Chapter Text
Thomas was harboring a new and quite unpleasant itch on his back, close enough to his shoulder blades that to actually reach around and scratch at it was somewhat of a bother.
Having an itch, of course, was not exactly extraordinary, and hardly a new challenge in which Thomas could not surpass. Like many things in his life, it was something he had taught himself to ignore.
Even so, he made a sad attempt at scratching at it, realised he was not nearly bendy enough to do it, and decided to pretend it was not there.
Thomas would forget about it in no time.
The first step of ignoring a problem was to go on with his life as usual.
He did his morning routine, which consisted first of brushing his teeth (it had been many years since he'd last entertained the prospect of breakfast), then a hot shower that was only close to scalding and which succeeded to wake him up properly, and ended with him dressed for the day.
His daily routine thereafter was only slightly less rigid, but the factors that could change and deviate tended to do so in patterns that he'd learnt to predict. He got through this part of his day with great help from O'Malley, he couldn't deny that. The irishman was one of the few things keeping him afloat in this line of work.
Then, after a long day of slowly answering emails (he'd never quite got the hang of typing on a computer), meeting with important and harried people, and having lunch with Aldo and O'Malley, he would have a walk and possibly (if he was successfully convinced of it) a late dinner with the Pope.
On the rare evenings in which Pope Innocent XIV, which was to say Vincent, managed to convince him to do as such, he always retired with a lightness in his body and a smile on his face that felt foreign to him.
This, quite depressingly, had the result that once he was back in his own apartment and able to think of the odd happiness he felt and why it was that he felt it, it made him sure he was not in fact deserving of it, and always resulted in the next few days feeling much heavier than they otherwise would.
He did not dine often with His Holiness because of this reason, much to the younger man's chagrin (he said younger because Vincent was the youngest pope in recent history, but he was still a man in his early fifties, so perhaps he was not quite as young as Thomas sometimes alluded him to be) which he of course never made obvious and Thomas only picked up on because he'd come in the habit of looking at Vincent more than appropriate and had become quite adept at reading his moods and microexpressions.
That night he had as usual refused to join Vincent in his private quarters for a meal, had ignored the twinge of shame and guilt at how His Holiness's eyebrows furrowed and his mouth quirked down in the tiniest of fractions, and returned to his own apartment in the palace of the Holy Office.
(“I haven't seen you in too long, Tomás.”
“You've been seeing me for the last hour rather consistently.”
Vincent gave him a mild look of disapproval that looked out of place on his regal figure, bathed in The Pope's attire. It seemed to say; you know that's not what I mean.’
He did. He also did not meet Vincent's eyes, gazing at the garden they were about to leave. It was so peaceful. It made him feel happy, walking through it with His Holiness at his side.
“Perhaps next time.” Thomas conceded, feeling ill.
Vincent accepted this, but did not seem convinced.)
And still his back was waging war on him with that horrible itching sensation that had kept Thomas not quite but close enough to feeling distracted that Ray, which was to say O'Malley, had given him a mildly concerned look during lunch when he had frowned severely and missed several lines of dialogue directed his way.
Then there came the nightly routine, which Thomas proceeded with doing his utmost to continue as if he was not incredibly bothered by the sensation on his higher back;
He had another hot shower, brushed his teeth again, said his prayers and went to sleep trying not to shift against the sudden uncomfortable pressure of the bed against his back, somehow intensifying the already miserable feeling of whatever it was that was wrong with him.
It will pass, he told himself, with less conviction than that morning. Everything passes eventually. He'd never quite decided if this was a comforting thought or not, but it was one he told himself regularly.
The next few days continued in a similar manner. The itching became worse. His distractions became greater. He turned, to his own great embarrassment, snappy with even his friends, who must be getting tired of dealing with him by now. Or so he fretted over, at least, when he got the time to feel bad about his new irritable behavior.
He decided, on the fifth day, that he had to figure out what was wrong. And, though the thought irked him, go to the hospital if he could not. This, surely, was not normal.
Thomas obtained a second mirror with great secrecy (there was nothing inherently humiliating about having a second mirror, but he simply couldn't stand the thought of being seen acting odd), and got ready to properly study his own body, an act he'd never been fond of and that age had only made more unbearable.
He saw, in the reflection of a reflection, alone in his bathroom around the time he'd usually be starting his nightly routine, that there was, in fact, something seriously wrong with his back.
At first he thought it was a rash of some sort. Across his shoulder blades his skin appeared red and almost raw, more than a little sensitive to the touch and growing as such by the day. Then he noticed something even more alarming.
It was raised so that it looked as if something was pressing out from the inside. With closer scrutiny he thought they looked like overgrown pimples of a sort, the size of tennis balls, though in quite the early stages.
“Hm.” He said, intelligently, mind reeling and ultimately ending up blank.
Perhaps it was a tumor of some sort.
It certainly didn't look like any sort of tumor that Thomas had ever heard of, but it was the best bet he had. Two twin tumors at his shoulder blades.
Or perhaps it was something else entirely.
The doctor. Yes. That was what he’d considered going to, but he wasn't so sure anymore.
Much like how he had not wished to be seen acquiring the second mirror, he did not wish anyone to see this either. And the memories he had of doctors and hospitals were far from fond. Finding out about his prostate cancer and the consequent dealings of it had been some of the most invasive, humiliating and trying times of his life.
It would fix itself. It would pass. Life would go on and Thomas would be fine. It was only a rash, a temporary skin condition that would sort itself out on its own.
He showered. He brushed his teeth. He tried and wasn't sure he succeeded in praying. He went to bed.
He woke up in some of the greatest pain he could remember to have ever been in.
“Oh god” he said, instinctively, an utterance of raw desperate helplessness as the rash began to throb. Or continued to throb, as he had no idea when the pain had started to become so incredibly unbearable.
There was nothing to do, except tremble and shake and hope and beg for it to pass and pass swiftly. It burned. Whatever was inside of him - tumors the size of tennis balls, eating him alive, pushing up and up and out - seemed determined to leave.
He couldn't even scream. So great was the pain that all he managed was laboured, pained gasps and wheezes as he tried in vain to do some sort of breathing technique that he couldn't remember how to do.
When it was over he laid still for a great amount of time, the sudden relief making him feel blank and unable to comprehend anything beyond the thought of Thank God it's over.
When he was able to think again in proper and intelligent sentences and able to consider what hell he had just been through, he decided to reorient himself.
With herculean effort he was able to get himself sitting upright, shifted his position, and looked at where he had lain.
The mattress was stained red. His back felt wet and sticky. Thomas felt both nauseous and incredibly anxious.
Something was much worse than he'd thought it possible. Something was very much wrong.
With shaking limbs he made his way to the bathroom, and used the second mirror as he had only hours before.
Embraced by broken skin were two feathery nubs, slick with Thomas's drying blood.
Right.
Okay, then.
-
He considered telling someone. He truly did. It was not like Thomas wanted to make matters worse for himself. He was well aware that help was a good thing. Amongst others, such as sharing your feelings, talking about yourself, being open about your problems with trusted friends-
All things that Thomas was horrible at actually doing, of course. Just more sins to tally up on his person on an ever growing list.
Despite this, or because of it, he and Aldo ended up drinking wine together one evening, a break in Thomas’s usual routine.
This used to be quite the common arrangement for the old friends, but then with the Conclave and everything that had surrounded it… things might have become a bit tense between them.
This was, of course, very discomforting, and did not help the general sense of nauseated anxiety that followed Thomas around like an insistent stray dog that refuses to stop barking at him whenever he so much as looked at someone for too long.
“Right. So what's on your mind?”
They'd already gone through one bottle of red wine, a bit much even for the two of them in such a short amount of time.
They'd only been chatting for an hour - how's things been, how's work treating you, did you ever finish that horrible netflix show you tried to make me watch - but clearly Thomas was not the only one with jitters about hanging out together in this way again, so to speak.
“Hm?”
Aldo waggled an exasperated finger at him, the wine having teased forth a smile that Thomas had missed on his oldest friend.
“You’ve met my eyes not even once since we've entered the apartment. Something is wrong. Spit it out.”
“Nothing is wrong.” Thomas frowned and deliberately met his gaze. It was firmly unbelieving. “It’s just…”
“It’s just…?” Aldo raised his brows, expectant, seemingly in rather high spirits at the prospect of Thomas's pain. But that was a mean thought, and made his stomach squirm awfully. He must have missed Thomas being with him and trusting in him. They’d confided much to each other over the years. He should not think so lowly of him, even in brief and passing thoughts.
“Well-” my back hurts and is sore all the time and I have two feathery things growing out of it and really I don't know what to do about any of it, “It’s nothing, really.”
“I find it hard to believe that.”
“No, no. It's nothing.” Thomas insisted. He drained the rest of his glass to escape speaking, found he couldn't hold Aldo's gaze any longer, and returned to looking sullenly at the wall. “Nothing I shouldn't be perfectly capable of handling myself.”
“You could confess if that makes it easier.”
Thomas had not actually confessed in ages now. Guilt intensified.
“No, no. Not at all. That is- I don't need that. As I said, it's nothing. Everything is fine.”
“Uhuh.”
If things had not changed, and the air between them was not as fragile as it had become, Aldo would have pushed him on it. As it was, Aldo only sighed slightly, a noise so quiet it was not intended for Thomas to hear. He did so anyway, and made sure not to wince.
“Alright.” Aldo said, and stood to fetch another bottle. “How about a game of chess?”
“You only ask that because you'll win.”
He refilled their glasses, smirking.
“And?”
“Oh, well. Yes, why not.”
They played. They got through another bottle. Thomas lost three rounds of chess rather spectacularly.
Despite the continued aching of pain, and the stress of his general situation, he retired feeling quite pleased with the interaction as a whole.
-
Vincent was a stunning sight when he delivered homilies during mass.
Before the election Thomas had been sporadic in his attendance, especially so towards the end. Now he rarely missed the chance to come.
He would have liked to say it was a symptom of his renewed faith, but looking at Vincent, beautiful, magnificent, perfect Vincent, he knew it to be a lie. More so because his faith, in all truth, was hardly renewed at all.
The first month after the election he'd been too busy to realise it. He'd been solely focused on helping Vincent with settling into his new role, rebuilding the damaged remains of his friendship with Aldo (still a work in progress, for both of them), and accepting that retirement would not come for him yet.
The second month things had been calmer, returning to normal in a way, although different of course. Things tended to be with a new man leading them all. But Vincent did a good job. The media loved him, and he was quick to adapt into this life, though he'd admitted the toll it sometimes took on him in private. It was Thomas's job then to reassure him, make sure he was comfortable. If not as his Dean, then as his friend.
By the third month he'd started to recognise why it was that he felt so devoted to their new Pope, among other things. It had shaken the vitality he had felt.
“Are you all right, your eminence?”
Ray, who was sitting next to him, was not looking at Vincent. Instead leaning closer to Thomas and speaking in a hushed voice.
Thomas glanced at him, trying to stay still. The hurt of his back had lessened, as had the occasional bleeding around where the feathery somethings had erupted from him, but they had in turn started to grow and it made it difficult to lean back on things without making Thomas greatly uncomfortable.
They were sore things, sensitive to the touch and even the shifting of fabric.
For the first time since he’d been a child, Thomas had been forced to give up sleeping on his back. Now he slept on his side, which made falling asleep a slower process all in all. He'd glimpsed bags under his eyes in the mirror that morning.
“Of course.” Thomas whispered back, shooting him a sharp look that he hoped made it clear that more questions were unwelcome. Sadly, it had been a long time since such looks had deterred Ray O'Malley.
Ray gave him a look that perfectly encapsulated that, and Thomas knew he was only given peace for the moment due to the circumstances of their environment, Vincent's angelic voice flowing through the air.
-
“Ah, look at that.” It was later in the day, the sun setting lazily on the sky. Thomas and Vincent were walking through the turtle gardens as they'd come to call it, just between the two of them, and his companion was pointing at something on the ground.
Thomas looked, and saw a young dandelion standing proudly from the trimmed grass.
“Oh, let me-” Thomas stepped forwards to pluck it from the grass, but Vincent stopped him by reaching forwards and tugging at his sleeve. It was the lightest of touches, and yet it made Thomas freeze almost completely, helpless but to do as Vincent asked of him. Warmth spread under his skin.
“Let it be.” Vincent urged, smiling softly, gaze drifting from Thomas to the little plant. He could not help but to frown.
“It's a weed, if it starts multiplying the gardener will have it gone anyways”
“But it hasn't yet. And besides, I think it's a pretty flower.”
“A weed.” Thomas reminded him, with no heat. They both regarded it for a moment more. “I've heard you can make tea with it.”
“I don't often drink tea.” Vincent mused. “I wonder how it got in here. A seed must have come with the wind- quite impressive.”
“You would think that.”
“Oh?” Vincent smiled, wide and bright. It felt blinding, and yet Thomas couldn't look away.
He cleared his throat, suddenly self conscious. “I only mean- you’re quite sentimental, is all. Even about things like these. It's just a-” he almost said weed again, but quickly amended “flower, after all. And yet you seem to find beauty in it for simply having grown someplace it shouldn't.”
They were moving again, Thomas a step or two in front of Vincent. He heard the start of a sentence, but His Holiness cut himself off all of a sudden. When he realised, a moment later, that he'd stopped walking he turned around.
Vincent stood, looking somewhat alarmed.
“Tomás-”
“What is it? Is something wrong?” Thomas cut in, already walking back to him, “should I get-”
“You’re bleeding!”
That made him pause. But in Thomas's stillness Vincent seemed to find his own movement again, closing the distance for him and pushing him gently at the shoulder to look at his back.
Oh. Thomas hadn't noticed, for it hadn't hurt this time. It also hadn't bled for days, now, and he was wearing black besides. How had Vincent been able to spot it? More than that, how much blood was there for it to have seeped through the back of his vestments?
“I'm sure it's nothing-” Thomas began to stammer, realising that he was not comfortable with Vincent's firm grip on his shoulder and back. He manouvered himself away from him, but Vincent had already managed to touch the place in question, his palm turned up and stained with red. Thomas's blood. He felt rather faint at the sight.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” Vincent fretted, eyes still wide with alarm, worry in his gaze, looking somewhat pale himself.
“No, no. That's- i'm sure that isn’t necessary. I promise you, it doesn't even hurt.”
“You know what it is?”
“I-” Thomas winced. “I might, yes.”
“Tomás,” he thought this might be the closest to angry he had ever seen the pope, a disconcerting sight. His gaze hardened, though not without worry. “What do you mean? What is it? How long have you-”
“Let's not… not here, please.” Thomas hated how soft his own voice had turned. In ignoring his problem, he had started to think he might be able to get away with no one knowing besides himself and God. He felt foolish now.
Vincent conceded, but did not allow Thomas the mercy of escape. He followed, uncomfortably, to the Pope's apartment.
Like his predecessor, Vincent was a humble man, and had taken over where the Late Holy Father had lived before. But he had changed it so that it did not bring forth a wave of grief upon entering.
It looked much more homely with Vincent's touch to it. Lived in, was the right word. It looked lived in. Cosy.
Thomas allowed himself to be shepered into the living room, where he became awfully aware of what Vincent wanted him to reveal. He flushed horribly at realising that he would need to undress to show him what was wrong.
“Is this really necessary?” He tried, weakly. Vincent's sharp gaze turned into something of a glare.
“If you won't go to a hospital, then I will need proof that it isn't needed.” Vincent said firmly. Then his face softened, and he took on a gentler tone. “Please. I don't want to worry.”
“Alright.” Thomas breathed slowly.
He had on his clerical shirt and pants under his cassock, but it still felt awkward to remove the layers of his usual vestments for the day.
Slowly and methodically he unbuttoned the shirt, and turned so that his back was turned towards Vincent. He could feel the slickness on his back now that it was met with cold air. It must have been slowly oozing blood from around where the things were growing out of him all day.
He heard a sharp intake of breath, and the sound of approaching footsteps. Thomas kept very still, even as he felt a hesitant touch to the area just around his shoulder blades.
Vincent's hand was hot against his skin, a welcoming heat that he wanted to lean against, but couldn't.
“Tomás,” he breathed, and it sounded reverent, “what is this?”
“I'm not sure, your Holiness.”
“Vincent.” Vincent corrected automatically, voice still edged with wonder, “what do you mean you're not sure? Don't you know?”
It was weird to speak out loud about it, after so long of pretending they were not there at all. It felt unreal, more like a dream. Thomas was awfully dizzy.
“They just grew one day.” He tried to explain, not knowing how. “I haven't looked much at them. I thought- when… when they breached the skin, and then- well- I wasn't really sure what to make of any of it and…”
He was stammering, losing the words. What had he been thinking, all this time? What had he been doing?
Vincent saved him from continuing.
“It must have hurt.”
“A little.”
“They're beautiful.”
“Excuse me?” Beautiful was not a word Thomas would have used for the nubs- though they'd grown since then, or so he assumed when he'd felt the throb of their expansion.
“You truly don't know.” Vincent said softly. “Tomás. They're wings.”