Chapter Text
Thomas has always viewed his life in minutes.
Time ticks down, and he tries to hold onto it all. He sticks to schedules, meticulous timetables and checklists written in his hand. Far before being the Dean of the College of Cardinals, he had always had a watch on his wrist to make sure he was always on track.
Even now, his Orient has never left his person for more than a day. The last time he remembered not having it on his wrist was the later days of the conclave when no plan could be predetermined because of the swaying votes. But now that everything has more or less settled down, he makes sure that the first thing he does when he wakes up is fasten it onto his wrist.
He prays right after that, but it’s almost part of his prayer. If God has given you the time, wouldn’t you be praising Him if you used what He had provided well?
Everyone has their own ways of adoration, and this is part of his.
In a way, as he became the Dean, he only had a larger capacity to give his adoration. Through every meeting he presides over, he makes sure everything runs according to schedule. Efficiently, everything that has to be done will be done. It was an exacting order to put onto himself, but it was precise and logical in a way that made it easier to conduct.
And as Pope Innocent XIV begins his term, he holds this belief close to his chest as he deals with everything that comes from his appointment.
Vincent has so many responsibilities for the Church, but he also has his own desires to push forth as the Pope. Such as today's event, which is a rare sit-down interview with the Pope and other senior members of the Curia.
The logistics and planning for this event have been enough to have the sisters specifically monitor his coffee intake. (“In no country is six coffees a day a proper energy source, Your Eminence.” Sister Agnes had said to him as she stood in front of the coffee pot in the dining hall.) It would be an interview for the current Pope as a sort of tell-all a month into his papacy. It was something the late Pope would have rejected, but Vincent wanted to be more open to the world.
Thomas would have retorted that the Catholic Church was one of the most perceived and scrutinised institutions on the planet, but he bit his tongue.
It was an absolute nightmare having to look over schedules and accommodations and then also designate specifically which areas could be used for extra footage by the camera crew. He had spent nearly two hours just walking around with Aldo to find what would be most aesthetically pleasing to CNN.
But today, finally, he had some time to breathe. The security men were all in place and at attention. The camera crews were at the right and pretty places. The kitchens were stocked and everyone had found their way safely from their hotel. And now, all he has to look over is the Pope.
From here in the stylist's room, he can just watch Vincent as he talks to his stylists. There’s two of them chatting animatedly over him. One of them blushes and looks away shyly whenever Vincent glances towards her. The Pope asks them questions about the products they use and how they got into this job. Vincent has such a wonderful ability to ingratiate himself with absolutely anyone. The man sits on one of the highest thrones on the planet, but he never fails to talk to the common man like a close friend. Thomas watches him charm the girls and is bolstered by his choice of name that final day. There is no one more fit for the job of a man who loves all than Vincent Benitez.
They fuss over his hair and his lack of wrinkles, and Sorry, you just look so pretty!
“I try my best.” Vincent offers the stylists.
“It’s a miracle it is. So many other popes had nothing for me to handle, but look at your hair!” This gets a laugh out of Thomas, and three heads turn to face him. The stylists stammer and try to apologise for their way through what they must think is a sacrilegious act, making fun of a cardinal, but all Thomas focuses on is the welcoming smile on Vincent’s face.
“Hello, Thomas.” His name always sounds so sweet in Vincent’s voice, and even with his eyes closed, he’d be able to hear the smile he says the syllables through. He comes up to stand behind Vincent’s chair.
“Mist–Cardinal Lawrence?” He nods at the girl on Vincent's right. “Your stylists are ready for you, can you sit here and wait?”
He stares at the chair beside Vincent’s. He blinks.
“My stylists?” He says slowly, like foreign words in his mouth
“Yes, for your interview?”
Oh.
Oh, no.
He is so small-minded. How could he have ever forgotten his interview? Almost right after Vincent’s , he had agreed to this but he had gotten so pre-occupied, how absolutely moronic, he has this written down in his–
His stomach falls through the marble. He has nothing prepared, he barely feels prepared to be under bright lights and perceived by millions across the world. What is he going to say? What is he going to do? What will people say?
People. Everyone in the room is looking at him.
His hands are one on top of the other. He scratches the back of his hand.
The clock behind him ticks. It’s loud in his ears.
Time. Wasting. He’s wasting time. He needs to breathe.
“I’ll be back.” He says. He leaves.
He doesn’t run, but it’s a near thing.
He shuts the bathroom door. He closes the stall door. He pulls down the seat cover. His hands cover his face.
He lets out a long sigh, feeling the shudder through his chest. His hot breath pushes back into his face.
He pulls his hands away from his face to glance at his watch. Five minutes.
Five minutes to feel the full weight of his inadequacy. Five minutes, after which he must get up. He must shove everything back under wraps and conduct himself properly again. He can do that.
He knows that in the College, they view him as someone capable of standing up on his own. But he remembers how he felt right before his homily before the conclave. As a puppet, disconnected from everything and he only pulled through due to the strength of his message. He is meant for the Curia, not the world. When he had been the face of the Holy See for that short transitionary period, he had kept everything scripted and even then, he almost never made anything as public an appearance as this.
He has no message planned, no feeling to articulate. There is nothing in his brain right now, just different panic-stricken streams of thought and scenarios. What would it say about him, doubting every word that came out of his mouth on camera? He would be seen as ineffective and stupid. Too old for the job, far too out of it to be holding such a role in the Church. He knows how the media tore apart the late Pope near the end of his papacy, and he didn’t have the fortitude that the Pope had. Clearly.
And worse, what would people say about Vincent? Someone only good when he had a speech in his heart and left fumbling whenever something miniscule happens, next to someone who’s divine. Someone the world kept knocking down and remained upright to offer his hand to others to help them up. And himself?
Someone who would stay on the ground and close his eyes, letting the debris fall around him and hoping it hits him.
He indulges in a fantasy where he would be able to fall to the ground now, and that all anyone could talk about him would be his achievements when he was alive. Everyone would praise what he had done, and all of his skeletons would remain in the closet. He has a dream where every single person he holds dear misses him and forgets all the transgressions and mistakes he was so prone to. They would only talk of his work and achievements for the Church, and not his lapse in faith or the pathetic ways he grits his teeth and flings things when he's frustrated.
He’ll be made perfect. If only he could–
If only something could–
If he could just–
Even if his interview is the equivalent of two trains crashing into each other, Vincent would still thank him for doing it with him. And why ? Why does the Pope waste so much of his smiles on him? God gave Vincent this powerful ability to set people at ease, and yet, he wastes it on someone whose biggest talent comes from being so neurotic. He should help the sick, the poor and the fearful, not someone who doesn’t deserve his warmth.
All Thomas provides are concrete things, and Vincent can do so many things that transcend the physical. He remembers the feats the other cardinals attributed towards him on his first night here. Rescue missions, shelters, clinics but more importantly, breaking through to the people and letting them feel the love of God.
His veined hands crumple up his cassock. It was just ironed. But it prevents them from shaking, and further proving just how absolutely paper-thin his courage is.
He looks at his watch.
Seconds left before his time is up. He has to get up in seven, six, five seconds.
He moves, he needs to, but his legs won’t work.
Ten seconds after his time is up and he can’t get up. Dread pools in his limbs like lead, and his stomach turns. There’s nothing inside to throw up, but he feels like gagging anyway.
Goodness, he’s being ridiculous. He just needs to shove it down and deal, he must manage. He bites down on his teeth and blinks away the wetness in his eyes.
He is wasting. But he will get up. He can almost hear his breathing evening out, and he can see clearly again. Yes, he will be fine. He is fine.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Okay. Okay. Brace. Manage.
He can manage, can't he? He will always get through, and he doesn't need--
“Thomas?” The kindest voice asks from behind the door.
His brain goes empty.
Confusion gives way to guilt. He opens his mouth to speak, but he can’t speak, he’s wasting the Pope’s time–
“Thomas, it’s Vincent. Are you inside?”
The door pushes in slightly, but not enough to reveal his pathetic state. Like an actual child, he holds his breath. In his addled brain, it’s like a game of hide and seek, and if he breathes too loud, he’ll be found.
“I know your shoes, Thomas. You don’t have to say anything, but if you need some help, push the door open. If not, I will ask them to call it off.”
He freezes. The waste, the sheer scale of the event, he can’t possibly–
“I’ll handle it. What matters is how you are.” His words are fortified. Nothing is stronger than the Pope’s words, and swayed by it, Thomas nudges the door open.
“Hello.” Here Pope Innocent XIV is, in the white vestments. He looks heaven-sent, and now, he lowers himself onto the floor of this public bathroom. Shame or something like it shoots up Thomas, and he flushes.
This will be seared into his mind forever. The Pope, the leader of the Catholic Church, humbling himself before him. How can he still look so perfect? It's almost a painting, stark white against aged browns and blues on the floor with the full black brush strokes of his hair.
“When I would feel afraid of everything, I would hold onto something.” Vincent offers his hands, palms facing up to Thomas.
Before Thomas can consider them further, he takes them.
Warm. Solid. Real. While his hands dwarf Vincent’s, there’s a strength behind their size. Helping those knocked down.
“I saw your hands when they told you you were to be on camera. I knew you needed support.” Caring, wonderful Vincent. “Do you need us to call your interview off?”
Thomas jolts. An absolute waste. “No, Your Hol–”
“If it’s just you and me, Thomas, I am Vincent.” Thomas nods and takes the time to breathe. He must control himself. He smacks his lips.
“Vincent,” he starts slowly. “I can do this.”
His brown eyes bear into his. “Can you tell me why?”
“I am to serve the Catholic Church as best as I could, and therefore The Pope the best as I could.” Thomas watches something flicker in Vincent’s gaze.
“Is that all?”
No.
He has deeper reasons, of course. Vincent is one of the, no, the best man amongst them. Thomas has been managing for decades but Vincent is still fresh to the Curia. He can’t just stand by and let Vincent be pushed into the ground by the weight of the papacy. He doesn’t want him to be crushed into red by the marble walls. He could never forgive himself if the light that Vincent brought would be snuffed out by the Catholic Church. It would break him in ways he does not want to imagine.
He can’t say any of that. Vincent is a capable man and much stronger than his slight build may suggest. The most villainous entity Thomas deals with lives in his mind, but Vincent has dealt with legitimate and dangerous people out of the body. He can take on the world if he so wanted to, but Thomas just wants to do what he can so that he isn't swept under the tide.
Vincent is warm under his hands. His eyes are deep and strong facing his. His lips press together in thought. Thomas speaks before he can further consider it.
“Vincent, you have experienced horrors that I cannot even begin to imagine. You have gone through one type of crucible before this, and I have another. This frenzy is something I am familiar with, and it would be cruel of me to let you if I let you push through the storm on your own.” This is the voice that carried his homily before the conclave. He was steadfast in his belief then, and now, he knows that this thinking about Vincent will never change.
Vincent’s eyes widen. “Me?”
“You.” He squeezes the hand under his. “You are a special man, Vincent.”
His statement hangs in the air. Vincent looks at their hands for a long moment.
When he looks back up, his eyes are reminiscent of his as he stood out on the teal chairs and condemned them for being subsumed by ambition. It’s someone about to speak with resolve.
“Thomas, you showed me kindness even when you had not known me. Despite all you went through, you tried to be there for me. Could you let me do the same for you?”
“Please.” A plea. “For me, to be fair. An eye for an eye. My kindness for all of yours.”
Who is he to say no?
He nods.
Thomas glances at his watch. They will be actually running late now. He moves to stand up, but Vincent holds his position under him. “One moment, Thomas.”
Carefully, Vincent takes the scratched hand and presses it to his lips. “Be well.”
The interview goes better than he expects, and whenever he feels as if he will make a mistake, he simply looks down at his hand.
It starts from there.
It doesn’t begin with large actions. A hand on the waist, a hand strung through his, standing close enough to feel the heat of each other.
At the start, Thomas hesitates to touch Vincent wrongly, and he spends more time thinking of the right moment to reach out that the opportunity slips through his fingers before he can even move a muscle. He would freeze and turn the same shade of his sash whenever Vincent so much as squeezed his shoulder.
It takes a while, as all good things do.
But one day, when Thomas walks into the Holy Father in an online meeting with staff from his ministry in Kabul, he sees Vincent briefed on the condition of some of his parish-goers. From the door, the tears in his eyes are evident. His grief is palpable in the solemn way he bows his head.
Thomas crosses the room.
He makes sure he is deliberately out of view of the camera and he takes Vincent’s hand.
He runs his thumb along the back of it, the way he remembers his mother used to do when he was younger. Don't worry, dearest, she would whisper against his scalp. There is so much fear and suffering in the world that the Pope has to hear about, and Thomas almost repeats the words, but he settles for this.
Vincent’s eyes say what he cannot at the moment: Thank you.
From then on, Thomas moves to protect, support and comfort. As Bellini remains the Secretary of State, Lawrence adopts an informal title: the Pope’s right-hand man.
Even more informally, they call him the Pope’s dog.
(Thomas keeps that one to himself. Ray had told him that the impression had come up and he found he did not hate the comparison. Is it so bad to be a companion that protects one from harm's way? He fears he lacks bite, but if he could talk to a whole room of screechy cardinals, he retains enough bark to be a good dog.)
Slowly, they get somewhere.
Never too obvious, or in the open. But over time, they sit closer together. They hold hands when one is reading or writing. Hours melt together as they spend time at each other’s office. They go down to eat together most days. It comes to be that asking where the Pope is would be as easy as asking where Thomas is. It moves from that a little bit once Vincent begins resting his head on Thomas' shoulders after long meetings, but never say Thomas doesn't roll with the tide.
Now instead of angrily tearing off his skullcap, he has someone who welcomes him into his arms. Frustration melts away as he sags against Vincent.
Gestures that say the same thing over and over again: I’m here for you, as much as I can be .
Thomas notices just how caged Vincent seems to be most of the time. He’s treated like porcelain, like some ancient artefact put behind glass. Almost no one talks to him unless he speaks first, and everyone walks around him like if they step with the slightest bit of force more than normal, he would break. Vincent talks with sisters and brothers alike, but never does one try to speak to him apropos of nothing.
So, when Thomas lays a hand on Vincent, he hopes to say one more thing: You’re still human.
So, they talk about anything and everything. Scripture, pop culture and current affairs. He learns that Vincent has an inclination towards science fiction movies and cares deeply about sustainability efforts. Thomas reveals his favourite parts of the bible are always the ones with multiple interpretations, and that he listens to old music.
“You only listen to, like, piano music?” Vincent asks over breakfast.
"How old do you think I am?" There's a glint of teasing in his eyes, and it's a new emotion he hadn't realised Vincent had. But now, he's willing to let himself be made fun of over and over again to see that specific quirk on his lips.
He had hoped the answer would placate him, but Vincent just looks so hopeful and happy to learn something about him that he feels that he actually has to reveal what he listens to. They always eat breakfast early, Vincent with his little need for sleep and Thomas with his inability to sleep, so the dining hall is nearly empty, and the two of them have a table all to themselves. Thomas never has much of an appetite, but Vincent had offered to split a couple of slices of sweet bread with him. It makes it easier to eat, and two hot cups of coffee sit touching each other on the white tablecloth.
It's awfully domestic, and he hasn't found anything close to that kind of easiness in a person in a very long time.
This is the only reason he starts trying to sing. It's only a couple lines, but it's enough to be distinct.
If you change your mind, I'm the first in line
Honey, I'm still free, take a chance on me
He whispers it, but the delighted and shocked laugh that he elicits from Vincent is priceless. His eyes crinkle around the eyes, and even when he covers his mouth to smother his laughter, his joy is still very clear.
“You are not a very good singer,” Vincent says after he has controlled his giggling.
“I am not a good singer," he agrees. "My voice isn't as melodic as it used to be, I'm afraid."
He used to be known for his smooth voice when he was growing up, and he never lets himself sing like he used to in his youth to more energetic music. His voice now is nothing but croaky, only slightly more lively than a man whose smoked his entire life. Vincent looks around and deeming the space private enough, puts a hand on Thomas’ wrist.
“I’d be happy to hear it more.” He doesn’t sing more than that, but Vincent’s eyes twinkle in mischief whenever Thomas sneaks ABBA lyrics into things he says, and smothers his laughter whenever older archbishops ask What do you mean by that, Your Eminence?
He remains close to Aldo, but there’s something different with Vincent. He struggles to put it into concise words. Aldo and him are peas in a pod, and having spent many years building up their camaraderie, they have come to a common consensus on many things. He and Aldo were bred together, with cynicism in their genes. But even five minutes of walking with Vincent is enough to make Thomas believe, even just for a day, that the world will be a better place.
But Vincent has a way of challenging Thomas’ doubts and bolstering his beliefs. As refreshing as moments with Aldo are and as grateful as he is to have them, he feels as if he must make the effort to commit every small moment he shares with Vincent to memory.
Things to remember: Vincent’s laugh, the birthmark in the crook of his elbow, the way the sunlight paints highlights into his hair as it reflects onto his greys.
Vincent isn't the perfect man Thomas once thought him. But he is even better than perfect: he is a good man.
He has an endless capacity to be cruel and would have every reason to be, but he always tries to resolve everything peacefully. He's stubborn and has a moral compass with a true north that refuses to bow or cower to any other party. This isn't ideal for diplomatic situations, but Thomas admires how Vincent always finds ways, as minute as they can be, to do what he thinks is right. Vincent is not an angel, but he seems the closest humans will ever get to becoming one. God is infinitely kind, and sometimes Thomas thinks He was listening to Thomas during his homily, and gave him Vincent. Equal parts human and saintly.
But he tries not to think about that too much. He thinks more about how days before and during the conclave were endless days of gray, but now he feels like it's always bright blue skies with fluffy clouds.
It’s this light feeling that leads him to hum more songs under their breath, make jokes with other cardinals and, one notable moment, braid Vincent’s hair.
“You know what you are doing?” Thomas hums around Vincent’s doubt. Skepticism doesn’t suit Vincent’s voice, so the sentence sounds more like a mistaken inflexion rather than a proper question. Thomas remains undeterred as his fingers continue to twist in Vincent’s hair. He’s not as skilled as a nine-year-old girl, but a distinctive braid forms in Vincent’s hair anyway.
He smiles as he answers, “Is there a reason I wouldn’t know how to do hair?”
Vincent stiffens under him, and he turns his head up to look at Thomas, but his apologetic eyes are met with ones filled with mirth.
Thomas bursts into laughter as Vincent stares at him in affronted shock. “You are not as funny as you think you are.”
“Someone here is laughing.” Even though he had the most audible response, he could see a small smile tugging at Vincent’s lips.
They return to their original position, and Thomas continues. He keeps refixing his braid to make sure no fly-aways get in, as he starts talking. “I may be an old and balding man, but I know how to do hair. My grand-niece makes me do her hair whenever I get back home. It took a lot of time and pain on her end, but,” Thomas steps away from his look and sees the perfect braid against Vincent’s dark hair. “I think I’ve gotten quite proficient.”
He admires his work as Vincent taps his fingers along it. Vincent is not too much younger than the rest of them, as evidenced by the greys streaking along his temples. But his joy at having his hair done and the way his eyes light up and the slight wave to his hair–-
He always looks untouched by the ravages of age that have fallen on him.
He looks at his hands now, the liver spots that cover his mostly shaky hands. Sometimes, when he is near Vincent, he feels much like an old hag near the shining beautiful princess. Is he going to poison him with an apple, or dog him down with menial chores? He imagines his rot leeching into Vincent through his hands, and the stress and decay that falls on him now falls onto Vincent.
Vincent, who now covers his hands with his own. Smaller than Thomas’ own, but warm and solid as they hold onto them. “Your hands are very proficient, Thomas.”
Vincent runs a thumb along the back of Thomas’ left hand. “When I was younger, I never got to do any of my siblings’ hair. My older sister never had her hair long enough to braid. But she would make me paint her nails so that she had something pretty to look at when she did things.”
He’d never heard of a sister before, even more so, more than one. But there’s something about the heavy nostalgia in his voice that keeps Thomas from asking questions.
“I would always tell her that I couldn’t do it because I could not handle the proper way to paint them. But she would always hold my hands before, and tell me,” He pauses, as if to translate something in his head. “That our hands know our intentions, almost. If we do things without fear and with care, whatever will come will be good.”
For a moment, Thomas’ own existential fears vanish. He does everything related to Pope Innocentius with care, and he’s bolstered by this. Even if his hands shake and they cramp after a mere hour of emails to handle and are riddled with ugly holes, he can still do something wonderful. He smiles. “She sounds wonderful.”
That heaviness is explained by Vincent’s answer. “She was.”
“Oh, Vincent, I’m sorry for–”
“I don’t think she is dead.” He cuts him off. “She’s labelled disappeared, but that could mean many things.” Vincent squeezes his hands.
Thomas holds his tongue on that. He only turns his hands so that he can properly hold Vincent’s hands. He tries to memorise the callouses and the scars touching his palm.
For a moment, they are just two men holding hands in the highest office of the Catholic Church. There is no crisis, there is no prayer, there is only companionship.
It hits Thomas that this is the lightest he has felt in a long time.
A knock on the door causes them to separate, and Thomas goes to open it. But before he does, he turns back and says, “One day when everything settles, maybe you could accompany me and meet Margaret. I’m sure she would love to have a papal beauty salon at her fingertips.”
The sadness lifts from Vincent’s eyes, and a true, beautiful smile breaks out onto his face. “I would like that.”
As Vincent has his meeting, Thomas sits on the chair at the corner of Vincent’s office. Though he does have his own readings to get through, and he constantly has to push his glasses up from sliding down and therefore can’t see much, he always makes sure to glance over at Vincent.
He looks at ease, even making the archbishop he’s talking to melt a little bit in his presence. But what Thomas looks at is the braid still in Vincent’s hair. He even sees Vincent touch it to ensure that it doesn’t move too much and unravel.
He finds himself smiling into his notes like a schoolgirl, and really, in retrospect, Thomas should have stopped everything right then and there. Had he realised how steep the mountain was, maybe he could have prevented the snowball from becoming an avalanche.
But for the many, many faults he has, Thomas Lawrence has never once denied being selfish.
Hidden under his many attempts to hide it, he still does want certain things for himself.
And when Vincent gives him a sly look implying an inside joke even during his meeting, he realises that maybe, he could keep this for himself. He can afford to be a little kind to himself, can’t he?
Nothing can go wrong with a little kindness, Thomas thinks. Nothing too bad.
It’s a quiet night in the office of the Dean of the College of Cardinals.
While Thomas works on his computer, Vincent reads something in the chair in front of him. Usually a chair for those in discussion with him, tonight it is only reserved for Vincent and the two sit in comfortable silence. He’s worked so long on his own, that just the knowledge is what puts him at ease, even when the minutiae of his work threatens to kill him. He almost feels like he keeps typing, but nothing appears on the page.
He stops when he realises the room is quiet, now sans the sound of pages turning. He looks up, and Vincent is looking at him.
His eyes are soft, and Thomas is reminded of ages ago, back in the sequestered assigned apartment for the conclave. The words are repeated, not like a memory but as if it is being said again in front of him. Nevertheless, you have it.
There is no more vote, so Thomas wonders what exactly of Vincent’s he has.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, I just like seeing you work.” Thomas huffs. Everything that comes out of Thomas that's real almost has to fight its way out to be heard. Vincent has a compulsion towards truth and sincerity that he is envious of.
“We must find something interesting to sneak in the Vatican for you." He pushes away from his desk. "Surely any movie or book will be more interesting than an old man risking arthritis?"
"My tastes may be more refined than you think."
"Maybe instead, we should send a doctor for your eyes." His tongue feels looser around Vincent on nights like this, and of course, he still cares about decorum but this type of conversation? This nourishes the soul.
Thomas' hand spasms, and he exclaims in pain.
Vincent gets up and walks towards him. “Do you need help?”
“No, it’s okay.” Vincent tilts his head at him. He says it but their relationship has an understanding that goes deeper than words. People lie and obfuscate, but Vincent knows how to read the tensed line of his jaw that shows that Thomas is holding something back. Sometimes, you do things not because it was asked for, but because it was kind of you to do so.
“You can ask for help.” He starts rubbing circles into Thomas’ hand. He feels a little like a child being reprimanded, so he turns away.
“If I require it.”
“If I require you to be well, will you let me?” It's a stupid question, Thomas thinks. It's one of the things he dreams up in his head whenever he wants to live in a kinder world.
“Anything, my dear Vincent.” The endearment comes easy and threaded with affection. It seems so heartfelt, like a wife talking to her husband.
“You will sleep.” He moves his thumb down to his wrist, still trying to massage it. His other fingers find his pulse point. He knows it will be calm and steady, the way it always is with Vincent.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”
“You would just return to work the moment I left. I know you.” The final sentence makes Thomas a little giddy. How lovely it is to be known and have people take pride in knowing you?
“Not all of us can sleep anywhere.” His first interaction with Vincent was him asleep upright in a chair, and that was the most normal place they have found him asleep in.
“Is there something preventing you from sleeping, Thomas?”
Where can he begin?
For a long time now, he's been thinking about why Vincent has struck him so much. There were many things he had done on his own during the conclave that spoke to a strength of spirit that Thomas has deeply admired since. But now, when they practically live in each other's pockets? What makes it so much more different than Aldo, than Ray, then the many cardinals that Lawrence has talked to and learned about over the years?
What he's concluded is this:
What he has with Vincent is more than the confidante that he has in Aldo, and more than the lieutenant to his major that he has in Ray. They are two people who work together towards a shared goal. They fill in the gaps the other may have and strengthen the capabilities they already have. They have a synergy evident even in silence. He makes Thomas' riotous brain quiet, and Thomas likes to think that it means something that Vincent lights up whenever he meets Thomas' eyes from across the room. They lean on each other, both physically and mentally.
They are not friends, no.
They are partners.
Thomas feels a small kiss by his hairline. "You are thinking something."
"I am always thinking."
"Your mind is tossing over something." Vincent turns his chair so that they are facing each other.
He bends down, and why would he do that, his knees are giving way, Vincent just told him this today, and holds Thomas between his hands.
This is new. This is fathoms more intimate than what they do. He feels like he's running a fever. He can't move his head so he's left to stare into Vincent's eyes.
They are always so soft when they're looking at Thomas. But this close, where his breath tickles his nose, he can see how they sparkle. The stars outside pale in comparison to the brightness that his eyes hold. His eyes have always said so much, and they always seem like they should be smiling. If Thomas looks at Vincent the way you do when you see your prayers answered, then how does Vincent look at him?
Why is Vincent smiling like that, like he can't believe how lucky he is?
Why does he hold onto Thomas like a rosary, reverent and holy?
Why do his eyes lock onto every single part of his face, like he needs to see every mark and wrinkle?
Everything about Vincent's actions point to the simple fact: Vincent would choose him. Vincent wants him. He's Vincent's favourite.
They move closer. Thomas closes his eyes.
Vincent kisses him and supernovas explode on his lips.
He jerks back, but he grabs onto Vincent's hair and he doesn't know how, but he kisses back.
His chair hits the desk. Something topples onto the desk.
Hot. He opens his eyes and the room is on fire. Everything is engulfed in flames.
And Vincent is gone.
In a small apartment a walking distance from Casa Santa Marta, a cardinal wakes.
He shifts into an upright position and clutches at his damp forehead.
But the only physical sensation he registers is the phantom kiss on his lips.
He glances at the clock. He wakes up much too early for his alarm.
But he can’t help but feel like he has just failed to use what God has given him.
So, instead, he sits up and registers the way his world will come to an end.