Chapter Text
September 2017
Vincent is, admittedly, still a little drunk by the time they begin making their way back to the Vatican—though perhaps more on Thomas than the wine. They hold hands when they leave the park, while eating the gelato they forgot to buy earlier, while hailing a cab. They scramble in, then find each other again.
Vincent clings to Thomas’ fingers, still disbelieving of his luck. His treasured dean is staying. And, by some miracle, he loves Vincent. That's two miracles in two days. Fitting—Thomas may not officially be a saint, but he may as well be.
The taxi drops them off a few blocks from the Vatican. Vincent stumbles out, unable to find his feet. He's too happy to be concerned with such worldly matters. Luckily, Thomas catches him.
“Are you still drunk?” he asks, bemused.
Vincent muffles a snicker into Thomas’ shoulder, clustering close. “Yes.”
“Oh, dear,” says Thomas. “We better fix that.”
This is how Vincent ends up with his head beneath a nasone. He laughs as Thomas holds him under the stream.
“Thomas!” he huffs through his mirth. “I didn't think you were serious!”
Thomas pulls him upwards and replaces his bucket hat and sunglasses. Such accessories are beginning to look suspicious, given it's almost dark.
“I was serious about sneaking you out,” replies Thomas. “Why wouldn't I be serious here?”
Vincent grins at him. “You're a man of your word.”
They linger in each other's space. Thomas’ eyes wander Vincent's face, catching on his lips, and Vincent is overcome by such a strong urge to kiss him that he only stops himself at the last second. His hand lands on Thomas’ shoulder instead, squeezing the muscle there. Thomas relaxes into the pressure.
“You're beautiful,” says Vincent. “Were we not in a neighborhood that's home to many Vatican employees, I'd kiss you again.”
Thomas flushes. It makes Vincent's stomach flip over.
“Oh, imagine that,” he says breathlessly, and Vincent nearly melts onto the still-warm sidewalk. Thomas pats his cheek, eyes soft. “Let's go home.”
Home.
Unlike this morning, in which they snuck out of the Vatican through a side door under the cover of darkness, they are far more honest in their return. They walk through the gates like it's routine, Vincent pulling off his hat and sunglasses as they pass. The poor guards look aghast.
He feels a little bad. If Aldo has kept his word, then nobody knows he snuck out. The Pope appearing at the gates in shorts and a T-shirt must be quite the shock.
They get quite a few wide-eyed glances as they make their way in. Nuns, bishops, cardinals, lay employees—anybody that notices him does a double-take. Vincent fights back his smile and laughter. He meets Thomas' eyes. He appears to be fighting a chuckle of his own.
When they burst through the doors of the Casa Santa Marta, Vincent can no longer contain himself. He doubles over, he laughs so hard. Thomas joins him, their joy echoing through the lobby.
“Oh, you think this is funny? I've earned years in purgatory with the web of lies I spun today.”
Vincent, resting a palm on the small of his dean's back, raises his gaze to find Aldo watching them from one corner. He stands with his weight on one leg, arms crossed, foot tapping, as he glares at them through his glasses.
“Aldo!” Vincent straightens and puts on his broadest smile, the one he typically reserves for General Audience. “Thank you! I had a wonderful day.”
Aldo blinks at him. “Why are you wet?”
“Nasone,” says Thomas, as if it's a perfectly reasonable explanation.
“I'm sorry?” says Aldo. He eyes Thomas. “Wait, is that the Mets cap I gave you in seminary?”
“Yes, of course it is.” Thomas seems surprised by the question.
“I didn't know you still had it,” Aldo murmurs. He wears an expression Vincent has never seen that he can't interpret.
“Why wouldn't I?” Thomas poses. “I treasure all my gifts from you.”
“Oh,” replies Aldo, clearly lost for words.
No one says anything, until Thomas speaks again to fill the silence. “Good news, by the way. I'm not resigning after all.”
“You're not?”
“No, I'm staying right here.” Thomas crosses the room, folds Aldo into an embrace, and kisses his cheek.
Aldo appears flabbergasted. “That's—good. Thank God.” He glances between Thomas and Vincent. “Though it makes me wonder what, exactly, you two got up to out there. What did you say to him, Your Holiness? What did you do?”
Thomas’ nose has turned violently pink, and his flush is spreading to his cheeks. At least Aldo hasn't noticed.
Vincent shrugs. “I asked him to stay.”
“Oh, for God's sake.” Aldo tosses an exasperated hand. “It was that simple?”
Vincent just grins.
Thomas comes up for coffee. When Sister Agnes brings a tray to the papal apartments, a multitude of micro-expressions flit across her face.
“I see you weren't quite ready to end your vacation at the Castel Gandolfo, Your Holiness,” she remarks when she spots Vincent's shorts and T-shirt.
Vincent smiles. It's beautiful. Thomas could stare all day. He could kiss him.
“I swear it's back to business now, Sister Agnes.”
She turns to Thomas. “You did this, Eminence? You snuck him out?”
Thomas nods, choking back his own smile. “The Pope should see Rome.”
“Indeed.” She eyes his white Converse approvingly. “Enjoy your coffee, gentlemen.”
They're left to themselves. Vincent pours—fixing Thomas’ coffee exactly how he likes. He loves me, Thomas thinks, dazed. Vincent presses the mug into his hand with a tender expression, then moves to his own. When he's done, he settles beside Thomas with their sides pressed flush together.
For a few minutes, they don't speak, sipping quietly.
“Are you alright?” Vincent finally asks.
“Hmm? Of course,” says Thomas. “Are you?”
“Yes, the best I've ever been.” Vincent's glance, shot out of the corner of his eyes, is knowing.
Thomas smiles, heart fluttering. He wants to kiss him again. He thinks about how they nearly did on the street. He thinks about the park—their lips sealed together, their breaths mingling. Oh, he longs for more. Now he understands the warnings from his schoolteachers, his mentors. Desire is addicting. He could kiss Vincent forever.
Instead, he clutches his coffee and forces himself to drink.
Vincent's hand finds his. His thumb strokes Thomas’ knuckles. It's enough to make Thomas' exhale stutter. He leans his cheek against Vincent's head.
“Do we talk through it now?” Vincent asks. “Or later?”
“Later,” says Thomas, pressing his nose into Vincent's scalp, inundating his senses with lemon and herbs. When he next speaks, his words are muffled into his hair. “As happy as I am, I haven't wrapped my mind around this properly yet.”
Vincent chuckles, squeezing his hand. “Me either.”
So Thomas drinks his coffee, and basks in Vincent's proximity. They keep their bodies flush like they did on the plane, on this same sofa, on the hammock, on Vincent's bed two nights ago. It is bliss. It is a relief to know their feelings are the same.
It is a relief to not leave the Vatican.
Too soon, Thomas' cup is empty. Reluctantly, he eases himself off of Vincent.
“I should go,” he murmurs.
Vincent looks like he'd rather he not. He smiles softly, then raises their still-joined hands to his lips to brush a kiss over Thomas’ fingers.
“Probably,” he sighs. “Come.”
He sees Thomas off at the door. He cups his cheeks with light in his eyes.
He loves me, Thomas thinks, giddy. And I love him.
Vincent loves him. Loves him. And Thomas—
He takes a breath.
“Te amo, Vincent,” he murmurs.
Vincent grins more widely than Thomas has ever seen. “Te amo también.”
“Sorry,” Thomas says. “You said it in my language. I should have said it in yours.”
Vincent presses a palm to Thomas’ chest. “You have the kindest heart, mi amor.”
Thomas blushes for what must be the thirtieth time today. Vincent chuckles, then leans in.
“Kiss me again, Thomas. Please.”
Thomas could never deny him. They are alone, after all, though it's difficult to not lose himself as he did in the park. He keeps it chaste, just a dry brush of lips, but his whole body relaxes at the contact.
“Oh,” sighs Vincent, his hand hot against the nape of Thomas’ neck. “Thomas…”
Thomas kisses him once more, his mouth a little softer, and tastes moisture. He clutches Vincent's chest for stability, suddenly dizzy.
“Te amo, Vincent,” he repeats.
Vincent whines. His hand moves from Thomas' neck into his hair, fisting in the short length. He surges forward. Thomas' shoulder blades meet the door.
It's not chaste now. Thomas is pinned like he pinned Vincent in the lake house. Their bodies are flush; their mouths are fused. Their hands fumble—Thomas clutches Vincent’s collar to drag him closer with one, while the other strokes through his hair. This time, there is no hat in the way. Vincent whimpers. His tongue brushes Thomas’. Everything is hot and slick, and Thomas’ heartbeat is erratic, and his skin feels five sizes too small.
“Vincent,” he gasps. “Oh—”
“Te amo,” Vincent smears his lips down his jaw. “Te amo.” He nibbles at his throat—Thomas chokes on his exhale. “Te amo, Tomás. Dios—” He finds his lips again.
This is paradise. Vincent’s teeth scrape over his lip and Thomas’ hips stutter and—
Far off, past the door, long down the hallway, he hears the faintest sound of footsteps.
Vincent must hear them too, because he rips himself away as abruptly as he initiated their contact. They stand frozen, regarding each other with wide eyes and heaving chests. Thomas braces himself against the door, fearing his legs will give out otherwise. But the footsteps continue, then fade.
They are alone.
Vincent's cheeks are flushed, his eyes are black, and his lips are spit-slick. His dark hair, already typically disorderly, is the worst Thomas has ever seen it. A tendril of heat swirls in his gut.
I did that, he thinks, mildly alarmed by the possessive sense of pride that surges through him at the realization.
But then, a slow, mischievous smile spreads across Vincent's face.
“Oops,” he says, very quietly.
And Thomas can't help it: he smiles back.
“Oops,” he replies.
He has been good his whole life. It's nice to be naughty, for once. It feels like teenage rebellion, decades overdue.
Vincent laughs airily. “I'm sorry. I overstepped.”
Thomas shakes his head. “Don't apologize. Though I really should be going.”
“Alright, alright.” Vincent reaches for him again, then pecks his cheeks. “Goodnight, my dearest dean. I love you.”
Thomas’ heart swells. He kisses Vincent's hands. “I love you too, my dearest Vincent.”
He reaches for the doorknob with one hand, and maintains his hold on Vincent with the other. He clings to him until he opens the door, and even then, disengages slowly. He steps into the hall, but lingers.
Vincent, still smiling, leans against the doorframe, hands by his face. He looks as besotted as Thomas feels.
“I'll see you tomorrow?” he asks.
“Yes,” Thomas says. “Bright and early. I'll bring your usual latte.”
“Gracias, querido.”
Thomas wants to kiss him again. He wants to go back inside. Instead, he gives Vincent one last, fond, look.
“Goodnight, Vincent.”
Vincent returns his expression. “Goodnight, Thomas.”
Having no more excuses, Thomas turns and begins his journey home. He has never felt lighter. Multiple times, he catches himself grinning at nothing. Luckily, the Vatican is deserted at this hour. Nobody sees him floating through the halls of the Casa Santa Marta and out onto the streets of Rome like a lovestruck schoolboy.
He doesn't register anything about his trip home until he's on the same block as his apartment in Trastevere. He hears the bubbling of a nasone just as he feels his phone vibrate. He stops before the fountain, set against a stone wall crawling with greenery, to withdraw the device from his pocket.
Of course it's Vincent. Text me when you're home safely, amor, it reads.
Thomas blushes. He takes a deep breath of slightly humid, late summer air, and stares at the second-floor apartments lining the street. Their windows are aglow, shutters thrust open, curtains billowing in the light breeze. Soon, he will reach his own dwelling and do the same.
Again, his phone vibrates.
I had a wonderful time today. Don't be shocked if I sneak out again…
Thomas grins. He shakes his head. Then he steps towards the nasone, dips forward, and drinks sweet, cool, Roman water.