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Pope Innocent and Dean Lawrence are taking a pleasant walk through the Vatican turtle garden. It is a fine, spring day, warm for the season, and the bees are buzzing happily while they make love to the flowers that line the walks and fountains of the inner courtyard of the Casa Santa Marta. The Holy Father’s turtles waddle slowly along the flagstone paths, basking in the heat of the early afternoon, thinking ponderous turtle thoughts.
The fountain at the center of this particular courtyard is quite lovely, tossing handfuls of diamonds into the air to catch the sunlight before they splash back down into a crystal clear pool made of ancient marble, carved all over with angels and saints.
Vincent had used the excuse that he needs some fresh air and sunlight as a way to escape the dull meetings they’d attended all morning. He’d asked Dean Lawrence if perhaps he would like to take a walk in the gardens as a palate cleanser before their next round of meetings, and his dear friend had gladly agreed.
“Thank you for joining me, Thomas. I thought I might expire from boredom if I didn’t get a change of scenery,” Vincent says. He walks with his arm looped through Dean Lawrence’s, much the way elderly married couples do, or perhaps elderly widowed sisters. The warmth of the taller man’s body near to his own is bolstering and a little thrilling.
“No trouble at all, Your Holiness,” Thomas responds. “I needed a break myself. If I had to listen to Cardinal Tedesco go on and on about ‘family values’ for another minute, I might have climbed out the window to escape.” He chuckles warmly and affectionately pats Vincent’s forearm where it rests against his own.
They stand for a moment by the fountain, admiring the carvings of angels and the sparkle of the rising, falling water in the early afternoon sunshine.
“Your Holiness! Your Holiness!” An urgent male voice to their left makes both men glance in its direction.
“Oh bloody hell,” Thomas says under his breath. “Paparazzi.”
Vincent sighs. He dislikes the paparazzi on general principle, but he hates them even more now that they’ll drive him back into dark halls and meeting rooms, and away from such a lovely day.
“I’ll talk to them for a few moments and tell them to leave,” He says, preparing to go address the swiftly building crowd of people with cameras gathering at the wrought iron fence that separates the courtyard from a service road that leads out to the city.
“No, Your Holiness, don’t. They won’t be satisfied. They’ll only hound you for more information later."
Thomas’ hand tightens protectively on Vincent’s arm a little, and Vincent must keep his face placid to hide how much he likes the touch.
“I’ll be back in just a moment,” he says, gently pulling free of Thomas’ grasp.
He’s not sure what happens next, as he isn’t looking at Thomas when it transpires, but apparently, Thomas reaches for Vincent, trying to grasp his arm to keep him from leaving, but somehow he must have slipped and lost his footing in the process. Vincent hears a large splash, and then sees the faces of the paparazzi transform to looks of surprise and delight as they all burst into raucous laughter. Camera flashbulbs begin going off, and Vincent turns round to discover that... Thomas has fallen into the fountain!
He reaches for a floundering Thomas immediately, shouting “Thomas! Oh dear! Please take my hand! Let me help you!”
Thomas does so, grasping Vincent’s dry hand with his soaked one, and allows Pope Innocent XIV to help pull him from the fountain. He’s coughing and drenched, his mozzetta and scarlet cassock are soaked, as is the white, lace rochet beneath, and his zucchetto is floating on the other side of the fountain, like a sad, red, water lily.
Once Thomas clamors out of the fountain, very ungracefully, the situation should have ended there. He’d have accompanied Vincent back inside to dry off, shower and change clothes, and they’d have worked on a PR scheme to minimize the damage caused by the Dean of the College of Cardinals falling into a fountain in front of a crowd of ravening paparazzi.
Unfortunately, Thomas begins to yelp and slap at his chest and arms as angry looking red welts begin to break out on his face and hands. “I’m allergic to chlorine!” he yells, his expression contorted with discomfort. “If I don’t get dry soon, I’ll have to go to hospital!”
“Remove your clothing!” Vincent shouts.
Thomas gives him a desperate look that seems to say really? That’s your solution? He soon sees the benefit of the plan, however, when more red welts begin to form.
“Fine! But can you shield me from the cameras?” he begs, eyes pleading.
Vincent would gladly shield Thomas from bullets if the situation called for it, but he keeps silent on that point, and quickly takes up a position between Thomas and the paparazzi, holding his arms out so that his mozzetta and robes can serve as a screen for privacy. It only works partially, as Vincent is far smaller than Thomas, but it’s better than nothing.
Beyond the gate, cameras are popping and snapping, and more paparazzi have shown up. They gather, much like a crowd of hungry seagulls at the beach, circling above an abandoned half-eaten bag of McDonald's takeaway.
Thomas quickly sloughs off his sodden mozzetta and then works on the buttons of his cassock, swiftly undoing them before shrugging it off. He pulls the white lace choir dress underneath up and over his head next. It makes his thinning hair go every which way in messy, drenched strands. Finally, he dumps the sodden pile of white fabric at their feet with a wet slap, standing shirtless on a large patch of damp concrete.
His chest and arms, once revealed to the world, are covered in painful looking red welts, but that isn’t what immediately and intensely captures Vincent’s attention.
Behind them, Vincent hears a chorus of shocked gasps, followed immediately by wolf whistles and shouts of appreciation from the gathered paparazzi.
Thomas is… well… Thomas is… what do the kids call it? He’s ripped. He’s diesel. He has brought two guns to the gun show. His pythons should go to the vet because they are sick. His abs look like someone could scrub clothing against them and it would come out sparkling clean.
In more common words, Thomas Lawrence is in very, very good shape. His arm muscles are sharply defined, the deltoids and biceps cut and bulging under prominent veins. His pectoral muscles are also incredibly firm and well defined, covered with still more sexy veins and distinct muscle fibers. and he has a literal eight pack set of abs. Vincent hasn’t seen abdominal muscles that sharp since he’d found a playgirl magazine under his aunt Lupita’s bed when he was 13.
“T-T-Thomas… I..I-” Vincent stammers, his face burning hot. All he can do is stand there and stare at Thomas’ perfect body, while inside his brain, one familiar phrase repeats itself over and over and over in a horny sort of internalized echolalia. Oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god. He tells himself he should stop staring, but he can’t seem to tear his eyes away.
The paparazzi are freaking out.
“Oi! Hot stuff! Over here!”
“Ciao Bella!”
“Damme un baccio!”
“Marone! I think I’ve died and gone to heaven!”
Flash bulbs pop anew, i-phone flashes go off, as the whistles and catcalls increase in volume. A group of nearby nuns grow faint and sit down on a stone bench to recover, fanning themselves with their hands and blushing.
Thomas seems to have given up. He stands there in his soaked trousers, looking miserable, his face flushed bright red with embarrassment, drenched and dripping, like the worlds’ sexiest wet cat. He reaches up and absently scratches at one of the welts on his forearm. It makes his pectoral muscles bunch and release in a way that causes multiple, thrilling, white-hot mental images to flash before Vincent’s eyes.
“Come, Thomas, let’s get you inside,” Vincent says faintly, and a little breathlessly. He still can’t rip his eyes away from Thomas’ stunning physique, but at least he can console his deeply embarrassed friend within the privacy of the Sistine Chapel’s walls.
He helps a grateful Thomas gather his sodden clothing, and together they flee to the safety of the nearest doorway. Behind them, the raucous hooting and hollering of the paparazzi goes on unabated.
The next day, they wake to a different world, one in which everyone wants to fuck Cardinal Thomas Lawrence. The entirety of the Italian media and the whole Internet are obsessed with “The Hot Cardinal” calling Thomas “Tommy Tight Abs” and “Daddy Dean”. Fan clubs spring up out of nowhere. Tumblr blogs and Instagram accounts with urls like take-me-thomas-lawrence, TheHotCardinal, dean-of-the-college-of-cunnilingus, and forgivemelawrenceforihavesinned pop up in the thousands literally overnight.
The next time they leave the Vatican on a routine mission to a nearby hospital to bless the sick and elderly, there is a significant number of scantily dressed young (and not-so-young) women and queer people clutching photos of Ripped Cardinal Lawrence, and begging for an autograph.
“Sign my tits!” One woman yells in Italian, holding out a sharpie marker in one hand and pulling her blouse and bralette down to expose about a yard of olive-colored breast with the other.
Vincent scowls at her and pulls Thomas after him into the waiting limo. Thomas looks vaguely traumatized, and Vincent feels the claws of jealousy dragging themselves across his scalp as they settle into the back seat and the car pulls away.
“Unbelievable,” Vincent huffs, frowning out of the tinted glass at the crowds of people waving photos of a wet, jacked, Dean Lawrence at the limo as it passes.
“I’m sorry, your Holiness. I did not expect this to get so out of hand,” Thomas says.
Vincent pushes the button to raise the darkened glass divider between them and the driver and bodyguard in the front seat. He wants privacy with Thomas badly, likely because a large percentage of the world now wants a piece of his friend, and it’s making him feel petulantly possessive. He wants to keep Thomas to himself.
“It is not your fault, Thomas,” he replies, placing a reassuring hand to Thomas’ forearm. “Have we not said so ourselves to the press many times? No one deserves to be catcalled or made uncomfortable because of the size or shape of their body. This is most upsetting.”
“You know something funny?” Thomas asks, his voice growing whimsical as he gazes out the window at the maddened crowds of horny middle aged women and gay men hoping to catch a glimpse of The Red Hot Cardinal, “I’m growing to like it a little. The attention,” he adds with a small, sheepish grin. “I’ve never been thought of as attractive by anyone before. I didn’t think it was possible until now, but it’s actually rather nice.”
His tone is a little sad, and Vincent, unable to control himself any longer, slides closer to Thomas on the leather seat, turns Thomas' face toward him with a finger under Thomas’ chin, and kisses him on the mouth.
Thomas makes a soft, urgent sound, then moans, low and needy. Vincent moans back at him, then Thomas’ strong arms are around Vincent, holding him tightly. Vincent sighs and melts into the embrace, threading his fingers into the silky hair at the nape of Thomas’ neck as he fully surrenders to the kiss. He feels a tight knot of tension unspool inside him into a glowing warmth in the pit of his stomach. The kiss goes on and on, soft and tender and wonderful.
Thomas pulls back a while later, eyes dreamy. “What brought that on?” he asks, his thumb gently stroking over Vincent’s cheekbone, clear, blue eyes searching Vincent's face.
“I simply needed to remind you that there is someone right here who has always found you incredibly attractive,” Vincent replies, softly. His whole body is lit up with happy tingles at finally being held so close and warm in Thomas’ embrace. “Even before I knew you looked like Jean Claude Van Dam under your cassock,” he adds, grinning.
Thomas returns his grin. His beautiful eyes full of affection. “I never knew,” he whispers, as his gaze travels down to rest on Vincent’s mouth. “I hoped, but I didn’t know for certain.”
“You should know it now, Thomas,” Vincent replies, pulling him back in for another kiss with a hand to Thomas’ cheek. “You should always know it, from now on.” Then their lips meet, and Vincent is once more swept away by the heated pleasure of kissing Thomas Lawrence, the newest man on the cover of Hot Italian Sausage: Sexiest Cardinals Calendar, 2025.