Chapter Text
Thomas hurried through the streets surrounding St. Peter’s Square. His breathing was shallow, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears like a war drum. All around him, the crowd moved with the same silent urgency. The Pope was dead.
Just minutes earlier, the Vatican had issued an official statement announcing the death of His Holiness Pius XIII at the age of 86, due to heart failure. As expected, the news spread through Rome like wildfire. Hundreds of people—tourists, locals, priests, nuns, the merely curious—were now streaming toward the square, eager to hear the bells of Casa Santa Marta toll the formal declaration of sede vacante.
Thomas stopped for a moment, placing one hand on one of the towering columns that encircle the square. He pulled a white handkerchief from the pocket of his black dress trousers and wiped the sweat from his brow. The heat of the Roman summer soaked through his black clerical shirt, which clung uncomfortably to his back. He thought, with mild irritation, that if the Pope had died at another time of year, perhaps there wouldn't be such a fervent crowd gathering.
Pius XIII had not been a particularly beloved pontiff among the Catholic faithful. Thomas considered him a stern man, conservative to a fault, even anachronistic. In his view, had the Pope remained in office another year, he might have undone more progress than the Church had achieved in the past thirty. His only real allies seemed to be the tight-knit circle of traditionalist cardinals who surrounded him like a fortress. To Thomas, the Pope had been almost untouchable—a solemn, distant figure who rarely engaged with ordinary believers, or even with priests. And that, Thomas believed, stood in direct contrast to everything Jesus Christ had taught.
Still, there was hope. With the seat vacant, the next conclave might usher in renewal. Perhaps the new Pope would restore the Church’s connection with the people—something it so desperately needed. Perhaps.
With a resigned sigh, Thomas pocketed his handkerchief and resumed walking toward the papal barricades being set up near the entrances. He had been fortunate to be in Rome at that very moment. His friend, Aldo Bellini, a professor at the Pontifical Gregorian University, had invited him to attend a series of lectures and seminars on contemporary theology. Thomas had accepted, imagining a few quiet days of study and leisurely strolls. But by some twist of divine intervention, he had been wandering the narrow streets of the historic center when he heard the first whisper that made him quicken his pace.
It wasn’t his first time in Rome, but he hadn’t visited often enough to stop marveling at its charms. And truthfully, he preferred the dry heat of the Eternal City over the damp, grey chill of his London diocese. Even the hottest days back home would feel cool compared to Rome's fiery summer.
The sound of Latin, murmured hymns, and the scent of incense and warm stone hung in the air. It was as if the city itself breathed with an ancient, weary chest—yet it still lived, deeply and vividly. Despite his rational clerical mind, Thomas felt something sacred in that moment. Not for the figure of the deceased pontiff, but for the unity born in the wake of death—for the ritual power of shared silence.
Though the atmosphere seemed draped in sorrow over the Pope’s passing, the air was charged with something else: anticipation. The expectation of a new election. A new beginning. A new path for the Church.
Sadly, Thomas wouldn’t be in Rome to witness it.
In just a few hours, he would board a flight back to England. He needed to be at St. Anselm’s Church, his parish in South London, first thing in the morning to celebrate a memorial liturgy for the late Pius XIII. Moreover, Bishop Malcolm Eardley, head of the Diocese of Westminster, had summoned him urgently to help coordinate the pre-conclave activities across the city's parishes.
Thomas sighed again, leaning against one of the massive columns of the square. At times, he felt the bishop placed more trust in him than he deserved. After all, he had only been ordained a year ago. What could he possibly know about carrying the weight of these times?
Yet Eardley insisted that Thomas had a "blessed gift for organization." He had noticed it back when Thomas was a seminarian at the English College in Rome, and he hadn’t stopped assigning him responsibilities since. Thomas didn’t consider himself exceptional. He made mistakes often and never fully felt comfortable with the authority he was given. Still, the parishioners appreciated him. His youth wasn’t a barrier—it brought him closer to them. And maybe—just maybe—that was his true strength.
The bells began to toll from the heights of St. Peter’s. Deep, solemn, unmistakable. The crowd pressed closer to the Holy See as one collective body, craning for a view above heads and shoulders.
Thomas, however, knew the protocol. He remembered his seminary lessons on the rite of sede vacante. He knew nothing more would happen today. The bells marked the Pope’s death. The papal funeral would be held in a few days, and after that, the conclave.
So he stayed in his spot, beneath the shade of one of Bernini’s colossal columns. He silently watched the crowd draw near, pulled by the gravity of history unfolding. A child cried, clutching the white habit of a nun. A group of Polish tourists whispered prayers in their native tongue. An elderly man sold wooden crucifixes for five euros apiece.
He, too, was part of that history, even if he didn’t feel it yet.
And as the Roman sun began its golden descent over the rooftops of the Vatican, Thomas closed his eyes for a moment. Not to pray. Not to ask. Just to try and understand when, exactly, faith had become responsibility.
Thomas stepped toward a small makeshift stand at the edge of the square, where a dark-skinned woman with a round face and sun-worn hands was selling bottles of water for ten euros. Her warm, melodic accent hinted at roots in southern Italy. She had only two bottles left. Without thinking too much, Thomas nodded, handed her a crumpled bill from his pocket, and accepted one. The heat was suffocating, and the crowd had begun to swell, buzzing with anticipation over what was unfolding in the Vatican.
It was at that moment, as he fumbled to open the bottle, that he felt a light bump on his right side. He turned instinctively to see who—or what—had brushed against him, and the air caught in his lungs.
Standing before him, just inches away, was a young man. He couldn't have been more than twenty, speaking haltingly with the vendor in broken Italian, his voice unsure, filled with pauses and missteps. It was obvious he wasn’t a native speaker—his accent dragged unfamiliar vowels, and his verbs were awkward, like someone who had learned the language from textbooks rather than the streets.
But it wasn’t the voice that froze Thomas.
The boy was beautiful. His black, gleaming hair caught the last golden rays of the evening sun that still bathed part of the square. That soft light gave him an almost unreal glow, as if he didn’t fully belong in this world. Thomas felt a twist in his stomach as he compared it, involuntarily, to his own thinning blond hair.
His gaze drifted, unbidden, along the young man’s profile. On his right ear—smooth, hairless—was a small black stud. Subtle, yet striking. It seemed like a contradiction, almost an act of defiance: the clerical collar peeking from under the edge of his shirt clearly marked him as a seminarian, perhaps even a young priest. A priest with an earring? The contrast was jarring.
It was then that the young man, noticing the light collision, looked up—and their eyes met.
Thomas felt the ground shift beneath his feet. That gaze struck him with unexpected intensity. The boy’s eyes were dark, warm, wide, framed by fine eyebrows that heightened an expression of genuine concern. His face was soft, with delicate features and sun-kissed skin, as if he’d grown up under a faraway sun. There was a tenderness in his expression, a quiet compassion Thomas hadn’t felt directed at him in years. It wasn’t condescending pity or polite civility—it was honest, disarming care.
“Scusa…” the young man murmured, pressing a palm to his chest, a faint, apologetic expression crossing his lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it wasn’t sorrow either. It was something else. Something more intimate. More human.
Thomas tried to speak, but his throat was dry. Not from the heat, nor from the walk, nor from the unopened bottle of water he still held between his fingers. He was dry inside, as if that brief encounter had stirred something he thought long buried: the awareness of being seen.
Not as a priest, nor as a figure among the crowd. Truly seen. As a man. As a soul.
The rising murmur of the square returned to surround him, as though everything around him had resumed after a moment of stillness. The vendor was handing the young man the last bottle of water. He thanked her with an awkward bow, too formal for Rome. Thomas noticed his fingers trembled slightly as he took the change.
Without really knowing why, he wanted to say something more. Ask his name. Ask where he came from. Ask why he wore that ring. Or maybe ask nothing at all—just stay there a little longer, looking into those warm eyes.
But before he could react, the young man was already turning away, moving slowly through the crowd, bottle in hand, the white collar of his shirt glowing softly in the shadows of the setting sun.
Thomas remained still, the bottle still unopened. He didn’t know it then, but that brief encounter would be hard to forget.
Perhaps because of its unexpected beauty, perhaps because of its tenderness, or perhaps because—amid the death of a Pope, among faith, tradition, and ritual—someone had managed to make him feel, if only for a moment, that his heart was still alive.
Thomas was already back in London. Only a few days had passed since the death of the Holy Father, and the city seemed grayer than usual, as if it too were in mourning.
Aldo had stayed behind in Rome, working alongside his professors and colleagues to analyze the political and statistical implications of the upcoming conclave, scheduled to take place in three weeks. Thomas, on the other hand, had returned to his routine—or at least, had tried to.
That very morning, he had met with Bishop Eardley to discuss who would represent the English Church at the papal funeral. The decision had been made with a mixture of guilt, necessity, and quiet unease: Thomas would accompany the bishop as part of the English delegation to Rome.
He wasn’t comfortable with the idea. He was just the priest of a modest parish in South London, not an influential member of the Curia. He felt his place was not among cardinals or diplomatic delegations, but with his community—alongside his congregation—preparing words of comfort and reverence, organizing Masses in honor of the late pontiff.
They had even planned to watch the official broadcast of the funeral together on an old tube television proudly loaned by one of the parishioners. Thomas should have been focusing on writing his homilies, finding words to link the figure of the Holy Father with hope, with the continuity of faith. But now all of that would have to be put on hold. Returning to Rome, this time not as a tourist but as a representative, weighed heavily on him. He didn’t want to carry other people’s luggage or chase down forgotten passports for elderly priests who would treat him more as an assistant than a peer. Deep down, he felt the bishop had only included him to make the trip more organized, more manageable.
And yet, that wasn’t the only reason for his unease.
Since returning to England, he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Those dark, deep eyes that had met his for only a few seconds in the square. Thomas didn’t know his name. He didn’t know where he came from, why he was dressed like a seminarian, or whether he’d ever see him again. But the image of the young man haunted him—day and night.
Every time he closed his eyes to pray, the face returned vividly: warm brown skin, a discreet earring, an expression of genuine concern, as if he had seen something in Thomas that Thomas himself had forgotten was there. It was unbearable. Inexplicable. Unspeakable.
His nightly prayers had become a battlefield. He begged for forgiveness, pleaded for guidance, tried to tear that memory from his mind using the tools of faith. But he couldn’t. He didn’t even dare name what he was feeling. It was sin. He knew that. And he was a man of God.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about those damned black eyes.
Now, he found himself packing a humble suitcase for the journey: a pair of dress pants, two shirts, his clerical collar, his rosary—the same one his mother had given him years ago—and a small, worn Bible he had bought on his first trip to Rome. Just the essentials. Nothing more.
It was already late, and the flight was scheduled for the following day around midday. That meant he still had time to celebrate one last Mass before being replaced by Father Harris. In theory, it would be a simple ceremony, one of farewell and reflection, a chance to spiritually accompany his parishioners in the collective mourning for the Holy Father’s death.
The problem was, Thomas had no idea what the hell to say.
His mind felt saturated, thick as the winter fog that sometimes blanketed his small parish. He had prayed, searched for comfort in scripture, in routine, even in silence. But nothing. No spark. No clarity. Just a growing frustration gnawing at him from within, with the slow intensity of things one cannot confess.
After closing the suitcase and setting it aside, he knelt by the bed as he did every night. But the prayer didn’t come.
Instead came the thoughts.
Once again.
Who was that man?
What was he doing in Rome that afternoon?
Where had he come from? Was he really a seminarian, or just someone who had found a clerical shirt at a thrift store?
Did he think Thomas was a fool? A sinner? A heretic?
What if he saw him again?
God help him—what would he do if he saw him again?
The image of that face returned more vividly than ever, as if etched into the retina of his soul: black hair lit by the last light of day, those dark eyes that had looked at him without judgment, without mockery—only with a compassion that hurt more than any punishment. He couldn’t name what he felt. He didn’t dare. But he felt it. And he knew.
And now, instead of preparing sacred words to comfort his community, he was there, on his knees at the edge of his bed, battling thoughts that didn’t fit within the margins of the catechism.
Thoughts that, no matter how hard he denied them, burned in his chest with more truth than any homily.
Frustrated, his brow furrowed and his heart heavy with a discomfort he didn’t know how to name, Thomas made a quick sign of the cross, as if the gesture alone could banish the thoughts tormenting him. He decided to lie down, if only to let his body rest, though he knew God would not grant him a peaceful night. He knew himself too well—another stormy night awaited him, full of insomnia, tossing and turning, and whispered prayers to the void.
With automatic movements, he slid under the sheets and assumed his usual position: both hands over his chest, like pharaohs in their tombs, a ritual posture he had perfected over the years. In his right hand, he clutched his rosary tightly, fingers tangled in the beads like a castaway clinging to a rope. It wasn’t just a symbol of devotion—it was an act of containment, a desperate effort at self-control.
Sleeping like that helped keep his body still, to prevent the flesh from betraying the spirit in the night. Because he knew—he felt it in the depths of his soul—his spirit was waging a silent war, and the battlefield was his own bed.
As he closed his eyes, he didn’t pray. He didn’t even try. He knew the words wouldn’t come. Only silence. And perhaps, if God was stern, the image of those dark eyes staring from the depths of his conscience.
The blaring alarm rang out from the nightstand, tearing through the fragile silence of dawn. Half asleep, Thomas fumbled to turn it off, but found himself tangled in the white sheets, as if they’d captured him in the night, woven tight by sleepless unrest. It had been a torment to sleep. Judging by the heaviness in his eyelids and the stabbing ache behind his eyes, he figured he had managed—at best—an hour of rest.
He sat up with difficulty, stretching the tense muscles in his back, which cracked with a rough sound. Shuffling toward the small bathroom attached to his bedroom, he caught his reflection in the mirror and let out a sigh full of resignation.
For a young man, he looked as if life had stolen a decade from him. His short blond hair was beginning to thin at the temples, and the lack of sleep had carved deep circles under his eyes and premature lines around his mouth and brow. Thomas lowered his gaze, avoiding further scrutiny of that worn-out image.
Without thinking too much, he let himself fall backward onto the cold bathroom floor. He winced slightly as his spine hit the tiles, then began his daily routine: one hundred fifty sit-ups. It was a habit he’d picked up in his early days as a priest—a practice of bodily discipline that, in some way, helped him stay grounded. The pain that started around rep number one hundred was, for him, the only truly effective alarm. It forced him to wake up fully, to feel functional, if only barely.
When he finished, sweat beading on his forehead and his stomach burning with fatigue, he allowed himself a few seconds of stillness before stepping into the shower. The cold water, nearly punitive, ran down his body as he began his day, his heart still knotted with thoughts he shouldn’t be having.
Thomas had to admit it: that mass had been far from one of his best. It was short, rushed, as if something invisible were chasing him. He stammered through several parts and blanked out more than once, forcing himself to improvise passages he usually recited with ease. Still, thank God, he belonged to a warm and understanding community that supported him even in his weakest moments. Although, at times, that affection could feel like an uncomfortable intrusion—just like now.
Only a few minutes had passed since the end of the homily when he found himself face to face with Mrs. Margaret Winslow, a devoted parishioner of middle age who rarely missed mass. Thomas had a soft spot for her—she reminded him of his mother, not only in appearance but also in the firmness of her words and the way she seemed to see beyond what was said. And apparently, the feeling was mutual.
She was now watching him with a furrowed brow and an expression that mixed compassion with a hint of reproach.
"How are you, Father?" she asked, her voice gentle yet firm.
Thomas gave her a weary smile.
"I'm fine, Margaret. All good."
Silence fell between them, stretching a few seconds past the point of comfort. At last, she tilted her head, eyeing him with narrowed eyes, and said:
"You don't look well. Are you ill?"
He waved a hand, forcing a more believable smile.
"No, no, nothing like that. I just... slept poorly. The trip to Rome’s been on my mind, and everything that comes with it..."
Margaret narrowed her eyes with suspicion. Her expression reminded Thomas of the day he told his mother he wanted to join the seminary—the same blend of doubt and affection, as if she feared for him more than she cared to admit.
"I hope you'll eat properly while you're away," she said, in the tone of someone giving an order disguised as advice. "A starving priest does no one any good."
Thomas chuckled softly, and for the first time that day, the laughter was genuine.
"I promise I'll eat. No heroic fasting."
She nodded, though her gaze didn’t waver. Thomas silently appreciated her concern, though deep down, he knew there was no way to explain that his insomnia had nothing to do with Rome... but with a pair of dark eyes he couldn’t forget.
After speaking with Margaret, Thomas had enough time to retreat into the chapel and pray alone. Yet, as in the past few days, his prayers failed to soothe his thoughts or settle his nerves. Still, he couldn't delay any longer. Walking briskly, he returned to his modest home just steps from the church, grabbed his small suitcase and a dark scarf. Even though he knew the Roman weather was warm, London had greeted the morning with a bitter chill, and the knot in his stomach did nothing to keep the cold at bay.
The journey to the airport was uneventful. Despite the chaos of the day, he managed to meet up with Bishop Eardley on time. The only truly bothersome part was the overwhelming number of people traveling to Rome for the funeral of the late Holy Father.
When they finally touched down on Italian soil, a wave of heat hit Thomas square in the face. The humid air wrapped around him immediately, and he felt sweat start to form beneath the collar of his clerical shirt.
"Welcome to Rome!" Eardley bellowed with a booming laugh, saying something else through chuckles that Thomas couldn't quite catch. The priest barely managed a smile. He felt disconnected, as if his body moved by habit while his soul remained locked back in that chapel in London.
But he had to keep going. There was no turning back now.
Upon arriving at the small guesthouse—one of those with green shutters and terracotta walls that looked like they came straight out of an Italian postcard—Thomas decided the first thing he’d do was call Aldo. He hadn’t spoken to him since leaving Rome days ago, and now more than ever he needed someone he could trust. He longed to confess, even if unofficially. The thought of spilling his soul to just any priest from the diocese made his skin crawl. Aldo, at least, knew him. Knew who he really was—and still cared for him.
He dialed the number from the front desk phone, a cream-colored Bakelite device with a long, coiled cord that Thomas began to twirl between his fingers while the dial tone rang. His heart pounded in his chest, though he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps because of everything. Or maybe because of nothing at all.
And then he saw him.
He was walking behind a stocky bishop, hurriedly, with a faintly annoyed expression on his face. He carried two suitcases, one in each hand, and despite the effort, his movements retained a kind of unconscious grace. He was slimmer than the man he followed, which only made his already sharp features appear even more defined. His cheeks were slightly flushed—whether from the Roman sun or from dragging luggage over uneven cobblestone streets, it was impossible to tell.
Thomas barely had time to look away before the booming voice of Bishop Eardley jolted him from his trance. The bishop was enthusiastically greeting the newly arrived cardinal, striding forward to pull him into a tight embrace. Thomas, still holding the receiver to his ear, felt the phone cord slip through his fingers.
The young man with the suitcases—the same one who had haunted his thoughts for days—finally dropped the bags and wiped the sweat from his brow with a delicate white handkerchief, unaware of the fixed gaze Thomas cast from the corner of the reception area.
"It’s been ages!" Eardley exclaimed, clapping the bishop heartily on the arm. "Not every diocese is as easy to manage as mine, eh?”
Thomas was still there, frozen, unable to move or speak. He didn’t even notice that Aldo had answered the call.
"Hello, hi, is anyone there?" Aldo’s voice echoed faintly from the receiver, tinged with concern.
Thomas, however, didn’t hear it. He couldn’t hear anything.
His mind was trapped, clinging to the moment right in front of him. The young man whose cheeks were still flushed from the effort, his hair slightly tousled by the Roman wind, his eyes lowered modestly as he caught his breath from the walk. He was there. Right in front of him. In the flesh.
"Let me introduce my boy," said the foreign bishop with a proud smile, oblivious to the tension that had seized the room. "Vincent Benítez. He kindly agreed to accompany me to this somber occasion," he continued, gently pushing Vincent forward with one hand while making a quick sign of the cross with the other.
Thomas felt his stomach clench.
Vincent.
Now he had a name.
Vincent glanced up for a second, and his eyes met Thomas’s. It wasn’t a long or deep look, but it was enough to make Thomas’s heart skip a beat. It was as if his entire body had reconfigured in an instant, as if his soul had recognized something—or someone—it hadn’t known it was looking for.
Aldo’s voice was still coming from the hanging phone:
"Thomas, are you there? Everything okay?"
But Thomas could only nod, clumsily, without opening his mouth, unable to take his eyes off the young man. Vincent, for his part, looked slightly uncomfortable with the introduction. He smoothed the edge of his jacket, offered a polite smile, and looked away. Bishop Eardley let out a hearty laugh, while Thomas forced himself to snap out of it.
"Benítez..." he repeated under his breath, as if savoring the surname gave him permission to believe he was real.
"Who’s Benítez?" asked Aldo’s distant voice, still coming through the receiver.
Thomas blinked, returning to the present for a moment, and replied with a hurried farewell:
"Sorry, Aldo. I’ll call you back."
He hung up with more force than necessary, his heart still lodged in his throat. He had barely taken a step back when he heard his name shouted with enthusiasm.
"Thomas! Come here, boy!" It was Eardley, waving a hand like he was welcoming home a prodigal son.
Thomas obeyed, slightly uncoordinated by the sudden presence of so many familiar and unfamiliar faces, crossing the hostel’s vestibule with unsteady steps. As soon as he reached them, Eardley grabbed his arm with his usual energy and pulled him to the front of the group.
"I brought my own boy too," he announced with a broad smile and puffed-out chest. "Let me introduce you to Javier Camarena."
Still slightly dazed, Thomas reached out a hand to the older man.
"Thomas Lawrence. A pleasure."
"Bishop Javier Camarena Rosas," the man replied in a deep, warm voice. "A pleasure to finally meet you, young man. Eardley tells me you have a bright future in the Curia."
Thomas felt the blood rush violently to his face. He didn’t know if it was from embarrassment or pent-up tension, but his ears were burning all the way to his crown.
Beside him, Vincent remained silent, watching everything with a measured stillness, though his curious eyes landed on Thomas from time to time.
Eardley let out another loud laugh at the visible blush.
"Come on, don’t be modest, Thomas. We’re all servants of the same Lord here. Well, some of us better-looking than others," he added, winking at Camarena, who let out a low chuckle.
Where are your manners? Thomas scolded himself. You idiot.
Quickly, he extended a trembling hand toward the young man in front of him, trying awkwardly to make up for his lack of courtesy.
"Thomas Lawrence," he said, trying to keep his voice steady.
Vincent looked at him with those deep black eyes, intense like freshly spilled ink, and offered a smile that was effortlessly beautiful.
"Vincent Benítez. Nice to meet you," he replied, taking his hand with confidence.
The handshake was firm without being rough, and Vincent’s skin held a soft, unexpected warmth that made something inside Thomas briefly, intimately, unravel.
The small bubble they seemed to be suspended in popped the moment Eardley’s ever-energetic voice broke between them.
"Thomas! Why don’t you help Camarena with the luggage? By now, you should be used to carrying the sins of the world," he joked, delivering a loud pat on Thomas’s back.
Thomas hesitated for a second. He didn’t want to let go of Vincent’s hand—that fleeting connection he didn’t understand but also didn’t want to lose. But with a touch of resignation, he let it go, swallowing the urge to hold on.
"Of course," he said, stepping closer to Vincent and instinctively grabbing the heavier-looking suitcase.
Vincent smiled at him again, a gesture filled with more gratitude than words could express.
"Thank you. Really."
Thomas nodded silently, trying not to stare at his lips.
Camarena, watching the exchange, let out a warm, rough laugh.
"It's rare nowadays to see young people help their elders without complaining. Makes you want to start believing in miracles again."
Everyone chuckled softly, even Thomas—though internally, his mind kept repeating the name he had just learned: Vincent Benítez.
And so it was that Thomas ended up sitting in a small, quintessentially Italian restaurant, with ochre stucco walls, worn wooden chairs, and the scent of fresh basil and just-baked dough floating through the air. He shared the table with Eardley, of course, but directly across from him—right in front of him—was Vincent.
From the little they had managed to talk about, Thomas already knew Vincent wasn’t a man of many words. There was something reserved about him, something shy but not insecure. He had shared that it was his second time in Rome, his second trip to Europe overall, and that he was in his final year of seminary. In just a few months, if all went according to plan, he’d become a colleague.
And now he was there, across the table, eating the pizza they had decided to share. It was large, perfect for two, and Thomas rarely ate much—especially in the late afternoon—so the idea had seemed reasonable. What he hadn’t expected was how much he would enjoy watching Vincent savor something as simple as a slice of pizza. There was a serene humanity in the way he ate, as if he was truly grateful for each bite.
Eardley, as always, led a brief prayer before the meal. His tone was solemn but not overdone, like someone who knew God so well that there was no need to impress Him anymore. Thomas, meanwhile, closed his eyes for a few seconds longer than necessary, and in his silent prayer, he whispered a quiet thank you: Thank you for putting Vincent in my path again.
The meal was peaceful. The conversation between the bishops flowed with cheerful ease, peppered with jokes and stories from the past. Their laughter, softened out of respect for the setting, added a warm backdrop that made the moment even more welcoming. Thomas said little, but not because he felt out of place—he was simply too absorbed in observing, in storing details.
Every time Vincent glanced sideways to offer him another slice or make a quiet comment, Thomas felt that this meal, however simple, was becoming one of those memories the heart keeps without needing a reason.
While Eardley took care of the bill, the others began to rise from the table, buttoning their light coats before slowly heading for the door. The Roman afternoon was starting to cool, though still far warmer than Thomas considered fitting for a funeral.
When Eardley returned with the receipt in hand and a tired smile, he announced jovially, "I'm getting old. I'm going to rest a bit—tomorrow will be long and exhausting."
Camarena let out a dry chuckle and gave him a knowing look.
"That much we knew," he joked, giving him a light slap on the back. Then, without looking directly at Vincent, he added, "Thomas, why don't you show my boy around a bit? Help him get used to the streets so he doesn’t get lost tomorrow."
Thomas blinked, surprised, and nodded somewhat awkwardly, feeling the temperature in his face rise a few degrees.
"Only if Vincent wants to," he said quickly, with a nervous smile. "I wouldn’t want to pressure you if you're too tired."
Vincent looked at him then, and his smile was so simple and sincere that Thomas felt something inside him loosen, like a knot that no longer needed holding.
"I’d love to," Vincent replied gently. "It’d be nice to have a guide… I don’t know much Italian, honestly."
The answer calmed him, though it also filled him with a different kind of nervousness—not born of duty or clerical shame, but of the simple thrill of sharing a beautiful city with someone who—suddenly—seemed very important.
And so, as the bishops said their goodbyes and wandered off through the Roman alleys in opposite directions, Thomas and Vincent remained on the sidewalk, looking at each other in silence for a moment.
"Then..." said Thomas, breaking the stillness with a small smile. "Shall we start with the Tiber?"
Vincent nodded, and they walked together toward the golden curve of the sunset, where the ancient stones and the murmur of the river awaited.
As they walked along the banks of the Tiber, under a sky dyed deep blue and lanterns casting long shadows on the cobblestones, Thomas gathered his courage. The river’s murmur and the brushing of their footsteps were the only sounds filling the silence, and it was beginning to weigh on him. He needed to say something, anything that might bring him a little closer to Vincent.
"Where are you from?" he finally asked, trying to sound casual, though the slight tremor in his voice gave him away.
Vincent looked at him with a calm smile.
"From Veracruz, Mexico. Though now I’m living in Guadalajara, at the Seminario Mayor Cristo Buen Pastor."
Thomas nodded, memorizing the name like it was a secret clue.
"And you?" Vincent asked then.
"From London," Thomas replied, offering a smile he wasn’t sure where it came from.
Vincent’s eyes widened slightly, surprised.
"I’ve never been to London," he said. "Actually, outside of Mexico, I’ve only been to Italy and once to Guatemala, when Bishop Camarena took me along to a retreat."
The confession, so simple and honest, stirred a wave of tenderness in Thomas. He could picture him walking shyly through unfamiliar streets, always one step behind the bishop, with his suitcase in hand and eyes wide open. He felt an almost urgent need to tell him that he should go to London someday, that he could show him the city himself—take him to the British Museum, have tea in a hidden corner of Notting Hill, stroll through the parks in autumn. Show him new things. Maybe even protect him.
But he said none of that.
Instead, he chose a safer question:
"How was the trip? From Mexico City to Rome it’s... eleven, twelve hours?"
Vincent nodded, his black hair shifting with him like a soft shadow.
"About twelve hours, yes. But thank God, we arrived safely. I slept a bit, though the flight was long. Camarena stayed awake the whole time, reviewing papers. I just tried not to think about how many hours were left."
Thomas laughed briefly, sharing that silent discomfort everyone feels on a long flight. He nodded, but words began to run out. He didn’t know how to keep going without sounding clumsy or overly eager.
Silence returned, thicker now, more tangible. They walked side by side, their arms almost touching, while Rome pulsed around them. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but not entirely comfortable either. It was one of those silences full of unsaid thoughts, of words not yet brave enough to be spoken.
And yet, when Thomas glanced sideways, he saw that Vincent was smiling, as if deep down he too was enjoying the moment, even without the need for words.
A question struck Thomas with such force that he had to touch his forehead, as if the thought had fallen straight from the sky. He slowed his steps and, with the calmest voice he could muster, asked:
"What do you plan to do after the seminary?"
Vincent turned slowly toward him. He looked at him with a purity so intense Thomas felt the air grow heavy. Then, with a firmness that seemed at odds with his shy demeanor, he replied:
"My vocation is in helping people. I want to serve wherever God needs me most... in forgotten communities, on the margins. Bishop Camarena is helping me find places where I can go on mission. Where there’s almost nothing—except faith. Where the Church can still be a refuge."
His words weren’t rushed, nor grandiose. They were sincere, steady, like ancient psalms. He spoke of inequality, of government neglect, of the strength of women in wounded communities, of hunger, of abandonment.
They had stopped in front of the Ponte Sant'Angelo, right beside the statue of the angel holding the crown of thorns. Vincent lifted his gaze slightly toward it, as if seeking strength in the marble. The bridge’s golden lights played along the edges of his silhouette, forming a faint halo around his head.
Something broke inside Thomas. Not from pain, but from the sheer magnitude of what he was witnessing.
He had to lean discreetly against one of the bridge’s pillars to keep from fainting. He didn’t know if it was exhaustion, jet lag, or Vincent’s presence. But a sweeping feeling of peace and vertigo overcame him.
There he was, that young man he barely knew, transformed for an instant into a divine apparition. And Thomas... Thomas could only look at him, silently, his heart beating as if he had just heard the voice of God.
Vincent turned toward him, frowning with a worried expression.
"Are you feeling okay?" he asked in a low, almost sweet voice.
Thomas could only nod like a fool, unable to form a coherent sentence. His body still trembled slightly from the intensity of the moment.
Vincent, noticing how pale he looked, closed the distance between them and, with unexpected gentleness, placed his fingers on Thomas’s forehead.
"You look a little pale, Thomas... why don't we head back?" he suggested softly.
Thomas forced himself to regain his composure. He could still feel the echo of Vincent’s image under the bridge lights, as if he had just witnessed something sacred. He took a deep breath, stood a little straighter, and replied with a faint smile:
"I'm fine... must just be the travel fatigue."
Just then, as if merely mentioning exhaustion had summoned it, Vincent let out a big yawn. He immediately covered his mouth, embarrassed, and blushed when he looked at Thomas.
"Sorry... I think the trip’s catching up to me too," he said with a soft laugh.
Thomas let out a small chuckle, feeling more at ease now, and nodded.
"Then we’d better head back. Come on, the hostel isn’t far."
Without saying more, he began to lead the way back, with Vincent beside him, while Rome slowly surrendered to the night and the serene murmur of the Tiber.
When they reached the hostel, each said a quick goodbye in the lobby before heading to their rooms. It wasn’t as late as Thomas had thought, but even so, when he opened the door to his room, he found Eardley already sound asleep, snoring loudly on the narrow bed.
Thomas sighed with resignation and tiptoed to the small bathroom, where he washed his face and changed slowly, careful not to make any noise. He knew the next day would be full of activity, so he couldn’t afford a sleepless night.
He knelt beside his bed with the rosary in his hands, as he did every night. But this time felt different. The words he usually recited with discipline now flowed with unusual clarity. His thoughts didn’t drift or tangle; he felt that his inner voice had finally found an echo. He was at peace. As if that walk along the Tiber had cleansed something inside him.
And of course, he didn’t forget to give thanks. He thanked God for crossing paths with Vincent again. For letting him not only reunite with him, but truly get to know him.
When he finished, he lay down on his usual side of the bed, the rosary still tangled in his fingers. The bishop’s snoring was still there, constant like the ebb and flow of water against the banks. Yet it didn’t bother him. On the contrary, Thomas felt a deep calm settle over him. He closed his eyes and, in a speed uncharacteristic for him, fell fast asleep.
The day was unbearably hot, one of those days where the sun seemed to hold a personal grudge against the living. Thomas wiped the sweat from the back of his neck and wondered, once again, why the Pope had to die in the middle of summer. Not that there was a proper season for such a solemn event, but still, the heat felt like an extra cruelty from fate.
He was sitting in St. Peter’s Square, next to Eardley, who, as impassive as ever, kept his back straight beneath his full episcopal attire, with mitre, pectoral cross, and ring. Thomas glanced sideways at him, admiring his stoicism... or maybe his thermal insensitivity. He, on the other hand, had chosen a short-sleeved shirt and clerical collar, feeling slightly out of place among so many liturgical colors, but without regret. The heat spared no one—not even the consecrated.
Across the square, quite far from where they were seated, were the Latin American dioceses. For some logistical—or perhaps symbolic—reason, they had been grouped in that section. Thomas had hoped to run into Vincent that morning, maybe on arrival or among the crowd before the ceremony began, but he hadn’t seen him anywhere. According to Eardley, the Mexicans had woken up a bit earlier to do some sightseeing before the official event. Thomas wondered how anyone could do tourism in a city so packed with clergy, journalists, and pilgrims, but then remembered that, with Vincent, everything seemed easier.
The square was full, a silent and solemn tide of cassocks, habits, veils, and cameras. The air smelled of dry incense and sun-heated concrete. Thomas took a deep breath, trying to focus on the transcendence of the moment, but his mind wandered. It was hard to stay spiritual with sweat trickling down his back and the memory of the previous night—of Vincent—still fresh in his mind like a breeze that refused to fade.
A murmur rippled through the square as they began announcing the start of the liturgy. Thomas sat up straighter, swallowed hard, and forced himself to leave the distractions behind. Today was an important day. The end of an era. And, perhaps, the beginning of another.
The ceremony proceeded with solemnity. Thomas had had the opportunity to approach the Holy Father's coffin, escorted by the Swiss Guard and surrounded by thick incense rising to the heavens like invisible prayers. Seeing him up close had tied a knot in his stomach. Not so much because of the papal figure itself, but because of the spiritual and human weight represented by that still body, that definitive papal silence.
The liturgy lasted almost two hours—an eternity under the relentless Roman summer sun. Thomas felt like he was roasting alive. The skin on his face burned, and he knew, without needing a mirror, that his nose and the back of his neck were red as tomatoes. Beside him, Eardley remained impassive, as if neither the heat nor the gravity of the moment affected him. Thomas envied that ability to disconnect.
At last, the farewell mass ended. Respectful applause broke through the heavy air, and a general murmur of relief spread through the square. Thomas discreetly wiped the sweat from his eyebrows and stood up. That morning, before leaving the hostel, he had finally managed to get in touch with Aldo. They had agreed to meet after the ceremony.
Knowing that the cafés near the Vatican would be packed with tourists, clergy, and journalists, they had decided to meet somewhere more discreet: the Caffè dell’Orologio, a few blocks north of Via di Porta Angelica. It was small, with beige awnings and simple tables, and although not unknown to locals, it was far enough from the tourist circuit to offer some peace—even on a day like this.
Thomas said a quick goodbye to Eardley, with a nod and a murmured gesture of respect. Then, without wasting time, he made his way to the humble café, leaving behind the growing buzz of the square in search of shade—and perhaps, too, a bit of relief.
When he arrived at the café, Thomas spotted him immediately: Aldo was sitting at a table at the far end of the terrace, legs crossed, a steaming espresso in one hand and an old, worn-out book in the other. His friend was completely absorbed in his reading, brow furrowed in concentration, and only looked up when Thomas dropped heavily into the chair across from him.
"Always so subtle," Aldo murmured, setting the book aside with a half-smile.
They had met at St. Edmund’s Seminary in London. Aldo was a year younger, but his sharp intelligence and maturity had advanced him a grade. He now worked as a scholar at the Pontifical Gregorian University, where he taught and researched biblical theology. They no longer saw each other often, but kept in touch through long weekly phone calls filled with a blend of English irony and sincere affection.
Thomas, his face still flushed from the heat, removed his clerical collar for a moment and wiped the back of his neck and crown with a slightly damp handkerchief. He signaled the waitress, who nodded from inside the café.
"Water. Urgent," he said softly, turning to his friend with a tired grimace. "How can you look so fresh?"
Aldo let out a low chuckle and shrugged.
"Maybe God gave me a more efficient cooling system."
Thomas rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, happy to have escaped—if only for a moment—the overwhelming fervor of St. Peter’s Square.
"And what was wrong with you yesterday?" Aldo asked, raising an eyebrow with curiosity. "You were muttering like an idiot on the phone."
He gave him a crooked smile—one Thomas knew well from their seminary years.
"I thought the Italian heat had finally gotten to you."
Thomas let out a small laugh and rolled his eyes.
"It wasn’t as hot yesterday as it is today… must be forty degrees out."
Aldo snorted and shook his head.
"Don’t be dramatic. It’s barely thirty-two. It’s not that bad."
To Thomas, though, it felt like the gates of hell—but then again, that came with being English.
At that moment, the waitress approached with his glass of cold water, which Thomas received as if it were a sacrament. While he refreshed his throat and let his sweat dry a little, they began catching up on the trip and the small events they’d lived through in the days apart.
Everything unfolded with their usual lightness, until Aldo looked at him with a spark of suspicion in his eyes.
"So… who is Vincent Benítez?"
Thomas lifted his gaze from the glass. He took a split second to respond, as if the name had yanked him from a train of thought he didn’t want to share.
"A seminarian from Guadalajara," he said, too quickly.
And then, as if he realized he was about to say something else—something he didn’t want or shouldn’t name—he fell silent. A strange weight settled over the table.
Aldo watched him, eyes narrowing.
"Aha…" he murmured, sipping his espresso with deliberate calm. "And…?"
Thomas pretended to inspect his empty glass.
"And what?"
Aldo didn’t answer. He just gave a half-smile and reopened his book with a casual gesture, but Thomas knew nothing had slipped past him.
Thomas took a deep breath, as if trying to fill his chest with the courage he needed, and as he exhaled, the words came out almost in a whisper:
"Could you… hear my confession?"
Aldo’s head snapped up. The sudden motion made his glasses slip down his nose. His eyes, once calm, locked onto Thomas’s with a mix of surprise and concern. The air between them seemed to thicken. Thomas felt the heat rising in his face wasn’t only from the Roman sun.
"Thomas… you’re scaring me," Aldo said, gently closing his book and moving his coffee cup aside as if something sacred was about to take its place.
Thomas didn’t know how to respond. He just looked at him, like a child caught between guilt and relief. Aldo, it seemed, understood that this wasn’t a joke or some fleeting impulse.
"Here? Are you sure?"
Thomas nodded slowly, with a gravity that froze the moment.
"Okay," Aldo said after a brief silence. His voice lowered, becoming firmer, more intimate. "Thomas, what do you need to confess?"
The bustle of the small café seemed to fade away. Only the two of them remained, the vibrating heat in the air, and something unspoken still hanging between their words, waiting to be revealed.
Thomas confessed everything.
He told him how he had met Vincent that afternoon in St. Peter’s Square, just as the Pope’s death was announced. How he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his eyes, his face, the tone of his voice. He admitted that, for days, prayer had become nearly impossible for him—a silent wall against which his thoughts crashed. But when he saw him again, something inside him aligned. As if Vincent’s presence were a balm delivered directly by God. A truce. An answer.
“It was like an apparition,” he said quietly, staring at the edge of the table. “A divine encounter.”
He also confessed that nothing like this had ever happened to him before. That it was as unsettling as it sounded. That he felt like he was crossing an invisible line, and that made him an idiot. And a heretic. For feeling this way about another priest.
When he finished, Thomas made the sign of the cross with trembling hands and clasped them together as if seeking refuge in some rite that might save him from the weight of his own words. He closed his eyes and awaited judgment.
But Aldo said nothing. Not yet. And Thomas didn’t know whether to be grateful for that silence or to fear it.
Aldo remained silent for a moment that seemed to stretch on forever. He didn’t look away from Thomas, as if trying to make sure he’d heard everything, word for word, without misunderstanding a single thing. The low murmur of the café returned between them, but it felt distant, foreign.
Thomas’s hands were clasped tightly, fingers interwoven, his head bowed. He had made the sign of the cross with the same fervor one might plead not to be cast into the abyss. His lips were tense, his cheeks flushed not only from the sun but from shame. And yet, there was something pure in his voice, as if in his confession he wasn’t just unburdening himself, but also desperately seeking God in silent desperation.
Aldo took a deep breath, resting his elbows on the table, and finally spoke, in a softer tone than Thomas had expected:
“You’re not an idiot, and you’re not a heretic, Thomas.”
Thomas barely lifted his gaze, as if those words weren’t meant for him, as if he couldn’t quite believe them.
“What you’re feeling… doesn’t make you a monster. You’re human. And God doesn’t ask you to stop feeling. He asks you to know what to do with what you feel. Don’t you think that if this came from Him, maybe it’s not meant to destroy you but to transform you?”
Thomas clenched his jaw, biting back the answer he feared to speak aloud.
Aldo sighed.
“I know your heart. And I also know this weighs on you more because you don’t know if it’s desire, admiration, or love. But even if it’s all of that, don’t you think God already knows?”
Silence settled between them again, but this time it wasn’t as heavy. Thomas still said nothing, but his shoulders had stopped trembling. The forgiveness he sought didn’t come as immediate absolution, but as an invisible hand that slowly, very slowly, began to lift the guilt.
“Thank you,” Thomas said, letting out a long sigh as he finally let his hands fall to his lap. When he opened them, he noticed with slight astonishment the small crescent marks his nails had left on his skin—silent evidence of the tension he had been holding inside.
Aldo accepted the thanks with a small smile, and then, with a chuckle that lightened the air even more, replied:
“As penance, you’re going to pray the rosary three times before bed. For two weeks.”
Thomas looked at him in disbelief, almost offended.
“Are you insane? If I had confessed this fifty years ago, they’d have given me twenty lashes and sent me into the desert.”
Aldo shrugged with a carefree gesture and raised a hand to call the waitress, ordering another coffee as if he had just received an everyday confession.
The conversation, against all odds, flowed with unexpected ease. Thomas was surprised by how easy it was to laugh again, to talk about the world, about Rome, about trivial things. He was more grateful than he could put into words to have a friend like Aldo. He didn’t judge him. He didn’t try to correct him. He just listened and stayed, with that mix of sharp mind and calm heart that had always defined him.
And now, with the weight on his shoulders just a little lighter, Thomas began to wonder, cautiously, if Aldo was right. Maybe this wasn’t a temptation, nor a sentence. Maybe it was just a sign.
A strange, but deeply human, form of grace.
It was already late, and the city was beginning to turn golden and blue with the sunset. Thomas walked alongside Aerdley through the streets, heading back to the small hostel where they were staying. They had just eaten a light dinner—too light for his liking—but the heat still lingered like a damp blanket that wouldn’t shake off easily. The next day, at nine sharp, they would catch their flight back to London.
Then he saw him.
There, on the sidewalk across from the hostel, Vincent stood with two suitcases at his sides, stiff as a statue amidst the bustle of the Roman street. Beside him, Father Camarena was speaking enthusiastically, gesturing broadly with his hands, probably telling some colorful story about tourists and Italian taxis. Both were waiting for the transport that would take them to the airport, or maybe a nearby station.
And Thomas felt everything inside him tighten.
His stomach clenched suddenly, as if he had taken an invisible punch. That image—the one of Vincent, ready to leave, irreversibly out of reach—made him realize something he had been avoiding: that this would probably be the last time he saw him. That after tonight, Vincent would return to his seminary in Mexico, to his life, to his world. And he would go back to London, to the routine, to the silence, to the constant effort of quieting the inner chaos with prayers that felt more and more hollow.
They quickened their pace and approached. Camarena and Aerdley shared a strong hug, a gesture that Thomas perceived with tenderness. Aerdley murmured something that made Camarena chuckle, and Thomas could have sworn he saw a gleam in his bishop’s eyes. How strange, he thought, to see Aerdley so moved. But it was also natural. One didn’t say goodbye every day to a colleague with whom they had shared so much during such intense days.
Then it was his turn.
Camarena turned to him with that overflowing warmth that seemed natural on his face. He shook his hand and, without giving him a choice, pulled him into a hug that smelled of incense and sun.
“It’s been a real pleasure, son,” he said into his ear. “If you ever set foot in Mexico, know that you have a place in my diocese. I don’t say it out of courtesy. I mean it.”
Thomas swallowed hard and nodded, murmuring a thank-you that felt clumsy, inadequate.
And then, finally, his eyes landed on Vincent.
He stood still, still with a suitcase on each side, looking at him. Not with sadness, nor anger, nor disappointment. He looked at him like someone waiting—for a sign, a word. And that gaze, so direct, so open, made Thomas feel small. Ridiculous. Unable to say what he wanted to say. Unable to do what his heart was screaming at him to do.
The words stuck in his throat. His chest ached, as if it held an entire sun and he couldn’t find a way to let it out. But he said nothing. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t reach out. Nothing.
Vincent let out an exasperated sigh, tilted his head with an expression that hovered between disbelief and tired affection, and without another word, turned on his heels and entered the hostel.
Thomas remained still, feeling the silence fall over him like a sentence.
But a minute later, Vincent returned. He had a small folded piece of paper between his fingers. He extended it without saying a word at first, and Thomas took it with clumsy hands, as if they no longer belonged to him.
"It's the address of my seminary," he said at last. "The only way to reach me is by letter."
By letter. There was no phone number, no promises to see each other again. Just handwritten words, traveling across the world. An improbable correspondence. But it was something.
"Thank you," Thomas whispered, feeling like a child. Like an idiot.
There was no time for more. A taxi appeared suddenly, fast as a twist of fate, stopping in front of them with a sharp screech. Camarena began loading the suitcases quickly. Vincent gave him one last look—deep, brief, impossible to read—and within seconds, both of them were inside the car.
The taxi disappeared into traffic like a dream fading upon waking.
And Thomas stood there, unmoving, with the crumpled paper in his sweaty palm. The Roman street suddenly felt far too wide. And Rome, with all its beauty, emptier than ever.