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It is the same each night Thomas finds himself here.
The sky is a heavy, starless gray. The edges seem to curl towards the earth, sagging under a burden of clouds. Night has painted the courtyard in shadows, moving in silver, jagged lines over the uneven stone. Thomas, however, notices none of this, so caught up in the warm body held fast against his own.
They stand intertwined, Vincent’s back flush against Thomas’ heaving chest. His arms are wrapped around the Holy Father like a vise. One hand is laced over his chest, clutching at his breast, the other taut against his abdomen. His grip is firm, unyielding but Vincent does not struggle. Instead, he leans into him, trusting implicitly that Thomas will support his weight. The only thing separating them is the wool of their vestments, white stark against black. It is a brutal, stagnant embrace.
Vincent never turns around. Thomas never sees his face.
This was never his intention, skulking in the dark to hide his shame. Thomas has sinned like any other man, but he has always known himself, known his heart. In the solitude before sleep, he lies flat on his bed, hands crossed over his chest to prevent self-pleasure and lets his mind wander. Him taking Vincent’s slender hand in his own. Pressing dry kisses to his forehead, the corner of his mouth, his soft chin. Falling to his knees and pushing his forehead against his stomach, feeling him quiver under his touch.
It is indulgent but chaste. The sin of covetousness as opposed to the sin of lust. But here, surrounded by shadows with Vincent slotted so perfectly against him, he can no longer lie to himself. The enormity of his desire overwhelms him. Makes his limbs leaden and dulls his mind to any thoughts beyond heat, touch, pressure. He cannot muster the strength to do anything but clutch Vincent and relish in the weight of him. Thomas closes his eyes, buries his nose against the dark curls and hates himself for it.
Thomas’ knee presses between Vincent’s thighs, creasing the pristine fabric. It is a miracle they remain upright, their feet tangled in a parody of a waltz. Thomas shakes, and Vincent shakes with him, so engulfed in the cradle of his arms that his body follows every motion. He wonders if he can feel the racing of his heart against his back. If he can feel his erection, pulsing through the thick line of his robes.
“Innocent , Innocent… ” His voice is little more than a breathy groan, creaking under the weight of his desire. Muffled against Vincent’s hair, the smell of incense, of a candle just snuffed, of clean sweat on a warm body cloys his nose. Thomas tightens his arms and pulls him closer, chasing the friction. He can feel every bone, every sinew in his wiry frame. It’s not enough. “Forgive me.”
Vincent never replies. Instead, he pushes deeper into Thomas’ embrace, lolls his head back against his shoulder and exposes the line of his jaw. His hands come up to clutch at his forearm, curling against the sleeves of his cassock. Thomas follows the motion, magnetized, his hand coming up to clutch the hollow of Vincent’s throat. Feels the fragile line of his larynx, the cartilage and thin skin stretched over the flutter of his pulse.
It ends the same each time. He will continue to rut against the Holy Father like an animal, his breath coming out in ragged gasps, begging for forgiveness with each exhale. Arousal will continue to burn a pit into his stomach, unrelenting. Vincent will remain quiet and passive in his arms. He will never reply to Thomas’ incoherent rambling, never turn to face him. The unbearable weight of his stillness will press down on Thomas, a suffocating reminder that this sin is his alone, unspoken and unshared.
The scene will stretch on and on to an impossible degree, Thomas suspended in the heady daze of his dreamspace like an insect caught in amber. When it all becomes too much to bear, the shadows of the courtyard will stretch over and around him, swallowing him in darkness.
Then he will jolt awake in bed. His sheets tangled around his limbs, his heart rattling against his chest with enough force to bruise. He’ll lay there, gasping like a fish on the sand, tracing the cracks in his ceiling until he can calm his breath. When the room finally stops spinning, he will get on his knees in the early morning dark. With a lifetime’s worth of discipline, he will try and pray away the hunger still clawing at his core, cursing himself for his transgression, his weakness.
It is the same each night. So much so, it takes him a moment to realize Vincent is trying to speak.
Deafened by the rush of blood in his ears, Thomas feels more than hears Vincent’s muttering, the buzz of his vocal chords thrumming against his palm. Swallowing hard, he tries to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth to ask what is wrong, when Vincent flinches suddenly, body thrashing against his own. Shocked, his arms fall feckless at his side as Vincent stumbles out of his embrace.
A caustic dread begins to rise in his stomach. There was only so far he could take this, even within the confines of his own mind, before the consequences of his sin caught up with him. Vincent will turn, will see Thomas as he truly is. A weak old man, half hard in his clerical robes, impotent against the base urges he has spent a lifetime trying to repress. All discipline fallen by the wayside at the sight of Pope Innocent in his white robes.
I am weak. I am a predator. I used the image of the Holy Father, of innocence incarnate, and perverted it to my own wretched whims. I dared imagine him as receptive, as willing.
Nauseous, Thomas swallows the bile rising in his throat and braces himself.
A moment passes; Vincent gathers his bearings and turns towards him. This facsimile of the Holy Father looks as he always does. Unruly hair tucked behind his ears, smooth tawny skin, the curl of a smile on his lips. Even through the moonless dark, he seems illuminated. Divine.
Rebuke never comes. Instead, the lines of his eyes crease as he beams at Thomas, countenance wrought with quiet joy. Thomas knows this expression well, sees it each morning through the curls of steam coming up from the Holy Father’s morning tea. A crescent close-lipped smile, his eyes softening when Thomas speaks.
No one but Vincent has ever looked at him like that, as though the sight of him, weary and doleful, is a balm. For a moment, Thomas forgets his transgression. When has the Holy Father ever shown him anything but love, even when he knows it is undeserved?
So caught up in the enormity of Vincent's attention, it takes him a moment to notice the blood.
Unfurling at Vincent’s right side like a flower in bloom, a red stain grows larger with every passing second. Blood wells up through the line of his fascia and drips down his side with alarming momentum. Thomas gasps, horror freezing him in place.
He is reminded, sickeningly, of hunting with his brothers in his youth. The chill of winter, the gun an unfamiliar, unwieldy weight in his hands. Vivid crimson against the snow when he grazed the shoulder of a doe. It was the last and only time he fired a gun.
So this was to be his punishment for his longing, his weakness of flesh. Not to dream of the Holy Father’s anger or rejection. Instead, Thomas would be forced to watch Vincent bleed out, smiling as his stigmatic wounds leeched him of his vitality. He clenches his hands into fists and digs his nails into his palms, praying the pain forces himself awake.
“Thomas. It is alright.”
Vincent’s soft voice cuts through the panic. These are the first words he has ever uttered in his dreams. It is the final strike against his composure; Thomas falls to his knees, overwhelmed, old bones protesting as they hit stone.
Vincent steps forwards, arms outstretched like a crucifixion. Blood running down his side, and leaving rivets of red on his cassock. A thin hand settles on Thomas’ crown, fingers carding gently through his receding hair. Thomas groans despite himself, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. He has imagined this too, usually while in the clutches of a migraine. Pope Innocent’s merciful hands against his brow, soothing the pain away like a mother would a child.
Without thinking, Thomas reaches up to brace himself against Vincent’s waist. His hand brushes against the gash at his side. The heat of it, wet and feverish, burns against his palm. His stomach lurches; he stumbles back, stuttering over an apology. He looks down, sees the blood stuck in the grooves of his wrinkled skin. Before he can pull away, Vincent reaches for him, fingers curling around Thomas’ bloodied wrist. There is a firmness in his grip as he guides his hand against his side, directly over the wound.
Through the saturated fabric, Thomas can feel the heat of broken skin, pliant and soft. There’s a pulse against his palm, the jump and twitch of the open wound pulsing in rhythm with Vincent’s heart. Blood sticks to the pads of his fingertips, seeping through the hem of Thomas’ cassock sleeve and dripping down his wrist. He tries to pull away, worried of hurting him further but Vincent presses down, insistent, and entwines his finger through his. There is no escaping this. Thomas swallows hard, his breath uneven. He knows if he looks down, if he sees their hands laced together and slick with blood he will come entirely undone.
Vincent’s voice is barely a whisper, trembling in the air between them.
“Have faith.” A breath. “Touch me.”
Doubt has plagued Thomas longer than he can remember. Pervasive, it has leeched its way into every facet of being. But he has never once doubted Vincent, not since he emerged resplendent from the Room of Tears, wearing white and the new name of Innocent. Even here, in the haze of his own dream, Thomas would never refuse him.
He lurches to his feet, stumbling over the uneven ground, knees aching from where they’ve been pressed against the broken mosaic tiles. His hands tremble as he works to free Vincent from his cassock, his grip fumbling and clumsy. Each touch leaves rust-colored streaks in its wake. Thomas fights the urge to rip the fabric, gritting his teeth so hard his jaw aches. Gentle, be gentle.
The cassock parts, inch by inch, until it falls from his shoulders, pooling in loose folds around his elbows. Thomas’ breath catches at the sight of him exposed. He wants to press his mouth to him, trace his tongue over his frame and commit every detail to memory. Vincent’s chest is smooth, gleaming with perspiration. He drinks in the sight of him greedily, the crescent shadows of his collarbones, the delicate rise of his ribs, the pale line of an appendectomy scar. The shock of blood smeared down his side.
His hand shakes as it reaches out to graze the thin skin of Vincent’s stomach. A sharp gasp escapes Vincent’s lips like the air’s been torn from his lungs. His head tips forward, damp dark hair brushing against Thomas’s neck. The movement presses Thomas’ hand flush between their bodies; he can feel the wet periphery of the wound against his fingertip. Vincent moans, low and desperate, the vibration cutting deep into Thomas’ bones.
“Am I hurting you?” His voice cracks. “Vincent?”
Vincent shakes his head. The motion is frenzied, scattering hair across his forehead. Emboldened, Thomas lets his hand wander until his calloused fingertips catch against split flesh. The feel of it––skin taunt and wet and warm–sends a shudder through him. He mutters a fumbling prayer to the Lord, mouths a kiss against Vincent’s temple and, as slow as he can muster, plunges his forefinger into the gash, up to his second knuckle.
Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing.
Vincent is tight, hot as a furnace around him. Thomas thinks of sweltering Roman summers, of the burn of boiling water against his back, of hellfire. Blood wells up around his finger and pours down his wrist, slick and scalding. His vision swims, overwhelmed. He grips Vincent’s waist, dragging him closer to steady himself. Vincent, in turn, fists his trembling hand in the back of Thomas’ robe. For the first time, Thomas feels him shake of his own accord, raw and vulnerable, affected at last.
It has never been like this before. Every other dream bore the weight of falsehood, an imitation of feeling that dissolved upon waking. But now, the weight of sensation is overwhelming. He can curl his fingers, feel Vincent shudder, his breath hitching around a moan. He can taste the salt of his brow, smell the iron thick in the air. It feels less like reality, more a divine vision. How long will God allow him this agony, this treasure? He doesn’t want to wake up, not until–what? He isn’t sure. A lifetime untouched has blurred his understanding of what comes next.
Vincent lifts his head, dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Thomas, Thomas .” There is a plea woven into the syllables of his name. It is the sweetest thing Thomas has ever heard. His fingers clutch weakly at the fabric of Thomas' robes, knuckles pale with the strain. “Believe me. Go deeper, please .”
Thomas groans in reply, too lost in sensation to speak. His hand is caught between the desperate press of their bodies, fingers drenched with blood. On his next, shaking exhale, he slides another digit into the wound. His breath catches–the flesh flutters, resisting for a moment before parting, pulling him deeper.
Vincent’s breath stutters, damp against Thomas’ throat. With a whimper, he melts against him, posture slack with pleasure. Carefully, Thomas twists his wrist and pushes deeper through the fevered heat of his body. He risks a glance downward; his fingers are buried deep within Vincent, his flesh bulging around the intrusion. The sight sends a violent tremor down his spine. He can feel Vincent throb around him, the quivering grasp of his flesh pulling him in.
It is unbearably intimate, being inside of him, feeling his body respond with his every movement. The world narrows down to Vincent, trembling and open beneath him, the desperate embrace of their bodies. Thomas kisses his forehead, his hairline, muttering a broken string of praise under his breath.
A dark thought seizes him, consuming, undeniable. How deep could he go? His stomach clenches at the image—his entire hand vanishing inside the Holy Father, swallowed up to the wrist, lost in the silken heat of him. How his flesh would yield, molding around the intrusion, a perfect, unbroken fit. How Vincent would take him in, accept him fully, his body made to accommodate Thomas like they were made to be joined.
The idea lodges itself in his mind, feverish and unrelenting. If he reached deep enough, if he pushed past every last barrier, he could brush his fingers against his womb. That sacred vestige under his skin that marks him as something holy. He could feel it, could press his palm against it and know, beyond all doubt, that Vincent was divine. His body, a cathedral, and alter for Thomas to worship at. The thought is blasphemous. It is madness. It makes Thomas ache with a longing so fierce it is almost unbearable.
Thomas trembles, unable to hold himself together any longer. Pleasure builds, pressure like hot iron wraps around his core. He is an old man, and even in his dream, his stamina cannot hold. Darkness creeps into the edge of his vision. Because this is a dream, because the man falling apart in his arms is not real, because he is already deep enough in this sin that he cannot turn around towards the light, Thomas begins to speak.
“I love you. I believe you. I love you–”
He doesn’t get the dignity of a slow escape. Thomas’ eyes jolt open. He’s gasping for air. Limbs tangled in his sheets. Heart rattling against his chest. The front of his pajamas are tacky, stuck to his skin.
With a groan, he lurches up, kicking the covers back and shuffles his stiff limbs until he’s sitting on the edge of his bed. The clock on his nightstand reads an hour far too early to wake. It’ll be long until sunrise, the streetlamp outside his window still making his curtains glow a soft orange.
He peels off his soiled clothes, buries them deep in the hamper. Naked and shivering, he stumbles through the dark of his apartment towards the bathroom and flicks on the overhead light. Immediately he winces, the fluorescents sending a sharp pain shooting behind his eyes. Bracing himself against the marble counter, he stares into the mirror over the sink. His reflection blinks back at him, all sagging skin and bony edges. A face worn down by time.
Normally, these dreams fade from his mind within the first few minutes of waking up. He is left with nothing but the vague impression of warmth, the burn of arousal in his gut, and a guilt so strong it has him stumble to the shower, turn the water to its hottest setting and burn himself under the spray. But this dream felt so real . It lingers behind his eyes; Vincent’s hair, plastered to his forehead with sweat. The motion of his cassock falling off his shoulders. His blood, smeared like anointing oil between them. The pulse of his body around his fingers.
Thomas glances down at his hands, half expecting them to be stained red. His stomach twists, but the familiar guilt does not come. He waits for it, desperate for its sting, for its absolution. But each time shame tries to take root, memory pushes back—Vincent, warm and pliant in his arms, his body open and yielding. Begging for Thomas.
He sinks to the floor, knees protesting at the impact, the cold tile biting at his skin. He presses the heel of his palm against his eyes, as if trying to force the dream back into view. He is supposed to repent, to beg forgiveness for his transgressions. But instead, he clings to the phantom weight of Vincent in his arms.
Thomas leans back, his head meeting the wall with a dull thud. The vibration rattles his teeth. He will spend the rest of the night like this. Bowed in mock supplication, body aching, lips moving in empty prayer. But behind his closed eyes, the dream plays on, again and again, until he has committed every detail to memory.