Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first thing Thomas noticed about Vincent were his hands.

His fingers were long and slender as they fingered his rosary in that dismal office in the Casa Santa Marta, keeping him tethered to the divine while navigating the world of mortal men. Thomas had admired his patience, his absorption in prayer, even as he fell into slumber and let his grip on the rosary loosen, beads hanging down to touch the linoleum floor. Even this gesture was graceful—Vincent seemed to have careful control over all his movements, such as when he pressed his hand to his heart, imploring his fellow cardinals not to speak of sides, or reassured Thomas in the Room of Tears by placing those hands over his.

This is especially true during his pontificate. Vincent reaches out to all—men and women, critics and supporters, soldiers and civilians, aiding them in their hardship. It is not only admirable but impressive. Attractive. Thomas tucks away that last thought in the recesses of his mind, as he does with all things he covets, and prays for its easy passing.

It is a chilly autumn morning when Thomas steps out to the turtle pond for an unofficial meeting with the Holy Father, feeling somewhat miserable. Thomas runs cold, he always has. It served him poorly during his youth in England and it serves him poorly now. He rubs his hands together, grimacing at the prominence of his veins, evidence of his old age, only stopping when Vincent approaches. He wears a white peacoat, neck wrapped in a matching white scarf, and Thomas curses himself for thinking he’s rather handsome. But it’s generally hard to focus on Vincent or their conversation in this damn weather. He shoves his hands into his wool coat pockets, though it doesn’t stop him from shivering.

“Are you alright, Thomas?” Vincent asks, observant as ever.

“Sorry,” he mutters out of habit, “I forgot my gloves.”

“That’s alright,” Vincent says with a grin. “It means I can warm you up.”

Before Thomas can protest, Vincent takes both his hands in his own, encasing them in warmth. It’s terribly comfortable. He’s never noticed how warm Vincent is—he was too distracted by other revelations in the Room of Tears to think of the other man’s body heat, and the only time he touches Vincent nowadays is when he genuflects to kiss his ring.

Now he has time to study. Vincent’s hands are rough and calloused from decades of hard labor. The faint, faded scars across the backs lend him a certain authority, while his chewed fingernails, a physical manifestation of his stress, betray human weakness. Thomas can’t help but compare these hands to his own: wrinkled, liver-spotted and soft, having never truly worked a day in his life. Vincent holds him like he’s precious, made all the worse when he dips fingers past his sleeve opening to stroke the inside of Thomas’ wrist, a gesture meant to be comforting but which only reminds him of their closeness.

He realizes with a sinking feeling that Vincent intends to spend the rest of the conversation with their hands entwined.

“You shouldn’t,” he whispers, like he doesn’t want Vincent to hear. Vincent does, of course, and his brows furrow in confusion, almost hurt.

“You don’t want me to touch you?”

“No, I—” Thomas stops himself. He does want Vincent to touch him, desperately so—he can’t lie about this—but what it will lead to is unforgivable. He settles for repeating: “You shouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“People could see.” Most likely, people have already seen and will start spreading rumors. He could mitigate the damage now by just pulling his hands away and keeping them at his sides. One simple sacrifice. Why does he find it so difficult?

“What would they say? That I am overly friendly?”

“Yes. Or…” Thomas hesitates again, terrified of what will happen if he speaks whatever this is into existence. “Or that we’re more than brothers.”

Vincent hums, mulling over his words, tracing circles on the back of Thomas’ hand with his thumb. He shivers again, though not from the cold.

“Do you want to be? More than brothers?”

Thomas swallows. His mouth is dry. His face is warm. He has trouble meeting Vincent’s gaze.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“I think it does,” Vincent says, voice soft and full of love. Thomas can’t stand it.

“What I want is a sin.”

“Homosexuality is not a sin, Thomas.” The words cut through him like a knife. He knows, he knows and his face burns from Vincent seeing through him so completely, without the reproof or judgment he feels he deserves.

“Sexual acts outside of marriage are,” he retorts, because he has to.

“I said nothing about sexual acts.”

“I… find it difficult to separate the two when it comes to you, Holy Father.”

“So we come to the truth,” Vincent smiles, not smug but triumphant.

“You seem to value truth above all else, Your Holiness,” Thomas mutters, ducking his head in shame, embarrassment, humiliation. He has fallen into a trap unwittingly set, revealing far more about himself than he has in years, perhaps decades, to the very object of his desire. His eyes are worryingly misty as he stares at their hands, still linked together. He thinks once again of resignation.

“Thomas.” The tone makes him lift his head to meet Vincent’s gaze. “What if I said your sentiment was shared?”

“I would ask why you settled for me, of all people!” He blurts out, ignoring Vincent’s look of disapproval. “And I would remind you of your many obligations as Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, one of which includes celibacy.”

“‘Let Him grant us a pope who sins and asks for forgiveness and who carries on,’” Vincent quotes, as if he’s not suggesting risking his immortal soul for a miserable old man.

“Will that homily haunt me for the rest of my days?”

“Yes, because it is not only good but true.”

Thomas feels on the verge of hysterics. “And if I don’t return your affection? Who will you turn to?”

“No one,” Vincent shrugs. “Because I will not settle.”

The admission is staggering. It brings tears to his eyes, at the same time Vincent brings Thomas’ hands to his lips.

“Don’t.” But he still doesn’t pull away. He can’t bear to.

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” Vincent murmurs, breath ghosting his knuckles. “I am simply warming you up.”

Somehow, Thomas thinks he isn’t just talking about hands.

Vincent’s hands aren’t the only unique part of him. Unlike most men in the Curia, Vincent has a full head of hair. It grows long during his pontificate, inky locks tinged with grey framing his handsome face, making him look even more boyish and angelic than when they first met. It’s hard not to stare—the whole world does, after all—and he finds himself watching Vincent as he laughs, prays, sings. Every movement of his head dislodges various strands, and Thomas wants to tuck them behind Vincent’s ear, to feel if they’re as silky smooth as appearance suggests.

“You’re staring.”

Thomas is startled out of his reverie by those soft-spoken words, coming back to awareness at the Holy Father’s desk. Vincent sits across from him, hands clasped together, watching Thomas with amusement. It seems he wasn’t as surreptitious as he thought.

“Ah. It’s just—” he makes a gesture to indicate the hair falling across Vincent’s face.

Vincent does not move to tuck it away. “Am I a leper, Thomas? Touch me, and you can make me clean.”

Thomas' throat constricts so as he is unable to even joke about blasphemy. “I can’t,” he says, voice cracking.

Vincent sighs, exasperated, and it hurts far more than Thomas expects. “My cardinal, what are you so afraid of?”

“My own desires.” He looks down at his hands, wishing there was another pair slotted between them. Vincent has refrained from those kinds of touches since their conversation by the turtle pond, and while it was the correct course of action, Thomas aches for him. He can only imagine Vincent’s expression—most likely one of pity or disappointment. Or, a traitorous voice whispers, perhaps that is only what you want to see. Contempt is so much easier to manage than love.

“Please explain.”

“I-I fear I couldn’t stop,” he stutters out with a faint blush. “I fear I would sully you.”

“Do you truly think so little of yourself, Thomas?”

He doesn’t respond to that, because the truthful answer is yes.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles instead. “I’m a coward.”

“Perhaps,” Vincent responds, not unkindly. “But perhaps all priests are cowards. To love God is to fear Him. Only by looking in the face of what frightens us can we be set free.”

Thomas looks up. “What are you afraid of?” he asks before he can think twice.

Vincent sits back in his chair, putting scant distance between them. “Idolatry. From you.”

“Me?”

“If you fear corrupting me, it is because you see me as a symbol, not a person.” This time Vincent is the one to break eye contact, looking down at his interlaced fingers. “The life of a symbol is very lonely, Thomas.”

It’s a plea, he realizes. To be seen, to be known, to be touched, not as the Holy Father but as a man, one who needs affection like any other. How cruel of him to deny Vincent that small intimacy.

He lifts his hand to reach across the desk, moving slowly but surely as if trying not to spook an animal. Vincent watches carefully as he gently holds the loose strand, then tucks it behind his ear—his hair is light and soft and glides smoothly between Thomas’ fingers. Once done, he can't help but linger, grazing the curve of Vincent’s cheek, brushing warm skin with cool fingertips.

Vincent turns his head to bring his lips to his palm. Thomas sharply inhales, but once again does not pull away. This is what he feared—that he couldn’t.

“Your Holiness…” Thomas starts, but trails off, unsure of what to say next.

“Won’t you call me Vincent?” he mumbles into his hand, dark brown eyes trained on Thomas’ expression.

I already do, he doesn’t say. Every day. Every time I think of you.

Brushing Vincent’s hair back reveals something very interesting: he has a mole on the side of his neck. Several, in fact. Now that Thomas has bridged the divide, not only been touched but done the touching, they are all he ever thinks about.

He thinks of counting each blemish, finding new ones on Vincent's shoulders and back, tracing them with his fingertips. He wonders how they would feel, how they would taste—salty, perhaps, from the sweat accumulating beneath his robes. Of course, this escalates to wondering what else he may find on Vincent’s body, where else he may want to taste. He feels the familiar burn of shame at such thoughts but they are lessened somewhat by knowing Vincent wants him back.

In the late nights, when he dares, he fantasizes about their bodies interlocked. Admittedly, he has trouble visualizing this. He has seen people of every gender kiss on the streets of Rome, watched films with explicit scenes between lovers, yet the most striking image of male intimacy he can think of is Dante and Virgil by French painter W. Bouguereau.

The painting depicts the aforementioned men in hell, watching two damned souls locked in eternal combat. One man, Capocchio, is on his knees, leaning backwards with his arm outstretched, while the other, Gianni, holds his wrist with a tight grip, knee pressed into Capocchio’s back and teeth biting into his bared neck. Cappochio tugs at his hair—Gianni pulls at his sides. Both are naked and muscular, their bodies entwined in a dance of violent carnal desire. It has always left Thomas equal parts aroused and uneasy.

Is this what his longing entails? Will he inevitably hurt Vincent, consume him, destroy him when they are beyond the reach of God? Will they only achieve union when their souls are damned for all eternity, a mere spectacle for the righteous to deride as unholy?

This is what he thinks of when he and Vincent are locked together. He’s crowded Vincent against his desk yet he’s the one who feels trapped, on edge, waiting for the hand of God to strike him down for daring to touch the Vicar of Christ with anything other than solemn and chaste reverence.

“Is this right?” He can’t help but ask, even as he encircles the other man’s waist, small enough that his hands nearly meet in the middle. He hopes, foolishly, that Vincent will be able to give him a clear definitive answer, one that puts all his fears to rest.

“What do you think?” Vincent murmurs, lips brushing his cheek as he speaks. They’re so close that Thomas can smell his shampoo, feel his chest moving up and down with each breath. There’s mirth in Vincent’s voice and he thinks he's being teased.

“This feels right,” Thomas admits. “But it can’t be. It’s too… good.” He’s used to devotion as suffering, self-flagellation as penance. Love needs to be earned—it is not given freely.

“Oh, my dear Tomas,” Vincent coos, pulling back so as to cradle his head in his hands, rubbing soothing circles over his crows feet. Thomas can’t ignore the desire that shoots through him from Vincent using my.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. It is in your nature to doubt.”

“I don’t want to,” he says quietly, turning his head to kiss his palm, an echo of the last time Vincent made him feel so off-kilter. Vincent stares with wide eyes, his pupils dilated as a shudder runs through him. Thomas can’t imagine what he sees that could be so appealing.

“What do you want?” Vincent asks, and the answer comes to him unbidden.

“You.”

“I’m right here, cariño. Take me.”

Thomas feels as though he may melt. But before he does that, he knows the first thing he wants from Vincent, more so than his lips. Like Gianni, he holds Vincent’s wrist with one hand, his side with the other, and leans down, not biting through his neck but kissing his mole softly.

To his surprise, Vincent giggles.

“I’m ticklish,” he explains, faintly blushing, and Thomas doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to let the man go.

Besides the hair on his head, Thomas learns that Vincent is strangely hairless. Or perhaps it is not so strange due to his situation. The hair on his chest, shoulders, legs and arms are minimal, but, with enough time, he’s able to grow a small beard. The media finds his new facial hair controversial.

“Why on Earth do they care so much about my appearance?” Vincent wonders when he reads recent headlines:

Fox News: Vatican Goes Woke? Pope’s Beard Sparks Fears of Leftist Grooming Agenda

La Repubblica: Il Papa Barbuto, la barba sacra di Innocenzo XIV diventa virale

The Daily Telegraph: Holy Stubble! Pope’s Beard Sparks Beard Boom Down Under

Thomas quite likes Vincent’s beard. It gives him a dashing and distinguished look that he can’t get enough of. He can already feel the effect on his neck and thighs as he stretches in bed, though he’s displeased to find the space next to him empty, leaving him cold and wanting.

When he enters the bathroom, he sees Vincent in a t-shirt and boxers, standing in front of the sink mirror and rubbing his chin as if contemplating shaving.

“You shall not round off the hair on your temples or mar the edges of your beard,” Thomas mumbles, wrapping his arms around Vincent’s middle and resting his head on his shoulder. He tries not to cling so tightly—he still can’t quite believe he’s allowed to do this, to feel God so strongly through the love of another.

“You like it that much?” Vincent smiles, leaning back into his weight.

“Mm,” Thomas hums, nuzzling the side of his neck. “I like everything about you.”

“Even my spicy cooking?”

“Almost everything.”

Thomas moves his hand to stroke the bottom of Vincent’s stomach, right where he thinks his womb lies, fingers brushing the curls just above his sweatpants.

Vincent inhales sharply when Thomas slips under his waistband to lightly grip his cock, soft but quickly growing. He mouths at the space below his ear, then lower, leaving wet kisses against Vincent’s throat, stroking him gently. He wants to focus on the other’s pleasure, to serve, and ignores the tent in his own pants even as he brushes against Vincent's arse.

Vincent has a different idea. He abruptly turns in Thomas’ arms, eyes wide and dark, kissing him hungrily and palming his cock through the thin fabric. Thomas makes all manner of embarrassing noises from that, though perhaps the worst is the whine he emits when stubble scratches at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh,” Vincent says, pulling back with slight awkwardness, “you don’t mind the feeling?”

Thomas crashes their lips back together. “I like it,” he whispers between kisses, “I like feeling the burn during the day, it makes me feel owned–ah!”

Thomas is cut off by Vincent taking out his cock from his pajamas, stroking them both in hand.

“Do you like being mine?”

“I love it,” he gasps, “so much, I love you—”

Vincent sucks at his collarbone, bristles scraping against the newly-formed bruise, and Thomas comes embarrassingly fast, though that isn’t exactly new.

Vincent strokes him through his orgasm, then beyond, chasing his own release, and somewhere in Thomas’ hazy overstimulated mind he thinks of how wonderful it is when Vincent decides to be selfish. He clings to the other man, panting into his mouth, feeling pleasure turn into delicious pain as his lover jerks himself to completion, covering both their hands in a mixture of their spend.

“Are you alright, amor?”

Vincent cups his cheek, brushing under his eyes with his thumb, and Thomas realizes he’s crying.

“I couldn’t be better, my dear,” he says, leaning in to kiss his lover’s forehead, and is delighted to find that he means it.

There is one other part of Vincent which Thomas fixates on, and this is perhaps the most humiliating of them all.

Vincent’s feet are in his lap and Thomas’ face is on fire. They haven’t even started yet but his heart races knowing he is touching a part of Vincent so few get to see. He holds his feet with reverence—they’re small but not dainty, callused on the bottom, and he presses into his arches with his thumbs, massaging gently.

“I, ah, haven’t done this before,” he says sheepishly, stroking Vincent’s sole, exploring the expanse of soft skin.

“But you’ve wanted to?” Vincent asks from where he lays on the bed. There is no judgment in his voice—or arousal, for that matter—only curiosity. Thomas wishes he could say the same, but as he runs his fingers over Vincent's ankles he can already feel the beginnings of an erection stirring.

“Mm.” Though he hadn’t realized there was a reason he got flustered during Maundy Thursday until very recently, when he watched Vincent kiss the feet of the faithful and realized he wanted to do the same for his lover. A women’s prison was not the ideal place to discover a new fetish but it had led them here, to this bed, to this moment where he could find his fantasies realized.

“Why do you find them attractive?”

“They’re like… your hands,” Thomas says, “or your neck, or chest. They’re just another part of you I love.”

He cradles Vincent’s right heel in his palm and looks towards his lover for approval. Vincent nods, and Thomas raises his foot up to his mouth to press his lips against the arch, sniffing deeply. After a moment he leaves a wet kiss on the patch of skin, then another, kissing a trail up the curve of his foot until reaching the toes. He pauses again, breath ghosting over the digits, shaky with want.

“You can use your tongue,” Vincent whispers.

Thomas kisses a pair of his toes before licking between them, whining, feeling utterly pathetic for it as his cock tents painfully in his trousers.

He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life.

Spit escapes from the corner of his mouth to trickle down Vincent’s foot and he ducks his head to lick it back up, from his heel back up his toes. He tastes salty and sweaty—like every other man and yet wholly unique. He nips at Vincent’s big toe, taking it into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around it and sucking as if he were sucking Vincent’s cock.

Thomas is panting, sweating. He’s terribly embarrassed at how desperate he is, how Vincent is serving him and not the other way around. Vincent is more put together but his flush has creeped down to his neck and Thomas swears he can see the beginnings of a small bulge in his underwear.

Perhaps it is time to move on. He pulls away to instead press the sole of Vincent’s foot to his cheek, kissing the side of it.

“Thank you, darling,” he murmurs.

Vincent bites his lip, thinking. “We don’t have to stop,” he finally says.

Thomas’ face grows even warmer. “This is—this was more than enough, Vincent, you don’t have to do more.”

“But what if I want to?” he says with a mischievous smile.

Vincent slips his foot out of Thomas' grasp to press against his chest, tickling the grey hair visible through his open shirt. Thomas is too stunned to stop him as he drags his heel down his stomach, then between his legs to push down on his groin.

“Oh God,” Thomas gasps, “oh my God, Vincent—”

Vincent rubs his foot up and down with just the right amount of pressure and Thomas grabs his ankle with both hands, moaning as Vincent presses his sole against his clothed cock, providing the friction he so desperately needs.

“I may not quite understand, but I love seeing you like this, mi vida.”

Vincent lifts his left foot to Thomas’ face and Thomas uses one hand to hold his ankle, trying to divide his attention between sucking one foot and humping against the weight of the other. He’s panting, whining, moaning, on the verge of coming—but he wants more. Thomas trembles as he moves to undo the zipper and fly of his trousers with one hand, taking out his cock. Vincent’s foot slides over his length, toes curling over the head, almost gripping, and Thomas' orgasm hits him so suddenly he nearly blacks out from the force of it.

“You’ve gotten my foot dirty,” he hears Vincent tease.

Thomas opens his eyes, realizing he’s shut them, and feels his spent cock twitch at the sight of white spend against brown skin.

“I can fix that,” he murmurs, too sated to feel ashamed as he leans down to lap his own half-dried release off the top of Vincent's foot, circling his tongue around each streak of cum before sucking it into his mouth.

Surprisingly, Vincent shudders. Thomas looks between his legs and—yes, he’s definitely hard now.

“Let me take care of you?” He kisses up Vincent’s leg, his knee, breath tickling the inside of his thigh.

“If you insist,” Vincent laughs, spreading his legs to make room for his Dean to take his rightful place.

The first thing Vincent noticed about Thomas were his eyes.

They were such a deep, piercing blue that he nearly startled when he awoke in the Casa Santa Marta, believing in a moment of deliriousness that he had been found out, that this powerful cardinal had dissected him, found his secret hidden beneath layers of flesh and fat. While this turned out not to be the case, he still felt those eyes follow him everywhere, finding him in the corners of the halls, the turtle pond, the Sistine Chapel. Eyes that, in the Room of Tears, looked at him with tenderness, fear, and a genuine desire for understanding.

It is so much more than he could have ever hoped for.

Thomas does not realize how often he stares. At first, he worries that Thomas is searching for something that isn’t there, a holy vessel, an object on a pedestal Vincent could only resemble and never truly become. Will Thomas be disappointed when he learns that Vincent is only human after all, a sinner like any other? That his own feelings for the Dean are not that of a brother?

Perhaps Thomas thinks like this in the beginning, but then something in that look begins to change. Vincent is eased when he finally recognizes what it is—no longer worship but desire. Eyes are the windows to the soul and Vincent is taken aback by the clear longing in them, a deep and yawning chasm. He wonders what it will take for that gap to be bridged.

In bed with his lover by his side, he wonders no longer.

“You’re staring.”

Vincent can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed, not when he has those handsome blue eyes trained on him.

“Can you blame me?” Vincent nuzzles into Thomas’ chest, less bony than when they first lay together, a testament to the work they’ve both put into making sure he’s well fed. “You’re beautiful.”

“Speak for yourself, darling,” Thomas says, face heating up, though he doesn’t deny it. This, too, is proof of progress, and Vincent’s heart flutters at the thought.

Following an impulse, he holds up a finger to Thomas’ face, tracing his cheeks, the curve of his nose, his lips, every part of Thomas he can reach, pushing slightly to feel the give of skin, the warmth that proves Thomas is alive, that Vincent’s warmth has reached him.

“What are you doing?”

“Admiring the view,” Vincent murmurs, stopping at the corner of Thomas’ eyes. “As you so often do.”

Thomas’ blush deepens. It can be so fun to rile the man.

“I appreciate it,” he continues. “You don’t let me hide.” It would have been easy for the Dean to not be so hospitable to the newcomer during the conclave. To not demand respect and attention from his fellow cardinals, to not bother offering Vincent a chance to lead their prayers. It was this respect that gave Vincent the courage to speak at all, though he desperately wanted to slip away, unnoticed, unseen.

He still wants to hide, at times. Many times. But his election was the will of the Spirit, and this he cannot deny, though he often questions. Being watched by so many is agonizing, frightening, but he can always count on the gaze of his Thomas to be part of the crowd and soften the blow.

He leans up to kiss his forehead, his lips, then both his eyelids, the sign of the cross in a new form.

“Can you blame me?” Thomas repeats, leaning in to kiss him properly.

“My Vincent,” he whispers against his lips, in between kisses, into his neck and shoulder and stomach, honoring each part of him, seeing into the very depths of his soul.

“Yours,” Vincent gasps, “yours, yours, yours.”