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Aldo basked in bright sun rather than flickering florescents, breathed deep of fresh, non-recycled air, listened to the chirps of birds rather than the beep of machines, and thanked God.
He had much to be thankful for this morning - the health of the Holy Father and the other bystanders as well as his own. The only permanent damage from the bombing was the scarring on the left of his face and maybe some hearing damage. That had been coming eventually, if his mother was anything to go by. But thanks be to God, the eye had been saved.
And so everything his eyes took in sparkled with a miraculous gleam, even the man sitting at the outdoor cafe table, reading a newspaper, who had already procured him a coffee. Wasn’t that another miracle, that he thanked God for Goffredo Tedesco, when not a year ago he'd dreaded his appearance?
Aldo ran his thumb over the jeweled pectoral cross he held, just once more. It was time to return it to its owner. He'd been surprised to see it resting on his bedside table, when he'd been well enough to notice. It comforted him during his days in the hospital, although it was an odd calling card to leave at the bedside of a – well. Hm. He wasn't sure what word to use. Of someone you cared about, at least.
He called out to Goffredo, watching as his head jerked up from the newspaper at the sound of Aldo's voice. Aldo set Goffredo’s cross down on the cafe table and greeted him. Every detail of him felt new, or maybe Aldo was seeing with new eyes. He savored it all.
Goffredo leapt up from the table. He hesitated for only a second before reaching in, cupping Aldo’s face, and pressing a kiss to Aldo’s scarred cheek. Aldo's heart skipped.
As quickly as he had pressed forward, Goffredo pulled back. And now Aldo reached out, clutching to Goffredo, and Goffredo caught him, hugged him, held him tight. It all seemed to hit Aldo at once, the bombing, the pain, the fear, the relief, the joy. Goffredo buried his face in Aldo's shoulder and they leaned on each other for a long moment. Goffredo was warm and solid against him, and finally Aldo felt solid enough to let go.
Aldo pretended not to notice Goffredo wipe his face with his cassock sleeve. Goffredo cleared his throat as he sat down. "It's good to see you well."
"Thank you for visiting me in the hospital. And lending me your cross." Aldo picked it up, intending to hand it back to Goffredo.
Goffredo made no move for it. “I left it for you to keep. I want you to have it.”
“What?” Aldo looked from the cross to Goffredo. How could he give it away? This wasn't just any cross. Aldo was pretty sure Goffredo had gotten it to commemorate his elevation as Patriarch of Venice, and he’d never seen him wear another one since. Until now, he supposed, as he didn’t recognize the simple silver one Goffredo was wearing today. “You can’t mean that.”
“Why can’t I mean that? Do I say things I don’t mean? Just offer to give things away for fun and then take it back? What do you think?” Goffredo huffed and flicked open his paper.
Aldo turned the cross over in his hand. “People will talk.”
“So? People always talk. Do you care?”
He thought about it. The cross was instantly recognizable; any of their brothers (or sisters, he amended, sorry, Holy Father) would know that it was Goffredo’s. It was unlikely that most would make the (correct) assumption about the nature of their relationship, but the fact that they had one, that they were no longer enemies, would be obvious. They would be visibly linked. At one time, Aldo would have minded that. But now…
He looked up to see Goffredo watching him, darting his eyes back to his newspaper when caught. He’s nervous, Aldo realized.
“No, I don’t care. Do you?”
“No.” Goffredo shut his newspaper.
Then he stood. “Here, let me.” Goffredo took Aldo's hand in his own and picked up the pectoral cross. Aldo pulled his own cross over his head and off, as he had done so many times. He bowed his head and Goffredo gently placed his cross over it, settling the chain against his neck. Aldo raised his head and watched Goffredo, still bending over him. It was cute, how serious he looked as he carefully straightened the cross against Aldo's chest.
Satisfied, Goffredo patted Aldo’s chest. Aldo could feel his heart beating under the touch. “There.” Goffredo stepped back. “Perfect. And who cares, anyway? Talk, talk, let people talk. Everyone should know that the Patriarch of Venice holds you in regard.”
Is that what prompted this? Aldo thought. Thomas had given him a summary of the report. The bomber’s manifesto paralleled some of the worst of Cardinal Tedesco’s past public statements. He didn't say that to Goffredo, not yet. He just raised an eyebrow and said “We’ll talk about it later.”
Goffredo nodded, sitting back down. Aldo looked down at the cross, admiring its sunlit gleam. Aldo could offer him platitudes, about how it wasn’t really his fault, he shouldn’t feel guilty, he couldn’t be blamed for the actions of a disturbed man. But platitudes wouldn’t be honest. He wanted to be honest with this man. It wasn't going to be easy, but nothing about the two of them had ever been easy. And yet - and yet he was so thankful for it.
He looked back up.
Goffredo was staring.
Aldo swallowed hard. Of course it wasn't just about a sign of Goffredo's formal regard. He restrained himself from fiddling with it further. “How does it look?”
Goffredo blinked at him a moment more, then shook himself. “Good. Yes. It suits you.” He picked up the paper again, but Aldo could feel how his eyes kept sliding back to him.
How was he just realizing it now? It seemed to shout from every action. He loves you.
The day's miraculous gleam now seemed almost painfully bright in its perfection. Amorphous feelings rushed at him from every side, making his heart race and his face flush. Images of the two of them flickered in his head - arguing from Aldo's office to dinner to his apartment to his bed; finding him alone, crying in the rain; texting each other terrible non-Trinitarian takes to mock; and now this, today. Goffredo's face as he placed the cross over Aldo's neck.
Aldo took a sip of his coffee to steady himself. Cold. He sighed. He was almost relieved to have a cause for complaint. Only God is perfect, after all.
“What’s the matter? Are you still in pain?"
“The coffee’s cold.”
“The coffee’s cold!” Goffredo rolled his eyes and groaned. He took a sip of his own coffee and hid a grimace. “It’s fine! Too cold, you won’t drink it? You want another one, is that it?”
Aldo fought a smile. “That would be nice, yes.”
“You want another coffee, you can get another coffee, there’s nothing wrong with this one! Such a waste!” Goffredo pulled Aldo's cup over and took a sip. “It's fine! I'll drink it. Now, see, I’ll have two coffees today, and drive my staff crazy, and when they say ‘Eminence, why are you acting like this,’ I say-”
“You say it’s Cardinal Bellini’s fault, of course. Now won’t you get me another coffee?” He widened his eyes shamelessly. “You know I just got out of the hospital.”
Goffredo stood instantly, grumbling something about spoiled men used to getting their way. But he went back inside the cafe anyway.
Aldo fiddled again with the pectoral cross. It felt weightier than his own. He’d have Goffredo with him all the time now. When Goffredo returned to Venice, the cross would still be here, around Aldo’s neck, for as long as he cared to wear it. He thought suddenly of his mother’s engagement ring she’d worn long after his father had passed. He flushed. This wasn’t like that, he immediately corrected himself. This was different, but-
He looked through the cafe window and saw Goffredo waiting at the counter, watching him, as if he might vanish at any moment. They locked eyes and Aldo thought again he loves you.
Birds chirped. Leaves rustled.
He loves you.