Chapter Text
1 year later
The warm summer breeze rustles through the leaves above Vincent's head. A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he lets himself sink back into the grass beneath him. He brought a blanket with him, too, but upon arriving here, he decided to leave it unused. He prefers the feeling of the soft moss and grass beneath his body over man-made fabric. It's a rare occasion that he gets to feel like he's in nature, far away from the well-kept, orderly flowerbeds of the Vatican Gardens, and now that he's finally back here, putting anything in between him and the ground, warm from the summer sun at this early hour already, simply feels wrong.
For an entire year, he has yearned to come back here, to their meadow. Not much has changed here, ever since he and Thomas left, with a heart full of memories and wistfulness. The hedge to the east side of the meadow looks even more overgrown than last year, but aside from that, Vincent can’t find a difference to the treasured memory he revisited more times than he can count. He doubts someone mowed the lawn in the year of their absence, and he also doubts that someone picked the apples growing on the tree. He hopes that at least the birds and mice living in the garden got to enjoy them, so that they didn’t go to waste.
Vincent lets his glance wander over the meadow, reaching almost as far as the eye can see. The flowers are in full bloom again at this time of the year. There are the little yellow ones, the name of which he always forgets, lavender, cornflowers, and clover, in all colors and sizes. And of course his favorite one, the white ones Thomas picked to put in his hair. Star-of-Bethlehem, they are called, as he learned from the old gardener’s book. How fitting.
A peculiar heaviness takes hold of his heart at the memory of Thomas picking that flower for him, all flustered and coy, before bringing up the courage to ask him for permission to place it in his hair. He swallows. It's strange to be here by himself. He’s been at Castel Gandolfo for three days now, but today is the first time he could bring himself to come here. It’s like this little oasis isn’t made for just one man to find refuge in. Like something, or rather someone fundamental is missing to complete the picture. Like this place longs to see Thomas just as much as Vincent does.
His phone vibrates in his pocket, tearing him from his thoughts just in time to keep them from turning too gloomy. A smile sneaks onto his lips before he can even check to see who texted him. He knows without looking. He unlocks his phone, and his smile widens instantly as he reads the message that lights up his screen.
I'm here, Thomas has texted him. Two words, and they suffice to make Vincent’s heart skip several beats at once. That, too, hasn’t changed one bit ever since they left. One look, one text, one smile from Thomas, and Vincent falls head over heels for him over and over again.
With his fingers quivering from the excitement he can barely contain, he types his response.
You know where to find me.
Thomas replies immediately.
Give me twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes? Vincent chuckles. That’s ambitious, considering that the walk from the palazzo alone takes almost as long already and he knows Thomas will probably want to change out of his cassock first. He decides not to comment on it. Maybe, Thomas is simply as impatient as Vincent.
I can't wait to see you, he writes instead. Thomas sends him a little red heart in response. The sight sends a pleasantly warm shiver all through Vincent’s body. An anticipation of Thomas’ touch, he will soon feel again.
Before he puts down his phone, he takes a moment to look at his lockscreen. He has lost count of the number of times he has stared at it over the course of the past twelve months, and yet, its effect on him hasn’t faded in the slightest. It never fails to make him smile. Thomas and him in their rain jackets on the narrow main street of Castel Gandolfo, both of them with their ice cream cups in hand, on the day they first kissed. It’s just a snapshot, slightly blurry, too, but it’s Vincent’s favorite of the five photos the young Swiss Guard took of them. Vincent has his gaze lowered in it, a slight blush on his cheeks and a smile on his lips, while Thomas unabashedly looks at him, with that fond, slightly wistful expression Vincent now knows all too well.
Dear God, he thinks, as he wills himself to put the phone aside, how is it possible to miss someone this much?
It’s been just a week since they last saw each other, but even that feels too long. A congress in Milan kept Thomas occupied until yesterday afternoon, after which he caught the next best train back to Rome, and convinced his secretary to drive him to Castel Gandolfo first thing in the morning. Many times, Thomas apologized for not joining him right at the beginning of his summer vacation at the papal residence. Just as many times, Vincent assured him that three weeks are more than enough time they will still have together, and that a separate arrival might also be useful in keeping any potential suspicions to a minimum.
It’s an elaborate plan they carved out over the past year to keep their love safe, just as elaborate as the plan to protect Vincent’s secret. Thomas did move into the Casa Santa Marta as promised, at least partly. He has an apartment across the hallway now, twenty steps – yes, Vincent counted them – from the door of the papal suite. He stays there at least twice a week, and more, if he manages to find a convenient excuse. Rain, the heat, knee pain, long evening meetings, plumbing problems in his own apartment, a homily that needs a proof reader – the list of excuses why he can’t possibly go home is extensive. When Thomas stays over, they sneak to each other in the cover of the night, to share their bed until the early morning. So far, they have never been caught by a sister or an early Swiss Guard. It isn’t ideal, all this secrecy and the constant, lingering fear of being discovered, but they have grown accustomed to it. It works.
They find little moments throughout their day to be alone, in each other’s offices to share a quick kiss, in the Vatican Gardens to take a stroll and maybe, if they’re sure no one is looking, hold hands on a park bench, or – that was only one time! – in a deserted staircase, where Vincent couldn’t resist the temptation to grab Thomas by the collar and kiss him. They pray together, they eat together as often as their schedules allow it, they videocall each other whenever they're apart for Apostolic journeys and conferences, and in meetings and masses, they only need a silent glance to know what the other is thinking.
Attached at the hip, staff members jokingly call the Pope and his advisor, and Vincent finds that he doesn’t mind. He has gotten used to only smiling at such comments. So what? Everyone may see that they’re close, that’s not a secret. It’s only a secret that behind closed doors, your Holiness becomes Vincent, that casual touches turn into passionate kisses, and that I’ll see you tomorrow, your Eminence is followed half an hour later by a whispered I love you, Thomas. And that, no one but them knows.
In the distance, Vincent hears steps approaching. He sits up, with his heart instantly picking up its pace. Twenty minutes haven’t passed yet, and still, he knows it’s Thomas. He would recognize his steps anywhere, without a doubt.
Even from afar, Vincent sees the smile on Thomas’ lips as he steps out of the narrow pathway in between hedges and out into the meadow. He’s in a short-sleeved, navy blue t-shirt and his favorite black slacks, with his hands shoved into his front pockets, as non-chalantly and charming as ever. Oh, Vincent thinks, he’s one lucky pontiff.
He rises to his feet, and even though he intended to wait patiently for Thomas to meet him underneath the apple tree, he can’t stop himself from shortening the waiting time by walking towards him to meet him halfway.
Thomas is slightly out of breath as he comes to stand before him. The exhaustion that comes with a several days long conference shows on his face, and yet, his eyes are alight with unconcealed joy at getting to see Vincent after a week apart. He reaches for Vincent’s hand and bows to press a soft kiss onto his knuckles.
“Your Holiness,” he says, with that affectionate undertone that makes Vincent’s title sound like an endearment. It’s one of the many habits they’ve picked up this past year – born out of the necessity not to address each other with their given name when they aren’t alone.
“Your Eminence,” Vincent returns the greeting, equally affectionate.
Thomas chuckles and gives his hand a light squeeze.
“Hello, love.”
He leans forward to kiss Vincent’s forehead before he pulls him into an embrace. Vincent sinks into it, into that gentle warmth he’s so familiar with by now and that he still craves like nothing else, ever since he first got to embrace him. Thomas’ hand wanders over his back in slow, soothing circles, and it makes Vincent practically melt into his arms. Oh, it feels so good to have him back, here of all places.
“I missed you,” he mumbles into Thomas’ shoulder. The fabric of his shirt is warm against his lips, like the hint of a kiss.
Thomas hums quietly and closes his arms around him a little tighter.
“I know,” he says. “I missed you, too. I'm sorry I couldn't make it earlier.”
Vincent shakes his head, as far as the embrace allows him to.
“Doesn’t matter. You're here now.”
After what feels like several minutes, they reluctantly break apart. Vincent reaches for Thomas’ hand and pulls him along with him, back to his spot underneath the apple tree.
“Come, sit with me,” he says. Thomas follows without question.
They settle on the grass, side by side, so close that their legs are pressing into each other. Thomas runs his thumb over the back of Vincent’s hand, making a warm shiver run through Vincent’s body. It’s so fascinating to Vincent how a touch he has felt hundreds of times by now still never fails to fluster him a little.
“Did you sleep alright?” Thomas asks and offers him a soft smile.
He asks that every morning, ever since they returned to Rome. Not as a platitude, but because he knows how difficult of a topic sleep is for Vincent, how often his past comes to haunt him at night, when he’s the most vulnerable.
He still has nightmares, of course. There are things even love can’t fix or undo, and decades of being confronted with the worst of humanity is one of them. The nightmares come less frequent, however, and less intensely. It’s been weeks now since Vincent last woke up drenched in sweat, trembling with sheer terror. Luckily, it was one of the nights Thomas spent with him, and so, a glass of water and a tight embrace eased him back into sleep in less than an hour.
Coming here three days before Thomas was challenging. Vincent still remembers the nights he spent in his too large bedroom by himself last year, haunted by an amplified version of his usual night terrors, with nothing to distract him. He came prepared this year, armed with a pile of unfinished homilies and enough candles to fill even the darkest room with a pleasant, warm light. The past three nights have been quiet, however, filled more with joyful anticipation than dreadful memories.
“Yes,” he answers Thomas’ question. “I dreamed of you.”
Thomas actually blushes a little at that.
Adorable.
“Was it a good dream?” he asks.
“Yes. We were down by the lake to swim. You were wearing swimming trunks with turtles on them,” Vincent says and can’t stifle a laugh at the admittedly somewhat absurd imagery.
Thomas’ flush deepens, but his little smile turns into an amused grin.
“Oh,” he says. “How…compelling.”
Vincent gives him a nudge with his elbow.
“They looked good on you, I promise.”
To be fair, in his dream, Vincent paid more attention to the rest of Thomas’ body than to his swim wear, but then again, Thomas could be wearing the most absurd piece of clothing and still look nothing short of irresistible to him.
“Mhm, I'm sure they did,” Thomas mumbles.
They look at each other for a moment, before they both burst into laughter. Thomas leans closer to him, instinctively as it seems, and briefly rests his forehead against Vincent’s shoulder.
“What would you say to some home-made pesto later?” he then asks. “I’ll make some for us and afterwards, if you want to–”
He pauses and places his hand on Vincent’s shoulder.
“I could give you a good massage to get all that tension out of you.”
Oh, Vincent could definitely use a massage. The past weeks have been cramped with work, and even though he has gotten better at going to bed at reasonable times and accepting that some things just need to be postponed, he has spent too many hours at his desk with his shoulders pulled up into that unhealthy, tense position of his. To have Thomas work that tension out of him with his skilled, gentle hands…how could he ever say no to such an offer?
He thinks of the last time he gave Thomas a massage after a long work day and his face heats up immediately. That massage started with Thomas shirtless on his stomach in Vincent’s bed, and it ended with Vincent inside of him and Thomas biting into a pillow to muffle the desperate moans Vincent coaxed out of him.
It would be a blatant lie to claim that Vincent would be opposed to another such…ending, especially now that they’re here, away from prying ears and eyes. It has taken them a while after their return to Rome to be intimate again, too reluctant to hand themselves over to passion and lust in a place that feels so much less safe and secluded than Castel Gandolfo. They both went through their own struggles trying to reconcile their overwhelming desire with their faith and its doctrines during their first few weeks back in Rome, back in reality, and they both gnawed through it at their own pace. The first time they made love in Thomas’ apartment in the Casa Santa Marta, they both cried, but ever since that night, they have both found their own version of peace with the matter.
Vincent realizes that he still hasn’t answered Thomas’ question. Pesto and a massage.
“Oh, please,” he says and grins at Thomas. “Good old times, hm?”
Thomas hums.
“I can't believe it's been a year already,” he says. His eyes roam over Vincent’s face, as though he needs to convince himself that he’s truly here, that the past year hasn’t been a vivid fantasy. Vincent often catches himself doing the same. Thomas’ love is a gift he will never be able to fully comprehend. Maybe that’s the way love is supposed to feel, he thinks. Beyond what rationale and logic can comprehend, so intense that sometimes it seems to border on too much.
“Me neither.”
Thomas’ lips curl into a little smile.
“It was the happiest of my life,” he says without a hint of hesitation.
Oh.
Tears start gathering in Vincent’s eyes before he can regain control over his own emotions. Can’t Thomas give him a warning before hitting him with the most meaningful, heartfelt confessions?
“Even though I burnt your Carbonara?” he asks, the urge to cover up how much Thomas’ words caught him off-guard getting the better of him.
Thomas lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“I have long since forgiven you, Holy Father.”
Vincent leans closer to him, close enough to smell the scent of Thomas’ aftershave and that faint hint of incense that always accompanies him.
“It’s been the happiest of mine, too,” he whispers.
He only needs to lean a tiny bit closer, and then, Thomas’ lips are already on his. Vincent sighs quietly and lifts his hand to place it in the back of Thomas’ neck, so that he can run his fingers through the short strands of hair there and coax a little shiver out of Thomas. He feels Thomas smile into the kiss before he opens his mouth to deepen it. There’s no urgency behind it, no particular demand, just the need to be close after a too long separation and to enjoy the luxury of sharing a kiss under the open sky for the first time in a year.
Three entire weeks. Just the two of them. Vincent can barely believe his luck.
Before they can get carried away too far, Vincent reluctantly ends the kiss. There’s still something he needs to do, and he intends to do it here, right in this spot.
“I know we said no presents, but I have something for you,” he says and reaches behind himself to retrieve what he has brought with him aside from the unused blanket.
Thomas pulls a face, clearly uncomfortable at the thought of receiving something he didn’t come prepared for.
“Vincent–” he starts, but Vincent doesn’t let him finish.
“Come on,” he insists and holds out the present towards him. “Just take it.”
Thomas sighs and accepts the present, though hesitantly. He turns it in his hands, trying to feel through the paper what it is that Vincent has gotten for him.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Open it.”
Even though Vincent knows what’s inside, of course, his heart unexpectedly takes a leap of both excitement and nervousness in his chest. He has worked on this for three months now, always trying to find some time in between meetings to make progress, all while hiding it from Thomas to keep it a secret until now. Hopefully, it will be to Thomas’ liking.
Thomas removes the wrapping paper, revealing a black leather notebook. It already bears some traces of being opened and closed many times, and a few from being quickly shoved into a drawer to prevent it from being discovered prematurely. Personally, Vincent doesn’t mind the little bumps and scratches. It only adds to a book’s charm, he finds.
With his heart fluttering in his chest, he watches as Thomas opens the first page and reads the dedication. One line in Dari in the Arabic and Latin alphabet each, and one in English.
Barā-ye ‘eshqi ke hich-waqt be ān shak nakardam.
For the love that I never doubted.
“Oh,” Thomas breathes, a little smile on his lips.
He flips the page, infinitely careful, as though he fears the paper might crumble beneath his fingertips. Vincent knows what's written there, and yet, he leans over Thomas’ shoulder to catch another glimpse for himself.
On the right page, there’s a handwritten Latin text. The book of Genesis, to be more precise. On the left one, Vincent has noted the translation into Dari, both into the Arabic and Latin alphabet, so that Thomas can read it, too.
Thomas is almost fluent in Dari by now, at least when it comes to prayer and casual conversation, and as Thomas has correctly predicted, it comes in handy from time to time. Dar daftar-am, nīm sā‘at is much less dangerous to whisper in a crowded hallway than my office, half an hour, and Man to-ra doost daram is easier said than I love you when one can’t be sure whether someone else might be within earshot.
Vincent can pinpoint the exact moment Thomas understands what it is that he’s holding in his hands.
“Is that–?” he asks, leaving the question unfinished. He sounds out of breath all of the sudden as he looks up from the book with wide eyes.
Vincent nods and smiles at him.
“Yes,” he says. “I took that project up again. And I thought that you should be the one to get to see this first.”
In between meetings, masses and synods, the book of Genesis took him three months to complete. Almost as long as it took him back in Kabul, when he worked by candlelight until the early morning hours, only to hide his progress under a loose floorboard to shield it from harm and discovery.
The book trembles in Thomas’ hands. Vincent knows the symbolism of it doesn’t go unnoticed by him. He knows that Thomas, too, remembers the conversation they had on their first evening here, when Vincent was so caught up in grief and feelings of insufficiency that he didn’t see a point in continuing that project that once was so dear to him. Yes, maybe his translation will never reach the flock he left behind. But Thomas will have it, and treasure it, Vincent knows. And if he’s the only one who ever gets to see it, then that’s enough for Vincent.
“I can't keep that,” Thomas whispers and holds the book out towards Vincent. “You should take it.”
Vincent shakes his head.
“Yes, you can,” he says. “I know it's safe with you. Just like my heart is.”
He reaches for Thomas’ hand and guides it back down, placing the book in his lap. Thomas lets him. His eyes are filled with tears, but nevertheless, he’s smiling.
“Oh, Vincent,” he whispers. He leans closer, resting his forehead against Vincent’s. His breath tickles over Vincent’s lips, steadily, even though Vincent can feel the shiver that runs through him. Yes, he thinks, he’s safe with him. On top of the book resting in Thomas’ lap, he intertwines their fingers.
“Happy anniversary, Thomas.”