Chapter Text
What Thomas noticed first was that his whole body is sore. He can’t see it clearly, but the ceiling above him is not one of his own. He dimly saw the daylight painted over them, filtering through a window somewhere. A faint fragrance was in the air, some flowers he had smelled in a warm distant memory. Frangipani, perhaps? There was some rustling of leaves and quiet conversations, and a sound of someone praying softly nearby. He recognized Vincent’s voice, though his eyes can’t locate the man right now.
He tried to move his head, looking at the direction of Vincent’s voice, and failed. His head hurted and he couldn't feel his neck. His noises of distress must have been heard, because in that instant he could hear the sudden creaking of chairs being dragged and rustling of fabrics, followed by his dear Vincent’s face looking somewhat drawn and tired. Sunlight fell on his face and Thomas can’t help but think of how beautiful his brown eyes are, though they are filled with worry, and how soft his long tresses look. It seems like Vincent’s hair has grown quite a lot since the last time Thomas saw him and he dimly wondered how long he had been unconscious. Vincent was crying and smiling and embracing him, his tears rolled down his face and onto the blue of Thomas’ thin hospital gown.
A part of him–a selfish, treacherous part–was satisfied, happy that Vincent had cared for him enough to weep. He tried to suppress a smile as Vincent caressed his face, his eyes never leaving Thomas’, whispering things that Thomas was too drowsy to understand. He felt his head getting heavy again, the ache has dulled leaving a nagging sleepiness. He could sleep happily like this, with Vincent’s head on his chest, his warm hands on his cheek, and the soft murmur of his voice like music.
Thomas vaguely aware of other people around his bed. A woman in a nun’s veil leaned close to Vincent, her face vaguely familiar to him, although he can't quite put a finger on it. He caught some others too, although their faces are blurry from where he is. A woman in scrubs–maybe a nurse?–and a young man in civilian clothes. The nurse lowers the railing on Thomas’s left side, allowing Vincent to sit on the bed beside him, embracing him fully. He didn’t pay attention to them. Vincent’s hands are still on his face and Thomas intended to relish every second of his lost love’s touch. Vincent will never touch him this way again. There is no reason that he would experience his touch like this, unless maybe he got himself injured again … ?
Vincent then did something that halted Thomas’ thoughts in their tracks: he took his face in his hands and kissed him on the lips, gentle and firm at the same time. It was not chaste; there was an urgency and something like longing that should not be there in the Holy Father’s kiss. Thomas gasped in surprise and Vincent only used this to deepen his kiss, persistent. There are people watching, the rational part of Thomas thinks. There are people watching, but there is no way he will kiss you again, the other, the treacherous one replied. Thomas closed his eyes, trying to stop the voices in his head and focus on the feeling of Vincent’s lips on his own.
Thomas in his moment of weakness had dreamed about kissing the Holy Father. In his fantasies, it was a blissful yet fleeting thing, a brief and light brush of lips. He was never bold enough to imagine it any other way. This was something else, something Thomas would not dare to dream. As if sensing his thoughts, Vincent pulled away. Thomas missed him the moment their lips parted and he longed to pull him closer, to kiss him a while longer, but his limbs felt heavy.
“Your Holiness,” he rasped, desperate, his voice sounding too close to begging.
Something in Vincent’s face changed. For a moment Thomas thought he had upset him, there was no mistaking the brief flash of something in his eyes, something unpleasant, before he smiled again.
“Yes, Thomas, I’m here,” he said, taking Thomas’ hands in his. Sadness had seeped into his voice, even though his mouth was curved up in a smile. “I’m here, my dearest,”
A door was banged shut and Thomas jolted in his bed. He noticed that the young man was no longer there.
“Oh, dios mio,” The nun beside Vincent hurried out, following the young man. The nurse took her place beside Vincent and they exchanged a silent look. He didn’t mean to pry, but the shattered look in Vincent’s eyes told him that Thomas had definitely saddened him. He looked between them, desperately trying to gauge what he did wrong. He could deduce nothing from either of them.
The nurse cleared her throat before speaking. “Are you thirsty? I can get you something to drink,” she said.
Thomas realized how dry his throat felt. Perhaps a drink is a good idea. “Yes, I’d like that.” he answered. Vincent adjusted his pillow so that he could sit straighter as the nurse helped him drink and wiped his mouth with a paper towel, like a helpless child. “Thank you, Nurse,” he said, embarrassed.
The nurse–was she really a nurse?–stopped her dabbing motion. Thomas realized, too late, that he had messed up. She must be a doctor.
“Forgive me, I was wrong to assume. I’m very thankful, Doctor,” he said, apologetic. The doctor did not respond. Again, Thomas felt as if he had done something very wrong.
“Father, do you think that I’m your doctor?” she said instead of answering him. Thomas was getting annoyed. How would he know? He was unconscious. He looked at Vincent for an answer, but Vincent was looking at him blankly. He couldn’t read the expression on his face.
“I… I really don’t know. But truly, Miss, I didn’t mean to offend,” he said finally.
The doctor or the nurse raised her hands to her forehead, massaging the space between her eyebrows. She took some deep shaking breaths and turned to Vincent.
“I will… I will inform the doctor about this. Will you be alright if I leave for a minute?”
Vincent nodded and turned his eyes back to him, his eyes sadder than ever. Thomas hated to see that more than anything.
“Your Holiness, what’s wrong?” he pleaded, desperate, “What did I do? What’s upsetting you?”
Vincent held his hands tighter, seeming at the verge of crying, “There’s nothing wrong, my dearest Thomas, nothing–” he managed, before a sob emerged from his throat and wracked his thin body. Vincent was sobbing so wretchedly, hiding his face in his hands as Thomas stared, confused, his heart breaking at the sight.
He wanted to gather Vincent in his arms and wipe away the tears lining his cheeks. He fought the heaviness in his limbs and managed to hold into Vincent’s wrists (far too thin–how much weight had Vincent lost while he lay there unmoving?), but Vincent pulled his hands away from him and started standing from his bedside. Thomas tried to get out of his bed, but the moment his foot reaches the floor, he found out too late that his foot was quite useless in supporting his weight. He fell to the floor and then everything became a blur. He felt like his eyes were dimming as his face pressed into the cold tile floor, and then to the warmth of Vincent’s hands, and then to the softness of the deep blue cotton of Vincent’s shirt.
Strange, Thomas thought, seeing him in blue, after being an angel in white for so long.
“My Tomás, my Tomás, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry–” he heard Vincent say like a prayer, like a lullaby, before he drifted away.