Archive of Our Own ^beta

Once, many decades ago, Thomas read a research article which claimed that the last few moments of death are painless. The article had cited people who endured near death experiences, all of whom described feelings of peace, weightlessness, and calm in their last moments, regardless of the circumstances. It had brought Thomas some comfort to know that even in the most brutal of deaths there would be some relief, that no matter what awaited him on the other side he would temporarily reside in a space of bliss where nothing existed but him and an impenetrable void.

This was how he knew he failed, because dying hurt.

The hospital room is comforting in its sterile apathy. The machines beeping at regular intervals and the smell of antiseptic and stale, recirculated air are his only companions. For the first time in days, he’s alone. He supposes it's his position that allows him the privilege of avoiding constant surveillance, and he once again feels a swelling of shame, a constant hum in the background which rises to a crescendo with each reminder of his inadequacies.

It is easier without company. Every second with his friends at his bedside had been agony, their presence only serving to remind Thomas of his failure, of how little he deserved their love and affection. There are so many others of the flock to care for, to save—for the Pope himself to spend precious hours of his day in the company of a decrepit old man seemed a waste.

He has been told that this is a deeply unhealthy way of thinking. That he will not return to his post without receiving guidance, both spiritual and mental, that will force him to confront decades of self-hatred and the core of his suicidal ideation.

Useless. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Best to abandon him in some far off monastery to spend the rest of his life begging the Lord for His forgiveness. There’s no use wallowing in self-pity, it’s dramatic, beneath him, and yet there is hardly much else to do when left in an empty room to his own devices.

There is a noise down the hall, one unlike the ever-present murmurings of visitors and staff, and it is getting closer. It sounds like heavy footfall and mumbled curses and Thomas prays, though he does not believe anyone is listening, that the person does not visit him.

His prayers are not answered.

The man who opens the door is none other than Goffredo Tedesco, who was not in Rome the last time Thomas checked merely two days ago. Evidently, the Patriarch has traveled six hours by train to be unable to look him in the eye. Oh God, not you too, Thomas thinks. It’s as if he believes one wrong look will cause Thomas to rip off his tubing and jump out the nearest window. It’s not a bad idea.

Goffredo being here means that someone outside of his small circle knows. Who told him? Not Vincent, Aldo, or Ray, surely. Was it a Swiss guard? A nun? Or perhaps everyone in the Curia has learned of his attempt and he will be greeted with looks of judgment and pity the moment he steps foot in Vatican City.

Goffredo is still at the door, and Thomas realizes he is not wearing his cassock or ferraiolo. Instead he wears a white suit and blue shirt, his blazer draped over shoulders. He looks dapper, despite his disheveled hair and sunken eyes. Most surprisingly, he’s holding a bouquet of roses. 

Thomas recalls another factoid: most men are only gifted flowers at their funerals. Until today that was true for him, too, and his heart swells with an unfamiliar emotion.

Goffredo doesn’t give him the bouquet, instead holding it to his chest like a protective shield.

“Ciao,” he says.

“Ciao,” Thomas replies.

Silence. Goffredo shuffles his feet from side to side, fingers clenching, most likely aching for his vape, and Thomas waits for the inevitable questions. He feels utterly pathetic for being unable to hold a simple conversation, that his actions have made him the elephant in the room that no one, including him, wants to acknowledge.

“How are you feeling?” Goffredo settles upon. Ah, so they’re following the regular script.

“Fine,” Thomas says, because it’s true. He doesn’t feel good or bad, only empty, numb. He’s used to it, though perhaps not to this extent.

“Nothing… hurts?”

“Not anymore.” 

This is also true, and yet it seems to make Goffredo recoil, something like hurt flashing in his expression. The others reacted like this as well, hurt that Thomas did not tell them, that he did not trust them enough to share his burden until it was too late. Thomas prepares himself to say the words which have become all too familiar in the past 24 hours, ones he has been told time and time again are not necessary, and yet he feels they must be voiced.

“I’m sorry,” he nearly whispers, his gaze fixed on Goffredo’s callused hands, at odds with the delicate stems of the bouquet he grips tight.

“You should be.”

Thomas blinks, looks up. That was not the response he was expecting.

“Pardon?”

“You should be sorry,” Goffredo says through gritted teeth, and Thomas realizes he isn’t hurt. No, he’s angry.

“You abandoned our new Holy Father, the Church, your duties, for what? Your own weakness?” Goffredo spits out, mouth twisted into a scowl, as if merely looking at Thomas fills him with deep, profound disgust. “If you truly cared about anyone other than yourself, you would have done it somewhere no one would find you, so no one would have to clean up your mess.”

A heavy weight sinks from his chest to settle into his stomach. His mouth is dry, hands clammy. It feels as though he’s listening to Goffredo from outside his body. He’s right, Thomas knows, but to hear someone say it is far more painful than he could have imagined, every word piercing his mind like a dagger, reopening a tender, throbbing wound.

Goffredo pauses, waiting for him to respond, and Thomas swallows the lump in his throat, saying the first thing that comes to mind.

“I won’t do it again.”

Goffredo’s eyes light up in rage.

“Again! You would not be alive if He had not deigned to save you!”

Thomas wants to be contrarian. It wasn’t God who saved him—it was Aldo who found him, the paramedics who transported him, the doctors who revived him. Instead, he says nothing. 

“What were you thinking!?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t thinking,” Goffredo mocks. “No, sei stata stupido, egoista e codardo!”

Petals fly around the room as he gesticulates, wildly tossing the bouquet to and fro. It almost feels good not to be treated as if he is fragile, Thomas muses. To be told exactly what he has been thinking all along.

“Do you want to burn in hell, Tommaso? Do you never want to see anyone who loves you again?” Goffredo’s voice cracks at the word love, his throat unused to screaming. “What makes you think you know better than God, hm? What makes you think you have the right to reject His gifts? You should be ashamed!”

We should all be ashamed, Thomas thinks, staring numbly at his hands. 

Goffredo paces back and forth, ranting and raving, except this time there is no soft-spoken priest to stop him. Thomas takes it. It’s what he deserves, to be the target of bile and rage from a holy man, because that is what Goffredo is. Like all cardinals, he was chosen by the mouthpiece of God, and here he speaks His truth, pure and unfiltered, his speech a scalding shower to punish Thomas for his sins.

Goffredo goes on until his anger is depleted, until he stops at Thomas’ hospital bed to slump into the seat at its side, tossing the bouquet into Thomas’ lap. Thomas thinks that is the end of it. That they will sit there in silence until Goffredo feels well enough to leave. That is what he deserves, too.

Instead, Goffredo reaches for his hands, bringing them to his mouth to softly kiss his knuckles. There are tears in his eyes and his voice wavers when he asks:

“Do you truly care so little for your immortal soul?”

Thomas tries to recall Vincent’s kind words—that his attempt was not a mortal sin because his mind was not well. But it isn’t true. He knew full well the consequences and had resigned himself to eternal damnation. 

He looks down at the white sheets of his bed, unable to speak.

“Oh, Tommaso.” Goffredo kisses his knuckles again, then the backs of his hands. “Why?” 

It is not the first time he’s been asked this question, but it is the first time Thomas feels compelled to answer. If anyone can handle his darkness, it’s Goffredo.

“I couldn’t feel His presence anymore,” he confesses. “I believed He had already abandoned me.”

Thomas thought he was used to a divine absence, until the conclave, the explosion, the election. For a time, he bloomed under Innocent’s papacy, at peace with the knowledge that they had performed God’s will, that God himself had come down to prove His existence. With time, that feeling decayed and rotted. He saw God all around him—in Aldo’s friendship, in Ray’s service, in Vincent’s smile—yet not in himself. It was too much to bear.

“Idiota,” Goffredo scoffs. “That’s not how He works. You know that. He never leaves us, except in that awful place.”

Thomas, following an instinct he does not fully understand, moves to cup his cheek. Goffredo tilts his head, leans into the warmth of his hand, and Thomas caresses the sides of his face, running his fingers through the stubble, watching in amazement as Goffredo softens underneath his touch. It’s as if he’s reassuring Goffredo, not the other way around, and he is glad that he can at least be of use, even in this state.

“I’ve been praying for you,” Goffredo says quietly, like it’s a confession. “Even in my dreams. When I heard, I felt the world collapse beneath me.”

“Oh,” Thomas breathes out. He did not think… he knew he would be pitied, perhaps missed for a time, but this…

“You are a better man than all of us,” he murmurs into Thomas’ palm. “For you to throw His grace away… it would be a waste.”

Thomas shakily exhales, realizing he’s on the verge of tears. He doesn’t prevent them, bows his head and lets them fall as Goffredo watches, holding Thomas’ left hand in his lap with gentle reverence, waiting for the storm to pass.

“Mi dispiace,” Goffredo says once Thomas’ shoulders no longer shake, “I was cruel.”

“You told the truth.”

“No, no, I should have been kinder. You are still in the hospital, for God’s sake!”

“I am not made of glass, Goffredo,” Thomas says, wiping his eyes with the back of his free hand. “Though I appreciate your apology. And the kind words you were able to offer.” He does not quite believe he is a better man than anyone in the Curia, but the fact that Goffredo believes it…

They sit there for minutes, hours. In truth, he does not know how long. All that matters is the feeling of Goffredo’s thumb brushing circles across the back of his hand, and the flowers on his lap. The bouquet, once forgotten, now remembered.

“Goffredo?”

“Mm?”

“Grazie dei fiori.” Thomas reaches for the bunch to bring the mass of flowers to his nose, the smell rich, deep and floral.

“Ah, sì,” Goffredo mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I didn’t know what to bring, I panicked—”

“I like them.”

“You do?” Goffredo’s head shoots up, his expression both shocked and pleased.

“Yes, I’ve never been given flowers before.”

“Che peccato! I will get them for you from now on, for every week you are on this Earth.”

Thomas laughs—a real laugh, he hasn’t laughed in ages!—and ducks his head, hiding his smile in roses nearly as red as his face. Goffredo watches this in silent pleasure, though Thomas doesn’t know what he gets out of the chuckling of an old fool like him.

“When will you be released?” Goffredo whispers, like he’s afraid to know the answer.

Thomas’s smile dims, just a little. “They’re keeping me overnight, and then… well. I won’t be here, but I won’t be in the Vatican, either. I won’t be allowed to return to my post without counseling.”

It says something that Goffredo does not dismiss the concept of psychotherapy out of hand. “Anything, anything to have you return to us.” He kisses Thomas’ hand again. “Call me, per favore. Come to Venice if you must. I do not want you to be alone.”

“Alright,” Thomas says, touched in ways he is unable to voice.

Goffredo smiles, nods, though there is clearly more he wants to say.

“What is it?”

“Do you think, ah…” Goffredo mumbles, looking toward the door. “Will they allow…?” 

Thomas is confused, until he sees Goffredo patting his pocket where the hard outline of his vape is visible.

“You are ridiculous!” Thomas laughs again. “No, but I won’t tell.” 

As long as you stay a little while longer, he thinks. Truth be told, he missed the artificial cherry smell for the simple fact that it meant Goffredo was present. He’ll never tell Goffredo that, though. No, he will chat with the Patriarch for however long he is here, as Goffredo holds his hand, squeezing every so often to reassure Thomas that he is alive, that he is loved, rose petals brushing against his hospital gown, an easy burden on his heart.