Chapter Text
It is an old family joke, perhaps the only joke that has ever persisted between the walls of Thomas’s family home, that if they see a car trundling along the narrow lane up to the house then the person driving that car is almost certainly lost. No one, apart from the postman and Graeme, the man who had delivered groceries once a week prior to Thomas’s father’s death, ever came to Adderstone Hall deliberately.
Thomas watches, from the window of his father’s cramped, disorganised study, as the headlamps slowly track a path through the dense February fog and wonders about calling out to Ben that some poor soul is probably going to have to turn around on the drive.
Then he remembers the argument they’d had earlier- which wasn’t really an argument, it was Ben yelling that they shouldn’t have to do this, that they should just light a match and set fire to the hideous old pile and walk away, that the only reason father had kept them in his will was to enact one last cruel and unusual punishment upon his children, and to hell with him.
When Thomas hadn’t agreed, or argued, or said anything at all she’d thrown her arms in the air, made a noise of intense irritation and told him she’d see him at supper. He’d heard her down in the kitchen, banging pots and pans, taking out her frustration on mince and various vegetables, and now a scent a bit like school dinners is wafting up the stairs. They have split the cooking in the week that they’ve been stuck in the house, but neither of them has any particular finesse for it; if Thomas were by himself he’d probably stick to sandwiches. Ben had said he could be a martyr on his own time, but she did not intend to get scurvy.
They had arrived a little under a week ago, Ben having picked Thomas up from Newcastle central train station in her trusty old Citroën. Thomas had placed his case and kitbag in the boot and Ben had relegated her Border Terriers, Pyramus and Thisbe, to the back, allowing Thomas the honour of a dogwarmed seat in the front of the car.
“Thank you for picking me up.” Thomas had said, and Ben had rolled her eyes.
“Don’t thank me, you do remember where we’re going, don’t you?”
She hadn’t waited for a reply, simply swung the car out into the road with little regard for her fellow drivers. Thomas instinctively gripped the door handle, which had made Ben snort, but she passed no further comment.
It had been raining at Newcastle and by the time they made it to Morpeth it had begun to sleet. Ben parked up in the nearest supermarket car park and sent Thomas off with a shopping list while she took the dogs to stretch their legs. He had diligently gone inside and bought everything Ben had instructed him to, through the medium of her scrawling handwriting, and then returned to the car where Ben and the dogs were waiting. They had loaded up in near silence.
It was with some reluctance that Ben started the car again, and Thomas felt much the same- it was like they were leaving civilisation behind.
Their father had been dead since early November, and whilst they’d both made it up to Northumberland for the funeral, they had agreed that they couldn’t sort the house out at that time. Christmas was on the way, which was a busy enough time for a lay-person and utterly hectic for Thomas and his diocese, he couldn’t take time off until at least after Epiphany.
“Let’s do it in February, it’s a crap month anyway.” Ben had said, over a cup of lukewarm tea at the wake.
Thomas had agreed that Lent did not start until March, and he was quickly granted the compassionate leave.
“It must be very hard for you, Thomas. Josceline Lawrence was a man of great conviction.” the archbishop had said, carefully.
Thomas had only nodded, because he supposed the words were true.
“I’ve read a few of his books.” the archbishop had added, avoiding Thomas’s eyes. He passed no further comment on the content of the books, which told Thomas all he needed to know.
It was no secret that Thomas and his father did not get along, but Josceline Lawrence did not get along with anybody. He had fallen out with all of his friends over the years, unless they had predeceased him before he’d had a chance to pick a fight. Thomas did not agree with any of his father’s opinions, which his father maintained were ‘truths’, and it had been difficult, at first, to distance himself from his father’s reputation. Even now, when he met priests and academics there would be a brief pause as they digested his surname, often followed with “- surely no relation to that Lawrence?”.
His father had written prolifically- histories and hagiographies of the Catholic Church, fierce defences of what he called the ‘traditional values’ of what the church ‘truly stood for’. It was impressive how he could pontificate on the basis of the Christian faith and barely mention Christ himself at all- although Thomas is sure his father would have informed Jesus how he was performing his ministry wrongly, had he been in the Holy Land two thousand years ago.
Joscelyn Lawrence had briefly been a popular figure amongst Catholic counterculture backlash against Vatican II but had fallen out of favour in more recent years as his work had become more openly bigoted. He had struggled to get his last book published, and had resorted to a fringe press, which he had seen as beneath his dignity.
At the time of his death Thomas’s father had been sixty-five years old, but had looked much older, thanks to prodigious smoking and drinking. There had been a half empty bottle of Teachers blended whisky on the kitchen table when Graeme, delivering the weekly order of tea, tinned food and cigarettes, had found Josceline slumped over a bowl of cold soup, dead as a doornail.
The short inquest had declared his death due to catastrophic heart failure (“He had one?” Ben had remarked, incredulously, down the phone to Thomas). The funeral was arranged quickly; the guests were sparse. Ben and her partner Chris, a few distant cousins from the Lawrence side, a couple of people from Bowinton, the small village about a mile from Adderstone Hall and the local priest were the only souls to hear Thomas’s stilted eulogy. Josceline Lawrence had been placed into the frostbitten ground in the family plot of St Aidan’s churchyard, and then they had all gone to the church hall for limp sandwiches and that had been the end of it. Until February and the clearing of Adderstone Hall.
Neither Ben nor Thomas had visited the house in years- their father occasionally sent them rambling letters, full of recriminations and spite, but he never suggested either of his children come and see him. Thomas thinks he had last stepped foot inside in about 1989, he mostly remembers placing peonies on his mother’s grave and his father ranting about Ben’s divorce and Thomas’s haircut.
When they had pushed open the kitchen door they had been met with a draught of chilly, stale air, the strong scent of mildew undercut with a fug of cheap tobacco. Ben had tsked, glaring at the overflowing ashtray on the table next to the bottle of whisky.
“Didn’t we ask the cleaner to come up last week?” she had said, wrinkling her nose.
“There was snow last week, she rang me and said she couldn’t make it in.” Thomas had replied.
Ben had rolled her eyes.
“I’ll collect the ashtrays, then, you get the fire lit and the range going. God knows if the boiler even still works.” Ben had said, bustling out of the room with a roll of bin bags under her arm, the dogs following at her heels.
Thomas had done as he was told and then brought the shopping and luggage into the kitchen. Condensation had beaded on the whitewashed stone walls as the room began to heat up.
Ben had returned, carrying a bin bag half full of cigarette butts and empty bottles, looking even grimmer than before.
“The place is a tip- the wallpaper is peeling off in the parlour and his bedroom is like a midden. I’m going to telephone for a skip in the morning. I’m sure almost everything is riddled with woodworm or damp.”
They had decided to start work the next day, had eaten cheese on toast for supper and retired early to their childhood bedrooms- which were fortunately relatively free of their father’s mess and the intruding damp, thanks to their position in the house, just above the kitchen.
Their days had then fallen into a pattern, of them approaching a room, attempting to clear it out and ending the day feeling exhausted and somewhat defeated. Their father seemed to have become something of a hoarder in recent years- piles of old newspapers, L.Ps in yellowing sleeves, boxes full of miscellaneous rubbish, stacks of VHS tapes, ancient letters bundled together with elastic bands- seemed to pour out of every room. It felt like every time they had begun to make headway, they opened yet another door and more mess spilled out.
It didn’t help that neither of them felt any real affection for the house- a squat, rather ugly building, half castle, half glorified barn, sitting at a point on the headland where the wind seemed to blow at it from all directions. Adderstone Hall was not a particularly big house in terms of Northumberland stock- it had been a heavily fortified stronghold during the medieval period due to skirmishes and border reivers, and it still boasted thick stone walls in its oldest parts. Georgian and Victorian extensions had added some extra bedrooms, a drawing room and a badly thought-out conservatory which seemed to have had a leak in the roof since it was built. The plumbing was unreliable, the boiler even less so, and the Lawrence family, who had lived there since about the time of the Reformation, had learnt to cope with the cold rolling in off the sea, which was barely a mile’s walk to the east.
“I hate this sodding place.” Ben had said, a few days ago, when Thomas had handed her a plate of what he maintained was supposed to be Shepherd’s Pie.
Ben’s thick black hair, bobbed chicly at her jawline, had been covered in dust, her usual smart clothes swapped for one of Thomas’s old, raggedy jumpers. She looked tired, and miserable and Thomas knew the food wasn’t going to cheer her up either.
“Sorry.” Thomas had said.
Ben had sighed, poking a bit of mashed potato dubiously with her fork.
“You don’t have to apologise, Thomas. I know you hate it here too. Don’t you feel like every time you turn a corner, he’s going to be standing there?”
A slight chill had run across Thomas’s skin when Ben had said that. Their father’s presence had been weighing heavily that day, especially as Thomas had finally started going through his desk and had found some rather disquieting things amongst his writings.
“A little bit.” Thomas had replied, not wanting to let on how much Ben’s words chilled him.
It was in that strange mood that Thomas had found himself writing to Aldo after dinner that night. He always found talking to Aldo a comfort, knowing he wouldn’t be censured for his thoughts and feelings, that his friend would understand. They had met on their first day studying together at St Anthony’s Theological College and had quickly become the closest of friends- Aldo, with his quick wit and kind heart was incredibly dear to him. Thomas had felt much better after writing the letter and had posted it without a second thought when he’d walked to Bowinton with the dogs the next day.
It was only when days passed with no word- either through the post or by phone call, that Thomas started to worry that perhaps the letter he had sent to Aldo had been too overwrought. A letter babbling on about being terrified of meeting his father’s ghost was hardly how he usually comported himself through correspondence. Perhaps Aldo, usually so prompt to reply, was trying to compose a response which wasn’t just ‘have you gone mad?’
Thomas had admonished himself- Aldo was a busy man, recently appointed to a post as a political advisor in Rome, alongside his duties to his parish, he probably hadn’t had time to check his mail. Still, he eagerly awaited any form of answer.
So, almost a week into their time at Adderstone Hall, Thomas and Ben had already filled one skip full of rubbish and were expecting another to be delivered in the morning, had walked Pyramus and Thisbe for miles across the moorland and had both begun to go slightly around the bend. They are actually doing better than he had expected- both of them are still alive, thus far.
Thinking about progress, Thomas notices the car he has been watching has finally made it to the end of the drive and has stopped in front of Adderstone Hall. Thomas imagines he will have to go downstairs and give the lost driver directions. He realises, with some surprise, that the car is in fact a taxi- he can now see the red livery of the firm which services the area. How a local taxi driver could have gotten so lost is beyond him.
He watches as someone gets out of the passenger side of the cab- and everything in his body seems to seize up in shock as he recognises the figure who has emerged from the car. He stands stock still for a second, and then he all but runs from his father’s study, taking the stairs two at time, ignoring Ben’s confused shout at his sudden flurry of activity.
Even as he throws open the seldom used front door- the family had only ever used the kitchen door at the back, the front door was for guests- Thomas still hasn’t fully processed who he had seen through the pane of glass. He doesn’t actually think it can be possible.
“Aldo?” he calls.
But his eyes aren’t deceiving him- Aldo Bellini is somehow standing in the driveway of Thomas’s childhood home. He’s wearing a long charcoal coat and a knitted woollen hat, in deference to the cold, and he is smiling beautifully at Thomas’s no doubt discombobulated expression.
“Hey!” he calls to Thomas, as if he’s spotted him across the seminary refectory, and not like he has magically appeared nearly fifteen hundred miles away from where he is meant to be.
“How- how are you here?” Thomas asks, walking down the front steps, even though he is not dressed for the weather at all, and can feel the cold through his tennis shoes.
Aldo grins at him.
“I got a plane, and then a train, and then another train, and then Peter here”, Aldo gestures to the taxi driver, who is busy unloading the boot, “gave me a lift from Alnmouth. And I’m about to pay him his full fare, plus a tip.” Aldo says the last part loudly, turning towards the man.
“No, you aren’t, Father.” Peter says, pleasantly.
Thomas assumes there has been some sort of affable disagreement about how much Aldo owes Peter for the trip, but he’s still too surprised to really take anything in. He can’t stop staring at Aldo, who is real, who is actually standing there, his breath coming out in cloudy puffs in the cold night air, his lovely dark eyes twinkling.
“And now you’re here.” Thomas says, wonderingly.
“And now I’m here.” Aldo agrees, “we’d better help Peter with the bags, I ended up bringing a lot more than I intended to.”
Aldo hands Thomas several full carrier bags, and picks up his own case and rucksack, before turning back to Peter.
“Call it a fiver.” Peter says.
“Five pounds? That trip was very long and you have to drive back-” Aldo fishes around in his pocket and hands Peter a £10 note and a handful of coins.
“Oh, Father, I couldn’t-” Peter says, trying to hand some of the cash back.
“Add it to the collection plate on Sunday, then.” Aldo says, giving Peter one of his infectious grins.
Peter smiles back and then nods, touching the brim of his hat.
“Very kind of you, then.” he says.
They wave Peter off and then head inside. It hasn’t even occurred to Thomas to ask what is in the bags he is carrying, he’s still so amazed that Aldo is here, In Northumberland.
Ben is less amazed, frowning over at them from where she is standing over the hob and stirring something brown in a pan as they enter the kitchen from the hallway.
“Who is this?” She asks, in a somewhat accusatory manner. The dogs are driven wild with the rustling of bags and the introduction of a new person, barking in excitement.
“Hi, I’m Aldo- you must be Benedicta? We’ve never met but I’ve heard a lot about you.” Aldo says, going over to shake Ben’s hand and then dropping down to his knees to greet the dogs.
“Just Ben is fine. Those two are Pyramus and Thisbe.” She pauses in stirring the food. “Aldo- the American from the seminary?” Ben asks.
“The very same.” Aldo replies as Thomas nods.
“Well, I think I can stretch dinner to three.” Ben says, shortly.
“Oh- food, yeah-” Aldo says, standing up again, much to the dogs’ displeasure, “I had some time to kill in Newcastle and I found a deli run by Italians- southern Italians, at that, and one thing led to another-”
He goes to the bags that Thomas has placed on the kitchen table and starts pulling items from them- bags of dried pasta, fresh bread, a large wedge of parmesan, olive oil, wine, tomatoes, lemons, bundles of fresh herbs, several bottles of wine and even what seems to be an entire leg of cured ham.
“Gosh.” Thomas says, as Aldo just keeps producing more and more.
“Like Mary Poppins.” Ben says, her voice a bit warmer as she eyes the food.
Aldo smiles at her.
“I swear there isn’t a standard lamp in here.” he says, as he retrieves a parcel of coffee beans from yet another bag.
Thomas and Aldo spend a few minutes putting everything away- Thomas wondering if half the foodstuffs Aldo has brought with him has ever graced the kitchen of Adderstone Hall before. He thinks the closest thing they will have had to a real lemon would have been a bottle of Jif concentrated lemon juice for pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. And that would have stopped after his mother died.
Thomas takes Aldo out into the hallway to hang his coat up- noticeably he hasn’t tried to take it off yet, given how cold the house is.
“Sorry for turning up unannounced.” Aldo says, taking his knitted hat off.
Thomas is about to say that it’s fine- that it’s rather wonderful, actually, but then he finds himself staring at Aldo’s hair- or lack of it.
“You’ve shaved your head!” he exclaims.
Aldo gives him a slightly rueful look.
“Yeah, well, I woke up one day and realised I’d lost so much hair I looked like my Uncle Sal, and my dad always said he looked like an idiot, so I went to the barbers.” he touches his head, a little self-consciously, “I have been assured I don’t look like a mafioso by several old ladies in my congregation- unprompted, mind.”
Thomas laughs.
“Which of course only makes you worry that you do- no, I like it, it suits you.” Thomas says. He likes it rather a lot actually, it makes Aldo look a little older, more sophisticated.
Aldo looks down at the floor, smiling.
“Thanks.” he says, as he slips his coat off and hangs it on the hook.
They stand for a moment, taking each other in, Thomas acutely aware that he’s wearing a stained t shirt and jeans he found in the airing cupboard earlier in the week, which have not been in style since the late 70s. Aldo on the other hand is dressed in smart trousers and a well fitted deep red wool jumper, which contrasts nicely with the deep tan he has developed since moving to Rome. He looks like a handsome, stylish stranger whilst Thomas feels like a gawky teenager.
“Hello.” Thomas says, because he realises he hasn’t said it yet.
Aldo smiles at him again, that warm one which lights his eyes up. Thomas wonders if he dares risk a proper welcome now, with his sister only in the next room.
“We should go wash up.” Aldo says, nodding towards the kitchen, where the banging of pans has increased in volume, indicating that Ben is getting ready to serve a meal. Thomas gets the message- they can catch up properly later.
They wash their hands, take their seats, and Ben places a plate of what Thomas thinks is beef in front of each of them. She is even worse at making mash potato than he is, and the vegetables look sludgy from overboiling.
“Looks great.” Aldo says.
Ben rolls her eyes.
“No, it doesn’t, but it’s what we have to eat this evening- and we agreed no prayers before meals. If you must, do it in your head.” She says, when she catches Aldo beginning to fold his hands.
Aldo glances at Thomas and Thomas shakes his head slightly. Aldo knows a great deal about Thomas’s father, how he had driven Thomas into the arms of the church and Ben screaming away from all religion.
“Fine by me.” Aldo says, digging into his meal with an enthusiasm it doesn’t warrant.
“How long are you planning to stay, Aldo?” Thomas asks, hoping he sounds casual and not like a man trying desperately to grab hold of a life raft.
“Well, I got granted a week’s leave so- as long as you need me, I guess.” Aldo says.
“This is how you’re spending your leave?” Ben asks, incredulously.
Aldo shrugs and smiles and doesn’t explain himself further.
“Well, I’m very grateful.” Thomas says. He can’t begin to express how grateful he is, how moved he is that Aldo would do this for them.
“At least with Aldo helping you’ll have time to drag him to one of your ruined castles.” Ben says.
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.” Thomas says, his spirits rising further.
“Are we far from Hadrian’s Wall here?” Aldo asks.
“Yes, actually- you were on it in Newcastle, or Pons Aelius as the Romans called it- we’re much farther north.” Thomas says.
“You’re beyond the end of the known world up here.” Ben says, widening her eyes.
“According to the Romans,” Thomas says, “and they knew people lived up here-”
“And they built a bloody great wall to keep them out of the Empire.” Ben says.
“Actually, that’s a common misconception, the wall was built to protect, yes, but also to force the local tribes to interact peaceably with Roman life- if they wanted to travel south, they had to go through a Roman fort.” Thomas says, “People confuse the function of Hadrian’s Wall with that of the Great Wall of China-”
Ben holds her knife up.
“Do not lecture me about the Great Wall of China at the dinner table, Thomas.” she declares.
Thomas sighs.
“Aldo asked about Hadrian’s Wall-”
“He asked where the wall was not what the function of the wall was-”
“Well, that in essence is explaining why the wall is where it is-”
“I thought one of your middle names was ‘Aloysius’ not ‘pedant’, Thomas.” Ben says, archly.
“I’m not being pedantic-”
“He said, pedantically-” Ben says, in the most irritating fashion possible.
Thomas is just about reaching the end of his rope with his sister when Aldo lets out a snort of laughter.
“Going a little stir crazy up here, huh, guys?” he asks, looking between Thomas and Ben with an amused expression.
There’s a brief silence, in which Thomas glances at Ben- he knows Aldo well enough to know that his friend isn’t trying to offend, but Ben has always been prickly at the best of times and has been downright bad tempered since they started clearing the house.
Fortunately, Ben lets out a snort of her own.
“’A little’? I was seriously entertaining turning the gas on and lighting a match earlier- and possibly not even telling Thomas to get out before I did it.” she says.
“Oh, I haven’t been that terrible company, have I?” Thomas asks, not quite managing to keep the note of hurt out of his voice.
Ben softens, and smiles at him with a smile exactly like their mother’s. She reaches across the table and pats his hand.
“No, Tom-tom, you’ve been fine. But we are both going loopy, you must admit. You’re wearing your old flares, for God’s sake.”
Thomas looks down at himself and thinks of the letter he sent to Aldo, and how the contents of it have clearly prompted Aldo to drop everything to come and check on him, and feels his ears turn red.
“She’s got you there, Tom-tom.” Aldo says, with a wink, which somehow makes everything feel a bit better.
“At least we won’t end up like great-aunt Annunciata.” Ben says, stabbing at a particularly gristly bit of beef.
“What happened to her?” Aldo asks.
“Thought she could talk to ghosts and fairies, wandered out in the night wearing only a shift, caught pleurisy and spent the rest of her life in an asylum.” Ben says.
“She probably had bipolar disorder.” Thomas explains, “It runs in the family.”
Aldo nods.
“Certainly, sounds like she had it. The main thing that runs in my family is heart disease, but that might just be because of my nonna’s cooking.”
“Do you have any siblings, Aldo?” Ben asks.
Thomas and Aldo both laugh.
“Aldo is the youngest of nine, Ben.” Thomas says.
“Nine? Bloody hell, your poor mother.” Ben exclaims.
“Yep. Eleven of us in a four-bed house- you see why I sought a life of solitude and reflection.” Aldo says.
Ben lets out a bark of amusement.
“Yes, but you didn’t become a monk, so you don’t have to share a loo with half a dozen other people.”
“Exactly.” Aldo says, grinning. Ben smiles back.
Thomas feels warmed by the fact his sister and Aldo seem to be getting on. He wasn’t particularly worried about Aldo’s ability to be charming- but Ben’s hatred of the church, despite her deep links to it, make her somewhat hostile to priests. But the gift of half an Italian delicatessen and the way both her dogs seem to be captivated by him mean that by the time they’ve finished dinner Ben has considerably thawed towards Aldo after his sudden appearance on their temporary doorstep.
Aldo insists on doing the washing up and Thomas dries as Ben puts her feet up- literally on top of the on the warm range, her fingers laced across her stomach.
“This will make moving furniture a lot easier.” Thomas says, as they begin to discuss their new attack plan for clearing the house. “Ben can’t really help.”
Aldo inclines his head.
“Well, yeah, for obvious reasons.” he says, nodding over to her.
Thomas frowns. He looks over at his sister, whose eyes have gone slightly wide.
“What do you mean?” Thomas asks.
Aldo frowns at him, incredulously.
“Because I’m so small and delicate, is what he means, Thomas.” Ben says, her voice a little too loud.
Aldo glances at her and she looks back, widening her eyes further. After a second whatever message Ben is attempting to convey seems to get through to Aldo, and he turns back to the sink, an odd smile on his face.
“Yeah, that’s what I meant- I bet some of the stuff you’ve got in this place must weigh a tonne.”
Thomas is still slightly puzzled. It’s true, Ben is about a foot shorter than him, and has their mother’s slender frame, but he would never really describe her as ‘delicate’. She used to play field hockey at her all-girl’s school, and she once broke another player’s ankle- apparently by accident, but she had related the tale to him with a little too much glee for that to have been the entire truth.
“Well- yes. Someone from the local auction house is coming round on in a few days to appraise things.” He says, deciding to let the odd moment go.
“I still think we should just have a big bonfire.” Ben says, picking Thisbe up for a cuddle.
“Some of the furniture is Tudor, Ben.” Thomas points out, as he stacks the clean, dry plates on the counter.
“And filled with deathwatch beetle, no doubt.” She says.
They decide the best place for Aldo to sleep will be in the room they still call ‘the nursery’, despite the fact the last time there was a baby in the house was when Thomas was an infant. It has a relatively new double bed in it, bought for a nanny to sleep in. Thomas can just about remember one woman staying for about two weeks before she handed her notice in and left in tears, no doubt because of something their father had done. And then, of course, both he and Ben had been shipped off to school and there was no need for anyone to look after them.
“Sorry it’s not very- nice.” Thomas says, as he opens the door and switches on the light, illuminating the interior of the gloomy bedroom.
He isn’t sure why his parents had picked this room for the nursery, out of all the bedrooms in the house, it has always felt oddly austere- a very small window at waist height, thanks to adjustments in the height of the floor over the years, an overlarge mahogany chest of drawers looming in the corner, the wallpaper a navy and cream pinstripe which was probably supposed to be cheerful but actually giving the overall effect of prison bars. To cap it all off there is, of course, a crucifix over the bed, complete with a profusely bleeding Christ, but that, at least, is decoration Aldo is used to.
“It’s fine, Thomas, you know I’ve slept in much worse.” Aldo says, putting his case and rucksack down.
“We better change the bed linen- it’ll be dusty.” Thomas says, pulling a face.
“Again, I’ve dealt with worse.” Aldo says, with a smile.
Thomas finds himself once again caught by the reality of him- Aldo, here, in Adderstone Hall, of all the godforsaken places on earth.
“I still can’t believe you’re here.” Thomas says.
“Yeah, well, your letter made it sound like you needed a friend.” Aldo says, lightly, as if he’s just popped in for a quick five minute catch up.
Thomas laughs. “My letter made me sound like I was a few days away from walking out into the night in only a shift, I’m sure.”
“No, it was more- I could tell you were struggling with all this- your dad, everything. And it’s you, so you would never actually ask for me to come, so I made the executive decision.” He says, shrugging.
“Well, I really am so very grateful, Aldo.” Thomas says, at a loss to convey how strongly he feels.
Aldo nods, looking away.
“Shall we change the sheets, then?” He suggests.
On the way to the airing cupboard, Thomas shows Aldo where the bathroom is. He also pre-emptively apologises for the dribbling shower with unreliable temperature settings, the awful noise the toilet cistern makes as it refills and the fact that it is consistently one of the coldest rooms in the house.
After changing the bed, they head back downstairs and spend an hour or two chatting with Ben in the kitchen- it is the only room downstairs that is tidy and warm enough for them to all sit in. Thomas hasn’t shown Aldo the rest of the house yet- he thinks he might regret his decision to visit if he sees how much of a wreck it actually is.
They agree to turn in early- Aldo is obviously a little tired from his journey, Ben is half dozing with the dogs on her knee and Thomas has his own reasons for wanting to go to bed. He waits an hour after they have bid Ben goodnight before he creeps back to Aldo’s room- it’s on the other end of the corridor from his own.
He knocks quietly, waits a second and then opens the door, as has become their custom.
Aldo is sitting up in bed, reading by the light of the bedside lamp. He looks up and smiles when he sees Thomas hovering in the doorway, gestures for him to come in, putting his book down on the bedside table. Thomas shuts the door behind him and hurries to join Aldo, eagerness and the creeping cold driving him quickly towards the bed.
Under the covers he wraps his arms around Aldo and finally, finally, kisses him. He presses his face against Aldo’s neck and breathes deeply, the scent of his skin mixed with the heady cologne Aldo wears making Thomas feel more grounded than he has done in months- since that horrible afternoon when he had been informed of his father’s death. He had only managed to have a couple of quick phone conversations with Aldo during the Christmas period, and they haven’t seen each other in person since October, when Thomas had managed to fit in a brief trip to Rome.
“I missed you.” Thomas says.
“I missed you, too.” Aldo says. “Is Ben asleep?”
Thomas smiles at Aldo.
“You mean you can’t hear her?” He asks.
Aldo frowns and he pauses, listening. His eyes widen as he realises what Thomas is referring to.
“That’s her? I thought that was the wind or the house settling, or- something?”
Thomas laughs, pulling Aldo closer. They listen to Ben, breathing another bone rattlingly loud snore in and then out. Aldo’s eyes widen further.
“My God.” He says.
“Yes, that’s Benedicta, she’s always done it, sleeps flat on her back with her mouth open. I don’t know how Christine puts up with it.” Thomas says.
“She must wear ear plugs.” Aldo says.
Thomas thinks Aldo’s probably right- he hasn’t spent a great deal of time with Christine- Chris, as Ben calls her- but she’s a deeply practical woman, who obviously loves his sister very much- because, he supposes, she would have to, to put up with that level of noise every night.
“I don’t snore, do I?” Thomas asks.
Aldo quirks an eyebrow at him.
“If you snored like that, I’d have kicked you out of bed a long time ago.”
He leans in and kisses Thomas again, with more heat than before. Thomas is already half hard- Aldo’s proximity and the banked desire to touch him all evening have that affect on him. He slides his leg between Aldo’s, and rolls them over so Aldo is beneath him, a long-practiced move.
They have learnt to do this very efficiently- gasps swallowed in each other’s mouths or muffled against skin, minimal removal of clothing just in case of discovery, strategically placed packs of tissues for easy clean up.
If Thomas wishes that sometimes they were able to take their time with each other, to get to really look at Aldo’s body as they make love, to draw out the pleasure- well, he has obviously picked the wrong life for that. They are priests, just because Thomas occasionally longs for more it doesn’t make his wants justified. The whole reasoning behind this arrangement is practicality, it makes sense that their coupling should be goal orientated.
Sometimes, though, he feels as if Aldo has a timer in his head for exactly how long he will allow himself to be kissed, to be touched and touch back with lazy intent. He will suddenly decide he has had enough of casual, comforting intimacy and will decide to move things on.
Such as now, when Aldo’s hand predictably slides into Thomas’s pyjama bottoms, his fingers closing around Thomas’s cock, a move he has refined down to an art. Thomas moans, eyes sliding shut as Aldo begins to stroke him in earnest. He kisses Aldo again, in an effort to keep quiet. It has been far too long since October, and he is not going to last under Aldo’s skilful ministrations. He comes barely a minute later, choking back a groan as he spends.
He fumbles for Aldo’s cock inside his boxers, finds him hot and hard, flicks his thumb roughly over the head, exactly as he knows Aldo likes it. He feels Aldo shudder beneath him, pushing his hips up, thrusting into Thomas’s hand. Thomas takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into Aldo’s mouth, to kiss him deeply, when Aldo is at his mercy, desperate and wanting. This is the only real indulgence Thomas allows himself, to revel in the feeling of Aldo shaking apart beneath him.
Thomas holds Aldo as he trembles, presses a kiss to his brow, then shifts away. There’s the usual slightly awkward clean up, and Thomas rests for a moment in Aldo’s bed, getting his breath back. He’s about to stand up to leave when Aldo’s hand closes round his wrist.
“You could stay? If you wanted to talk, maybe?” Aldo suggests, his voice soft, his eyes searching Thomas’s face.
It is tempting, certainly, the night is heavy with frost, and Thomas isn’t relishing the thought of the walk back to his lonely, now cold bed. But there are a dozen reasons why he mustn’t stay.
“Ben might find us.” Thomas points out.
“Do you think she’d care?” Aldo asks.
“That’s hardly the point.” Thomas replies. He doesn’t know why Aldo is pushing it, they have always agreed that they would only spend the whole night together if they could guarantee privacy, the risk simple isn’t worth it.
Aldo lets go of Thomas’s wrist, his eyes sliding away from Thomas’s.
“Yeah, OK.” Aldo says, flatly.
Thomas wants to offer comfort, but he isn’t sure what to say. Aldo knows the dangers as well as Thomas does.
“Sleep well.” Thomas says, as he gets out of bed, the frigid air hitting his overheated body, making him shiver.
“You too.” Aldo replies, sounding far away as he rolls onto his side.
Thomas goes back to his room, feeling physically satisfied and mentally a bit vexed. Aldo occasionally falls into a strange mood after they’ve had sex, where he becomes quiet and combative at equal turns. He hopes that Aldo will be feeling better by the morning- he’s probably just tired from all the travel, Thomas reasons.
He turns the lights off and lies between chilly sheets, his mind drifting back to Aldo. They have been sleeping together since their seminary days- Thomas had been aware of his attraction to men since he was quite young, but he had never met anyone who suited him as well as Aldo Bellini. They were friends, they had similar interests, taste in music and books, Aldo’s body and face aroused him- he had watched Aldo for signs of interest and when Aldo was responsive Thomas had pursued him, suggested a mutually beneficial relationship of sorts. It dealt with several problems at once- the need for sexual release, eliminating the power imbalance that could be caused by sleeping with a lay person, the understanding that it would never go further than just sex as they were both priests. It was an excellent solution for their predicament.
The arrangement works well- they don’t see each other as often as Thomas would hope, but it’s workable. They have learnt what the other enjoys and yes, the sex is efficient- for want of a better word- but that’s as it should be. Thomas knows neither of them want to risk losing themselves to the pursuit of sexual gratification.
One of the best things about it is how little it affects their bond- the sexual side of their connection seems to be a totally separate entity from their friendship. Thomas knows that Aldo didn’t travel fifteen hundred miles just to sleep with him- he’s here to support Thomas through a difficult time. The thought warms him to his core, despite the freezing dark surrounding him.
Thomas smiles to himself in the dark. In the morning, he thinks, he will thank Aldo again- he is truly lucky to have such a wonderful friend.