Chapter Text
1 John 4:7-8: Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of god and knows God. Anyone who does not love does not know love, because God is love.
I can hear them singing,
"to love me is to suffer me",
and I believe that
The crowd’s roaring grows to a fever pitch when white smoke at long last rises from the chimney and the church bells begin to toll on the third day of the conclave.
Three arduous nights of the whole of the Catholic Church holding its breath, three long days full of prayer, of covert online betting and copious media speculation, and the gathered holy men in the Sistine Chapel have finally come to their conclusion. The Church has at last elected a new Holy Father.
Hand in hand with this relief comes a new nervous excitement that ripples through the gathered masses, both there in person and all those catching the breaking news: who have the cardinals decided is most worthy to lead? Will the new Pope continue the legacy of his predecessor and act as a progressive force? Or has the conclave gone in a more conservative direction and picked a man who is a traditionalist? Perhaps he will be a moderate, someone who stresses the importance of middle ground?
Blessedly, the faithful do not have to wait very long for their answer. A few moments later, and the glass doors swing open, and the Cardinal Protodeacon, who is accompanied by two monsignors, comes to face the joyous clamor. He stands there with hands folded in prayer, waiting for the crowd to quiet while the men beside him hold a microphone and a booklet up for him to read from. When there is at last relative silence, he begins with great gusto: “Nuntio vobis gaudium magnum. Habemus papam!”
Once again, a great electrifying joy surges through the gathered believers, and his words are immediately greeted with immense noise. There are thousands upon thousands of people here in the square, having flocked from all corners of the world to be together for this very moment. It grows quiet more quickly this time, the crowd realizing what comes next. In just a few seconds, they will know who is to lead them.
“Eminentissimum ac reverendissimum dominum, dominum Vincentius, Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae Cardinalem Benítez,” The rejoicing of the faithful can likely be heard throughout most of Rome now, “Qui sibi nomen imposuit Innocentius.”
The initial, raw reaction to this announcement for those not directly present is shock. Surely the conclave has made the proper decision that God led them to, but across various news broadcasts, commentators scramble to put it all into perspective: a cardinal who was not known to anyone other than the late Pope until the beginning of the conclave was unprecedented enough. For him to be elected Pope is completely uncharted territory. No one could’ve seen this coming. Before his election, Benítez had served as Cardinal Archbishop of the Archdiocese of Kabul. Grainy, secondhand pictures of him are flashed across screens worldwide. He is the first Latin American pope, the first pope in many hundreds of years to take the name Innocent, and he has little public information on him besides the single Vatican press release.
The white curtains are drawn back from the double glass doors on each side of the main balcony, and the doors are opened wide. Several dozen cardinals, every one with each of their hands laced together in prayer, line themselves up to smile down at the crowd. There is no sadness, no trace of doubt in any of their expressions. The sole exception is the Patriarch of Venice, the staunchly traditionalist Cardinal Geoffredo Tedesco, who wears a grim face but appears only mildly disgruntled at worst. This must mean that Pope Innocent is more liberal than the traditionalist faction had hoped for, but most opinions are that this is the right choice. A Pope who can keep the Catholic Church modern whilst still preserving its history is objectively the right call, the majority of experts who are providing live insight to these events state.
A large banner is carefully unfurled over the balcony railing, setting the way for His Holiness’ entrance. The blood-red rows of cardinals have fully assembled, crowding the balconies and spilling out into the front of the crowds below. They have already taken a turn in the Sistine Chapel to kneel at the Pope’s feet, to kiss his Piscatory ring and pledge their loyalty, and now they assist here in a spiritual serenade.
Then the joyous clamor becomes nearly deafening, rising to a fever pitch, because Pope Innocent has at long last stepped out upon the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica.
Flanking him are the more senior members of the Curia, rich red cloth surrounding pure white. Cardinal Joseph Tremblay who serves as Cardinal Chamberlain, Cardinal Joshua Adeyemi, and Secretary of State Cardinal Aldo Bellini are among the select few to join Innocentius. Of significant note is the noticeable absence of Cardinal Thomas Lawrence, the Dean of the College of Cardinals and the highest-ranking Vatican official. This will cause much speculation - does he not approve of the new Pope? Is he attempting to make a statement? Perhaps there was some conflict between them, perhaps Lawrence had desired to be elected himself - there is no official statement from the Vatican as to why he is not standing alongside the new Holy Father, but there will likely be one released in a few hours. His lack of appearance is sure to be immensely scrutinized.
Two members of the Swiss Guard stand on either side of him at full attention, their sacred duty taken up once more. Despite this traditional fanfare and beneath all the ritual, the new Pope appears to all as a humble figure. His black locks of hair are simply tucked underneath his white zucchetto rather than dramatically styled. His eyes are dark brown, the soft kind that stare right through a person, straight to their soul. He has a certain gentleness in his movements, a slender frame, a handsomely aged face that betrays his many days spent beneath the sun of Afghanistan.
He holds his palm high to greet his new flock, the faintest hint of a smile only seen by the eagle-eyed cameras that capture his every move. He is indeed strikingly beautiful, with his deceptively youthful appearance and, the commentators note, his extremely basic papal dress. He has opted for a toned down look, simple while also denoting his new position as the Church’s leader. His background is that of a saintly man, a life rich with helping others. Already, he is clearly making an impression as a Pope who looks to serve his people.
One of his assistants raises the microphone to Innocent’s mouth, but the new Pope does not speak right away. He waits for the loud celebrations to subside instead. He possesses an innate grace, a calmness that sweeps over all in his presence. The gathered masses seem to settle a bit more quickly than with past papal announcements, and finally His Holiness is ready to begin, to say his first words as Pope, which will define the beginning of his era of guidance over the Church.
Innocent smiles earnestly now, taking in the spectacle. He gazes out over the crowd gathered, who seem to swarm beneath him, craning to hear their new Holy Father’s words. Beside him, Cardinal Bellini nudges him lightly. He seems a reassuring presence, an experienced guiding hand for Innocent in the absence of the Dean.
And so His Holiness, Pope Innocent XIV leans forward, swallows down any lingering anxieties, the adrenaline, the ache of his conversation in the Room of Tears with the one man who has not joined him out on the balcony, and opens his mouth to speak.
Far away, yet not very far at all in the late Holy Father’s garden, Thomas stands stock still, face turned up towards Heaven. He hears the crowd, thousands of voices swelling to a crescendo as they finally see their new Holy Father for the first time. At his feet, a few turtles move slowly past, blissfully oblivious to the sad-looking old man that has invaded their home and returned their lost brother.
(Before he had left the Room of Tears, after Vincent had taken his hands in his and told him with raw sincerity in every word how God had made him, he had offered Thomas a spot overlooking St. Peter’s Square alongside him. “Come with me, Dean.” He said, so earnestly, so innocently, perhaps not realizing, or maybe just denying the cruel reality of what this meant for the two of them. “I want you there with me when I speak for the first time.”
Thomas had shaken his head, mustered up a barely-there imitation of a sympathetic smile. He knows Vincent can see through him. He is burning too deeply to care. “I’m afraid I have some red tape to take care of, Holy Father. I’m very sorry.”
Vincent had looked hurt then - anguished, even - but he blinked twice and that mournful expression slipped from his face as quickly as it had appeared. “I understand,” he had murmured, punctuating it with a heart-wrenching squeeze of Thomas’s hand. “Later, when this is done, we could have dinner?”
Thomas has never wanted to die as much as in that exact moment. It overwhelmed him, swallowed him whole and spat him back out with his stomach turning and his fingers itching to claw at his own tender skin. Two minutes later, when he had left Vincent and found a quiet place where no one would look for him, he prayed. He asked rather politely for God to strike him down, to let Vincent mourn him and put him in the ground and leave him at last to rot. Punishment, something like the Holy Spirit screamed into his skull. You may want him, and he may want you, but you can never lay your hands upon his body. The only time you will fall to your knees before him is when he places the Eucharist upon your tongue. Thomas, you will go to Hell for this, and he will go to Heaven for everything he has done, and you will never see each other again.)
Thomas wishes now - albeit with a great sense of guilt - that God had picked someone else, anyone else to lead. He has witnessed what the weight of the papacy has done to men, especially good men like Vincent. It is like an iron cross, bearing down upon their shoulders, a holy burden to be carried until death or resignation. It is a trap, a curse, the loss of a normal life in exchange for serving as a pious songbird in a gilded cage.
He does not mean to be blasphemous, to disapprove of the Church. Thomas loves God above all things. His faith is dear to him. He knows he is doing the right thing, knows that the conclave has made the best possible choice. This is how it was always meant to be, God’s clear plan for Vincent all along.
So why does Thomas feel as if he’s lost half of himself? Why does Vincent’s absence at his shoulder give him phantom pains?
Vincent was never - he was never his to begin with. Thomas has no claim, past or present. They’ve barely known each other for a week, and that abrupt conversation the second night of the conclave was nothing more than a conversation, clumsy mutual admissions of childish infatuation. And here Thomas is again, acting like a complete child and turning down Vincent’s gracious invitation to be at his right hand, all because he cannot bear the idea of letting him - and his own pride, what a terrible sin - go.
Behind him, one of the turtles dives back into the darkened water of the pond with a splash. Thomas turns around and watches its companions follow along in a neat order. One after the other, they join their friend. They have the luxury of simply going along through life with one another. They do not have such ridiculous entanglements with other turtles. They only know how to cohabitate, to do what they please.
If Thomas listens too carefully, he can almost hear the muffled sound of Pope Innocent addressing his new flock. He can hear the responding cheers, the joy even through the many walls and barriers. He thinks of Vincent on that outcropping, leaning over the railing as he waves to the faithful, the empty space by his right side, and that sick feeling from the Room of Tears returns once more.
He grasps frantically for the body of his pectoral cross. He grips it tightly, until the metal digs into the weakened flesh of his palm and his knuckles have gone white. He wants, so desperately, for it to hurt.
Vincent retreats back into the privacy of the Basilica, feeling as if he’s left a piece of him back in that room with Thomas.
He is shell-shocked, he realizes. He has just been outside speaking to over one billion believers, taking on his new responsibility to guide and advise and absolve all of them. Earlier today, he was simply Vincent, Cardinal Benítez from Afghanistan. Now he is so much more: Pope Innocent XIV, his Holiness, Holy Father, Supreme Pontiff, Vicar of Jesus Christ. In fact, he worries that tomorrow he will wake and forget who he was to begin with, his name, his entire life before that white smoke burst forth from the chimney.
He is being led down a corridor, presumably for him to rest for a few precious moments before he is back to his new duties, and he is silent the whole way. He is not afraid of these new responsibilities. He knows he is the right man, that the Holy Spirit came in with the breeze through that open window and somehow, by the will of God, compelled Vincent’s name into the majority of the cardinals’ hearts and onto the ballots. He just, of course, did not expect that he would be called to this position.
Somewhere in his mother’s house, his wax baptism candle still sits with its wick singed from the day he was brought into the Church. That candle was meant to be burned during important events of his faith. He hopes that one of his sisters has taken it out and lit it for him now, that she took care to put it into a holder so as to not let the drippings burn her skin.
Growing up in Mexico, Vincent liked reading with his sisters and roughhousing in the yard with his younger brother. He’d been the soft-spoken one of the family, the middle child and therefore the mediator in his siblings’ various disagreements. He was also the child who most enjoyed going to weekly Mass. While his brother slept on his shoulder every Sunday morning, Vincent had listened intently to passages read aloud from the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John.
The church was only a few blocks away - a sanctuary for Vincent to run to when it all got too loud. In the house of God, it was always blessedly quiet. There, he could simply pull a Bible from the back of the pew in front of him, flip through the thin pages, and take shelter in the teachings of the past that turned into the beliefs of the present.
He thinks now of his congregation back in Afghanistan, of all the people he knew in the Congo and at the seminary in Veracruz, all those who had grown right alongside him. The realization hits him sharply, like a surgeon cutting through his belly, like a nail hammered through the bone of his palms: he can never go back.
He can never return to his flock. They will be left wandering shepherdless from this day forward. He will never get to see the babies he’s baptized grow up and learn how to make their own way in the world. And selfishly, he can never walk by himself on the street again, not without being swarmed and hounded. His every move will become a spectacle, every word treated as canon law, as a shining example. There will be no more indulgent freedoms, not without planning and guards and media attention.
In exchange, he has become infallible to a fault. He can now ensure the proper use of Church alms, allocate as much money as possible for the support of those in need. He can shift the doctrinal direction towards increased tolerance and place an emphasis on God’s unconditional love. And he is still young, after all. He has some use left in him.
Above all, he can continue to serve God. And if this indeed is where God has decided Vincent is supposed to be, Vincent cannot argue with that, even if he desperately wishes to.
He blinks away the prickling of tears to find that he has been led to a quiet little private space, an alcove complete with a plain table and two chairs. He puts himself down, drops the weight he has been carrying ever since he heard his name called out from that chalice, and allows himself a moment to sit in peace. Not to pray, just to sit and be the old version of himself that no longer exists.
He finds himself reaching down subconsciously to clutch at the crucifix that lays heavy upon his chest, pressing into his sternum. The piece he finds there is not the simple one he has come to recognize, rather the gold papal cross that was put around his neck after he had been dressed in his cassock. It is startling, the change, and it feels as if it belongs to someone else - like it was meant for an older, wiser man. Vincent does not even realize what he is doing until he is running his fingertips over the intricate details of the metalwork. It is a gesture he’s picked up from Thomas, a tic that signals that the Dean is deep in thought.
(That night in his room down the hall, when Thomas had come to him to plead for him to vote for Tremblay, Vincent refused him. Not only because he did not approve of Tremblay, but also because Thomas was, in his heart, the best candidate. Worn down by time and religious politics but an undying faith that perhaps there was a way forward for the Church, for himself. If only the other cardinals could see him, how hard he worked, the shy selflessness he exuded, then perhaps they could understand. Perhaps Thomas could understand why Vincent kept on choosing him.)
“Holy Father,” Monsignor Ray O’Malley is talking to him, bright and full of exceptional energy for a man of his age, “I have the official press release announcing your papacy drafted up and ready to be published, if you’d like to have a look over it.”
Vincent turns to peer down at what O’Malley has typed up. Vincent Benítez… His Holiness, Pope Innocent XIV… former Archbishop of Kabul, Afghanistan… The words all blur together, crisp black ink on pale paper bearing the gilded insignia of Saint Peter’s keys. He scans it over once, only fully registering about half of what he’s reading. “It's excellent. Thank you.”
It is rather sweet to watch Ray’s face flush with pride at Vincent’s approval. If he were a dog, Vincent muses to himself with a smile, his tail would be furiously wagging now. “I’ll have it sent out, then,” Ray says, snapping his booklet closed, “Thank you, Your Holiness!” and he’s off and hurrying back down the carpeted corridor to the right, presumably right back to the press office.
Vincent watches him go, wishing he could follow him out the doors of the Vatican and back to Mexico, back to the Congo, back to Afghanistan. Anywhere would do, any place with the sun shining down on his dark hair and soft, fertile earth to walk upon barefoot on warm days.
Vatican City is too concrete for him. It is restrictive, suffocating, artificial. There is respite in the gardens, of course, but he cannot spend all his days with the turtles in the pond or out on the neatly trimmed lawn ignoring his God-given duties. He is, of course, intimately familiar with the history of the papacy, how profound men of faith lost themselves to sin amidst the frescos and crosses and glamour and crowds of faithful. Vincent does not want to suffer the same fate.
But above all, he wants to be estranged from the weight of the fresh desire he has shoved to the wayside. It presses down on his heart still, throbbing as an open wound with every breath, a crown of thorns made of barbed wire strangling him whilst he suffers from a longing that can never be made real. He does not think himself sinful for the way he sees Thomas. It is human nature, God’s design. Homosexuality exists within both animals and humans: God’s creations, God’s beautiful creatures. Vincent firmly believes that it is something natural, and while he will need to be careful about how he approaches the topic (he does not wish to cause another English Reformation, unity is important), he is firmly aligned with progressive Catholics’ views on those of different sexual orientations and gender identities.
But when it is himself - when it is Thomas who has found his way into the center of Vincent’s soul in only a few days - wanting him is one thing. Having is another. That line is scripturally distinct, drawn in the sand, unwavering, especially for the Pope of all people. He may learn to love Thomas as a friend, as a brother, as chaste and pure as any of the other cardinals. What he cannot bear to do is to draw Thomas into him and love him in ways that are traditionally reserved for husband and wife. Perhaps others can. But not him. Not with Thomas.
Instead, he will turn his sudden infatuation into something productive, God willing. By His grace, Vincent will take the burden of the papacy, of knowing the truth about himself and Thomas, dig into the meat of the Holy work to come like the sharpened barbs of stinging nettles, and allow himself to turn his position into something for the Lord to continue to be proud of.
He also hasn’t had a chance to talk with Thomas about his desire to resign since that first night in the garden. It seemed so innocuous then, his quiet confession that he’d been struggling with prayer. But now Vincent sits on Saint Peter’s throne, and Thomas is the same as before. As Dean, his duty has now turned to that of companionship, and of a certain sort of spiritual devotion. He is meant to be close to the Pope, his strengthened right hand as Vincent learns how to do his job. Truthfully, selfishly, that is where Vincent wants him most. Not any further than a few corridors away, and certainly not away from the Vatican.
If only Thomas would decide to remain in his service, perhaps Vincent may find a way to make him proud - make him happy, despite his prior wishes - too.
Thomas sternly stares himself down in his bathroom mirror. The cool lighting casts his face starkly, sharpening each line, each angle of his features amplified in the harshness. He meant to have left his apartment twenty minutes ago, and yet he is still here, delaying the inevitable like a petulant child.
He frowns, still fussing with his hair, trying to get what little remains of it to behave. A man of sixty-six, age has changed him significantly over the past decade. Stress, too, and his problems with prayer have taken their toll. His appearance did not distress him before the conclave. After all, growing old was a privilege, and the mortal body was not more important than the spiritual body. Then Vincent had arrived, half a decade younger than him and brimming with life both physical and spiritual that seemed to burn tirelessly, and suddenly, the way Thomas appeared to others felt much more important.
Vincent’s speech on the balcony of the Basilica was beautiful. Thomas couldn’t bear to listen to it himself - the sound could not reach all the way through to the gardens, and so he was blessedly sheltered from that softened voice - but judging by his brother cardinals’ reverent murmurings and the public’s audible reactions, it had to have been something truly notable. He’d apparently talked of unity, of God’s love and compassion, kindness towards others and bringing the Church together, proving himself an elegant orator who seemed to have enraptured nearly everyone with his dulcet tone and gentle spirit.
And now I am going to break bread with him, Thomas thinks, rather dazed from it all, and I cannot pretend we are the same after today.
The nights prior, it was easier. Their roles were clearly cut, clearly defined: Dean Lawrence and Cardinal Benítez, sitting at the center table alone together, eating side by side, talking in hushed voices about what they had in common, the day’s events and how Vincent was holding up amidst all the turmoil. Despite the politics of the conclave, Thomas had found his company extremely enjoyable, and he left each meal feeling fulfilled by their conversations. But tonight, they have been changed, transformed: Pope Innocent and Dean Lawrence, eating alone together, this time in the Pope’s quarters. Where they once intersected, they now are perhaps irreversibly pushed apart. It is as if Vincent were a shooting star, so brilliant and beautiful and far out of Thomas’s grasp the second he blinks.
Thomas had indeed voted for him in the Sistine Chapel on that final ballot, and he supposes part of this is his fault. But Vincent was the one man among them who possessed that innate ability to lead the Church to where it needed to go. His eloquence, his grace, his great care for all living souls around him was undeniable, and if Thomas has to bear this- this great unknown soreness for the good of the Church, he will suffer it for as long as he can manage.
But his prayers have been turbulent at best, and shamefully, he still has the desire to leave Rome. He has done his duty, managed the conclave and ensured a future for the Church. The late Holy Father’s wish for him to watch over the flock while the papacy was vacant has been fulfilled. By all accounts, he deserves to rest, and Vincent should grant him that right.
(There is another reason he wishes to leave, one that Vincent and him share. He does not like to dwell on it. It is easier to simply leave it unbloomed than try to nurture growth that will never bear fruit.)
Thomas straightens up, looks himself over once more. His shoulders shake, and his traitor tongue has already come up with a million things he’d like to say to Vincent. But he has made up his mind, resolve strengthened despite the turmoil still raging within him.
He is going to ask to resign tonight. And God willing, Pope Innocent will let him go without another word, and they can let these unfortunate affections die with the distance Thomas will put between them.