Chapter Text
“Too tight?” Sabbadin’s voice is muffled by the pins in his mouth, and he glances up to make sure he’s been heard.
“No, I don’t think so.” Pope Innocent twists a bit to look at where the fabric is gathered and pinned at his back.
Sabbadin nods, pulling the last pin from between his lips to fix the fabric. “How much of a train are you comfortable with?”
“How much will you let me get away with?” He asks, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. The first few months of his pontificate had been a whirlwind, but he had found a certain measure of stability with his tailor. Their hours poring over fashion magazines and old patterns from the Vatican Archives had given him back some of the identity and freedom he had lost when he became Innocent. Sabbadin was the first one that had treated him with a degree of levity that took months to tease out of the other members of the Curia, and even then. He had made him feel…well, if not quite human again, then alive.
“Whatever you’ll give me.” Sabbadin’s voice is light, but he keeps his gaze firmly on the task in front of him. He misses the color rise in Innocent’s cheeks, his lips twitching with the effort of not smiling. He would be lying if he denied that their time spent together had not impacted him greatly. He was a fantastic confidante and companion, asking questions that no one else would dare ask him but led him to the answers he needed; he was a wickedly sharp theologian, testing the limits of canon law but able to articulate exactly why boundaries needed to be tested. He backed up Innocent in public among their more conservative brothers, but never hesitated to push him when they were among allies.
He may be Innocent, but he was not naïve. Innocent knows what the feelings were, rare and unexpected as they were: romantic, or at least more intimate than what he normally felt for those around him. He knows the layers of absurdity to it, understands the impossibility of it, but cannot deny it. He tries not to reminisce or agonize over it too much—after all, he is no stranger to hunger and self-control. Still, he allows himself the indulgence of imagining what ifs every once in a while, confessed to no one but he doubts will be the thing that damns him.
“For this particular instance,” He sighs, pointing to a spot on the floor near his feet. “We had better keep it conservative. I’d rather have people talking about the encyclical than my choice in fashion.” He smoothes down the front of the fabric, looking at his unfinished self in the mirror. “Though for the Venice visit, I do expect we will need something to match the boldness of our host.”
Sabbadin snorts, trying to ignore the little thrill that went through him at Innocent’s conspiratorial tone. It was not as though he was the only one that got to see the Pope’s dry humor, but he noticed that he was freer around him. He treasures the fact more than he would let on to anyone outside of this room, the notion too selfish and downright maudlin for someone known for his scowl. He supposes Innocent brings out the unexpected in a lot of people, he supposes—after all, he’s now seen Tedesco apologize, the miracle-worker.
“I already have plenty of ideas.” He moves to stand in front of Innocent, his gaze tracking the lines of his silhouette. “The shoulders are still too big.” He hums, grabbing a pin from the cushion nearby before standing in front of Innocent. He gathers the fabric at his shoulders, forcing his eyes forward and willing his body to still. He’s been this close before, naturally, but he’s learned that the repeated proximity does not make it easier to ignore. It had been easier with clients in his mother’s shop, people he barely knew or had never found himself attracted to had faded away to little more than mannequins when he was at work. Innocent, though, was impossible to ignore, even without the papal whites. He filled the room with his presence and drew him in like a moth to flame, smelling like sandalwood incense and looking at Sabbadin like he could see straight through to the core of him. Of course, if the Holy Father had that particular gift, he surely would have been dismissed just moments after his promotion. His unworthy, unholy thoughts had no place near the Pope, though he could neither find the strength to stay away.
“Hopefully just a few centimeters will do the tri- ah, merda.” He curses as he slides the pin straight through the fabric and into the pad of his thumb. He pulls his hand back like he’s been electrocuted, terrified of bleeding onto the white watered silk; at the same time, Innocent scrambles back and Giulio sees a rare flash of panic across his face before he smooths his expression.
“Your Holiness, I apologize—”
“There’s no need to apologize, it was an accident.” Innocent sounds as though he’s jogged up to the papal offices.
“Then for the cursing.” He takes his thumb out of his mouth, frowning down at it as a bead of blood wells to the surface.
“You are forgiven.” Innocent’s voice is strained, and Sabbadin wonders if he is feeling sick at the sight of blood. Odd, given his previous missions, but he had long since learned that his new Pope was full of contradictions. Innocent makes an aborted wounded noise behind him and Sabbadin lurches forward, ready to catch the Pope if he were to swoon.
Innocent takes a step back instead, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “I apologize, Your Eminence. I-” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, swallowing hard. “I don’t deal well with blood.”
It was one way of putting it. The truth was, he dealt with it just fine most days by taking the Eucharist daily. But all fall short of the glory of God, and even he had his own struggles with temptation—performing last rites in field hospitals filled with bleeding men, the occasional scraped knee from a child, the explosion during the conclave. They were tempting, yes, but usually not overwhelmingly so. Paul had told the Corinthians that they would not be tempted beyond what they could bear, and Innocent had carried the words with him—both plea and prayer—for decades.
He had not, however, understood that attraction could magnify his own hunger to near-unbearable levels. He had not tasted human blood since he first entered the seminary, desperate for a way to turn his circumstance into purpose. In the intervening years he had wrestled with plenty, but very rarely the sort of romantic and sexual attraction that seemed to be all around him outside the walls of his dormitory. His professors had admired that about him, and the younger, more vulnerable version of him had bathed in the praise like it could cleanse him from what he was.
As a result, his celibacy vows had been far less about sexuality and more to do with what he had become. His denial for any blood but Christ’s was its own glory and devotion to God, his desire stemming not from a lover’s touch but their carotid artery. He had not, then, been prepared for the dual rush of emotions and hunger that came from spending time around the Archbishop of Milan.
He could handle the proximity, despite the increased hunger he felt after they spent time together; he could consecrate wine and slake his thirst afterwards. He could deal with the way his head swam a bit whenever Giulio leaned over his shoulder and exposed his throat to him unknowingly. He could even manage the kind of crisis of faith realizing you are the Pope and attracted to men (A singular man, really. He was not sure the distinction counted much). Where his limits seem to stop is the sight and scent of Giulio’s blood, however small an amount. And God help him, but it is intoxicating. He has not felt like this since he was first turned, need and fear creating a nauseating pull high in his stomach.
He curses himself internally for his hubris, thinking he could tempt fate and win. He had indulged in the uniquely human sin of wanting and he was now being tempted beyond what he could bear, once again. His role—the supposed reason for continued existence—was categorically not to swoon around Cardinals and hurt the people he cared most for. He straightens, face burning a little with the humiliation of the reminder that he still remains a monster, his position changing his responsibilities and clothes but not his real nature.
“Please, you should-”
“I’ll call the physician, here– sit.” Sabbadin takes Innocent’s elbow lightly to guide him to the chaise in the corner of the room, but Innocent steps back and out of his touch. His heart aches at the confused look that flashes across Sabbadin’s face, his chest rebelling at the wrongness of hurting him in an attempt to keep him safe.
“I will be fine, I just need a moment.” He tries to keep his voice steady, but he still cannot meet Sabbadin’s eyes.
He backs up, folding his thumb into a fist to try and hide the blood. “I can have the sisters send something up.” He runs through the mental list of what he knows Innocent to like, though it’s difficult—the man eats like a bird, at least around him. Dates, maybe, and chamomile tea.
Innocent shakes his head before Sabbadin can finish speaking—the last thing he wants is one of the sisters to see him in this state. They were, for one, far more observant than half the Curia on a good day, and he had no desire to either scare or worry anyone. If he was lucky, Sabbadin would leave and not speak of it to anyone out of respect for the office. If he did say anything, it would likely be to Bellini, but his Secretary was discreet. He had a plausible explanation, and it would raise no red flags. It would be fine, as long Sabbadin left immediately.
“I’m fine, truly.” He prods the ends of his canines with his tongue, frowning behind his hand at the length. He is supposed to be in control of himself, stronger than his base instincts—a shepherd, not the wolf. The wrongness of it turns his stomach and he turns his face away from Sabbadin again.
“Holy Father, I really have to insis–”
“We can finish tomorrow.” It’s the voice he uses in meetings when people forget that, despite his warm smiles and loose relationship with formalities, he is still the Vicar of Christ. He has never used it with Sabbadin, and it makes the other man freeze. Vincent aches at the sight, but he will take the sting of harsh words over the unforgivable sin of harming someone he loves.
“Of course.” His tone has the intended effect, Sabbadin straightening before bowing his head in lieu of genuflection. “Buonanotte.”
Vincent falls to his knees as soon as he hears the door click behind Sabbadin, digging the heels of his hands against his eyes and biting back a groan. His whole body sings with want like he has never known before. Need for his affections returned, for the blood running in his veins—he was not sure that a difference existed between the two anymore, lust and hunger two sides of the same coin that taunted him daily.
The smart thing to do, he knows, is to send Sabbadin away. He speaks enough languages that there would be plenty of fine options far from Rome, and they could pass it off as the Cardinal realizing administrative duties were not as much of a vocational calling as serving a diocese. There would be rumors, of course, but it was easier to manage a forced reassignment than explaining away a drained camerlengo on the steps of Saint Peter’s.
The infinitely more selfish thing to do would be to keep him around, knowing full-well that his hard-won self-control was crumbling each hour they spent together. Today was a warning—God forbid Sabbadin come down with a nosebleed or get properly hurt. He wants to be confident that he would be able to restrain himself, but in the shaky aftermath of just a few drops of blood, he does not wish to lie to himself.
The voice of his mother floats through his head, reminding him to not make big decisions on an empty stomach. So, after murmuring the words of institution over a chalice of wine, he decides to pray on the matter and put some distance between himself and the camerlengo to clear his head.
And as usual: man plans, God laughs.
“Something is wrong with him.” Sabbadin says by way of greeting when Aldo answers the door, pushing past his friend into his office. Aldo sighs, shutting the door and trying to remember why he bothers to answer it anymore.
“Who, Giulio?” Aldo asks wearily, turning back to the stack of paperwork on his desk.
“The pope.” Giulio replies, a hair’s breadth away from frustrated at Aldo’s inability to read his mind.
That gets Aldo’s attention, adrenaline eclipsing the exhaustion as his mind starts prepping for crisis mode. “Wrong how?” He hazards, already preparing for the worst.
“What do you know about his past?” Sabbadin asks, turning on his heel and sitting in the armchair opposite Aldo’s desk. “He’s not dying.” He adds after a beat. Probably.
Aldo relaxes fractionally, reclaiming his seat and trying to gather his thoughts before speaking. He’s irritated at the interruption, but Sabbadin knows how much stress he’s been under lately more than most and would not bother him in the middle of a work day if it were not important. Besides, if there was any lesson to be taken from the conclave, it was that speaking from that frustration never brought out the best in him.
“I presume you know as much as I do.” He starts, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “Anything that’s come out from the Vatican has been the sum total of what he’s told me.” Grew up in Tlatelolco in a large, working-class, Catholic family. Attended SERESURE seminary in Pueblo, parish and community ministries in Chiapas and Veracruz that caught the attention of his superiors. Then it was to the Congo, Afghanistan, Baghdad—wartime chaplaincy, Masses held in secret, clinics serving the most vulnerable populations. It was logical to most why his elevation to Cardinal had been both meteoric in rate and kept hidden. Everyone that came forward to share their very own Vincent Benítez story said much of the same—he was humble, reliable, justice-focused, and unfailingly kind. It had, ironically, made Aldo’s job harder. Nearly every head of state and interest group was clambering for an audience with the mysterious Holy Father in a way Aldo had never seen before. In pectore was now en vogue.
Sabbadin nods along as his friend recounts his knowledge, fingering one of the knots of his cincture. “I pricked myself with a pin the other day and he…reacted poorly.” It was a vast understatement. Vincent’s steely tone telling him to leave still rang through his mind. “He said we would pick up in the morning, but he has been avoiding me ever since. That was two days ago.”
His instincts are screaming at him that something is wrong, but his faith chasitises him for his pride just as loud. He should not assume that he is so important to the head of the Catholic Church, but neither can he deny that Innocent had begun requesting his presence more frequently over the past few months. He had been nothing but attentive and prompt, valuing Giulio’s advice on everything from fabric weights to navigating the political maelstrom of the Curia. Up until now, the Pope had been unfailingly considerate and personal; the sudden shift to his staff carrying messages for him and canceling their future meetings due to vague ‘scheduling conflicts’ had set off alarm bells.
Aldo raises an eyebrow at that—the two of them had been near inseparable since the Holy Father had learned of Giulio’s eye for papal fashion, and Vincent had never struck himself as the kind of man to hide behind anything. “He likely saw a lot in his missions,” Aldo starts, though he’s not fully convinced himself. “Unexpected blood could have reminded him of something. Maybe he’s ashamed of his reaction and needs to gather himself. Or perhaps he’s just busy.” He tries to soften his words, but he sees the line between Giulio’s brow deepen anyway. The situation sounds odd to Aldo’s ears, but they had hardly known the man for six months, and there were plenty of rational explanations for his behavior.
“He isn't himself. Tontolino—think back to the conclave. He was more composed than the rest of us.”
“PTSD is complicated,” Aldo says, his voice a little faraway. “If that’s indeed what he has. We can find a chaplain with warzone experience—I’ll see if he would be open to it.”
Sabbadin lowers his voice to an almost-hiss. “And what happens if it happens in public? God forbid someone scrapes their knee in St. Peter’s Square while he’s out there kissing babies.”
Aldo can feel a stress headache building behind his temples. “He knows how to signal the guards to get him to safety, regardless of the reason.”
Giulio huffs out a breath, chewing the inside of his cheek. Aldo is only trying to be practical and reassure him, but he wasn’t there when it happened. He doesn’t know how to convey the wrongness of the situation, the wild panic that he had rarely seen in his line of work beyond performing last rites. “Just-” He takes a breath, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. He should care about the Pope’s well-being, yes, but this was edging into dangerous territory. “You haven’t heard anything out of the ordinary? From him or otherwise.”
Aldo pauses, sighing heavily after a long beat. He glances at the door, double-checking that it is indeed closed before dropping his voice. “After the election, Thomas was…” He weighs his words carefully. It was not necessarily a secret—everyone in the Sistine after the final vote could have just as easily spotted how feverishly Thomas marched towards the Room of Tears, and how he came out lookingly only less slightly shaken. Aldo just happened to always pay close attention to Thomas. “He and Vincent had spoken before we burned the ballots.. I don’t know what was said, only that Thomas came out…distracted.” It wasn’t the same harried energy that had propelled him into the Room of Tears, but he was clearly deep in thought about something. “He never told me what happened. I assumed it was just him processing the election.” In truth, he had been more worried about rebuilding their relationship and keeping his job than pursuing a hunch.
Sabbadin frowns, the same automatic one that twists his lips every time Thomas is mentioned. It was another dead end—Thomas surely wouldn’t tell Giulio anything if Aldo couldn’t get it out of him.
“Ray might know something, knowing the two of them.” Aldo mentions, and Giulio catches the sardanic undercurrent of it. “I’m sure it will be fine, Giulio. Everyone around him adores him and will look out for him.” He stretches his back, wincing at the popping down his spine. “I’ll make some discreet inquiries about a chaplain. Take advantage of your reduced workload—not all of us have the luxury of a free schedule.” He glances sidelong at his darkened computer and the mess of papers on his desk.
Giulio takes the hint, though he feels more agitated than he did when he walked in. He smokes a cigarette down to the filter in the loggia, refreshing his email on his phone in some vain hope that the pope had put a meeting on his calendar in the half hour since he’s last checked.
“Fuck it.” He murmurs under his breath, grinding the butt of his cigarette under his heel. If Aldo wouldn’t take him seriously, he would figure it out for himself.
Vincent clutches the crucifix of his rosary til it digs into his palm, using the sensation to ground himself back to the next mystery he was supposed to be meditating on. His mind, however, kept sliding towards his camerlengo. Distance had done little to settle his mind as guilt crept in, both at sending Giulio away with such uncharacteristic abruptness and keeping him at arm’s length since. He knows he cannot avoid him forever, but any decision he’s come up with so far feels unbearable. As he has done most of his life, he turns the frustration inward—if he had better self-control, he would not be in this position. He should not feel such frustration at knowing he had to deny himself one more thing in life, even if it was perhaps the most precious thing he had felt since he first understood his own faith. He was the Pope, not some lovesick boy that could afford to pursue anything beyond a Christlike love for his flock. He had already given up so much between the priesthood and his condition—this should not sting more than the other sacrifices he has made.
And yet, it does. It felt like acetone in an open wound, destruction rather than a cleansing burn. Why had he been brought all the way here, only to be tempted like this? He had been resisting temptation since he was 17, arriving on the steps of the seminary with a duffel bag and dogged determination to make meaning out of his monstrosity. This too, had to be for a reason—a test, perhaps. His papacy would surely bring larger struggles than a crush and bloodlust—the whole world cried out for healing, and the Church remained as imperfect and fractured as ever. He abandons the rosary, praying instead for forgiveness for centering his own misery. The Lord will not tempt you beyond what you can bear, child, Father Ignacio’s voice comes back to him, steady and reassuring as it was when he was 20.
A knock on his door startles him and he hurries to the door, his heart in his throat. There were few reasons that anyone would seek him out this late at night, and all of them were dire emergencies. He unlatches the door, stepping back as Sabbadin’s figure crowds his vision.
“Your Holiness, I apologize, he-”
“I need to talk to you.” Giulio talks over the guard, looking at Vincent with a kind of single-minded determination that makes him flush. He makes an odd movement forward and realizes that his guard has a firm grip on Giulio’s upper arm, holding him in place.
“It’s alright, Sebastian.” He says, holding up a hand to stop them. “Please let go of him.” He glances up at the guard, who drops Giulio’s arm as though he’s been electrocuted and takes a half-step back. He snaps out of it quickly, nodding and murmuring an apology before returning to his position with his back to the wall. Vincent blinks—he did not think he used a harsh tone, but when his eyes had met his guard’s, whatever Sebastian found there had been…unexpected. He is used to people turning nervous around him, deferential to his position more than to him, but he had never seen someone afraid of him.
“Do come in.” He swallows it down, stepping back further as though his camerlengo demanding to be seen at the Pope’s private quarters is entirely normal.
Sabbadin lets the door shut behind him, giving Innocent a once over to check for anything out of place.. There’s a determination in his eyes that glints in the candlelight and makes Vincent’s heart stutter.
“Has something happened?” He clears his throat, worried his voice will catch.
“You’ve been ignoring me.” Giulio starts, nearly forgetting where he was. “Your Holiness.”
Vincent gives him a sad, small smile. “You know that you can call me Vincent.” He’s said it probably a hundred times since he first appointed Giulio to the role, but he’s been unable to bring himself to call the Pope by his given name, wrestling both with the decades of reverence for the throne of St. Peter and the fear of what his voice would reveal in the utterance of his name. There would be too much devotion, too much gentleness, too much something that would blow wide any scrap of deniability he still had.
Giulio does not concede now, either, stubbornly quiet as he waits for Innocent to speak. The Pope sighs, his eyes flicking away from Giulio in uncharacteristic shyness. “I suppose I have been.” There is no point in lying—not only is it a sin, but they are both far too old to play these kinds of games. “I apologize. I reacted poorly, but that was no excuse for not following up with you.”
Giulio perceptively softens, his shoulders dropping. Innocent had every right to throw him out for his impertinence and accusations. He was disturbing him during his nightly prayer hour without real cause beyond his own burning desire to figure out what was bothering him and fix it. But Innocent was instead receiving him like a friend, apologizing to him. Giulio thanks God for this impossibility of a man, even if his very existence has led him to sin again and again.
“Are you alright?” Is what comes out instead of an apology.
Vincent blinks, taken aback by the question. “I am better now.” He answers honestly, the tips of his ears warming as he realizes how his words could be taken. Not by Giulio, of course, whose name has been conspicuously absent from the rumors of those in the Curia that were of the parish. Which was for the best, both for the theological implications for his soul and to remind Vincent that his feelings were both in vain and likely to damn him.
“Won’t you sit?” Vincent gestures to a set of overstuffed armchairs that he had not gotten around to replacing, thankful that he had already changed out of his cassock into something a tad more flexible. He waits for Giulio to sit before sinking into the uncomfortable chair, setting his rosary on the side table. “I value our friendship a great deal. I’m sorry that I reacted poorly. I…did not wish you to see me in such a state.” Truth be told, he was grateful it had been Giulio and not another member of the Curia—God only knows Thomas would have called the whole medical apparatus of the Vatican down on him. Still, he would rather it not have happened at all.
“Even the Pope is human.” Giulio says, hoping that Innocent knows he sees him as more than just a figurehead.
Innocent grimaces, something unreadable flashing across his face. Giulio’s heart squeezes—is this where it was coming from? The pressures of the papacy were immense; perhaps the pope had forgotten that he was a mortal man like the rest of them, a man with history that extended decades prior to the conclave.
“It took me by surprise, and I should have reached out the next day to explain. I am sorry.”
“You are forgiven.” Giulio says automatically, heart aching to add more. Of course you are, you will always be forgiven by me. There is no slight, no sin that could keep me from wanting you. “May I…ask what happened?”
Vincent isn’t sure if the urge to laugh or cry is stronger. What happened? Where does he start? 38 years ago, when he entered an alley to help someone and had his humanity violently ripped from his throat? The eight months of blood-soaked guilt before he discovered that a life dedicated to the Church was the only way out? The acrid terror that came with the realization that he could pose a threat to the people entrusted in his care. The years of learning how to manage his condition and foolishly believing he had conquered his own flesh. Or perhaps it began happening six months ago when Cardinal Bellini floated the Archbishop of Milan as someone trustworthy and unflappable enough to be named camerlengo in the wake of Tremblay’s public fall from grace. Maybe it was not until they had grown close enough that he let Giulio fit him for vestments, allowing someone to be this close to him since he had discovered the second secret his body held.
He sighs, clasping his hands together. “I have had experiences that make being around blood difficult.” He tries to phrase it as best he can without lying. “I imagine that sounds ironic, knowing my missions. It is usually not so…severe. It has never significantly impacted my work, but I…well, I imagine my time here has made me soft.” He smiles, but Sabbadin can see the wryness in it.
Not soft, he wants to say, though he dares not interrupt. It takes unimaginable strength to remain gentle in this place.
“I know you must be worried about it happening in public, but I can promise you that it won’t.” He reaches out and covers Giulio’s hands with one of his own, praying that he believes him. It is a lie he will have to confess to later; as long as his feelings for Giulio remained, he was not sure he would be able to react properly. He will just have to ensure that there is never any cause for Giulio to be hurt, regardless of who they were around.
Giulio remains unnaturally still, trying not to let the heat that is creeping up his neck make it past the cowl of his habit into his face. Innocent is warm and friendly to everyone he meets, but he minimizes physical contact in a way unlike most of his brothers. Much of his staff have chalked his unwillingness to be dressed each morning to his humility, though Giulio sees the way the corners of his eyes tighten when Thomas rests a friendly hand on his shoulder. He tries to touch him as little as possible when he is fitting the pope for vestments, and perhaps it is for that unspoken consideration that Innocent feels comfortable now.
“And I promise to have steadier hands around sharp objects.” Giulio prays his voice does not betray his racing heart. He barely breathes, afraid that if he moves too quickly, Innocent will withdraw.
Innocent smiles, this time one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and does nothing to help Giulio focus on keeping his hands from shaking.
“Thank you for coming.” Innocent murmurs, his hand squeezing Giulio’s own. He means it—he is not sure that anyone else would be bold enough to call him out on his avoidant behaviors, let alone in this manner. Even Thomas, who had no issue with demanding him to explain himself in the Room of Tears, would not be so bold to come to his private quarters. Perhaps it was what had drawn him in: the way Giulio spoke to him like he was a person and not an untouchable figurehead, though his reverence was never far behind. He does not want to lose what remains of his humanity to this calling after so many decades of clawing it back for himself, though part of that humanity unfortunately also included the desire for closeness and intimacy.
He draws back when he feels Giulio’s pulse on the top of his hand, thankful he had taken the Eucharist only an hour prior to this surprise meeting; he is not sure that he would be able to allow himself this sudden closeness without it.
“Can we continue on as we were before?” He asks, hoping the levity in his voice does not come across as forced.
“I still need to check the shoulders.” Sabbadin concedes, still able to feel the electricity dancing across his skin from where Innocent touched him.
“Ten o’clock?”
“You have time for it?” Giulio blinks, surprised; the last he checked, the pope’s schedule was packed full for the next few days.
For you, I always have time. Vincent longs to say, the phantom thrum of Giulio’s heartbeat steady under his fingertips. “I am sure the re-opening of Castel Gandolfo can wait a bit longer. We have important work to get done, after all.”
Giulio’s smile mirrors the pope’s as fragile hope blossoms again in the space between their empty hands.