Chapter Text
It was late afternoon when Thomas Lawrence watched his dearest friend cram a battered leather briefcase tight with the contents of his desk. In the old administrative offices of the Gregorian University, he swore that the stone walls could sweat in high summer. Even standing completely still, Thomas felt a few stray beads of perspiration racing down his temple, bound to slide into the rut of his carotid artery and ultimately find their end in the fibers of his polyester clerical collar and tweed coat.
“You what?”
“I said I love you, Thomas.” More stuffing of papers and stationary, and Aldo Bellini was normally so careful with things.
“You…can’t. You shan’t say that.”
“Well, I’m sorry if it’s a burden to you. But I already said it.”
Thomas’ collar itched and he ran a nervous hand along the back of his neck to still the feeling. “Aldo, I teach canon law for Heaven’s sake. We are ordained ministers. You can’t possibly think I can reciprocate a desire that even the most progressive among our brothers recognize as disordered.”
Aldo arched his eyebrows. “Disordered. Oh, that’s nice. Don’t forget I’ve known you a long time, Thomas. Rebuff me if you must, but spare me the song and dance.” Above all, he spoke calmly. He had no reason to blow a fuse: not when he knew exactly how this conversation would go.
Thomas let the veiled accusation linger in the air awhile before he dared change the subject. He found his friend’s tone equal parts disturbing and infuriating. It was contrary to every unspoken consensus he had thought they shared.
“You can’t really be leaving.”
“I don’t know how you can stay— after the mismanagement these last few years? After that god-awful fire-and-brimstone commencement address yesterday? Face it, Thomas, this place has been on the decline for some time.” Again matter-of-fact, not a drop of uncertainty in his voice.
Thomas furrowed his brow and tried to decide if there was anything to be gained from sparring with him. The trouble was, he could feel his own ire bubbling beneath the surface, and while he knew provoking Aldo likely wouldn’t resolve it, the idea of making him feel some of the hurt Thomas himself was feeling — or just to see him react at all — was a tantalizing one.
“So it’s nothing to do with the Church, you’re simply fed up with the Gregorian? You’d throw away your vocation over what, administrative incompetence? Differences of opinion?”
Aldo sighed, taking a break from the quiet destruction he was wreaking on his files to face his friend.
“Of course it’s about the Church. Look, I’ll admit I’ve been naive— I always thought I could eke out a future here, maybe change a few things from the inside. But it’s obvious the odds are stacked against progress.” He wiped a bit of sweat from his sizable forehead. “They don’t want us, Thomas.” And then there was the us, with all its different truncations and sharp edges. Thomas tried not to pay it any mind, but it hung in the air, lurking. He looked down, unwilling to meet Aldo’s eyes. He knew his own feeling of abandonment was petty next to Aldo’s lofty concerns about God and acceptance and the future, whatever that meant, but that didn’t diminish the urge to draw blood, to wipe that smug look off of Aldo’s face.
“You, maybe,” he muttered, knowing he was leading himself to slaughter and craving the butcher’s touch all the same.
“What was that?”
Thomas cleared his throat. “I said they don’t want you, maybe.”
He braced for the explosion and was not disappointed. “How dare you!” Aldo barked, refusing to take his eyes off Thomas’ bowed head. That was the thing about Aldo, an admirable thing: he refused to be demeaned. Looking up and seeing his friend’s body tensed like an attack dog’s, Thomas knew he had made a grave mistake. But perhaps that had been the point.
“All I mean to say is that I haven’t done anything to warrant persecution. I mean, how many times did I tell you not to—” Thomas trailed off, his voice breaking.
Aldo made some sound between a scoff and a laugh, the task at hand forgotten. He made unwavering eye contact with Thomas, who drank in the fire of his contempt like fine wine. “You know, you’ll probably live out your whole life thinking yourself a sick man. That’s a mistake.” He shook his head slightly, and for a millisecond Thomas thought he saw a bit of mercy cross his face. It did not last. “You’re not sick, Thomas. You’re just a coward. You’re weak.” He turned stiffly back to the desk and clasped the briefcase with some difficulty due to its fullness.
Thomas clenched his fists, wishing his bitten down fingernails were long enough to draw blood in his palms. He could feel the moment slipping away too quickly but was unsure what could be done about it. Aldo came around the desk and made to walk past. Thomas spoke quickly, if only to keep him there, and in his eagerness it came out almost a shout.
“Where will you go?”
Aldo grumbled in answer, refusing to look at him again. “Back to New York. Where I can actually have a life without waiting around for some pedophilic old queen in a white cassock to decide if I’m worthy to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. If I hear one more mention of Paul’s letter to the Romans, I may burn St. Peter’s to the ground myself.”
The awful, wrathful feeling flooded back. Though it had been absent during Aldo’s personal attack, Thomas’ears and chest burned with hot fury at the casual blasphemy. He wanted to grab his friend by the shoulders and shake this madness out of him. Instead, what he said sounded like the pleas of a man condemned. His words came out with a squeaky impotence that undoubtedly diminished their weight.
“Really, Aldo, you’re talking like a first year seminarian! Where is this coming from? Why now?” In those days, Thomas could never resist the allure of exegetical debate, even if the moment was inopportune. “The interpretation of verses 26 and 27 has been constant for centuries, if that’s what you’re referring to. It’s self-explanatory. Certainly nothing worth getting worked up over!” He choked out the last part, almost out of breath. The righteousness that had possessed him was exhausting.
In lieu of a reply, Aldo lunged forward and kissed his friend, about two centimeters to the right of the lips, too quick for Thomas to step out of the way. Thomas felt his face flush more than it already was.
“You always did lack imagination,” Aldo said, suddenly affectionate, with a slight lilt in his voice, trying it on. “Look me up if you ever want to discuss Pauline theology with greater nuance.” With that he threw the long strap of the briefcase over his shoulder. Thomas followed him as far as the front steps of the building, then watched as his dearest friend lumbered down the cobblestone street and out of his life.