letter locked in his desk drawer in the Vatican, ready for the pope’s assent.
When Colin is finished, and has received a small round of applause, Aldo finds himself getting to his feet.
“May I say a few words?” He asks.
Colin nods, looking surprised.
Aldo clears his throat.
“I’m currently the Vatican’s Secretary of State.” He says.
There is a slightly shocked ripple across the room. Part of the casual, informal vibe was that everyone had introduced themselves with their first names, with the clergy stating they ‘work for the Catholic church’ without disclosing their role.
“I probably wasn’t supposed to say that, but I feel that it is important for you to know that the pope personally wanted me to come here and meet with you all. He wants you to know that he takes these matters- both the systematic abuse and the systematic cover up of that abuse- very seriously. And I personally would like to say that as an institution I feel our response has been greatly lacking.”
Again, another ripple. He meets Thomas’s eye for a second and register the shock in his gaze.
“The simple fact is we cannot do enough for you- we cannot turn back the clock, we cannot give you back your childhoods, we cannot make it so these awful men never became priests, we cannot stop the cover ups of the past, only expose them now. We can show you our safeguarding measures to protect children and vulnerable people in the future, our plans to ensure this never happens again. I hope that is a comfort to you.”
He pauses, wipes his eyes and continues.
“But what I would like to say is that I am sorry- to each and every one of you. This is called a reconciliation meeting, but I’ve always felt that word ‘reconciliation’ implies fault on both sides- but none of you were ever at fault. Thank you for being so very brave in sharing your accounts today- my hope is that the church can become much braver in its response in the future. Thank you.”
It’s not the most elegant speech he has ever given by a long shot- clumsy and emotional as it is. The clergy don’t really know how to respond, Thomas leading the slightly baffled clapping. But the other side of the room receives it well, with smiles, tears and much louder applause. When they head through to the buffet, several of them approach him and thank him for honesty and openness.
Colin is less thrilled.
“That was quite unexpected.” He says, which is English for ‘that has inconvenienced me greatly, what the fuck did you think you were doing’.
“Colin, listen-”
“I thought his speech was inspired.” Thomas says, suddenly appearing at Aldo’s elbow. “After all, he only said things that all of us would say in private- and saying it here is hardly like saying it to The Sun, Colin.”
He hands Aldo a cup of coffee and smiles at him. Aldo wants to cry again, but he takes a sip of his drink instead.
Colin lets out a gusty sigh.
“I suppose not- I could have done with some warning, though. It’s not very like you to go off-piste, Aldo.”
Aldo makes himself smile.
“I suppose I just remembered a lesson someone tried to teach me.”
***
It is a quick trip on the Victoria line up to St Pancras International Station where they are due to catch the Eurostar to Paris that evening, and Thomas and Aldo decide to do that journey, rather than be snarled up in the endless traffic on and around Euston Road.
“Like old times, hey?” Thomas says, as they head down into the depths of the tube station, rushes of warm ozone scented wind carrying his voice.
“Yeah- I’m not running for a train like you used to get me to do, though.” Aldo says.
Thomas laughs. “We were always late for things back then; how did we get away with it?”
“You got away with it by being the star pupil and I got away with it by being friends with you.” Aldo says.
“No- it was certainly the other way around.” Thomas says, smiling.
Neither of them has mentioned the night before. It seems that their discussion- part argument, part confession- has been put on hold. Aldo is grateful for the détente, and anxious about when it will cease. Whilst he is trying to embrace being braver, as the holy father had urged him to do, he needs time to accept this new reality, where Thomas has always known Aldo’s heart.
At St Pancras they check in, grab some food and then join the long queue to board the train. Despite everything Aldo is completely charmed by Thomas’s enthusiasm for the Eurostar.
“At some points in this journey, Aldo, we’re going to be three hundred and seventy-seven feet below sea level, can you believe that?” Thomas says.
“I actually can’t believe that, and the thought of it is making me slightly queasy.” Aldo says.
“Oh, don’t be daft, it’s perfectly safe.” Thomas says, knocking their shoulders together.
Aldo smiles, a bittersweet feeling cloying in his chest. He will miss Thomas desperately, but at least he will stop being a millstone about the neck of the man he loves. Leaving is the kindest thing he can do, unburdening Thomas of the weight of Aldo’s feelings.
“That speech you gave was good, you know. It was what needed to be said.” Thomas says.
“Thank you.” Aldo replies, looking away so Thomas doesn’t see the damnable tears welling in his eyes at the praise.
“You did say, though, that you were the current Secretary of State- you know Vincent is very happy for you to carry on in that role. There’s no plan to replace you.” Thomas says.
Ah, Aldo thinks, so they don’t quite tell each other everything yet.
“No,” Aldo agrees, stealing himself to admit the truth, “I know that. I’ve just been thinking-perhaps I should retire.”
“What?” Thomas barks out, shocked. Several people around them turn to look at them.
“Sorry,” Thomas says, his ears turning red. He lowers his voice. “What do you mean retire? You love your job, you’re wonderful at it-”
“Thomas-”
“No, Aldo, I know you’ve been feeling sorry for yourself but retiring over this? Don’t be ridiculous.” Thomas says, his voice low and hard.
Aldo feels like Thomas has reached out and slapped him.
“You- you asked the previous holy father if you could leave.” Aldo says.
Thomas sighs. “Because I had serious doubts, not because I was in a snit-”
“A snit?” Aldo repeats.
“Well, what would you call it?” Thomas asks, clearly irritated.
Aldo doesn’t know what to say- he and Thomas have fallen out before, silly fights which have lasted a couple of days, but Thomas has never actually been cruel to him. Now it feels like his friend is trying to tear his heart out, almost mocking his feelings.
“I- I don’t know.” Aldo admits.
Thomas sighs again. “Vincent needs your guidance, have you considered that?”
Aldo shakes his head, too hurt to really take in what Thomas is saying.
As he’s trying to formulate a response the queue starts moving and they are guided up the escalators to their train. Once they are seated Thomas makes it quite plain he will be reading his novel for the next two hours and does not wish to be disturbed. Aldo pulls out his own book, and stares unseeing at the page.
So much for their détente.
Notes:
(you all know Thomas isn't actually being mean they are just having misunderstandings on top of misunderstandings here, right???)
I assume you will have all seen the BTS pictures of deleted scenes from Conclave and whilst I was very excited to see Aldo helping Thomas post explosion, the best bit for me was seeing all those Wisden Almanacks by Thomas's bed. Confirmed cricket fan Cardinal Thomas Lawrence!
Thank you all so much for your kind words, I love to hear what you think! I love these old losers. Can't wait to make them ****!
Chapter 4: courage (part i)
Summary:
This chapter contains references to religious extremism and a bomb threat.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
courage (i)
They plan to reach the Diocesan House of Paris via taxi after the Eurostar has deposited them in the vastness of the Gare du Nord. The Métro would have been an option if either of them was in the right states of mind for dealing with late evening public transport in Paris- which they clearly aren’t. Thomas’s mood hasn’t improved, answering any questions Aldo had ventured to ask with short, terse answers.
Aldo, for his part, is simply feeling numb, now. There are only too many shocks to the system he can take apparently, and now his sense of preservation has kicked in. They have three days left of this trip, two of which will be taken up with the conference. He has begun counting down the hours. He has never wished for his time alone with Thomas to be at an end before.
They stand in the queue for taxis, with their dog collars on show, an old method priests use to cow people who might wish to push in front into submission. Just behind them is a young woman with bleached blonde hair, shaved to her scalp on one side. She has dozens of piercings, and Aldo would probably describe her style as ‘punk’- which is probably a hopelessly outdated term, nowadays.
She reminds him of another young woman he had seen once, aeons ago, in New York, on the L-Train. He forgets why he was in New York- meeting family, perhaps? Attending another conference? It is lost in the mists of time, but the young woman isn’t, she is clear in his mind’s eye. She was crying on her friend’s shoulder, her bleached blonde hair sticking to her damp pink cheek, as she sobbed.
“She met someone else.” the woman had said, over and over again, as her friend, a young man with long painted fingernails held her and soothed her, pulling her half into his faux fur coat, as if to shield her from the world.
“I know honey, I know.”
Aldo’s stop had come up, and he had gotten off the train, and he had all but forgotten the young woman and her kind friend. Except now he knows something of her agony- expressed in such a simple, agonising phrase.
He met someone else- someone better, someone different, someone desired, someone who is not me.
“Aldo?” Thomas says.
Aldo blinks, breaking out of his reverie, to find that Thomas has procured a taxi and is waiting for him, somewhat impatiently, to get in it.
“Sorry.” Aldo says, placing his case in the trunk.
The cab driver sets off at a frankly alarming speed, out into the Paris traffic.
“Are you alright?” Thomas asks, as they hurtle down the boulevard, as if they have told the driver to ‘step on it’.
Aldo almost laughs, they are right back where they started, Thomas asking Aldo if he’s alright and Aldo saying:
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Thomas sighs.
“I know you aren’t.” he says, somewhat gravely.
Aldo does laugh then.
“Why’d you ask, then?” he asks.
“Because I was hoping you might answer honestly.” Thomas replies, back to terse.
In the dark of the cab Aldo looks across at Thomas, who meets his gaze. Even in the low light Thomas’s eyes are as beautiful as always, blue and clear as tidepools. Aldo remembers being stricken by them the first time they met, and he knows now that he was utterly doomed that day. His older sisters had often debated the existence of ‘love at first sight’, but he has incontrovertible proof of it, over forty years of devotion and only his utterly crushed heart to show for it.
“I don’t think you really want me to be honest.” Aldo says, after a moment of quiet which was only punctuated by the pulsing beat of the awful euro technopop the taxi driver is playing at them.
“I’ve been trying to get you to talk to me all week!” Thomas points out.
Annoyance flares within Aldo, and he does nothing to control it.
“It’s not me who walks away to answer a phone call every five minutes.”
Thomas makes a noise of irritation; apparently pique is contagious.
“Well, one of us has to do some work, seeing as you’ve been all but AWOL-”
“AWOL? Oh, that’s nice, just how exactly have I been derelict in my duties? Perhaps you should write a report, get me fired before I quit.” Aldo says.
“Aldo-” Thomas says, his voice containing a note of contrition, as if he’s realised he’s pushed too far.
Aldo chooses not to hear it. It is so much easier to latch onto his anger than it is to allow himself to feel his grief. And God, he’s tired, so very tired of this.
“No, no, that’s why you came, isn’t it? To make sure I didn’t do anything embarrassing, now I’m a liability-”
“Of course not!” Thomas insists.
“Oh, come on, you wanted honesty- I know you think I’ve lost it.” Aldo says, matter-of-factly.
Thomas is silent for a moment, only the pounding beat of the God-awful music fills the cab. He glances at Aldo and then away.
“I think you’ve lost the ability to see past the end of your nose.” Thomas says, darkly.
“Well, I’m glad we agree on something.” Aldo replies.
He angles his body towards the car door, keeping his gaze fixed on the grand high buildings of Le Marias, even as the streetlights blur into supernovas thanks to the moisture gathering in his eyes. He expects Thomas to lapse back into the silence he’s been stewing in for hours, back to ignoring him, but after a moment he feels a touch on his leg.
He looks down to see Thomas’s fingers on his knee.
“Aldo, I don’t want to argue.” His voice has returned to the lovely, gentle tone which Aldo has been utterly charmed by for most of his life.
“We aren’t arguing.” Aldo’s voice is thick with unshed tears and banked anger. “As I said, we both doubt my abilities-”
“I don’t doubt your abilities, Aldo, and nor does anyone else, despite what you seem to think. I’m just at a loss to understand why you would leave now, after everything we’ve achieved, everything we can achieve now. You would give it all up because of- what? Jealousy?”
Thomas has delivered another blow, but this one much more precise and painful, a knife through the ribs rather than a slap in the face. His words aren’t unreasonable- delivered in that damnable voice, and with Thomas’s hand now resting on Aldo’s thigh- it is all making what he has said hard to argue with. It is objectively very stupid to throw your life’s work away because you’re heartbroken.
And yet.
“Well, I often wish I were a better person, Thomas, but I’m not.” Aldo says.
Thomas squeezes Aldo’s thigh, an action which is probably meant to comfort and not torture him.
“Aldo, you’re a wonderful person.”
Oh God, not this. He thought that a life devoted to the church would mean he would never have to hear the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech, which even he knows to be utter bullshit.
“You don’t have to say that.” Aldo says, shifting in his seat a bit, forcing Thomas to let go of his leg.
“But I-” Thomas is cut off as the cab comes to abrupt halt. Mercifully, they have reached their destination and not crashed into some poor pedestrian.
The restored magnificence of Notre Dame dwarfs them as they grab their bags and pay the cab driver, who thanks them and then screeches off into the night.
They make their way towards the building they are staying in, Aldo walking quickly, ostensibly because he wants to get inside, away from the chill night air. In actuality he is trying to get away from the conversation Thomas is trying to have with him- it was easier when Thomas was angry with him.
Aldo climbs the steps and knocks on the door of the Diocese House. He’s a little taken aback by the long wait which follows his knock, and he’s just about to try again, or cast about for an unseen doorbell, when he hears someone on the other side of the door. It swings open and a harried looking young priest appears. The priest stares at him for a moment, and then at Thomas who is waiting at the bottom of the steps with their luggage.
“Salut?” Aldo says, after another beat of silence.
That seems to jolt something within the young man.
“Ah, your eminences! Forgive me, I’m- so sorry- we meant to contact you, but the day has been- very bad.”
“Is everything alright?” Thomas asks.
“Ah- no. It seems that there has been an outbreak of, uh, sickness amongst the staff here.” The young man says, running a hand through his hair.
“Oh, how awful.” Aldo says, as Thomas makes a concerned noise. “Is it the flu?”
The young priest shakes his head.
“No, it is the norovirus. Nearly everyone in the building has it.” he says, widening his eyes meaningfully.
“We understand.” Aldo says, reading between the lines- it’s not like the priest wants to say, ‘the archbishop cannot greet you right now, because he is in the bathroom and will be for some time’.
The young man smiles, tightly.
“Yes, we have sorted out alternative accommodation for you- it is just down the street. I will show you- just give me one moment.”
The priest disappears back into the building, shouting something to a person or persons unseen.
Aldo walks back down the steps.
“How unfortunate.” Aldo remarks.
Thomas nods.
“Very. Although I must admit I’m glad we arrived after the outbreak.”
“Yeah.”
A slightly awkward silence descends until the priest returns, now wearing a coat and carrying a set of keys in his hands. He gives them an apologetic smile, as he pulls the door shut behind him.
“I am so very sorry about this.” the priest says as he starts off down the street, gesturing for Thomas and Aldo to follow him.
“It’s hardly your fault.” Thomas says.
The young priest gives a slight laugh.
“No, it is not, eh? Seeing as I am the only one who is not- seeing as I am the only one who is well. But it has inconvenienced you both.”
“It’s fine.” Thomas says. “But I would like to ask you what your name is and where we are going.”
The priest laughs again.
“I must beg your pardon- I am Father Matthieu Arnaud, and we are going to an apartment just around the corner. It was inhabited by a pastoral staff member and his family until last month- they have moved somewhere bigger.” Father Arnaud explains.
Aldo doesn’t have time to panic about being holed up in an apartment alone with Thomas- they are already being led into a little cobbled courtyard and up to a red front door.
“It is a few floors up, I’m afraid.” Father Arnaud says, as if he has just realised that Thomas and Aldo are both in their sixties.
“Oh, no bother.” Thomas says just as Aldo asks, “How many floors?”
Father Arnaud glances between them.
“It is on the top floor.” He says, clearly deciding that there is no way to soften the blow.
Aldo supresses a sigh. Of course it is on the top floor, of this very tall building. It’s not that he’s unhealthy- illicit cigarettes aside- but trekking up five flights at his age is an activity he doesn’t particularly enjoy.
He and Thomas heft their cases up the narrow staircases, as Father Arnaud explains that the church owns the whole building, but only the top floor flat is currently vacant. Aldo doesn’t think he’s trying to rub it in.
“Here we are!” Father Arnaud says, as they reach the final landing.
Aldo is somewhat satisfied to see Thomas, Cardinal ‘Oh, no bother’ is also sweating and slightly out of breath as the priest unlocks the door. Of course, sweating and out of breath looks rather good on Thomas, so the satisfaction does not last.
They follow Father Arnaud into the apartment, who leads them straight into the kitchen/dining/living area. It’s small, but clean and bright with a large window overlooking the street below.
“We have provided you with food- a small amount of essential items- because you will not be able to dine with the archbishop tonight- and probably not tomorrow, either.” Father Arnaud says.
“That’s very kind of you.” Thomas says.
“The beds have been made, and there are towels in the bathroom- if you need anything else you can call me.” Father Arnaud says, placing the keys down on the small dining table. He is obviously eager to be away.
“Thank you, we’ll be fine.” Aldo says, with a smile which he hopes reads as grateful and not bone-weary.
After Father Arnaud leaves, Aldo busies himself by taking his case to his room- which consists of a single bed wedged under the eaves, a bedside table with an angle poise and a tiny dresser.
“Oh,” Thomas says, appearing in the doorway, as Aldo retrieves his toiletries from his case, “you’ve let me have the bigger room.”
Aldo shrugs.
“Well, you’ve always had several inches on me, wouldn’t want you to whack your head.” Aldo says, reaching out and tapping the sloping ceiling.
“Well, thank you, anyway.” Thomas says.
The truth is, Aldo had glanced into the room he has ‘allowed’ Thomas to take and kept right on moving- the double bed and matching side tables, obviously a set up for a married couple, felt like some sort of taunt from the universe.
Thomas hasn’t moved from the doorway, essentially barring Aldo’s exit, which makes Aldo’s heartrate kick up a notch.
“We should probably make dinner, it’s getting late.” Aldo says, an obvious ploy to get out of whatever conversation Thomas is gearing up to have.
Thomas looks like he wants to argue, but it has been many hours, and many flights of stairs, since the Marks and Spencer’s BLT he had consumed at St Pancras.
“Yes, I suppose.” Thomas steps aside, slightly, allowing Aldo to make his escape.
He drops his toiletries off in the bathroom and then heads for the kitchen, grateful for the distraction of a task. He opens the fridge and almost bursts out laughing.
“What is it?” Thomas asks, responding to Aldo’s amusement with a smile of his own.
“Do you want to see what whoever stocked this fridge thinks of as ‘a small amount of essential items’?” Aldo asks.
Thomas peeks around the open fridge door.
“Perhaps they were informed we were a family of five staying for a week.” Thomas remarks, dryly.
The fridge is full to the brim with fresh vegetables and fruit, meat, cheeses, bottles of milk, juice and wine. Aldo goes to the nearest cupboard and finds it similarly stocked with dry goods.
“Well, we certainly won’t starve.” Aldo says. “Does aglio e olio sound good to you?”
“Is that the spaghetti with parsley thing?” Thomas asks.
Aldo rolls his eyes.
“How long have you lived in Italy? Yes, it is, but don’t ever say that back- there.” Aldo stops himself from saying ‘home’.
If Thomas notices, he doesn’t remark on it.
“Yes, that sounds lovely- how would you like me to help?”
Aldo rolls up his sleeves and begins locating ingredients and equipment.
“You can set the table.” Aldo says, as he sets a large pan of liberally salted water on the hob to boil.
“I can help more than that.” Thomas says, frowning at him slightly.
Aldo crushes a few cloves of garlic under the flat of the large kitchen knife he has located and pulls the delicate purple skins away from the pungent flesh before he begins finely slicing.
“It’s fine, Thomas.” Aldo says, lightly.
“No, really Aldo, I’m perfectly competent in the kitchen.” Thomas insists.
“Mm.” Aldo replies, whilst drenching a large flat frying pan with olive oil.
Thomas goes slightly pink in the face.
“Aldo, that was over forty years ago, you can’t still be holding that against me.” he says.
Aldo drops a large handful of spaghetti into the bubbling water.
“This just isn’t a recipe which requires much assistance, Thomas.” Aldo says.
Aldo can feel the weight of Thomas’s gaze as he adds the garlic to the pan.
“It has nothing to do with the fact you nearly burnt down the seminary whilst trying to make cheese on toast.” Aldo says.
“I knew you were thinking about that.” Thomas replies, mulishly.
Aldo smiles at him, smiles at the memory. They’d had to evacuate the building as the smoke detectors blared at them, the staff panicking it was a genuine fire. Thomas had come out onto the seminary lawn, shamefaced, and had to admit he had forgotten his toast under the grill, where it had ignited, as had the dish towel he had used to try and get it out.
“And then what happened, my boy?” Monsignor Claremont had asked.
“Well,” Thomas had replied, rubbing the back of his neck and looking absolutely wretched, “I sort of- threw it out of the window.”
Fortunately, the kitchen had been on the ground floor overlooking the garden and the persistent drizzle in London had put out the toast-and-dish towel conflagration before it caused any damage. The fire brigade had been told to stand down, after it had been established that all Thomas had succeeded in doing was create an ungodly amount of smoke by turning bread and cheese to charcoal.
“When you’re near a kitchen, Thomas, it’s hard to think about anything else.” Aldo says, still smiling, the memory irrepressibly sweet. Thomas had been barefoot- he had gone to the kitchen to make a snack in the midst of studying in his room- and it had somehow made the situation ten times more ridiculous, him standing on the lawn in the rain, apologising profusely with no shoes on.
“Well, I’m glad it amused you. I had to help the kitchen staff for six weeks as punishment.” Thomas grouses, pulling spoons and forks from the kitchen drawer.
“You poor thing.” Aldo says, as he starts chopping the fresh flat leaf parsley, which was also somehow on an ‘everyday essentials’ shopping list. “At least it will serve you well when you do the dishes after we’ve eaten.”
Thomas grins at him, not really put out by the teasing.
“Are you sure I can be trusted?” Thomas asks, eyes twinkling.
Aldo forces himself to pay attention to what he’s doing, slicing a finger off because he’s distracted by Thomas Lawrence’s many charms is not how he wants this evening to go.
“I’ll rinse the knives first.” Aldo says, gravely, making Thomas laugh aloud.
Ten minutes later the food is ready, and Aldo compliments Thomas on his exemplary table setting skills, which Thomas responds to with a very sardonic look. They take their seats across from each other at the tiny dining table, say a quick prayer and then dig in.
“This is very good.” Thomas says, twirling pasta around his fork.
Aldo shrugs.
“It’s hard to go wrong with this recipe.”
Thomas smiles at him.
“I’m sure I’d find a way.”
Aldo nods, conceding the point.
“Yes, well, you didn’t learn to cook with my grandmother. All the Bellini kids could make a decent marinara sauce before we got out of elementary school.”
He takes a sip of wine and tries to ignore how having a quiet dinner together in private feels so oddly right. Yes, the weight of the conversation they aren’t having is still there, pressing down on him, but Aldo’s fairly sure that this is what ‘normal’ people do- have a nice meal together before they deal with something difficult.
They talk briefly about the conference as they finish up their meal. Thomas goes to pick up Aldo’s plate once they are both done and Aldo waves a hand.
“You know I was joking about you doing the washing up.” Aldo says.
“Well, it’s only fair, you cooked.” Thomas points out.
Aldo insists on helping, and together they set the kitchen straight. Again, it strikes Aldo how nice it feels to do something utterly mundane, and how easy it is for them to fall into the simple domestic dance that millions of couples do every day.
Then he remembers they are not a couple, that Thomas is in love with someone else and that an hour and half ago they were sniping at each other in the back of a taxi. He needs to stop being an idiot before he does something truly foolish.
He has just finished wiping the kitchen counter when Thomas touches his arm. Aldo turns and finds Thomas standing very close.
“Aldo,” Thomas says, his voice gentle and low, “I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean for everything to- devolve, the way it did.”
“I’m sorry too.” Aldo says, hoping that’s all Thomas wishes to say, and knowing that it isn’t.
Thomas opens his mouth, hesitates slightly, and then pushes on.
“You know that I- care for you, very much.” he says.
Aldo nods.
“Yes, of course. And I for you.” As if Thomas needs reminding of how much Aldo cares for him.
Thomas wets his lips, a nervous habit he’s had all the years Aldo has known him, his tongue darting out to touch his lower lip, as if preparing it for the words he’s about to say.
“I suppose I had hoped that my, um, regard for you might- perhaps-, ease your disappointment somewhat.” Thomas looks touchingly earnest.
Ah, Aldo thinks, of course. How like Thomas to reassure Aldo that he still loves him; he’s just not in love with him.
Aldo makes himself smile, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and he knows it.
“Yes, Thomas, it helps.” He says.
Thomas gazes at him for a moment, and Aldo forces himself not to look away, however much he might want to.
“It isn’t enough for you, though, is it? Not enough to get you to stay, at least.” Thomas says, softly. He sounds hurt and somewhat disappointed, but not totally surprised.
Aldo doesn’t know what’s worse, the fact that he has upset Thomas in what should be a joyful time, or that Thomas was anticipating Aldo letting him down once again. He swallows around the lump in his throat.
“I’m sorry, Thomas. It’s just- too hard.” Aldo admits.
Thomas takes a deep breath, and then gives a firm nod, apparently to himself.
“I understand.” he says.
Aldo can see the glimmer of tears in Thomas’s lovely eyes and hates himself for being the reason that they have appeared.
“I’m sorry.” Aldo says, again, like a stuck record.
Thomas sniffs and swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I won’t- I won’t bring this up again.” Thomas says.
It’s just more proof that Aldo is an awful friend that all he feels is relief at his words. That Thomas knows he can’t talk about his own happiness with his oldest friend is shameful.
“Thank you.” Aldo manages to say.
Thomas nods again and gives him a bleak smile. There really isn’t anything else to say.
Aldo retreats to his bedroom and stares up at the slope of the roof for a very long time.
***
It takes an age to get to Thomas’s prone body this time, as dust rains down upon him, the Sistine Chapel shaking from the foundations up. He is pushing against a sea of faceless men in red, all of them running the other way, away from the explosion, away from Thomas, who needs help.
He finally makes it to his friend, but everything is wrong- Thomas is half buried under the wreck of the ceiling, his face pale and still, his eyes half open but empty of light. Aldo climbs over timber, ancient plaster, priceless fragments of Michelangelo’s masterpiece flaking around him.
“Thomas.” Aldo begs, shaking his friend’s shoulders.
Thomas remains unresponsive, quiet as the grave. Aldo knows he can help, there must be a way- this isn’t how it went before, and it can’t be how it ends now.
“Come on.” he all but yells, pulling on Thomas’s arm.
“I can help him.” A known, but not truly familiar voice says.
Aldo turns and sees Vincent Benitez, all in white, perched on a pile of rubble. His head is cocked to one side, and he is smiling, ever so slightly.
“Please- you have to.” Aldo says.
Vincent Benitez rises from his uncomfortable seat and glides over to Thomas, unhindered by the debris surrounding him. He places a hand on Thomas’s grey cheek. He frowns first at Thomas, and then at Aldo.
“Please.” Aldo pleads.
Vincent Benitez lets out a sigh, as if Aldo’s request is irritating.
“I’m not sure you want me to.”
Aldo almost laughs, but he is holding on to Thomas’s lax hand and it is so very cold.
“Of course I do!” he insists, his voice hoarse.
Vincent Benitez fixes him with one of his penetrating stares.
“Would you be prepared to truly give him up, if it would mean his salvation?” He asks.
Aldo nods, desperate now.
“Anything, I’d do anything.”
Vincent Benitez smiles at him, and for a moment, he looks exactly like the holy father.
“Liar.” he says, just before the rest of the roof caves in.
***
Sunshine streams in through the window as Aldo sets a moka pot on the hob. It is shaping up to be a beautiful day, a preview of spring in the middle of a dreary, wet winter. He has been awake since before dawn, watching the sun rise into a clear blue sky, too unnerved to go back to sleep.
The dream has lingered, far more than the others had- Thomas’s vacant eyes and cold skin. When he had awoken, short of breath and terrified, he was halfway out of bed with the thought of going to check on Thomas before he stopped himself. Waking your friend up to check that they are still alive is not normal behaviour.
So, he has sat up, tried to read, showered, dressed and is now making breakfast, all the while attempting not to think about his nightmare. The more he pushes away the disturbing images of Thomas in the rubble, of the pope behaving utterly unlike himself, the more they seem to return.
He’s just pouring a cup of coffee when Thomas appears, in his pyjamas, rubbing sleep from his eyes. The sight of him, rumpled and still slightly pink from the warmth of his bed, soothes Aldo’s anxieties somewhat. Thomas can’t be dead in the ruins of the Sistine Chapel, if he is here, shuffling towards the coffee pot with sleepy determination.
“Good morning.” Aldo says.
“Hello.” Thomas mumbles back as he pours coffee into the mug Aldo has left out for him.
“Did you sleep ok?” Aldo asks.
“No, actually. Couldn’t settle.” Thomas takes a gulp of his drink, regarding Aldo as he does so.
“You’re already dressed, am I running late?” He asks, after he swallows about half of his mug in one go.
“No, I just woke up early.” Aldo says.
Thomas continues to regard him, whilst taking another huge sip of coffee.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
Aldo shrugs, not wanting to tell Thomas that when he shuts his eyes he sees his corpse.
“Not really.”
“You should see your doctor about it, when we get back.” Thomas says.
Aldo just nods, knowing that he should. He hasn’t had a restful night in weeks, exhaustion is the background noise of his waking hours.
Thomas goes off to shower and Aldo sits on the little sofa and goes over the notes for the conference. He’s not exactly looking forward to it- they will be discussing the heavy topic of religious extremism in great detail. It’s a delicate subject which requires thoughtful, compassionate, informed conversations and all too often these conversations fall into recriminations and anger. He is lacking the energy and determination for this work, but it is his duty and years of experience will tide him through. He rubs at his temples, already anticipating the thumping headache he is going to have by the afternoon.
Another cup of coffee definitely will not help, but it is tempting to have one anyway, for that temporary boost. He’s just about to get up to make one when his cell phone starts ringing. He doesn’t recognise the number, but swipes to answer anyway, just in case it’s someone at the Diocesan House, checking in with them.
“Hello?” He says.
“Ah, hello, have I reached Cardinal Bellini?” The woman on the other end of the line asks.
“You have.”
“Good morning, cardinal, I’m Heloise Lambert, I’m calling on behalf of the International Interfaith Council.” Heloise Lambert has the brisk professional manner of someone who is staring at a pre-written message and a very long list of people she needs to call.
“Er, yes?”
“I’m sorry to have to inform you that we have had to cancel the conference you were due to attend today.”
“Oh-”
“We understand that this is an inconvenience, particularly as you will have had to travel. We hope to be able to reschedule the conference at a later date.” Heloise rattles on.
Thomas re-enters the kitchen, combing his hair back whilst it is still damp from the shower. He throws Aldo a quizzical look. In response, Aldo taps the speakerphone button, as Heloise continues to talk.
“Unfortunately, a credible threat of an attack was called into the conference centre this morning, and we at the International Interfaith Council, as well as the Paris police force and French counterterrorist services are acting in the interests of the safety of the conference attendees. The conference centre is closed whilst action is being taken to assess whether the threat is genuine- but we are currently operating under the assumption that it is.” Heloise barely pauses for breath.
“We are sending out an email, which will relay all of this information to you and the institution or institutions you serve. Once again, we are extremely sorry for the inconvenience caused by these circumstances, and hope to see you at the rescheduled event. We thank you for your patience and forbearance at this time.”
There is a beat before Aldo realises that Heloise has, in fact, come to the end of her speech.
“Thank you for calling so promptly.” he says. “Oh, and you can cross Cardinal Thomas Lawrence off your list of people to contact, he’s here with me.”
“Oh- thank you, your eminence.” Heloise says, sounding like a real person for the first time.
“You’re doing an excellent job; you must be having a stressful morning.” Aldo says.
Gratifyingly, Heloise gives a little laugh.
“It has not been the best. Thank you again, your eminence.”
“Stay safe, Heloise, and bless you.”
They hang up, and Aldo looks up to find Thomas leaning against the kitchen counter, his eyebrows raised.
“Well- we’ve been given the day off, then?” he says.
“So it seems.” Aldo agrees.
“What do you want to do, then?” Thomas asks.
Aldo frowns.
“Well, I suppose I have a lot of emails to catch up on, and we could possibly reschedule our flights so we can get back to Rome earlier-”
Thomas pulls a face.
“Aldo, when did you last have a day off?”
Aldo looks down at his phone, prevaricating.
“Some would say that as men of God, we don’t get days off.”
Thomas gives a snort.
“So- it was when you caught the flu in 2015, then, and collapsed halfway through mass.”
Aldo flicks Thomas a reproachful glance.
“I thought I was ‘all but AWOL’, recently.” Aldo says, still stung by that assessment.
Thomas comes over to Aldo and crouches down in front of him.
“I shouldn’t have said that, Aldo, it was unfair and untrue. You haven’t been yourself, probably because you’re burnt out.” Thomas says.
Aldo finds himself amused by Thomas’s ultra contemporary phrasing, despite himself.
“’Burnt out?’” he asks.
Thomas goes a little pink in the face, which actually makes Aldo laugh.
“There was an article about it in The Guardian- oh, shut up, I know I’m too old to use it. Ray had the same reaction, I expected better from my dearest friend.”
Aldo sobers a little. He is still Thomas’s dearest friend, despite this disaster of a week, despite everything. A sweet pain spreads through his chest.
“I don’t know why you would expect better from me.” he says, which makes Thomas laugh.
“No, you’re right, you know me too well.” Thomas gets to his feet, and then settles down on the sofa, next to Aldo.
“Are you suggesting we just- take the day off, then? Go sightseeing around Paris?” Aldo asks.
“Well, I was thinking Disneyland, actually.” Thomas says, very seriously.
Aldo decides to play along.
“Unfortunately, I’m not sure we can get tickets at such short notice.” he says.
Thomas sighs, pretending to be disappointed.
“And I was so hoping to have a go on the teacups. I suppose we will have to make do with Paris, then.” Thomas says.
***
They inevitably decide to head to Montmartre, with very little discussion. The history, the little shops and cafes, as well as the Sacré-Cœur perched high above the city have always made it Aldo’s favourite part of Paris- as cliched as it may be, there is a reason why it is popular.
The day is bright and blustery, and it feels a little like they are playing hooky- or skiving off as Thomas would say- Aldo feels oddly excited. They have both decided to forego their dog collars, for once, and in their coats, scarves and hats they blend in easily with the rest of Paris’s tourists.
They stop for pastries at a small café, Thomas ordering a pain au raisin because he insists they are superior to pain au chocolat. Aldo isn’t going to argue with him about it- not again, anyway. He orders his own pastry and is delighted when he bites into to it that the chocolate inside is still warm.
As they steadily make their way up the steep, narrow streets, Aldo spots a shop selling holy icons, the new pope’s face beaming out at them from a display of devotional cards and candles in the window.
“He’s very popular, already.” Aldo says, eyeing up a series of keychains with different angles of the pope’s handsome face on them.
“Yes, he is.” Thomas says, through a tight smile. Perhaps he is worried that Aldo will become upset at the mere mention of Innocent XVI.
“We should take a picture and send it to him.” Aldo says.
“I think he would probably like that.” Thomas concedes.
Aldo whips out his phone and steps back, framing up the picture around Thomas, who tries to duck out of the shot.
“Stay where you are! Smile!” he barks.
“Really, Aldo-” Thomas says, after Aldo has snapped several pictures of Thomas, his smile becoming increasingly more strained in each one.
“He’ll like it more if you’re in it, Thomas, you know he will.” Aldo says.
Thomas hums, noncommittally.
They wander into stationery shops, stores selling local crafts, a vintage kitchenware shop selling beautiful complete tea and coffee sets.
“My mother had a set like this.” Thomas says, picking up a delicate rose quartz coloured glass coffee cup, rimmed in gold. “My parents bought it on their honeymoon. We used to use it on Sunday evenings.”
“It’s lovely.” Aldo says.
Thomas put the cup back on its saucer.
“I don’t know what happened to it- when she died my father packed all of her things away.” Thomas says, his expression becoming lost, as Thomas goes elsewhere in time.
Thomas’s mother had died suddenly, when Thomas and his sister were each away at their respective boarding schools. Thomas’s father had seen no point in bringing his children home for their mother’s funeral, and Thomas had been informed of her death by his school’s headmaster. Thomas had returned home for the summer break to his mother’s fresh grave and all trace of her erased from the family home. He had been nine years old, and Aldo knows Thomas has never forgiven his father for any of it.
“Perhaps Benedicta has it?” Aldo suggests. He is very fond of Thomas’s older sister, who sends him a Christmas card every year.
“It’s not really Ben’s taste.” Thomas says, “But I hope she does.”
Thomas gives the coffee set one last wistful look, before they head back outside. Aldo takes Thomas’s arm, offering him what he hopes is simple, friendly comfort. Thomas leans into him and links their arms firmly together, and they walk for a time like that, united.
They find a bookshop and spend over an hour looking through all the rooms- it’s rare either of them has any time to simply browse through the shelves of a bookstore, like they had done often when they were young. They revert to their old habits- separating and finding each other again, taking the other to show what they have discovered, to admire or occasionally laugh at their finds. They find a ludicrously sentimental tome about the (entirely imagined) love life of St Bernardette, which they consider buying, if only for the novelty value. They leave with a restrained amount of books- Thomas with a few of the Maigret stories and Aldo with a particularly pretty French edition of St Augustine’s Confessions.
They stop for a quick lunch of soup in a café, both deciding they need fortification before they attempt the push up the hill to the Sacré-Cœur.
“Is it bad”, Thomas asks, as he butters his bread, “that I’m having a lovely day, even though the archbishop has norovirus and our conference got cancelled?”
Aldo tastes his soup, which is delicious, rich and brothy.
“I was just thinking the same thing. I suppose we have something to confess.” He says.
Thomas smiles at him, dipping his bread into his bowl.
“Yes, the worst sin of all- being happy.”
Aldo smiles back, because he is determined to enjoy the day, to let the fresh, gusty wind blow away the worst of the last week. His mind is still lingering on the dream he had the night before, but he is starting to feel a little different about it now. They have passed several shops advertising dream interpretations and fortune telling services on their meandering walk through Montmartre. He knows that in the tarot deck the card which depicts Death, on his pale horse, isn’t always supposed to be taken literally- it can be the ‘death’ of an old way of life, of an idea. Of old hopes and desires.
They finish their lunch and set off again, conscious of the short winter day as the shadows lengthen, the chill in the air increasing as the sun dips lower in the sky.
“We could get the funicular.” Aldo says, as they reach the steep steps which lead up to the basilica. One of the cabins is just setting off, loaded with tourists who don’t fancy doing the climb.
“Oh, we don’t need to wait.” Thomas declares, and he strides off, taking the steps at a pace Aldo knows he will not be able to maintain.
Aldo rolls his eyes and follows. They stop for water and a break about halfway up, and by the time they have reached the top Aldo has a stitch and Thomas has taken his hat off so he doesn’t overheat. They catch each other’s eye and start giggling, like schoolkids.
“Perhaps we should have taken the funicular.” Thomas gasps out. His cheeks are pink and glowing, his eyes bright.
“We’re not as young as we were.” Aldo agrees, pressing at the pain in his side.
They look back at the view, Paris spread out underneath them, and they both concede it was worth the effort. The winter sunlight illuminates the city, giving the buildings a golden glow. The sight is breath-taking, quite literally. Thomas takes Aldo’s arm again, and they admire the city for a few minutes in comfortable silence.
It is relatively quiet inside the Sacré-Cœur, and they make their way around the building, admiring the architecture, the stained glass, the mosaics. So often when they visit cathedrals they are busy marking an occasion or deeply involved with a service, and don’t have time to simply look. Aldo finds himself caught by the beauty of a rose window depicting the sacred heart inside an intricate repeating pattern.
After lighting votives and saying prayers they decide to sit for a while, selecting a pew in a small empty chapel. Mary cradles Jesus in one arm, lovingly, and gazes down at them an expression of serenity on her marble face.
Aldo finds himself almost moved to tears, a sudden swell of gratitude. This day has been an unexpected gift, a sign that he and Thomas can still take joy in one another, in their shared past and the present. He doesn’t want to think about the future- what had seemed clear to him days before is muddled now. Perhaps he has been conflating his role within the Vatican too much with his love for Thomas. Perhaps he is still needed, even if Thomas will never want him.
The only thing that is clear to him is that whilst he will always love Thomas, he must be strong enough to let it go- to let it die, as Thomas had in the dream. It will only bring more agony if he persists in being miserable over the fact that Thomas has met someone else.
He takes Thomas’s hand in his own. It is warm- nothing like his dream- the skin on the back of his hand soft beneath Aldo’s touch. For a moment he just admires the pattern of veins and tendons he finds there- he has always found Thomas’s hands uniquely attractive. He has spent more time than any priest should considering his friend’s long fingers.
Thomas looks at him, curiously, but he doesn’t pull away. Aldo’s blood hums in his ears as he lifts Thomas’s hand, slowly, turning it so he can press his lips to Thomas’s palm. In the brief seconds his mouth is against Thomas’s skin he allows himself to feel all that he will deny to himself from this moment onwards- the love, the tenderness, the desire. He remembers a dark corridor in the seminary, Thomas’s arms around him, offering comfort and nothing more. His eyes have fallen shut, the world shrinking down to the width of Thomas’s hand, and his lips against it.
He hears Thomas breathe in, sharply, and that’s when Aldo draws back, letting go of Thomas’s hand. He opens his eyes and Thomas is gazing at him, his expression shocked. Aldo swallows back an apology, wanting to gauge Thomas’s reaction first. He hopes that it will be taken as a sign of his perpetual devotion, and a confirmation of his willingness to give Thomas up.
Thomas is still staring at him, searching Aldo’s face as if he is a cypher to be worked out. Aldo looks back, for a moment, and then turns his attention to the statue of Mary and the Christ Child.
If he didn’t know better, he would say the Holy Mother is smirking at them.
Notes:
Happy almost my birthday. I promise the next bit is coming soon but this chapter has turned into a behemoth and I refuse to kill my darlings because fanfiction should, and must always be, self indulgent and ridiculous at all times.
I have so many headcanons about Thomas Lawrence's awful father who he hates, and Aldo's friendship with Thomas's excellent sister, who he loves.
Chapter Text
The walk down from the basilica is rather more enjoyable than the walk up, particularly as the sun is beginning to set, sending the sky from cerulean to vibrant pink to indigo.
Thomas keeps sending Aldo little glances as they walk- Aldo with his hands firmly in his pockets, inviting no opportunity for Thomas to link their arms together. He will allow that again one day, but not now- he still feels too raw, too open, to deal with Thomas’s touch, as innocent as it would be.
If Thomas asks Aldo why he had kissed his hand, Aldo will tell the truth. If Thomas is upset or disgusted by his actions he will apologise- he will go to the pope and explain himself, if Thomas desires that. But Thomas doesn’t seem angry or upset, so much as quizzical. He keeps starting sentences and then trailing off. Aldo doesn’t push- Thomas has always been one to take time to think through what he feels- it makes some people believe that he is a little cold and standoffish. Aldo knows it is simply because Thomas feels so much, his great heart absorbs everything.
“I’m relieved it is downhill from here.” Thomas eventually remarks, as they reach the bottom of the steps again.
Aldo smiles at him.
“You’re forgetting the five flights up to the apartment.” he says.
Thomas lets out a strange, strangled laugh, almost as if Aldo has said something risqué.
“I’m sure I’ll manage it.” Thomas says.
Aldo assumes they are wending their way back to the metro, but Thomas slows his pace, giving Aldo another speculative look.
“Would you like to go to dinner with me?” he asks, nodding towards a bistro on the corner of the street.
Aldo isn’t quite sure why Thomas has posed the question like that- oddly formal, as if he’s unsure of Aldo’s answer. His arm is straight by his side, his hand balled into a fist which he is tapping against his thigh, one of Thomas nervous mannerisms.
Aldo, for his part, is rather surprised at the suggestion.
“I assumed we were heading back- there’s plenty of food back at the apartment.” Aldo points out.
Thomas gives Aldo a tight smile.
“Yes, but you’ll have to cook it, and then I will have to wash up.” Thomas replies.
Aldo looks through the window of the little bistro- staff are lighting candles and placing them on the two top tables, in anticipation of the evening clientele. He’s unsure- the place seems lovely but very intimate.
“And I suppose-” Thomas continues, his voice dipping low, “I don’t really want the day to be over.”
A day off is certainly a precious rarity to be savoured. Aldo just isn’t sure how he will suffer through an evening of looking across the table at Thomas, bathed in candlelight, but he can deny him nothing now.
“Alright then.” Aldo says.
Thomas’s quick, boyish grin illuminates his face, and Aldo must look away, the old pain in his chest a particularly sharp ache.
They are led to a table in a quiet corner and the waiter leaves them to look over the menus. The restaurant isn’t busy yet as it’s still early evening, but as Aldo feared it has that cosy, close feel of a place mainly geared to couples sharing a romantic meal- deep red walls, moody lighting thanks to the wall sconces and candles, small tables with crisp white linen. It is the kind of place Aldo has always pictured in his mind when people talk about going on dates.
It occurs to him that Thomas will never get to experience this with the man he loves- there will be no days wandering anonymously about a foreign city for them. Vincent is already much too recognisable, he can go nowhere without a bodyguard. The thought makes him strangely sad-that they will never be able to slip away for a few stolen hours of normal life.
“I was thinking I might get the sole à la meunière, how about you?” Thomas says, peering at Aldo over the top of his reading glasses.
“Um.” Aldo has been looking at his menu, but not really taking any of it in. “The salmon? I think?”
Thomas nods, as if Aldo has said something sensible and not just said the first thing he has seen on the page.
“We could share a bottle of white then, the burgundy, maybe?”
“Sounds great.”
Thomas takes his glasses off and smiles at Aldo, that warm smile which crinkles the skin around his eyes, those lines which have deepened in the years Aldo has known him. Aldo reminds himself of the promise he made in the chapel, the intention to let Thomas go.
“I was just thinking about Vincent.” Aldo says, arranging his napkin on his knee.
Thomas looks a touch perplexed, the barest crease appearing between his brows.
“Oh?”
“Yes- how his life will never be normal again.” Aldo says.
Thomas nods.
“I’m not entirely sure how normal his life has ever been- the ministries he has served have been atypical to say the least.”
“Yes, but he could have at least gone to a bookstore without an armed guard before- if he had come to Paris last year he wouldn’t have been recognised by anyone. Now he’s on cigarette lighters, his portrait is in every church.” Aldo points out.
Thomas concedes the point with an incline of his head.
The waiter reappears and takes their orders and vanishes again with an assurance that they have made excellent choices.
“I don’t think the lack of anonymity bothers him as much as- other aspects of the papacy.” Thomas says carefully.
“I suppose, but- he couldn’t have a day like this. Doesn’t that bother you?” Aldo asks.
Thomas shrugs.
“He simply has to live a different life from us, there’s no point getting upset about it.”
It is a classically ‘Thomas’ answer- accept things for what they are, Aldo, and don’t get indignant on my behalf. It’s not as if Aldo wants to rub it in that Thomas has chosen the most inconvenient man in the world to love. But Aldo supposes that is the point- Thomas hasn’t chosen to love Vincent, he simply does.
“I know, I just wish things were easier for him.” Aldo says.
Thomas nods, expression growing thoughtful.
They are interrupted again by the arrival of the wine, and the little performance they have to go through of tasting it, where they inevitably say they will drink it. The waiter fills their glasses up and floats off again.
Around them the bistro is filling up, and as Aldo predicted the guests are mainly romantic couples- men and women in pairs, holding hands across the table, too distracted by each other to look at the menus, begging the pardon of the waitstaff.
If Aldo thought the universe was mocking him with the double bed in the apartment, he is being outright laughed at now. He and Thomas have to lean across the table so they can hear each other, forcing them closer. Aldo catches sight of the pair of them in the dark mirror of the window, the reflection showing this bizarre parody of a romantic dinner, two men with their heads close together, a flame burning between them. He tears his eyes away, resolving not to look again.
“There are ways we can make the adjustment easier for him, you know.” Thomas says, continuing the conversation, oblivious to Aldo’s turmoil. “I think he’s rather lonely.”
Aldo raises his eyebrows. “Really? But you spend so much time together.”
Thomas frowns at him.
“I don’t know where you’ve got this notion that we’re joined at the hip, Aldo.”
Aldo supresses the urge to roll his eyes.
“Thomas, it’s no secret that you’re his favourite.”
Thomas blushes, as Aldo knew he would, that lovely pink flush which spreads across his cheeks and up his temples, staining the tips of his ears.
“The pope doesn’t have favourites, Aldo.” Thomas replies.
“Oh no, of course not. The late Holy Father was always inviting Tedesco over for coffee and a chat.” Aldo says.
Thomas’s argument clearly dies in his throat at that observation, and he looks a bit put out. Aldo sighs, taking pity on him.
“Vincent is human and he needs friends. I’m not saying that it’s a bad thing you and the pope are close, Thomas- I’m sure you’re a great comfort to him.” Aldo hopes the euphemism isn’t too indelicate.
At that moment their food arrives and Aldo hopes Thomas will be distracted enough to discuss something else- he’s well aware he is the one who brought up Vincent in the first place, but they can hardly risk talking about their relationship in public.
Thomas has other ideas, and after they have both started eating and agreed that this is one of the best meals either of them has had in years, he broaches the subject again.
“You’re right, the pope and I have become close, but it’s partly out of necessity.” he says.
“Oh?” Aldo asks.
Thomas nods.
“He doesn’t know anyone, Aldo. And you’ve been rather distant since the conclave.”
“Well, I hardly covered myself in glory there. I wasn’t sure he would want to be associated with me.” Aldo says.
Thomas scoffs.
“Oh, come on, Aldo, don’t be ridiculous. He agrees with your political and liturgical stances- I’m not sure why you think everyone wants you in sackcloth and ashes.”
“Well, there was my misjudgement of Tremblay.” Aldo points out, as if Thomas could forget.
“Vincent knows nothing about that.” Thomas says, as if Aldo is being deliberately obtuse.
“He doesn’t?” Aldo asks, shocked.
Thomas frowns.
“Well, unless you’ve told him he doesn’t.” he says.
“Oh.” Aldo replies, once again at something of a loss.
He had assumed that Thomas would tell the pope of their falling out during the conclave, explain why they were no longer as close. But, Aldo thinks, it’s not as if Vincent knew either of them beforehand. Perhaps Thomas hasn’t told Vincent anything about him at all.
“Anyway-” Thomas continues, “you make a good point, Vincent does need more friends. You know as well as anyone how heavily the burden of the papacy can hang on a man given your closeness with the previous holy father.”
Aldo supresses a sigh, he can see what Thomas is getting at now.
“If you were to remain in your role, I’m sure you would be an invaluable friend to him.” Thomas says, emphatically.
Aldo chews for longer than necessary, trying to formulate a reply.
“If the pope wishes me to stay on, then I will certainly consider his wishes, as you have done.” Aldo says, carefully. He doesn’t want to give Thomas false hope, only to let his friend down later.
Thomas beams at him.
“I’m so happy to hear that.” he says, his eyes glimmering in the candlelight.
The conversation drifts away from Vatican matters, onto the food, previous visits to Paris, speculation about the health of the archbishop and his staff and a half a dozen more topics before they are done eating.
“Would you like to look at the dessert menu, gentlemen?” the waiter asks, as he picks up their empty plates.
“Yes, I think so.” Thomas says for the both of them, before Aldo can decline.
The waiter smiles and drifts away to grab the menus.
“Dessert too?” Aldo asks.
Thomas shrugs, smiling.
“We’re in Paris.” he says, as if that adequately explains anything.
They order their desserts- a crème brûlée for Thomas and a slice of pear galette for Aldo- and in the lull between courses Thomas leans back in his chair, looking contented.
“What a lovely day.” he remarks.
“Yes.” Aldo can’t help but agree. He looks down at the table, the sudden sting in his eyes which he can’t blame on the candle smoke. It has been lovely and soon it will be over.
“Aldo?” Thomas says.
“Yeah?” Aldo says, not taking his eyes off the tablecloth.
Thomas leans forward again. He reaches across the table, his fingers almost touching Aldo’s, stopping just short of actual contact.
“I’m- I hope you know that I don’t wish for you to stay simply for Vincent’s sake.”
“Yes, I know.” Aldo replies.
“You must know how much I want you around.”
Aldo glances up and Thomas is looking at him, expression heartbreakingly fond. Aldo can’t look at him for very long, the emotions which have been threatening all day might spill over and he doesn’t want to ruin anyone’s dinner by causing a scene- a sobbing cardinal wouldn’t complement the relaxed romantic aesthetic of the bistro.
Aldo clears his throat, pushes away the trapped, bittersweet feelings.
“We should talk about this back at the apartment- not here.” Aldo says.
He’s giving himself another brief stay of execution, but this will be the last one, he tells himself. Tonight, he will listen to whatever Thomas has to say about his newfound love, and Aldo will bury his unwanted affections forever. Or he will at least try to.
Thomas, for his part, looks thrilled at this suggestion.
“Yes- yes. Privacy would be nice.” Thomas says. Once again Aldo is struck by how Thomas will have had no one to talk about Vincent with, and he adds a heavy dose of guilt to his ever-present misery.
The desserts arrive and they are just as good as the main course. Thomas, after waxing rhapsodic over the texture of the crème brûlée, offers Aldo a taste. From his own spoon.
“Um- are you sure?” Aldo asks, forcing himself not to dart glances at the other tables, conscious of the implications of sharing cutlery.
Thomas rolls his eyes and holds the spoon out and Aldo- telling himself it is no more intimate than drinking the blood of the sacrament from the same chalice as the rest of the congregation- leans forward to accept.
The dessert certainly is lovely- just sweet enough without overpowering the delicacy of the cream custard, the burnt edge adding a delightful contrast to the smoothness. Aldo’s eyes fall shut as he chases the flavour- a little like the cinder toffee Thomas was so fond of which he’d buy every November from the newsagents near the seminary.
Aldo’s eyes open again to find Thomas is watching him, spoon still held in midair. The expression on his face is rather like the one he had in the little chapel of the Sacré-Cœur, that same slightly dazed shock.
“It’s good.” Aldo says.
“What?” Thomas says. “Oh- yes, it is, isn’t it?”
Another flush has crept across Thomas’s cheekbones, although Aldo can’t begin to decipher its genesis.
“You want to try the galette?” Aldo asks, offering his little dessert plate.
“Yes,” Thomas clears his throat, and cuts a little corner off using the edge of his spoon, “Thank you.”
“Nice, huh?” Aldo says, as Thomas eats his spoonful of pears and pastry.
“Yes, very nice.” Thomas agrees. His flush hasn’t abated, but Aldo realises that they’ve polished off a whole bottle of wine between the pair of them, and Thomas has never been a drinker.
They finish up their meal, settle the bill- leaving a hefty tip for the excellent service- and then head out into Paris. The temperature has dropped markedly, especially in contrast with the warmth of the restaurant. They walk briskly to the metro, the chill in the air at least giving Aldo a reason for jamming his hands in his coat pockets this time. Still, Thomas walks close, their arms occasionally brushing when the sidewalks narrow.
The trip back to Saint Michel goes quickly- it is still fairly early in the evening so there is a real mix of travellers aboard the train- young people heading to dinner before a night out partying, families journeying home to the suburbs after a day out in the city, older couples dressed up for the theatre. It is nice, to be surrounded by so much life.
Thomas is oddly quiet in the seat next to him, seemingly lost in thought. Aldo doesn’t try to draw him out, and instead finds himself pulling faces at a toddler, who stares at him delighted from her stroller across the aisle. Dozens of nieces and nephews (and great nieces and nephews) have taught him how to entertain a kid with nothing more than stupid facial expressions. Her parents smile as she waves goodbye to him with her pudgy fist when they exit the train a couple of stops before Notre Dame.
It’s even colder when they exit the station, unsurprising since they are so close to the river. They walk back to the flat, feet ringing against the cold cobblestones. Aldo thinks there will probably be a frost, and wonders if the boiler in the apartment is on a timer, or temperature controls, or if they will have to turn the heating on manually. He’s just about to voice this very mundane issue to Thomas, as they reach the outer door of the apartment building, when Thomas speaks for the first time in a while.
“Aldo-” Thomas begins and then stops. He jangles the keys a little in his gloved hand, nervous once again.
“Thomas- can we do this upstairs, maybe?” Aldo suggests.
“Yes- yes, sorry, of course.” Thomas says, fumbling with the keys to get the door open.
The walk up the many flights of stairs is a little easier after a delicious meal, but Aldo is still very grateful when they reach the top floor landing. The issue of the heating is resolved when Thomas pushes the door open- the flat is, if anything, overwarm, probably due to the heat from the apartments below rising into theirs.
Aldo takes his coat off, hanging it on the hook in the little entranceway. He’s just about to suggest making some coffee but his words die in his throat when he turns and finds Thomas standing very close.
“Aldo.” he says again, his voice barely above a whisper.
Aldo doesn’t have time to think yet alone ask why Thomas is crowding him up against the wall, because Thomas’s lips are suddenly pressed against his. His brain is reduced to static, processing only the feel of Thomas’s hand cupping his jaw, the warmth and weight of Thomas’s body pressing against his own.
It’s only when Thomas attempts to press closer, perhaps to change the angle of the kiss, that Aldo’s brain kicks in, and he wrenches himself away- admittedly, not very far, given the size of the corridor.
“What are you doing?” Aldo asks, his voice alien to his own ears, a hysterical hiss.
Thomas looks taken aback, eyes wide.
“I thought- I thought you finally wanted-” he says.
Aldo makes a strange noise in his throat, like a laugh has gotten twisted up in his tonsils. Because of course he wanted, he’ll want it forever, especially now, the stolen taste of Thomas in his mouth.
“What about Vincent?” Aldo asks, “What will you tell him?”
Thomas’s face is clouding over with misapprehension and pain, as well it may.
“I- well, I suppose I will tell him at some point, but I haven’t really thought about it - we can cross that bridge when we come to it.” Thomas says.
Aldo stares at Thomas, mouth falling open.
“You don’t think it will hurt him?” Aldo asks.
Thomas licks his lip, nervously.
“I don’t know- I didn’t think it would- do you think it will?” he asks.
Aldo thinks the notorious vein in his forehead will burst now, blood all over the inoffensive neutral walls of this pied a terre. He wonders if he will be canonised if that happens- a martyr to exasperation, Aldo Bellini: the patron saint of frustrating conversations.
His lips are still tingling.
“I think it will break his heart.” Aldo says.
Thomas shakes his head, ever so slightly.
“Aldo, I don’t- he has no issues with homosexuality.” Thomas says, as if that might solve the problem.
“I know that, Thomas, I’m not blind.” Aldo says. He takes a deep breath. “You can tell him- I don’t know, you drank half a bottle of wine and forgot yourself. I’m sure he’ll forgive you.”
Thomas’s face goes pale.
“You think- you think I need to confess this to him?” Thomas asks, his voice hoarse.
“Of course you do- wouldn’t you want him to tell you if he had kissed someone else, however brief the fancy was?” Aldo asks.
Thomas, if anything, looks even more stricken, like Aldo has punched him in the face.
“What?” Thomas asks, sounding genuinely bewildered.
“It’s OK, Thomas, I’ll tell him about my part in it- I shouldn’t have kissed your hand when I knew you were meant for him. I know that was transgressive and selfish-” The reality of it all is hitting Aldo now, the mortified horror that perhaps Thomas has kissed him out of some misguided attempt to comfort him.
“Aldo, darling-” Thomas says, his tone low and urgent.
“No- it’s- it is partly my fault, of course it is-” Aldo needs to get out of this stifling little hallway, he can feel the tears welling in his eyes and he hasn’t the strength left to stop them from falling now.
He tries to push past Thomas, but Thomas won’t allow it, blocking Aldo’s retreat, reaching out to stop him, hands on Aldo’s shoulders, holding him fast.
“No, Aldo, you need to listen to me.” He says. His eyes are wide, and very blue, and something about the tone of his voice holds Aldo in place.
Aldo swallows- he’s sure his face is a tearful mess, but he meets Thomas’s gaze- he owes him that much.
“Aldo- I have no idea what you are talking about.” Thomas says.
Aldo stares at Thomas, who carries on, his voice gentler.
“I have a feeling that we may have been talking at cross purposes for some time.”
Aldo shakes his head. “But-”
“Come and sit and talk to me, please.” Thomas says, his eyes beseeching.
Thomas lets go of Aldo’s shoulders but he stays close, guiding him to the little couch, sitting down next to him. After a moment of hesitation, Thomas reaches out to take Aldo’s hand. Aldo lets him, numb confusion taking over.
“Alright.” Thomas says, before taking a deep breath. “Do I have it right that you believe I’m having an affair with the pope?”
Aldo doesn’t reply for a moment- too baffled by the phrasing of the question, the implication that somehow what Aldo believes isn’t the truth. Thomas squeezes his fingers.
“I- yes?” Aldo manages to say.
Thomas inhales, sharply, but when he speaks again a moment later his tone is measured.
“And why do you think that?” he asks gently.
Aldo turns so he is facing Thomas, who is watching him very intently.
“Because- well, you- you’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Aldo asks, suddenly unsure of himself.
“No, I’m not.” Thomas says, simply, his voice almost flat.
Aldo’s mind is racing showing him all kinds of memories- Thomas and Vincent, their heads close together in private conference, Vincent’s hand on Thomas’s arm drawing him away, Thomas smiling so softly at something Vincent has said, Thomas walking away from Aldo, his phone clamped to his ear- evidence, indisputable evidence.
“But- you are.” Aldo says, weakly. He isn’t sure how to convey the way they look at each other- how can Thomas not know that Vincent looks at him like he hung the very stars? And that he was certain that Thomas looked back at Vincent with the same wonder.
Thomas squeezes Aldo’s fingers again.
“Darling, I can assure that whilst I will be forever grateful for his coming into our lives when he did, and I love him dearly as our Holy Father, I am not in love with Vincent.” Thomas says, as if it is just that simple.
Aldo feels like his heart will beat out of his chest. Thomas says he does not love Vincent Benetiz, but Aldo has seen proof- so much proof- to the contrary.
“But you- the other night, in London you said- you said he wasn’t a replacement for me.” Aldo says, and even he can’t follow the thread of that argument, which was so clear in his head only days before.
Thomas has a small smile on his face, marred only by a little incredulous frown.
“Yes, darling. He isn’t- he could never be. I’ve been in love with you for forty years- did you imagine I’d stop because you didn’t become pope?” Thomas says.
For what feels like the thousandth time this week Aldo’s world tilts on its axis. Three times already this evening Thomas has called him ‘darling’, as if it is Aldo’s name and now he is saying- he is saying-
“You’ve- what?” Aldo asks, his voice coming out somewhat strangled.
Thomas’s little frown becomes a much bigger one, and he tightens his grip on Aldo’s hand.
“Come on, Aldo, you knew that.” he says, but his tone is uncertain.
“I-” Aldo wants to reassure Thomas, get rid of the worried look on his face, but he can’t lie to him. “I didn’t.”
Thomas’s mouth opens slightly, shock registering in his eyes.
“You didn’t?”
Aldo shakes his head, unable to say more.
Thomas drops Aldo’s hand and stands up, putting distance between them. He begins to pace.
“But- we agreed, in seminary that we would love each other but remain chaste- surely you remember that?” Thomas insists.
Aldo shakes his head again.
“No- I don’t, I’m sorry- I wish I did-”
Thomas looks distressed, turning away, and then back to Aldo.
“But you must! It was after we’d been warned about spending too much time together- we kept our distance and we decided it would be best if we loved in secret.” Thomas opines.
“I-” Aldo’s mind drifts back to that time, the intense embarrassment over his feelings being discovered. Try as he might, he can’t remember the conversation that Thomas is referring to- unless-
“I remember us agreeing that we would always be each other’s dearest friend, despite not being as close as we might like to be.” Aldo says, carefully. He remembers mumbling that mostly to Thomas’s scuffed tennis shoes, in the middle of the refectory, conscious that Monsignor Clairmont was watching them both from across the room.
Thomas nods, eagerly.
“Yes- yes! Exactly.” he says, as if everything is cleared up now.
“Thomas, that- I didn’t- we agreed to be friends, not chastely married to each other for the rest of our lives!” Aldo exclaims. “You never even said you were in love with me!”
Thomas stares at him, his eyes slowly widening with dawning realisation.
“No- that’s- I must have done.” he says, but doubtfulness is creeping into his voice.
“Believe me, I would have remembered, Thomas.” Aldo says.
He doesn’t mean to twist the knife, but clearly he’s managed to do so as Thomas gives him a pained look and then sits down heavily on one of the dining chairs, across the room from Aldo. He looks a bit like a puppet with its strings cut, his whole body sagging. Aldo wants nothing more to go over and hug him.
And then it hits him- he can do that. Thomas might welcome it- apparently might have always welcomed it. Thomas loves him, not as a brother in Christ, but as one loves a spouse. Thomas feels the way Aldo feels- loves him, wants him, desires him. He can still feel the phantom weight of Thomas’s body against his own and all he can think about is how he can have it again.
He gets up, somewhat shakily- this most recent assault on the foundations of his reality has left him reeling. Despite this he determinedly makes his way over to Thomas, who eyes him warily.
He crouches down in front of Thomas, whose expression is still deeply troubled- wretched, even.
“Aldo- you don’t need to-” Thomas says, but Aldo cuts him off.
“I don’t need to offer you comfort? I think I do, Thomas. I’ve hardly been a good husband to you of late.” Aldo says, taking Thomas’s hand in both of his own.
“Oh, don’t make fun of me.” Thomas pleads.
Aldo peers up at him, running his thumb along Thomas’s palm.
“I’m not, Thomas.”
“You say you didn’t even know how I felt about you.” Thomas points out.
Aldo takes a deep breath. He feels calmer than he has done in months.
“I knew you cared for me deeply. I knew I was lucky to be your best friend. I knew I was in love with the best man I have ever met.” Aldo says.
“But you didn’t know it was reciprocated.” Thomas says, flatly.
Aldo nods, conceding the point.
“No, I didn’t. But I loved you so much it didn’t matter. You brought me so much joy it was enough.” His heart is lifting with every word, he had no idea how heavily his unspoken love for Thomas has weighed on him. How much he has wanted to say it out loud.
Thomas doesn’t look very comforted.
“But you thought I’d- what, met someone else and thrown you over?” he asks, miserably.
“I thought you’d finally met someone you could love and- I was horribly jealous. But I didn’t think I had any right to be.” Aldo admits.
Thomas still looks like Aldo is knifing him in the guts, which is really not Aldo’s intention.
“How could you bear it?” Thomas asks.
Aldo gives Thomas a bleak smile.
“Not very well, apparently- we’ve argued rather a lot this week, Thomas.” Aldo says.
Thomas’s eyebrows lift in comprehension.
“That’s what you were upset about? About- me. Not about the papacy?” Thomas sounds surprised.
Aldo lets out a snort of laughter.
“Thomas, I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t want the papacy- I thought it would be thrust upon me anyway, and yes, my ego took quite the bruising when it wasn’t. But I would’ve been crushed by the pressure, you know I would have.” Aldo says.
Impulsively he raises Thomas’s hand to his lips again, kissing the palm in the same spot he had earlier, before the world changed, when he vowed to let Thomas go. Thomas watches him, his gaze darting from Aldo’s lips to his eyes and back again, like he can’t decide what he wants to look at most. It makes Aldo’s heart soar, he feels as giddy as he did in those early days at the seminary.
Thomas clears his throat.
“I think- I had always assumed you would become pope and that was why we didn’t- why we never-” Thomas trails off.
“Had sex?” Aldo finishes for him.
The blush returns, in full glorious force, and Thomas clears his throat again. He moves his hand from Aldo’s grip to cradle his cheek and trails his thumb across Aldo’s lips, which sends a jolt of desire so acute through Aldo’s body it takes effort to remain kneeling upright. If Thomas notices Aldo’s predicament he doesn’t comment on it.
“Yes- I thought that was also why we never talked about our feelings, I thought you wished for total chastity.” Thomas says.
“And yet you kissed me this evening.” Aldo says.
Thomas’s blush deepens.
“I hoped- with the prospect of the papacy off the table and with the way you kissed my hand earlier- that you might be more amenable to- that you might wish to be- closer.” Thomas says.
Aldo can’t help frowning a little at that.
“Thomas, you’re not some consolation prize because I didn’t get to be pope.” he says.
Thomas smiles at him, shaking his head a little.
“Well, yes, I know that now- now I realise you’ve had no idea how I feel about you.” Thomas’s smile dims a little.
“Wait-was this what you were trying to ask me, last night- when you spoke of our relationship ‘easing my disappointment’?” Aldo asks, understanding hitting him, suddenly.
Thomas looks sheepish.
“Well, yes- but I suppose you thought-” Thomas’s face clouds over once again, as he begins to comprehend the conversation from Aldo’s perspective; being asked to stay and watch Thomas and Vincent together, to push his own broken heart to one side for the sake of Vincent’s papacy.
“Christ, you must have thought I was being so callous, Aldo.” Thomas says and he starts to draw away from Aldo again, but Aldo grabs his hand before he can descend into self-recrimination.
“No, Thomas- and even if I did, I was wrong, wasn’t I? Because you- you love me.” Aldo says, wonderingly.
He still can’t quite believe it, the thought is overwhelming, almost too big to take in. Everything crowds in on him then- the months of anguish over losing Thomas, his lack of sleep, this awful week filled with misunderstandings- he cannot stop himself from bursting into tears.
Instinctively he tries to hide his face behind his hands, not wanting Thomas to see- which is stupid, because Thomas is sat right in front of him.
“Aldo-” Thomas says, sounding panicked.
“I’m fine-” Aldo gasps out, “I’m fine, really.”
His glasses are smeared and even if they weren’t he can’t stop crying so he can’t really see Thomas at all, but he can sense him moving off his chair. Even then, it’s a bit of a surprise when Thomas is on the floor with him, pulling him onto his lap. Aldo ends up with his face pressed against Thomas’s clavicle, in the circle of Thomas’s strong arms.
“It’s alright, darling.” Thomas says, over and over, as Aldo sobs into his chest.
Aldo isn’t really sure how long they sit like that, tangled together in a heap on the floor, but when he eventually stops crying, he feels like a wrung-out rag.
“Sorry.” He mumbles, aware that he’s an utter mess.
“It’s fine, I don’t care.” Thomas says, quietly.
“Not exactly the romantic evening you were envisioning.” Aldo says, wryly.
Thomas smiles at him- his eyes are slightly red as well.
“I’m not sure what I was envisioning.” Thomas says, with a rueful smile. “I just thought I’d kiss you and see what happened.”
“And it ended up with me crying on the floor.” Aldo says.
The attempted joke falls flat, and Thomas’s expression sobers.
“Yes, well- clearly if we’ve misunderstood each other again, and I’ve taken liberties with your person and I completely understand if you’d prefer to carry on as we have before-”
Aldo can’t help it- he starts to laugh.
“Thomas, you sound like a cop from the 1950s- ‘taken liberties with your person’- of course I want to sleep with you. I’ve been fucked up about it since my twenties.” Aldo says, happiness making him incautious with his words.
Thomas’s eyes widen.
“Oh.” He says, swallowing. “I see.” He looks rather pleased at the admission.
Aldo laughs again, feeling freer, lighter than he has done in years.
“We should get up.” He says, because the floor is no place for men of their age.
“Good idea.” Thomas says.
They get to their feet- a little less gracefully than they might have done decades before, but they don’t embarrass themselves. Once they are upright again Aldo finds himself staring up at Thomas’s face, unsure of what to do next. Thomas looks back at him and now Aldo can read the intent on his face, clear as day. He has no idea how he could have missed it. Perhaps it is because Thomas has always looked at him this way.
Warmth blooms in his stomach, and not a small amount of agitation on top of it, especially as Thomas begins to edge forward, into Aldo’s space.
“Can I just- go and wash my face?” Aldo asks, taking a little step back.
Thomas blinks at him, his purpose briefly derailed.
“Yes, of course.” He says, and Aldo all but runs to the bathroom.
He turns on the faucet and splashes his face a few times, ostensibly to shift the residue of his dried to tears, but mostly to assure himself that this is real. There is water on his skin and Thomas loves him.
He catches his own eye in the mirror above the sink and barely recognises the man looking back at him-the smile lighting his face has been missing for so long. He pats his face down with a towel and puts his glasses back on. He stands for a moment, frozen with a brief spasm of panic- and then he remembers that whatever he does next, he will be with Thomas. Thomas, who he has left waiting.
He opens the door and finds Thomas is still standing where he left him, in the middle of the living area. He looks apprehensive, as Aldo approaches.
“Aldo, if this is all too sudden-” Thomas begins, clearly about to offer Aldo an alternative- a gradual, careful easing into a change in their relationship. It is the kind of gallantry Aldo is used to from Thomas, and it is exactly the opposite of what he wants, right now.
Aldo simply does not stop moving towards him he has one arm curled around Thomas’s neck and his mouth pressed against Thomas’s. As kisses go it is not marvellously well co-ordinated, but when Thomas angles his head just so, and catches Aldo around the waist, pulling his body ever closer, it is as easy as breathing, as if they have done this thousands of times before.
“I love you, Aldo.” Thomas says, as their lips briefly cease contact. “You know, now, don’t you?”
There is an endearing, pleading note to Thomas’s voice.
“Of course. You have only ever told me the truth.” Aldo says.
He kisses Thomas again because he can, because he wants to, because now he has begun he never wants to stop.
“Do- you want to-?” Thomas asks, the next time they part, his face hopeful and flushed.
Aldo feels his heart turn over in his chest.
“Take me to bed.” Aldo says. He is so tired of ambiguity and confusion, he wishes to be clear and understood.
Thomas smiles for a scant moment, before his expression becomes that serious, determined one. He takes Aldo’s hand and walks him to his bedroom, where he pushes the door open and flicks on the light. They are confronted with the reality of the double bed, stark in the glow of the overhead bulb.
Thomas makes a tsking noise and drops Aldo’s hand, going to the nearest bedside table and turning the lamp on, before returning to Aldo and switching the main light off.
“There,” Thomas says, “more romantic.”
Aldo kisses him, because he has to- they have waited forty years for this, and Thomas still cares that the lighting is romantic. It is simply impossible not to love him.
They stumble towards the bed, unwilling to let go of each other until it is absolutely necessary. The back of Aldo’s knees hit the edge of the mattress, and he guides them both down, pulling Thomas on top of him. Thomas is hesitant, at first, to put his weight on Aldo, until Aldo makes an encouraging noise and spreads his legs a little, making room.
Thomas raises his head momentarily, eyebrows raised, and Aldo rolls his eyes in response.
“You can hardly be surprised that you’re on top, Thomas.” He says, and smiles when Thomas’s lips curl up in delight.
“Well, I was hoping-”
“Oh, shut up. You knew.” Aldo says.
Thomas presses a kiss to Aldo’s jaw.
“Yes, I suppose I did.” He concedes. His stubble rasps against the skin of Aldo’s neck, an entirely new sensation which sends a shiver running across Aldo’s overheated skin.
“Just so you know,” Aldo gasps, as Thomas undoes the top few buttons of his shirt so he has more of Aldo’s skin to kiss, “I’m really looking forward to you fucking me.”
Thomas pauses in his ministrations and lets out a happily surprised huff of laughter.
“Rather ambitious for tonight, I think, darling.”
Aldo laughs, delight bubbling up in his chest.
“Well, no, not tonight. But soon.” He declares.
Thomas smiles, looking slightly dazed, and for a moment they simply look at each other, both caught by the notion of the other man finally, finally being where they have wanted.
“We should-” Aldo says, gesturing to their clothes, hoping Thomas understand.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Thomas says, slightly ruefully, as if in his haste to get Aldo to bed he has forgotten an important step.
Undressing is a slightly awkward affair, but they manage it with no one getting hurt. They have, of course, changed in front of each other dozens of times, but always turned away, if Aldo ever looked at Thomas it was a quick, surreptitious affair, eyes rapidly averted as skin, scars, freckles, hair and muscle were committed to memory. Wondrous to think Thomas was perhaps doing the same.
Now Aldo knows exactly how quickly Thomas can unbuckle his belt when highly motivated for reasons other than being late to mass. Aldo also strips quickly, dropping his clothes carelessly on the floor, as Thomas stands and removes his shirt and trousers. It's tempting to hide his body under the duvet cover as soon as he is naked- yes, Aldo tries to take care of himself, but he is not in the first bloom of youth and even if he were, he knows he would be self-conscious around Thomas. Aldo has been staring at his broad shoulders, strong torso and long legs for most of his life, and now here Thomas is, bared for him. He’s beautiful, age doing nothing to diminish the vitality of him.
Aldo blushes, grateful his skin tone mostly hides it, as he takes in the sight of an aroused Thomas Lawrence. It makes him forget some of the agitation about his own body. Thomas seems mostly at ease, smiling as he joins Aldo back in bed.
“Look at you.” Thomas says, sounding awed, the simple words becoming reverent.
Aldo pushes his anxieties aside as Thomas reaches for him and they come together again, without the security- or rather the barrier -of their clothes. They kiss again, deeper, and Aldo is lost in the sensation of Thomas all around him- his breath in Aldo’s mouth and then on his skin, the scent of Thomas’s light cologne mixing with the briny scent of lust rising between them, Thomas’s hands all over his body, touching him where Aldo hasn’t thought to dream of being touched.
Occasional moments of clarity hit him, such as when he finds himself fitting his palm against the soft warm skin of Thomas’s rib cage and maps the expansion of his chest with his fingers as Thomas pulls in a shuddering breath. A miracle, which Aldo will remember for the rest of his life.
It is unsurprising that they resort to what they know, what they have both become experts in over their solitary years. Manual stimulation, as Aldo has heard it clinically referred to, or jerking off, as Aldo calls it- he has long stopped bothering to confess the sin of onanism when he repents. He had almost come to feel that the experience of opening his eyes after the act and finding himself utterly alone was punishment enough itself.
It does not feel like a sin when Thomas wraps his hand around Aldo, it feels almost holy- yet the clean spike of desire which slices through Aldo is tinged with the human need for more, faster, harder.
Thomas laughs into his mouth, and Aldo realises he has said his demands out loud, and almost shrinks away from him, but Thomas holds him fast, gives him what he wants. Thrusting into Thomas’s hand is a familiar and yet utterly unknown experience.
“You too.” Aldo says, not particularly coherently.
Thomas seems to understand, moving so he can touch himself and Aldo at the same time, their erections pressed together. Thomas lets out a moan and bites his lip as he truly registers the feeling. He moans again when Aldo kisses the spot he has just bitten. Aldo brings his hand down to join Thomas’s, and together they start to move, fingers entwined.
It doesn’t take long for Aldo to be on the brink of orgasm- much quicker than when he is on his own, even when he has the help of the silicone toy he keeps hidden in his bedside. Nothing can match the reality of Thomas above him, their bodies working together, being able to feel the pulse in Thomas’s cock throb in his hand. It is that which sends Aldo over the edge, feeling the evidence of Thomas’s need for him in the basest and most utterly astounding way.
Thomas follows not long after, spilling all over their joined hands with a groan just as Aldo had done. Aldo has no time to worry about the sheets, because Thomas is kissing him again, heedless of the mess of their mingled come. He finds he can’t bring himself to care, and he kisses Thomas back, joyously.
Eventually they part, and Aldo finds himself resting with his head on Thomas’s shoulder, tucked into his side. It is fantastically comfortable.
“Aldo?” Thomas asks, after a little while.
“Hm?”
“I was thinking,” Thomas says, “that now would be the perfect time for us to have one of those cigarettes you’ve been hiding from me.”
Aldo stiffens, caught, and Thomas bursts out laughing.
“You don’t smoke anymore.” Aldo points out, attempting to regain some of his dignity.
“Neither do you, and yet I saw you crouching in the garden of the archbishop’s house, smoking and apparently hiding from some nuns back in Dublin.” Thomas says.
Aldo tucks his face under Thomas’s chin.
“I was planning on throwing them out before we got home.” He insists.
“Yes, you’d better. I’ve finally got you; I’m not losing you to some dire lung disease.” Thomas says.
“I was in extremis.” Aldo says.
Thomas kisses his forehead.
“I know, darling.”
Aldo is half putting together an argument in his head defending his smoking, half thinking about getting up and finding a damn Marlboro, but between one thought and the next he simply drifts off to sleep, still held in Thomas’s embrace.
***
If he dreams at all that night, he does not remember anything.
***
Aldo opens his eyes and sees Thomas, sitting up in bed, reading a book. The sight almost brings him to tears, as memories of the previous day flood in to his mind.
“Good morning.” Thomas says, and then checks his watch, “yes, it is still just about morning.”
Aldo sits up and scrabbles for his glasses on the nightstand.
“How long did you let me sleep?” Aldo asks.
Thomas laughs a little.
“You were out for about twelve hours, and I do enjoy the accusation that I ‘let you’ sleep- there was no waking you. I went out to the boulangerie and when I came back you hadn’t budged an inch.”
“Oh.” Aldo says, feeling more than a little embarrassed.
He is still naked, and he is certain he has evidence of last nights ‘exertions’ dried on his skin. Thomas, however, has showered and is fully dressed, apparently having done something with his day already.
Thomas takes in Aldo’s expression, and he smiles at him, softly. He leans over and kisses Aldo on the lips.
“You obviously needed the rest and I’m glad you finally got it, my love.” Thomas says.
Aldo nods, mostly reassured.
“Um, I probably need a shower.” Aldo says.
Thomas looks nonplussed for a moment, and then his eyes drift down Aldo’s bare torso.
“Oh- yes of course. I’ll- go and put some coffee on.” Thomas says, standing up quickly, hastening to give Aldo some privacy.
Aldo nearly calls him back, feeling ridiculous- it isn’t as if Thomas didn’t see all of him last night. Still, he knows he’s not quite ready to be scrutinised in the cold light of day. He pulls his trousers on and heads for the bathroom.
The hot water feels wonderful on his skin and he stands for a long time, trying to focus on the pleasant ache in his muscles and not on the worries which are beginning to crowd in. It’s not that he isn’t happy- he feels so full of joy he thinks he might burst- it’s just that he cannot ignore the reality of their situation now.
Yes, they love each other, but how will they manage that, back at work? Will they tell anyone, and if so, who can they fully trust? He knows Thomas has always hated secrets, and he can’t bear the thought of this being another burden for him to carry.
He gets out of the shower and as he dries off and dresses, tries to tell himself to lighten up. They are together now; he does not have to face these daunting uncertainties alone.
“You were in there a while.” Thomas remarks as Aldo joins him in the kitchen.
“Oh, you know, doing my hair always takes an age.” Aldo says, pretending to tuck an imaginary tress behind his ear.
Thomas laughs, a delighted sound, and is still smiling as he pours Aldo a cup of coffee and hands it to him.
“We need to talk.” Aldo says, a little more forcefully than necessary.
The smile slips off Thomas’s face.
“Oh?” He asks, sounding deeply apprehensive.
“No- sorry, I- said that badly.” Aldo says, annoyed at himself for already messing up.
Thomas nods, still looking a little grim.
“We do need to talk, you’re right.” He says.
They sit on the couch, close, but not touching and Aldo tries not to read too much into that.
“I- was wondering how this- us- will work when we go home.” Aldo says, carefully.
Thomas nods again.
“I think we just- carry on as we have done before.” He says.
Aldo’s heart sinks a little in his chest. That doesn’t sound very promising.
“If that’s what you want.” He replies, and he supposes his tone is a little mulish.
Thomas frowns at him and then his face clears. He takes Aldo’s hand, the one which isn’t holding the coffee mug.
“Oh- darling, obviously I didn’t mean exactly as before, but- we already spend a lot of time together, alone. I doubt anyone would notice much difference if you spent the whole night with me, rather than just the evening.”
Aldo feels warm all over, and very relieved.
“Oh- yes, I would like that.” He says.
Thomas twines their fingers together, much like he had last night. The memory sends a thrill down Aldo’s spine.
“You know, there have been rumours about us for years already.” He says.
“Yes,” Aldo agrees, “I tried not to listen to them, though. I thought people were just being cruel.”
Thomas shrugs.
“I’m sure some of them were. It won’t exactly be easy, but I’m sure we can manage.”
“You’ll have to stop yourself from calling me ‘darling’ in front of the curia.” Aldo says.
“I already do have to do that.” Thomas replies.
Aldo smiles, finding himself immediately comforted. He leans into Thomas’s side, rests his head on his shoulder.
Thomas clears his throat.
“There is another matter we need to talk about.” Thomas says.
“Hm?” Aldo hums.
“Yes- I- last night, you said I have only ever told you the truth and whilst I really have always endeavoured to be honest with you, Aldo there is a matter I haven’t been entirely honest with you about- out of necessity, you understand.” Thomas says.
Aldo gets a feeling of sudden trepidation in the pit of his stomach.
“OK?” Aldo says.
“It’s about the pope, you see, and it isn’t really my place to share this information, but I know you will be discreet with it.” Thomas continues.
Aldo tightens his grip on Thomas’s fingers, trying not to panic. He is sure Thomas would not have made love to him, said all the things he had last night, only to admit he has feelings for someone else. But still, a little seed of doubt manages to take root.
“You’re correct in thinking I have been- overly solicitous towards Vincent. I have been, and still am, deeply concerned about him.” Thomas continues, his tone measured.
Aldo’s fear takes on a new angle- is the pope ill, perhaps? Is his life being threatened by something else- a terrorist group with a vendetta against the former Archbishop of Kabul? He sits in silent apprehension, waiting for Thomas to break the news.
Thomas takes a deep breath.
“Just after the end of the conclave it was revealed to me that the pope has a womb.” Thomas says.
There are many things Aldo imagined Thomas might say. That was not one of them.
“Oh.” Aldo says, after a few seconds pass.
He considers this information, turns it over in his head a few times. Thomas stares at him, clearly tense, waiting for Aldo’s assessment.
“I see.” Aldo says. “Is he transgender-?”
“No, he was unaware of the- organ- until he had an appendectomy, and his womb was discovered during the operation. He had no knowledge of it before that point.”
“I see- that must have been a shock.” Aldo says, trying and failing to grasp how that must have felt, to discover you are intersex.
Thomas nods.
“Yes- he was due to have a procedure to remove it but he decided not to- the previous holy father knew all of this and still made him cardinal.”
It hardly surprises Aldo at this point that the holy father knew. That man seemed to know everything.
“Well, having a womb shouldn’t disqualify him from any station of life in the church. Nor should it for anyone.” Aldo says, meaningfully.
Thomas smiles at him.
“I know you think that, but imagine what his enemies would do with this information, if they were to ever find out? They would use it to try and invalidate his papacy, and you know it.”
Unfortunately, Aldo knows Thomas is correct. Difference is not well tolerated within the church.
“God chose Vincent to be pope, through the wisdom of the conclave, and that cannot be undone. And God knows us all better than we know ourselves- he set Vincent on the path to be a priest, womb and all.”
Thomas lets out a slow breath.
“I knew you wouldn’t care, Aldo, it’s just- I worry about it.” Thomas says.
Aldo understands- it is hardly a common situation, to discover the holy father is not, technically, wholly male.
“Well, there’s no reason why anyone would find out- his doctors all took the Hippocratic oath, after all. And if he does decide he wants to tell the world- well, that can be managed too.” Aldo says.
Thomas’s eyes widen.
“Do you think he’d want to?”
Aldo shrugs.
“It would be his choice, but it would be a wonderfully powerful image for a new type of church, don’t you think? Not to turn the pope’s intersexuality into branding, of course.” He says.
Thomas snorts, faintly amused.
“Ever the politician.” He says, fondly.
They sit quietly for a few moments, Aldo still digesting this new fact about the pope. He resolves to go to Vincent and offer his full friendship- now he has cast his petty resentments aside he can see the full extent of the other man’s isolation, and his heart aches for him. No wonder he has needed Thomas so much, when there has been no one else.
“Thank you for telling me, Thomas.” Aldo says.
“Of course.” Thomas says.
“You’ve been a wonderful friend to him, Thomas. I’m sorry I misinterpreted that.”
Thomas smiles.
“Thank you.” He says, squeezing Aldo’s hand.
There is more to be said, of course, but that’s for later, when they are home and have to deal with real life again. For now, a comfortable silence descends again. Aldo sips his coffee.
“So, what did you want to do on our last day of freedom?” Aldo asks, after a moment.
Thomas puts his arm around Aldo, pulling him closer.
“Well, there’s the Champs-Élysées or the Eiffel Tower. Maybe the Louvre?” Thomas suggests, before dipping his head and kissing Aldo’s throat.
“Hm- or we could look into getting you those Disneyland tickets.” Aldo says, angling his body so Thomas can reach more of him.
“Oh, yes- perhaps we can take a riverboat tour.” Thomas says, against Aldo’s skin.
Aldo laughs, pushing Thomas away momentarily so he can put down his coffee cup.
“Or we could just go back to bed?” He says, casually.
“Yes, that sounds nice.” Thomas says, already leaning in to capture Aldo’s mouth in a kiss.
***
Later, after they have showered and dressed, they hurry out to evening mass. They have decided not to attend the service at the cathedral, but rather one of the many parish churches that can be found sandwiched into the side streets of Paris. Inside the church there is a small congregation of worshippers, the nave is lit with warm candlelight. The priest welcomes them all with outstretched arms.
They have dressed simply- the only adornments they wear to show their rank within their church are their rings. They wish to be normal men for this undertaking.
They take the sacrament kneeling next to each other, shoulder to shoulder at the altar, and then walk down the aisle together. Once back in their pew, Thomas takes Aldo’s hand.
Aldo looks at him and is unsurprised to find tears in his husband’s eyes. He wipes his own cheek and smiles.
***
Later still, Aldo dreams:
“I’ve been remembering you wrong, I think.” Aldo says to the dead pope. They are sitting in his rooms, but they look oddly like a garden, lush flowers all around them, and turtles swimming in the ponds.
“Hmm.” The holy father says, and then looks up from the chessboard, grinning. “I have been trying to tell you, he was yours all along, Aldo.”
Aldo looks down and finds he is holding his knight in his hand.
The holy father tuts.
“You kept pushing him away, like an idiot. The metaphor was not subtle, my friend.” The holy father says.
Aldo laughs.
“I think it is pretty obvious that I fail to see what is right in front of me, sometimes.” Aldo says.
“Yes,” the holy father concedes, “even with the strength of your prescription, you were blind.”
“And now I see.” Aldo says.
The holy father smiles.
“Another game?” He asks, gesturing to the board.
“Why not?” Aldo replies.
Notes:
the restraint i showed in not calling this chapter '2courage2cardinals'.
so uh. weird week to finish this fic, huh???
i am very sad, has a pope ever said anything more profound than 'who am i to judge?'. whatever your feelings toward the catholic church (and just by dint of reading this i know they are COMPLEX) pope francis did do good in the world.
also i live on rainyterfisland, and to any trans people reading this know that i love you and think you are wonderful and are exactly as you should be and policy should not be dictated by bigoted children's authors.
AND there may be a bit more of this series. i want to see my boy vincent again. (and then i will write other things because i have 10000 ideas for aldo and thomas and their LOVE)
leave a comment if you liked it!
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