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It is November, and while Lawrence cleans up his desk before leaving his office at the end of the day, he is filled with dread. He looks out of the window; it feels like night has fallen even earlier with the dark clouds gathered above Rome and the incessant downpour.
He knows what that means, and already feels utterly miserable.
Alas, it is time to stop procrastinating, to forget about emails and management, and face the real hardships of life.
Lawrence stops by Monsignor O'Malley's office before leaving.
"Ray, would you be so kind as to send a message to Marcello? He can wait at porta di Sant'Anna, as usual."
Ray nods, his hands already going for the smartphone on his desk. "I will. Good evening, Eminence."
There's a small smile at the corner of Ray's mouth. He hides it, but Lawrence knows him too well to miss it. Good, he thinks, his mind stuck on the word. No, nothing good will come out of this evening.
Thomas walks all the way from his office to the Palace under the protection of his white umbrella. He had kept it after the conclave, as a keepsake. And he really likes it, better than the black one now. It's really just basic conditioning.
Innocent's secretary asks him to wait for a few minutes while His Holiness finishes with his last guest of the day. Thomas exchanges pleasant small talk with the secretary. It is not something Thomas would have done a year ago… Well, exchanging small talk and reassuring words with a coworker is nothing new to Thomas of course. But with female coworkers, that's another kettle of fish.
Maybe it's become easier because he knows there can be no temptation anymore. But that's not entirely true. If it were, then his uneasiness would have disappeared with the tumor in his prostate. It hadn't. The temptation had been wiped away by a more recent development, a most terrible one.
When the door opens, greeting officials and exchanging courtesies come easily to him. He is still the Dean. He is still the former Secretary of State, a seasoned diplomat. This is easy.
Turning to face the simple smile on Innocent's face is the hard part. The genuine relief mixed with joy, and something else. The innocence… Vincent never hides his emotions whenever their paths cross.
Once the road is cleared –the officials have left and the secretary is packing her stuff– Vincent beckons him into his office with a warm smile. As soon as he is within reach, there's Vincent's hand on his shoulder and Thomas, despite himself, can feel his heart melt.
Vincent starts talking about his day, as if everything was normal, while he tugs on his dog collar and unfastens his fascia. Thomas's mind comes to a stop, as it always does, and he can only stare for a long time until he remembers that it would be preferable for his poor heart if he just turned away.
His fingers are shaking as he discards his own dog collar and zucchetto, and starts unfastening the buttons of his cassock. He always tries to gain as much time as possible with himself before taking his fascia and his cross off. He just feels naked and vulnerable without the former, and completely forsaken without the latter.
"I called already," Vincent announces. "We have more time ahead of us than I expected; that means we can make a small detour and walk along the quay for some time."
When Thomas turns around, Vincent has already exchanged his papal regalia for a black coat and is handing Thomas a similar one.
Formal wear, long coat, black umbrella. Short days, heavy rain. It's Vincent's favorite recipe for escaping the Vatican. No one ever pays attention to them; the usual crowds of tourists scatter away or hide in the caffè on via della Conciliazione. They avoid the wide avenues, of course.
They escape through the Eastern gate, as expected, and Thomas catches Marcello's gaze for a second, making sure that the bodyguard has noticed the two dark silhouettes hidden under the two dark umbrellas and will tail them from now on.
The real danger starts outside, at the first narrow alley Vincent directs them to. It starts with uneven cobbled stones and slippery pavements. With potholes that have probably survived WWII.
Thomas had almost fallen, during one of their first escapades. He had lost his footing and had ended up in Vincent's arms, feeling every bit like the bothersome old man that he was. Like a man who had not realized up until that point how weak his defenses were in face of strong arms, warm reassurances and a soft smile. His heart had been beating so loudly in his ears that he was sure Vincent could hear it just as well.
Now, Vincent slides his hand from his lower back to his hip, where it settles in a grounding gesture. The movement causes an electric current to travel up Thomas' spine, and his breath catches in his throat. He feels how his cheeks are already reddening and they are merely 100 meters away from the Vatican.
Vincent stands so close to him that their umbrellas are quite useless.
"My dear Vincent, your shoulder will be soaking wet," Thomas sighs. "Please, let me?"
"Of course, my dear Thomas," Vincent allows with a mischievous smile.
Vincent folds his umbrella and Thomas switches the hand with which he holds his, shielding both of them from the rain. Vincent stands even closer to him, to the point that Thomas imagines his body heat penetrating through all the layers between them.
It's the same ritual every time. At this point it would be more efficient to leave with only one umbrella in the first place.
It's a 25 minutes walk to the restaurant, 35 with their little detour. Vincent is greeted by the waiter in Dari, and they chat as if they were old friends. Thomas now understands almost half of the words. No one ever acted as if they had been recognized, but they are always led to a table hidden away in an alcove, far from the sight of the other patrons.
For a moment, Thomas forgets who they are. It's just good food, and good company, and listening to Vincent's tales (not all of them are as dark and somber as one might imagine), and sharing tales of his own.
When they leave the restaurant, he lets Vincent hold his hand until his eyes settle on the dark shape of a man on the other side of the street. Marcello.
Everything comes crashing back. Thomas frees his hand from Vincent's grasp, and tries to soften the blow by putting it on the small of his back. Not that it's better, but it's all the plausible deniability that they need.
They will walk back to the Vatican, to Vincent's office where they will change back into their usual attire, like superheroes donning the mask once again. He will insist on escorting Vincent all the way to the Casa Santa Marta –just to be sure that the Pope will not wander away without security again. He will refuse Vincent's offer to join him for a last drink. He will walk back home, miserable, and enjoy a burning shower, a warm tea and a sleepless night.
This time, the ritual is broken in the hostel's lobby, when something tugs at the sleeve of his cassock. Thomas turns around only to be face to face with a soggy Marcello.
"My dear boy, it is late. You should have left us at the gate, as usual. There really is no need to follow us all the way here, please take some rest."
Marcello shakes his head, his expression determined. "Eminence, may I have a word please?"
Thomas swallows down the dread, and forces himself to smile and nod. Vincent is busy chatting with the sister at the reception desk, and doesn't seem to have noticed anything. Marcello leads them a few paces away, near the entrance door.
Marcello is silent for a beat. Then he sighs heavily. "With all the respect I have for you and His Holiness, you are not very discreet."
Thomas raises his eyebrows as if in surprise, but Marcello's piercing gaze on him probably means he's not very convincing. "All I mean to say is that, when it's just the three of us out there, you might as well hold his hand without fear of my judgment. And, if you have survived this far without even one rumor leaking out of the Vatican, without one picture in the press, then you might as well go all the way. There is nothing you can do in the safety of the Casa Santa Martha that can be riskier than these little outings."
Marcello's tone is very adamant. Encouraging. Thomas can only gaze fixedly to the wall for a moment, balancing between the certainties of his world. O Lord, grant me your strength to face this trial.
"Thomas? Is everything alright?" Vincent calls out behind him.
He turns around only to witness Vincent's worried look, and his tired smile. "Yes, yes. Everything is alright." Thomas tries to be as reassuring as he can, while he feels as if he's facing the abyss.
"It's too late for a cup of tea, but there's this infusion of rooibos that you might like…"
As usual, the open invitation that Thomas must refuse. Except that right now, there's a hand on his back pressing him forward. "Y-Yes," Thomas stutters. "I would like to try."
The words are powerful enough to wipe away any tiredness from Vincent's expression. He is, in fact, beaming radiantly as he walks up to Thomas to link their arms together.
"Thank you for watching over us," Vincent calls out.
"With pleasure, your Holiness," Thomas hears Marcello's answer behind his back.