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As they walk back to Casa Santa Marta just in time for the curfew, leaving the turtle pond behind, Lawrence figures he should keep some small-talk going. His questioning after Benítez’s health (perhaps a bit too clumsy, too unsubtle) has yielded no results, and somehow he doubts he managed to convince the man to quit voting for him. Maybe another angle will reveal itself if he keeps at it.
“Are you… getting your bearings here alright?” he tries. He supposes he can’t help but feel protective of guileless Vincent. “I assume you don’t get the opportunity to visit often?”
Benítez smiles. “I don’t get the opportunity, no. But I have of course been to Rome before. Still, I haven’t had much time to explore la Casa Santa Marta… I haven’t even met my roommate yet.”
Ah, the rooming arrangements. Two cardinals to a room, like in seminary school or in a university dorm, paired up at random. Lawrence has found himself rooming with one of the Americans, which he started out cautiously optimistic about, but it turned out the man is an avid Tremblay supporter. Not much to talk about there beyond “would you like the first shower” or “could you please turn off the lights”.
“Have you been told who it is at all?” Lawrence asks.
Benítez nods once, an oddly graceful motion. “A Cardinale Tedesco.”
The “Oh no” slips out of Lawrence before he can prevent it.
The thing is, the roommate pairings are mostly randomly chosen. There is one notable exception that Lawrence even specially accounted for when planning this out with Mandorff: past experiences in similar settings have shown that no one in their right mind wants to room with Tedesco. The incessant vaping, combined with the man’s abundance of personality… it was easy to rig things just so that, with the odd number of cardinals attending the conclave, Tedesco ended up with a room to himself. With Benítez arriving late and unexpected, and an even number of cardinals now, there clearly was only one free spot for Mandorff to put him in…
“Oh, no?” Benítez now echoes.
“Tedesco is…” A nasty piece of work, Lawrence keeps himself from saying. He’s not supposed to disparage his brothers in Christ like that, no matter how true it is. “…a bit controversial. And he’s likely to smoke his vape in the room, so I hope you’re not asthmatic or anything of the sort.”
“I’m not,” Benítez says and inclines his head, as if in gratitude for the concern. “And no stranger to controversy, either.”
“This is not the kind of controversy you want to invite,” Lawrence cautions. “Look, if you at any point find yourself genuinely needing new rooming arrangements, come to me about it, and we’ll figure something out.”
Tedesco’s not sure how he initially lucked into not having a roommate forced upon him, but he intended to appreciate it in full: use the room for strategizing meetings with his supporters, smoke all he wants, stash hard candies in the nightstand. Then, he’s being told by a monsignor cringing preemptively in fear of his displeasure that he’s to be sharing after all with the newcomer, Vincent Cardinal Benítez, the one that snuck in from Afghanistan of all places.
Now Vincent Cardinal Benítez is in here. He is a slight, soft-spoken, almost fragile-looking man who seems to have a smile for everyone and keeps his hands demurely clasped in front of himself, and Tedesco would dismiss him as a simpering little people-pleaser of no relevance, but something stays his judgement. Something in the man’s posture, maybe… something about the laundry list of absurdly dangerous places Benítez has ministered in. One probably doesn’t survive unscathed in those places if one is weak.
Benítez is currently unpacking. He hasn’t brought anything with him but that shabby little briefcase for some reason, but he has been provided with vestments for every occasion, which he is now laying out on his bed and examining.
“Ay dios mío,” he mutters under his breath, “I’m not used to all this anymore…”
…which is evident, yeah. Already, Benítez forgot to wear his fascia to dinner, which has prompted a few smirks among the less mature jokesters of the College of Cardinals. “The mozzetta goes on top,” Tedesco advises.
“Thank you, Eminencia,” Benítez says dryly with a brief sideways glance.
Maybe there’s some fun to be had with him…
“So, how are you liking Rome?” he opens – nice and general, could lead anywhere. Benítez looks up.
“I didn’t get to see much of it – came straight here from the airport, unfortunately. But of course I’ve been to Rome before and done a bit of sightseeing.”
“Psh, all the tourist spots, most likely,” Tedesco waves it off. “After this conclave, you must get a local to show you around. I happen to know several of the—”
“After the conclave, I will return to my diocese,” Benítez interjects.
“What, to Kabul?” Tedesco snorts. Does this man really believe that there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that that’ll work out for him? “They’ll have you killed. They’ll have you publicly stoned, or whatever it is those people do.”
“That’s a stereotype,” Benítez says softly, but with an edge. “But I harbor no illusions about the danger I’ll be heading into… and I’m prepared to face the consequences for my faith, as so many others have.”
Tedesco rolls his eyes. It would be so overwrought, but the way Benítez says it, he seems to genuinely know what he is talking about…
And were Tedesco more ruthless a man, he would see the political benefits to such a martyr. He would, as pope, give Vincent what he wants, send him back, let him get killed and made a spectacle of. Watch as the tide in the Vatican turns, watch as they all begin to see the real and present danger they are in, see what happens when the church grows weak and complacent and lets itself be overrun in the name of tolerance…
…But he wouldn’t throw one of his fratelli in Christo to the wolves like that. Would he?
No, no, he’s not that bad… is he?
“Controversial,” Benítez says, as if repeating something he’s heard, and looks at Tedesco like he’s reading the thoughts straight out of his mind. “I see.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Tedesco argues.
“You were thinking it very loudly, Eminencia.”
Tedesco shakes his head, unwilling to get into it now. “No need to stand on formality, fratello. Just ‘Tedesco’ is fine. Or ‘Goffredo’, whichever you prefer.”
“Goffredo.” Benítez smiles. His soft Spanish accent does a little something to Tedesco’s name. “And I’m Vincent.”
Cute.
Tedesco clears his throat. “Do you mind if I smoke in here?”
Tedesco wakes the next morning not to his alarm but to Benítez singing in the shower, apparently completely unselfconscious of potentially being overheard. He’s singing in Spanish, but Tedesco recognizes the hymn by its tune. His voice isn’t anything breathtaking, but it’s clear and sure; all in all, not the most annoying way to be woken.
His fingers twitch to grab a phone he couldn’t bring in here. He misses the little morning ritual of checking his emails, browsing the news, sampling the ridiculous highs and lows of Curia Twitter. Instead, he unplugs his vape pen from its charger and takes the first hit of the morning.
Soon, the shower switches off and Benítez pokes his head out. “Oh, that’s very unhealthy,” he chirps.
Tedesco raises an eyebrow his way. “Buongiorno.”
“Ah, yes, apologies, good morning. I was wondering if I could borrow your hairbrush? I got toiletries from the sisters, but they seem to have forgotten…”
“…a hairbrush. Yes, well, it’s not like many men in this conclave require it for their three hairs.”
“That’s mean,” Benítez says, but does seem to suppress a chuckle.
Thus they end up side by side in front of the one bathroom mirror, Benítez combing his hair while Tedesco trims his beard. Benítez, who doesn’t seem to need to shave, is trying to slick his hair down with a little water, hoping to tame the ends that feather and frame his face. Tedesco pushes his own jar of product at him.
They dress in a silence that is almost companionable. Benítez manages to get the choir dress on correctly, though it’s too long for him, the hem dragging on the ground. “Maybe I’ll ask the nuns for some safety pins,” he muses.
“Your zucchetto is crooked,” Tedesco says, and adjusts it before the man can start fussing again. His knuckles brush Benítez’s hair, which feels precisely as soft and silky as it looks.
He flexes his hand and tries to put it out of his mind as he goes about his day.
That evening, Vincent returns to his room feeling exhausted. Sure, the initial jetlag has mostly faded now, and he’s not really been doing anything all day but sitting and talking, and his daily life back in Kabul entails much more intense work, usually. But something about the conclave wears on his spirit. The flood of new impressions, all the people he doesn’t know, all the wheeling and dealing and politicking, many of his brother cardinals seeming way more interested in amassing votes by various underhanded little means than in keeping God’s will close to their hearts. They seem to forget that ultimately, it is the Holy Spirit who will have to choose.
He means to have an early night, but he doesn’t get much farther than changing from his borrowed cassock into his civilian attire and lighting a few candles to pray with before he hears a knock on the door. Maybe Tedesco forgot his key card, he thinks.
“Goffredo, is it you?”
“No, thank God,” says Cardinal Tremblay and sticks his head in unprompted. “May I just have a quick word with you?”
Internally, Vincent sighs. More election politics. “Well, I was about to pray. But alright, if it’s just a quick word.”
“Great!” Tremblay steps inside fully, and sits down in the only chair in here. He gives Vincent what he probably thinks is a warm and confidential smile. “Well, Cardinal Benítez, how are you finding the curia?”
“Very edifying,” says Vincent, keeping it vague. “I’ve been meeting a great many interesting people.”
“Wonderful,” Tremblay replies. “And you even managed to gain yourself a small number of supporters, eh?”
Ah. That’s what this is about. “I have no idea who is voting for me, and I truly wish they wouldn’t.”
It’s been a shock to Vincent that anyone would show him support in the form of votes. He doesn’t even know anyone here. Sure, some of the cardinals have apparently heard of his work in the Congo, in Baghdad, and think highly of it, which is nice, Vincent supposes. But he never thought this would translate into anyone wanting to see him as pope. It baffles him. It’s just so completely not his goal here.
“Well,” says Tremblay. “Maybe, if your supporters saw you backing another candidate…”
That’s already not working, Vincent wants to say. I’m not voting for myself. I’d give those votes that are cast for me to Dean Lawrence and do it happily. He doesn’t think mentioning that to Tremblay would help in any way, though. So he simply shrugs.
“Look, the way I see it, you’re a bit of a rising star here, right? If you stick around and keep making connections, and I don’t see what else you’re going to be doing, hah, you could go far here. And you could go even farther with guidance from someone experienced, someone who knows this place and these people.”
There’s very little that Vincent wants less. In fact, he sees no point at all to spending his time sitting here and learning how to play little political games with a handful of cardinals, while there’s so much real work urgently needing to be done out there in the world. There’s no diplomatic way, however, to tell Tremblay this. This is all getting to be quite awkward.
Tremblay continues his pitch: “I mean, it’s a shame what happened with Adeyemi. And Bellini and Lawrence are having their little lovers’ spat splitting the liberal vote. And I think we can agree that a Tedesco papacy would be… undesirable. So really, well, I must say, if it were to fall to me…”
(Vincent notes that Tremblay hasn’t told him a word about his actual beliefs yet. His only argument in favor of himself seems to be that he’s not any of the others.)
“If it were to fall to you?” he prompts.
“I would see you taken care of, my brother,” says Tremblay and grasps his hands. “Have arrangements made to offer you asylum, smooth things over with the Americans. You should not be left out in the cold when this is over, as some of my colleagues might.”
“I’m not available to be bribed,” Vincent simply says. Bribed with his naked life and safety, at that, not even an offer of anything material… Vincent wouldn’t take such an offer either way, but it makes Tremblay appear shabby.
“Oh,” Tremblay winces as if stung, then leans forward and continues, in a lower voice, the grip of his hands now getting tight and angry, “You truly think you’re so above it all, eh? You think just because you came here from—”
Someone clears their throat from the direction of the door.
Tremblay half-rises from his seat. “Tedesco!”
“Tremblay,” Tedesco replies faux-jovially. “In crimine flagranti with our newcomer, vero?”
Tremblay puts on a cramped-looking smile. “Only having a little chat with… Cardinal Benítez here.”
“Allora! Now you’ve chatted, and you must be on your way, yes? Very busy, I assume.” When Tremblay only reluctantly starts to move away, Tedesco makes several energetic, shooing hand motions. “Andare, andare! Davvero, l’audacia di campaigning in my room! Shoo, shoo!”
Tremblay departs.
“How long have you been listening to him?” Vincent asks.
“Long enough.” Tedesco doesn’t seem displeased, really, even if he certainly must have heard Tremblay call him undesirable, with Vincent not exactly disagreeing. There’s a lingering satisfaction in him instead, like a great big contented cat licking cream off its whiskers and purring. He likes to throw his weight around, Vincent thinks. He likes to make a scene.
“You needn’t have come to my rescue like that,” he says, permitting himself a sliver of irony.
Tedesco shrugs it off. “You needn’t have tolerated him for that long. The men in this curia, they have been playing these games for decades, they have thick skin. You need not be nice to them if you don’t want to.”
“There is value in being civil,” Vincent says, which is ignored.
“Tell you what,” Tedesco continues, grips him by the shoulder and… woggles him, there’s really no better word for it. “Next time you hear someone in this conclave say something that you object to, you stand up to them, capisce? You stand up, and you really let them have it.”
(He will go on to regret imparting this advice.)
Vincent, now woggled, asks, “Does this also fall under guidance from someone experienced?”
Tedesco laughs, looking genuinely delighted. “There, you’re doing it already.”
Originally, Tedesco had only come in here to plug his vape into its charger – this conclave is making him smoke too much – and then leave Benítez to his own devices, whatever those are. But he’s had fun driving Tremblay out, and Benítez is looking a little less reserved, so maybe he can make some headway here. He sits down in the seat that Tremblay vacated and spreads his legs, smoothing down his cassock.
“Well,” he says, “how do you find the curia?”
“I find it quite easily.” Benítez smiles wanly. “I step out of this room and there it is.”
Tedesco gives him a small pity-laugh for that one. It’s less information than Tremblay got, which is unfair.
He tries another angle. “I take it Tremblay didn’t impress you.”
“He left an impression of… vacuousness, I regret to say.”
“And our good Decano Lawrence?”
Benítez folds his hands in his lap, his smile broadening, warming. “He is a kindly and godly man.”
Tedesco feels a strange sting of irritation. This probably answers the question of whom Benítez is voting for, but really, must he look quite so sappy and besotted about it? “I didn’t ask whether you want to make the beast with two backs with him. I mean his doctrinal politics. You talk with him a lot, no?”
“Make the…?” Benítez looks vaguely scandalized. “I’d heard rumors that the Vatican was… secretly a bit libertine about celibacy, but really. This is blunt.”
Tedesco shrugs. He’s not sure he can not be blunt. He remembers how quickly work within the church eroded whatever illusions he may have harbored about celibacy in his youth. He remembers occasionally enjoying a brief indulgence in all the secret little games, dipping now and then into that forbidden pool as more than half the curia would on the regular, some sneaking around with their little boyfriends, some slipping away with the nuns or outside to bestow some ‘spiritual guidance’ on the hardworking young men and women walking the streets. Yes, Tedesco has searched his heart, scoured his soul, examined his loins, and found no point in staying away from it all. A little over-the-cassock-stuff tucked away in a confessional booth, some sojourns to the clubs in Rome, the occasional laying of hands on oneself. The guilty conscience faded over the years as well, to the point at which he barely even goes to confession over things like this anymore. Everybody’s doing it. Who cares? They’re all men of the world here.
(Yet still he would object on principle to celibacy, ignored as it is, ever being abolished. His politics live in a different sphere of the mind than the things he actually does in his day-to-day, and he chooses to not examine this state of being too closely. Life is best lived that way. He has yet to meet a man free of some hypocrisy.)
Still, fun as it is, this type of thing can still be career-ending if observed by the wrong eyes. In any case, with age the appetite wanes, though so far it hasn’t fully disappeared. Take Benítez for example, cute as a button, sitting on his bed there. He’d said ‘this is blunt’, not ‘this is disgusting.’ Maybe he’d be interested in a little distraction from the stress of the conclave…?
But no, it’s obvious that if he was, he’d go to Lawrence for that, try as he might there. Well, if that occurs, and he crashes on Tommaso’s frigid slopes, Tedesco will be right here for him.
For now, he departs. He has things to do, supporters to meet.
When he returns to the room, it’s around midnight, the scheming having run long, meandering from discussing how to talk Adeyemi’s faction into forming a voting block into gossiping and bitching about other cardinals indiscriminately, accompanied by several bottles of wine. Tedesco can handle his liquor, and came away with no more than a giddy little buzz if he says so himself, but some of the others are going to be having problems tomorrow. Well, hardly his concern…
As he nudges the door shut with his foot, seeing as he’s carrying an armful of snacks purloined from the kitchens (not having his vape nearby always makes him hungry) he discovers Benítez sleeping. The loud click of the door falling shut doesn’t wake him, but he does wince and shift restlessly. His sleep doesn’t look comfortable, his skinny limbs all tangled up with the blanket, his face scrunched up in acute discomfort. He’s sweating a little in the relatively cool room, and something about the slackness of his mouth, the roving eyes under the closed lids, makes him look vulnerable, helpless. A nightmare.
This also is hardly Tedesco’s concern. He carries his stolen goods to his nightstand, opens the top drawer, and starts arranging them just so. There’s not much point to any of this, the conclave will not possibly draw out long enough for him to eat all this candy by himself, but… well, it’s a comfort, strangely. Too many memories that have never dulled of going to bed hungry for too many nights.
Benítez is whimpering now, high keening little “nnhh” sounds. He’s having a real rough go of it, it seems. Tedesco is no stranger to nightmares: the starving ones, the drowning ones. (Every citizen of Venice probably lives with the specter of the lagoon taking them.) He knows he always appreciates being woken, if only by the stray cat that frequents the Patriarch’s palace perching on his chest and yowling.
He reaches out with his foot and gives Benítez’s bedframe a few forceful kicks. “Eminenza! Benítez!”
For a startling moment, the whines only rise in pitch and urgency. But then Benítez jerks awake, shoots up in bed and gulps in air.
Tedesco goes back to organizing his nightstand. Let the man have a moment to sort himself out away from prying eyes.
After a minute or so, Benítez’s breathing starts to sound less ragged.
Eventually, he says, “Thank you for waking me.”
Tedesco hums ambivalently.
Benítez adds, “I’m sorry if I have disturbed you.”
Tedesco makes a vague gesture with his hand.
“Sometimes, in the course of my ministries, I would get in… sticky situations,” Benítez explains, uncommonly talkative. Perhaps the leftover adrenaline is loosening his lips. “Occasionally, in times of some stress, they come back as dreams.”
Fascinated against his will, curious what kinds of situations Benítez’s wildly risky ministries would entail, Tedesco asks, “Like what, for example?”
Benítez shifts, seems to deliberate whether or not he really wants to talk about it. Then he nods to himself and begins, “For example, there was one time in Kabul. I was driving home, and I happened upon a roadblock guarded by three armed men – Taliban, I think. They were signaling people to pull over, sometimes searching them or their cars. Each was carrying a semi-automatic rifle, one man pointing his at people’s windshields as the other two carried out their business. So, they waved me over too, and just as I was stopping at the side of the road, I realized that I was still wearing my crucifix.”
“No,” Tedesco mutters under his breath, dreadfully enthralled.
“Yes. So stupid in retrospect,” Benítez says with a strained little smile. “It was all I could do to stuff it under my shirt, but the whole time I was convinced they’d see the band around my neck and ask me what it was, or that they’d search my car and find my bible in my bag. I don’t even remember in so much detail what questions they asked me, only that I feared I’d wet myself!” He laughs. “They wanted to see my visa and passport. While one man read my documents, the other put his rifle barrel squarely on my chest… like so.”
He extricates himself from his blanket, walks over, makes a fist and rests it, inert, in the center of Tedesco’s chest, roughly in the space normally taken up by the pectoral cross. There his fist sits, exerting gentle, inescapable pressure.
“It felt like this. I think I tried to pray, but my mind was just so much white noise. The man was wearing sunglasses. I remember just staring at them, wondering what his eyes looked like. He must have thought I was staring him down.”
Something about Benítez’s soft voice is transporting, somehow. Tedesco has never wasted a minute’s thought on what Kabul might be like – hot, presumably? Sandy? A dry, cracking heat, or a muggy type like a Venetian summer? Would Benítez have felt it then, the sweltering heat pressing down on him? The sun-warmed, heavy weight of the barrel of the gun digging hard into cloth and skin? His hidden silver cross, burning a hole into his chest? The fear, numbing every part of himself from the brain stem down? Every heartbeat, every breath past his lips, precious and imperiled?
“And then what happened?” Tedesco asks. (He feels a bit dizzy. The wine he’s had is apparently affecting him more than he’d thought.)
Benítez shrugs. “They let me go. I drove home, and then just sat in the car for a while, shaking so hard. When I dream of it… sometimes they don’t let me go. They take me away somewhere or hurt me.”
He’d told the whole thing almost in the tone of an anecdote, as if any part of this was funny, but now he sounds somber. Tedesco does the only thing he knows to do: he reaches into his nightstand, digs out one of the chocolate bars he just put there, and passes it over.
“Gracias,” Benítez says quietly, accepting it with delicate fingers and a tiny smile. For a moment, he holds the chocolate in his hand, as if unsure how to proceed.
“Go on.” Tedesco waves a prompting hand. “Trust me, it helps.”
The sounds of Benítez unwrapping the bar and breaking off a piece are loud in the silence. He shuts his eyes as he chews, clearly enjoying the taste. Then, he reaches out to hand the rest back.
Tedesco waves him off. “Mah, no, I have more.”
Benítez’s eyes wander to the nightstand drawer. “In Kabul, I would stash food too. Things I could prepare without electricity.” He doesn’t ask, but he raises a questioning eyebrow: the circumstances forced such hoarding upon him. Why then would a wealthy man in the middle of Rome do such a thing?
“When I was young… growing up, my family,” Tedesco says and wonders why in the world he’s telling him this, why the information seems to be in a good place with Benítez, “we didn’t always have a lot to eat. So…”
“I see,” Benítez says, and only that. Nothing changes.
“There’s jokes in the curia about me, these things, which I’m aware of,” Tedesco explains, “but then I found this.” He lifts his vape pen and smirks. “Appetite suppressant, yes?”
Somehow, Benítez seems less than impressed. He again tries to pass the chocolate over. “For now, let’s just share this, alright? People have been saying I smell like your smoke.”
Tedesco finds this pleases him. He shouldn’t care one way or the other about leaving his mark on Benítez, who is no one special, but the thought somehow satisfies. He wonders who noticed the scent sticking to Benítez’s clothes or hair: one of the other South American cardinals? Bellini? Lawrence? Oh, he hopes it’s Lawrence. He hopes it annoys the man to see sweet Vincent and have to think of him.
At breakfast the following morning, Lawrence surveys the room, every cardinal therein his responsibility. He doesn’t want to pick up on all the nuances of political ebb and flow in the room, but the part of him that can’t help but observe notes a shift due Tremblay, who was one of the first to arrive in the cafeteria. Meanwhile, Aldo and his core of supporters are remaining where they are, their number depressingly not growing. What to do, what to do…
A pleasant bout of laughter from the doorway makes him turn around. Vincent Benítez has just entered, side by side with his roommate. It rubs Lawrence the wrong way that they’re walking in together, and he thinks he may have to warn Vincent off here: being publicly seen with Tedesco may lead others to think of him as a member of Tedesco’s camp.
Right now, Tedesco seems to be telling Vincent an anecdote, gesturing expansively with his hands, grinning. Lawrence is about to get up and go rescue Vincent, when he sees Vincent put a hand on Tedesco’s shoulder and say “You’re so funny, Goffredo,” in a manner that sounds actually honest.
Oh, no, Lawrence thinks as Tedesco looks inordinately pleased with himself, Vincent, come on now.
But then Vincent steps back and says, “Well, I’ll go talk more with Cardinal Mendoza. And you have campaigning to do, I’m sure!”
“Campaigning, oh, tch, don’t make it sound so crass.” But there’s an amused glint in Tedesco’s eyes as he adds, “A proposito, do I have your vote?”
Vincent smiles. “As always, I will vote my conscience, Goffredo.”
“Which means no.”
Somehow, Vincent still makes it sound pleasant when he confirms, “Which means no.”
He pats Tedesco’s shoulder again. “Nonetheless, I hope your day is fruitful and productive. Vaya con dios.”
To Lawrence’s surprise, Tedesco nods. “And you, Vicente.” Probably without noticing it, he touches the spot on his shoulder where Vincent’s hand rested, and rubs it as if it aches as he watches Vincent walk away.
What an odd development. Maybe one to keep an eye on going forward.
On the third day of the conclave, after another embarrassing instance of being awoken from bad dreams by Tedesco kicking his bedframe, Vincent walks into the cafeteria in the morning to find a brown manila envelope next to his plate (he was meaning to sit with Lawrence this morning – the good Dean is starting to look decidedly wan in the face and needs support). A quick glance around confirms that everyone else has envelopes too – he almost assumes they contain some administrative note, maybe a reminder about yet another obscure procedural connected to the voting process that he doesn’t know about.
He reads the document and feels his eyebrows rise to meet his hairline. Around him, as other cardinals filter into the room and peruse the document too, a buzz of voices grows steadily louder.
Cardinal Tremblay, who spoke to him yesterday, is guilty of simony, it appears. Vincent feels a complex tangle of feelings in his chest. Corruption must be exposed – he believes that wholeheartedly. He admires Lawrence’s commitment to the truth, to having it all out in the open, doing away with secrecy and backdoor politicking. At the same time, he can’t find any pleasure in witnessing this deplorable spectacle being made out of it all.
Tremblay, when he arrives, attempts to defend himself, hurling accusations against Lawrence in turn. Then Tedesco gets into it, demanding the names of the cardinals Tremblay bribed – purely to stir things up and hog the spotlight, it appears. He likes to throw his weight around, he likes to make a scene, Vincent thinks again, and wonders how he could have found this vaguely endearing yesterday, and wholly exasperating today. Voices are being raised, people are shouting, it hurts Vincent’s heart to see how Lawrence is struggling to contend with the whole sordid situation. Vincent has nothing, but nothing, to add to the debate, and sees the virtue in keeping his silence – would that more of his cardinal brothers could see their way to doing so – so he remains quiet, but he wishes he could help Lawrence somehow. The man looks so distressed and drained. He needs rest and a gentle hand, urgently, and will not be getting that anytime soon. (For a moment, Vincent even feels guilty for steadfastly placing his vote for him, as much as he does see Lawrence as the best man for the job – it is no easy thing to condemn a new friend to shouldering such a burden as the papacy is, especially where it is so utterly unwanted, to yoke a man to more servitude when what he really needs is relief.) If I had some kind of authority, he finds himself thinking, a very new thought, I would rein these men in, especially that one – he quietly impales Tedesco on a glare – I would implore them to conduct themselves in a manner more befitting of servants of Christ our Lord.
The intercession on Dean Lawrence’s behalf comes not from him, but from Sister Agnes, levering a final accusation against Tremblay. She departs, Adeyemi brands Tremblay a traitor, Tedesco hits his vape. It’s all Vincent can do not to roll his eyes as Tedesco’s gaze strays for a second towards him as if to share the joke with him, in the manner of a cat proudly presenting a dripping hairball on the carpet. Vincent wonders why the man would be nice to him privately, and the absolute worst in the public arena. Sit down, Vincent thinks at him as loudly as he dares.
When the explosion hits, Vincent finds himself, on instinct honed by too much experience, immediately turtling – ducking low, covering his head with his arms. Thank goodness there is but one blast, and the debris settles quickly – Vincent soon looks up and assesses the situation.
Two of the chapel’s windows have been blown out, some parts of the wall have come down, but that’s all. Vincent’s gaze flies across the rows of seats, first to the oldest and frailest cardinals – but none of them seem badly hurt. Across the room, Tedesco is already getting up, eyes wild and frightened – he’s shocked, but alright. But Lawrence, Lawrence is still down, he was directly in the blast zone…
Vincent leaps towards him, crouches down by him, checks him over for injuries, calls out to him: “Dean Lawrence – Thomas – can you hear me? Can you focus on me?”
Lawrence groans, only half here for a moment, reaching out a trembling hand, which Vincent grips. “It’s a sign,” the man gasps.
“Look at me, Thomas, can you just look at me…”
“God is here,” Lawrence babbles, his eyes remaining fixed on the sunlight that streams in through the broken windows. “God is here, he knows that I have sinned…”
Vincent doesn’t know how Lawrence could possibly have sinned, but he supposes there will be time to unpack that later. For now, his mind is still in triage mode. “You’re alright, it’ll be alright. Here, just…”
He spots Eminence Bellini, now also hurrying towards his friend. “Here,” he calls out to him. “Eminencia, please, watch over your friend. I will fetch a doctor…”
God is good, no one is seriously hurt. Lawrence soon recovers his composure, and takes the situation back in hand, so Vincent lets himself be escorted with all the others back to the Casa Santa Marta. They convene in the auditorium, where they are briefed on what has happened. A… discussion ensues.
(Next time you hear someone in this conclave say something that you object to, you stand up to them, capisce? You stand up, and you really let them have it.)
“Brother Cardinal, with respect… what do you know of war?”
Tedesco exits the shower, having just scrubbed the dust of the explosion out of his hair, and finds Benítez, who must have silently slipped inside at some point, seated on his bed. He sits very straight-backed, hands folded in his lap, staring into thin air. He has made no effort even to shed his choir dress, covered as it is in a thin layer of stucco.
The sight of him stops Tedesco in his tracks, makes him quit toweling off his hair and stand in silence. There’s something so off about that blank expression on that face. The explosion rattled everyone, of course, it shook up Tedesco something fierce, but… Vincent has actually experienced bombings before. Is it nothing to him now, mundane, everyday? Or has the incident brought bad memories to the fore?
…no, he can’t consider that now. He’s angry, after all. If he starts hemorrhaging votes tomorrow, it will be Benítez’s fault. Benítez and his little monologue about how petty and hateful the curia in general, and he in specific, is, might cost him the papacy yet.
(His own outburst may have cost him the papacy already. ‘Just saying aloud what everybody’s thinking’ can only get one so far.)
Vincent has noticed him now, and seems to come back into himself. He looks at Tedesco, eyes roving, searching him…
…and it’s a shame he’s wearing nothing save the towel slung around his hips, having expected the room to be empty. It is not a good moment to be so exposed. Then again, Benítez, along with everyone else, has already seen too much of him today in any way that matters…
Benítez stands up from the bed, and for a moment Tedesco believes he’s going to reach for him for some purpose, and that the gaze in his eyes is, what, interest? And Tedesco has long since shed that lean, hungry, calf-eyed look that used to get him the wrong sort of attention in his seminary days – and a good thing too, because the last thing he needs at his big old age is temptation of the flesh – but for just a second he gets the nonsensical thought that Benítez is going to touch him, over the towel.
He of course doesn’t. He looks away again, tight-lipped. He feels the awkwardness of this moment just as keenly as Tedesco does.
What can they possibly still say to each other, after what words were spoken in that auditorium?
“I’ll take the shower next,” Benítez announces eventually, something stilted in his voice and posture. Embarrassment? Revulsion? Disgust? He turns away towards the bathroom.
“You have a cut there,” Tedesco says, quite without willing it.
Benítez nods, briefly touches his fingertips to the skin below the little nick on his forehead, strangely crown-of-thorns-reminiscent. “I already had the sisters look at it,” he says, a little less coldly now. “I appreciate the concern.”
There’s no singing from the shower this time.
By the time Benítez returns, Tedesco has finished preparing for bed. He gets under the blanket and tries to block out Benítez across the room tsking and fussing with his dirtied mozzetta.
“I’ll have to get this cleaned somehow first thing in the morning… it’s the only one I have, and it’s a loan.”
Tedesco lets this attempt at small-talk drop like a stone into a well. You ruined my prospects. How can you possibly want me to be amicable towards you now?
You ruined your own prospects, a small voice whispers from somewhere in reply.
“Bien, se asi,” Benítez murmurs softly. “Lights off?”
“Per favore,” Tedesco says stiffly. It will be easier not having to look at the man.
Benítez flicks the nightstand lamp off, plunging the room into darkness.
Tedesco shuts his eyes and wills himself not to shift and turn. Stillness will make sleep come faster. He does silent battle with his restlessness for about fifteen minutes, then…
“So,” Benítez says into the silence. “Do you want to… talk about it? About what happened just there?”
What are they, children whispering at a sleepover? Tedesco will not humor it. “There is nothing to discuss,” he declares and turns onto his side, his back to the other bed, nursing his bruised pride.
He’s quite, quite incensed with Benítez for dressing him down in front of the whole College of Cardinals like an unruly schoolboy, but below that… he did not know soft-spoken little Vincent had this gear to him, this stern, serene reproach of an avenging angel. He might be interesting to keep in contact with after the conclave, Tedesco considers for the first time, if he has it in him to duel with words like this.
Knowing himself safe in the darkness, his eyes having adjusted a little, he steals a look over his shoulder at his temporary roommate. He finds Benítez praying.
It was hard not to notice from the start, when he blessed their meal, the peculiar way in which Benítez prays. Prayer to Tedesco, after all his years in the curia, has become a social function as much as a sincere attempt to reach out to the Lord: when is one seen praying, how is one known to be praying. Benítez is doing too much, any shrewd ecclesiastical politician could see that: hands folded so hard it must ache, eyes shut so tight – he prays like he still means it. Like he’s completely certain in his core that, if he’s fervent enough, God will hear.
It hits Tedesco like a physical jolt that Benítez might be praying for him.
Eventually, a voice in the darkness asks, “Are you awake?”
Tedesco doesn’t reply. He’s still not going to give in to the inane impulse to chatter in the darkness. He tries to deepen his breaths to feign sleep.
Benítez sighs. “I wish I could help you overcome this unfounded fear of the new in you, my friend. I wish I could help you see how splendid this world can be outside these walls.”
Tedesco remains quiet.
“I wish I could show you how, even in the most dire situations in which I’ve carried out my ministries, I saw the face of God reflected in all His children… all, Goffredo, all. I realize you worry that the life you cherish will come crumbling down around you if concessions are made, if too much changes… but our Lord’s grace is immutable, you know. The sun will go on rising, day after day, on all His creation. And the grace of our fellow man is immutable, also. In the midst of war, of appalling poverty, of heartrending deprivation, it is the mercy and the hospitality and the common understanding I have experienced – in Baghdad, in Kabul, from Christians, from Muslims – that has shown me again and again that God is good, that His creation is good. The sun will go on rising on you also.”
Benítez sighs once more. “You stand at a crossroads, my friend. I will pray that you find your way.”
It is the morning after, the next ballot. Tedesco has slept little, and when he did, he’d dreamed of a slight, ethereal form clad in snowy, gleaming white. You stand at a crossroads, the luminous shape had told him.
His eyes itch with exhaustion as he stares down at his ballot paper, but a sunbeam fissures inside through the broken window, bathing the chapel in golden, comfortable warmth. A breeze whispers through the room and carries in distant birdsong, and Tedesco finds he knows which way this wind is blowing.
He picks up his pen and writes Benítez, and finds the core of himself more at rest in a deep calmness, more aligned with God, than he has in a good long while.
Pope Innocent XIV, upon emerging newly vested from the Room of Tears, decides to imitate what his predecessor did and exchange a few short words of introduction with each cardinal in the room, in alphabetical order, especially since he hasn’t had a chance to really speak with most of them, ever in his life. They know little of him, these men who elevated him, and he knows little of them; this is a purely practical first step in building working relationships, though surely some will perceive it, perhaps, as sanctimonious. (He has to carefully consider what people will think about things he does, going forward. It already seems tedious.)
Cardinal Bellini is among the first he sees. The man seems rattled, wary, but relieved as well to no longer be stuck in the rat race. Vincent figures it’s not the time to ‘not talk politics’, and sees Aldo visibly rally when he promises him to meet soon to hear his advice on policy and discuss the capacity in which he wants to stay on.
Cardinal Lawrence looks almost incandescent with peace now, resting in himself, that harried look he had after learning Vincent’s secret vanished again from his face. Vincent feels a deep sense of satisfaction at that, knowing that he could not have wished for a better confidant in his wildest, loneliest dreams. God in His providence guided him to meet this man, and it makes the burden and the challenge of the papacy seem a lot more… manageable already.
Cardinal Tedesco, being as he is towards the back of the list, has had time to slip outside and take a lengthy smoke break. Vincent can smell it on him; the artificial cherry scent envelops him like a blanket. When he kisses Vincent’s ring, it’s different, somehow, than the quick, obligatory press of lips that most cardinals do: Tedesco looks up at him throughout, and lingers a moment too long, his eyes peering above the frames of his glasses in a seeking manner. Vincent can practically hear him think, as clearly as if he’d said it out loud, what are you? What kind of a pope are you going to be? What will you do to the church, to us all, to me?
We can only wait and see, Vincent tries to reply with just his eyes. But I hope it will be good.
One day after the conclave sees Tedesco staying at his apartment in Rome.
He could have gone back to Venice on the first train out, no reason not to, really. There are no plans now, or maybe no plans yet. There is only the defeat, which… he would have expected to feel worse.
So, he’s not pope, and never will be. This was the one chance, and now it’s gone. Look at Benítez – Innocent. Upright, nary a wrinkle, gray hairs few enough to count and not run out of fingers. He will outlive the whole curia, Tedesco very much among them. He’s 72, his joints ache after sitting too long, he’s flirting with gout and there’s that smoker’s cough threatening to settle in his lungs, he harbors no illusions regarding his longevity. This is the end of the road, this is as far as it goes. His climbing days are done.
Yet, there’s no despair, not even rage. He’s… waiting. Anticipating, even. What will Innocent do from here?
Sometimes, the thought of what’s ahead fills Tedesco with fear. The late Holy Father was already too much of a progressive for his tastes, too much change too fast. Innocent promises to be even worse. Likely, the man plans to transform the church into something unrecognizable. The very thought makes Tedesco shudder. And yet…
And yet. That moment during the last ballot still lives in his bone marrow somewhere. The warmth and the light. It’s hard to muster rage in the face of that. It’s hard to think of opposition. After the election, he’d witnessed the liberals walking around as if buoyed by clouds, dazed by the victory that fell into their laps. Especially Tommaso had looked practically born anew, his back straighter, shoulders lighter, a smile on his face that spoke of pure relief, a shine in his eyes. Tedesco had expected himself to begrudge him the triumph, to feel himself fester with loathing and a sense of injustice. He can’t deny a pang of envy, a pang of worry. Envy because it’s already clear that Lawrence will stay on as Decano, by Innocent’s side always, until he finally keels over. Worry about his own future. But… there seems to be no sense of urgency. There is time. Some of his erstwhile supporters had also accosted him after the election, as the smoke went up the chimney, “This is a catastrophe, Goffredo,” trying not to sound accusatory. And, “What can we do next?”
In the three days that follow, Tedesco will ignore a mounting number of their text messages drafting strategies for raking through the new pope’s past, hoping to dig up something objectionable, or, in case such finds prove lacking, ideas for things to manufacture. They’d done so with the late Holy Father, but… well, Innocent deserves at least a grace period, right, before the battle starts anew?
But until the battle does start again, Tedesco expects, he’ll likely not see much of his new pontiff. Why would he? There is nothing he has to discuss with a liberal pope. (For the first time, he finds himself resenting that fact, deep down.) They cohabited for three days and change, they had a collegial rapport, then they fought. There is no reason whatsoever for Innocent to want to see him, and truly he should just return to Venice. His staff at the Patriarch’s palace have probably entirely disorganized his whole filing system in his absence, and are feeding the cat wrong.
Yes, one more day of waiting for nothing, then he’ll return to Venice and forget.
(And be forgotten, also.)
He’s already looking up train tickets when he suddenly gets a ping on his phone, an email notification from the electronic desk of the new pontiff: Innocent wants a meeting.
Relief, followed by trepidation. What could the man possibly want? To reprimand him for his disgraceful behavior during the conclave? He hasn’t done anything he could get defrocked over, right?
The day of the appointment arrives, and finds Tedesco dithering over whether to wear his cape to the audience or not. Should he appear in his normal black cassock, simple, unadorned, unaccessorized, penitent in anticipation? Innocent seems like the kind of pope who’ll want to keep it simple. Tedesco is not that, though, and he’s never been good at play-acting the penitent. Innocent will have to face a fait accompli with him – cape it is.
He needn’t have worried. Innocent welcomes him with a smile, asks to forgo the ring kiss for a simple handshake, then asks if he’s had dinner yet.
They dine in the papal suite. (Tedesco’s simply not ever going to pass up free food.) Innocent has of course chosen to move into the rooms his predecessor occupied, forgoing the Apostolic Palace. Tedesco hasn’t had cause to visit a pope’s residence since Ratzinger, and sneaks a few curious looks around as Innocent begins to speak,
“I’ve missed your presence these past few days.” He smiles, sweetly and a bit wryly. “Not your smoking, nor your snoring, but…”
And I’ve not missed your whimpering nightmares, Tedesco doesn’t say. He could have spoken like that to Benítez, but not to Innocent, the Holy Father.
“…but you have been in my prayers,” Innocent concludes.
Why pray for me? I’m fine. Also not something he can say to the new pope. Deciding to play it safe for now, Tedesco inclines his head and murmurs something vaguely grateful-sounding.
“I have needed to pray for guidance,” Innocent elaborates. He spreads his hands and explains: “It’s clear to me that you and I are not going to see eye to eye a lot of the time in matters of doctrine. Yet, from what I hear, one ignores you at one’s own peril. I don’t want the enmity with you that my predecessor had.”
That’s quite direct. Also almost cute. And it shows that Innocent has been talking about him to the other progressives, likely to Bellini. Aldo never forgave him his campaign against the late Holy Father and his manifold reform attempts. “Bellini exaggerates. I was never so bad that the old man couldn’t take it.”
Innocent gently but firmly shakes his head, indicating that he won’t get into that. “I know that we can coexist, you and I,” he says.
“We can share a room,” Tedesco replies, raising a cautioning hand. “There was no need to have doctrinal debates then, vero? Now, now there may be a need.”
“We can always debate,” Innocent says. “But there will be some ground that I will never cede to you.”
Tedesco nods. “I know this.”
“I will not give in to paranoia. I will not lend an ear to bigotry.”
Being called a bigot to his face does rankle, Tedesco won’t pretend otherwise. He could argue now that his opposition to reform stems simply from an appreciation of tradition, a desire for stability, for this, that and some other good reason. But… Innocent has seen too much of him during the conclave to let that pass unchallenged.
And Innocent is… there’s a firmness to him now, a strength of resolve, a sense of a person aligned with himself and with his purpose. This was already present at the core of Benítez before, but now there is an additional quiet authority to him. It’s… hard to imagine countering it.
“I hear you have applied yourself to work for the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith before,” Innocent continues, seeming to change the topic. “It seems like the kind of work towards which you’d be inclined.”
Oh? It’s hard to imagine that Innocent is going to set him to witch-hunting again. So what does he mean by bringing this up?
“…But I don’t know that I would put you to work there now,” Innocent says. Ah. “It seems like… perhaps not the best spot for you?”
“Certo. A causa di mi paranoia e bigotry.”
Innocent notably doesn’t deny this. He inclines his head and says, “I have had a talk with the former Eminencia Tremblay earlier today.”
Tedesco bristles. The last time Vincent had a ‘talk’ with Tremblay, it had culminated in Tedesco walking in to the sight of Tremblay looming over Vincent, trying to pressure him into God knows what. He lets a little “tch” sound escape from between his teeth and reaches for his vape, feeling the sudden desire to produce a furious cloud of smoke.
“Please, not at the dinner table,” Innocent says and, chastised, Tedesco puts his hand back down. “As I was saying, the man wants to take a long sabbatical and figure out how to restart, and sadly he cannot hold office here anymore. I wish I could have done more for him, but simony is… well, in any case, that leaves the matter of his vacant post.”
Oh, God Almighty…
“Do not offer me Camerlengo.”
Innocent looks almost startled. “Why not? Do you not want it?”
Indeed Tedesco doesn’t want it, or rather he’d never considered the position before. He can balance bank accounts with the best of them, as one must if one’s grown up pinching every miserable lira. But to tend from, metaphorically, sniffing out heresies to dusting off relics… how sedate that seems… and besides which…
“Because it is... assurdo, is ridiculous, that is why. Everyone will be asking why you did not position another liberal there, such as… there is that fellow from Milano, maybe, him? Or…”
“It’s not a political position, not like Secretary of State is. And my predecessor similarly kept Eminencia Adeyemi on as Cardinal Major Penitentiary, despite his regressive views being well known.”
Adeyemi… yes, it must have been quite strange for Adeyemi, so close at hand to a papacy whose progressivism he must have chafed at. And then, as he ponders this, Tedesco understands Innocent’s gambit here.
To the other conservatives, Tedesco accepting a post among Innocent's senior cardinals would look like an endorsement of Innocent as pontiff, and therefore a massive betrayal, like he’s switching sides, and Innocent knows this. (Innocent, maybe, but in no way naïve! This new pope will be a force to reckon with, Tedesco is beginning to see this.) Innocent wants him where he can see him, wants to cut him off from his faction. Wants him defanged, shackled, collared and muzzled at his feet, tamed…
…hrm. The metaphors are taking on a bit of a sensual slant here.
He shakes his head as if to drive out the image of himself on his knees at Innocent’s feet. He really wishes he could vape right now.
“But it is political,” he says at last. “It is political if you are giving me this position to, to undercut me—”
His Holiness’s lips thin in something like exasperation. His voice sounds like that of the most put-upon, burdened angel when he says, “You are not being attacked, Goffredo, still. You can always refuse. I am merely keeping with the old adage: keep your friends close…”
Tedesco’s in no way an expert on English vernacular, nor does he want to be, but he does know this one. “…and your enemies closer?”
Now, the Holy Father’s lips slant downwards in a frown. Oh, not good. “Enemies. How melodramatic. I cannot be having with this, having enemies. Can we not be friends? Do we not all serve the same God? What is this church but the product, and the process, of our common abiding labor in figuring out how to serve that God most appropriately?”
The process… Tedesco instinctively doesn’t like that. There are ways to serve God appropriately, and they’re the ones he was damn well raised with. There’s no need for any new-fangled additions and revisions and concessions. There’s no need to keep filing away at it. That way moral decay lies, that way they’ll slowly but surely lose what once defined the church in its entirety, and end up with an empty construct, an organization that stands for everything and nothing, all the meaning eroded away…
But that’s probably part of the ‘ground’ that Innocent won’t ‘cede’ to him. The ramblings of a paranoid and bigoted old man, not to be taken seriously. Tedesco is close to throwing his hands up and declaring that there is nothing about this papal administration that he wants to be party to, to storm off in a huff and go back to Venice and start plotting now in earnest to make Innocent’s papacy as thorny and frequently challenged as possible…
But then he looks up into Innocent’s face, implacable and untouched by his outpourings of pettiness, and he remembers again that moment during the last vote, that light and warmth and the sweetness on the breeze and how it felt to put Innocent’s name on the ballot, the rightness filling him up like good wine. Some of that same rightness lives in Innocent’s smile, lingers in the corners of his mouth. What would it feel like to live in that warmth, shed the frightening awareness of that dark tide of destruction always threatening on the horizon? To go around like Lawrence has been since Innocent’s election, all relief and hope and blissful certainty? What do men like Innocent and Lawrence and Bellini know that Tedesco doesn’t, that makes them feel so optimistic now, so convinced that God is with them?
How can God be with them? How can God want what they want, which looks so much like moral decay? Tedesco finds, to his abiding shame, that he hasn’t considered, earnestly considered, the deity in his politicking in a while.
“Think about it, alright?” his Holiness asks. “Take a few nights to sleep on it. I don’t need a decision right now.”
Somehow, Tedesco finds himself going from the initial staunch refusal to nodding and promising to mull it over, yes indeed, if it pleases Your Holiness. Innocent has taken his words from him, his indignation from him, the wind out of his sails. And only he, Tedesco begins to realize with dread, can give that wind back, if he so deigns. If Tedesco’s good. If he comes to heel, then he can be imbued with new purpose. And if he doesn’t come to heel, he’s not got much of anything…
As they part, Innocent gives him a quick but close hug, causing Tedesco, for a moment, to feel his small and holy body pressed against his front. It burns all the way home, like the touch of a seraph might, hot in his chest and gut and lower down. It leaves him flushed and embarrassed on the train home with his legs discreetly crossed, a man of his age and position. Really, he’s not been like this over a pope since... well. A very different time, a very different pope.
The moment he’s home and the door clicks shut, he’s already fumbling with the buttons on his cassock, trying to get at his cock quickly. Far from settling down, he’s just been winding tighter throughout the journey back, feeling the warmth of Innocent’s touch linger like a brand. By the time he’s stumbled to the bed, he’s managed to peel the cassock off himself and shed his shoes, zucchetto and pectoral cross, and is now unzipping his pants and reaching inside. It’s dire, this hot, tight pressure. He’s so hard, and already leaking a little. Erections tend to happen more slowly these days than they used to, and flag more quickly too. This, this is not his normal anymore. This is how it used to be thirty, forty years ago. A new pope is often said to be akin to an invigorating jolt to the system of the church, but by God, not like this.
Tedesco sinks down onto the bed with a groan of pure relief as he can finally get a hand around himself and stroke it firmly upwards. His free hand finds its way under his shirt, tracing all the spots that Innocent touched, trying to rub out a brand that won’t leave him now. In a flash of a fantasy that comes together within seconds, Innocent joins him, alights upon the bed like an angel, reaches out one God-blessed hand and joins it to Tedesco’s own, caressing the tip of him, twisting his fingers and calling forth pleasure upon searing pleasure.
“Innocente… Innocente,” Tedesco moans as he squeezes himself just this side of too tight, speeds his strokes up until his wrist aches and he’s sweating, glasses fogging up, some errant curls of hair falling into his forehead, a mess. If Innocent were to see this… oh, how he’d disapprove… or maybe he would like it, feel pleased at having this effect on somebody, favor this display with a smile. Tedesco thinks again of the things he imagined earlier, Innocent leashing him and making him sit, muzzled, at his feet, docile and defanged, making him obey, instructing him on when to speak, how to act, what to think. Relieving him from worry, from the duty of care. Never worry about a thing anymore, when His Holiness would take care of it… mute, tame, cossetted, happy…
He comes in a sudden, powerful pulse, shooting off onto his pants and shirt, making a mess – he can’t care less. He milks every last shred of orgasm from himself, until his cock grows uncomfortable to his own touch, then he lets his spine relax and lies stretched out, supine, staring at the ceiling with no thought to it. A minute passes, then he fumbles in the pocket of his shirt for his vape, brings it to his mouth and takes a hit, and another, and another. This too is bliss.
Everything is different now, he finds himself thinking, and for the first time in a long time, that thought doesn’t fill him with disgust. It’s a new era. Anything is possible.